Dear Friends, There is a curious phrase in this week’s Torah portion, Ki Savo. “If you will diligently listen to the voice of the Lord your G-d… the Lord your G-d will set you high above all the nations of the earth. And all these blessings will come upon you and reach you” (Deuteronomy 28:1–2). “Reach you” — v’hisigucha — literally means to catch up with you. It almost sounds as though the blessings are chasing us! But why would anyone run away from a blessing? Perhaps because sometimes we don’t recognize the blessing for what it is. The key may lie in the preceding verse: “G-d will set you high above all the nations.” The blessing begins with elevation — with a Jew recognizing who he is, what he stands for, and the unique mission G-d has entrusted to him. When we embrace that identity, blessings that we may previously have failed to recognize can finally “catch up” with us. A few verses later, the Torah describes another remarkable blessing: “Your enemies who rise against you will be struck down before you… they will flee before you in seven directions” (28:7). Notice: the ultimate emphasis is not on the enemy’s destruction, but on his retreat. There is a victory greater than vanquishing an enemy: possessing such absolute clarity about who you are and what you stand for that the enemy loses his will to fight. There is a powerful lesson here for Israel today. Our greatest weapon against antisemitism and those who seek Israel’s destruction is moral and spiritual clarity: the Land of Israel is the G-d-given homeland of the Jewish people. We are its custodians. It is not ours to bargain away in the hope of purchasing acceptance or peace. History has repeatedly demonstrated that concessions intended to appease those committed to Israel’s destruction have too often emboldened rather than pacified them. But such clarity cannot remain theoretical. It must be experienced. That brings us to another blessing in Ki Savo: “All the peoples of the earth will see that the name of G-d is called upon you, and they will fear you” (28:10). The Talmud teaches that this refers to tefillin. In the weeks preceding the Six-Day War, the Rebbe launched his worldwide tefillin campaign, specifically invoking this verse. At a moment of enormous fear, the Rebbe called upon Jewish men to put on tefillin — strengthening not only Israel’s soldiers physically defending the land, but the spiritual identity of Jews everywhere. Accounts from that miraculous war describe the extraordinary fear and retreat of enemy forces in the face of Israeli soldiers. The Torah’s message remains strikingly contemporary. When the Jewish people stand tall — proudly, unapologetically and visibly connected to G-d — our enemies retreat, and the blessings that were pursuing us all along can finally catch up. And perhaps that is especially the message of Elul. Elul is not a month for running away from who we are, but for returning to who we have always been. The King is in the field, close and accessible, inviting us to rediscover our deepest identity and reconnect with the G-dly soul within. And this week we celebrate Chai Elul, the birthday of both the Baal Shem Tov and the Alter Rebbe — the founders of Chassidism and Chabad Chassidus. Their teachings breathed new life into Jewish consciousness, empowering a Jew not merely to believe in G-d, but to experience the G-dliness within himself and recognize what it truly means to be a Jew. Perhaps, then, the first blessing of Elul is the clarity to stop running — running from who we are, from what we stand for, and from the responsibility and privilege that come with being G-d’s people. Because once we stop running from our identity, we may discover that the blessings have been chasing us all along. Shabbat Shalom and Good Shabbos, Rabbi Ruvi New 
Rabbi's Blog
What Are We Running From?
Finding Yourself in the Field
Dear Friends,
At the beginning of this week, Ahuva and I had the joy of traveling to Utah for the wedding of Noa and Jonah Rose, son of our dear friends Michael and Jill Rose. The wedding took place at La Caille in Sandy, just outside Salt Lake City—a spectacular setting surrounded by mountains, gardens and vineyards.
Standing there, I couldn’t help thinking about Tu B’Av, the 15th of Av, the end of Summer holiday which we had just celebrated. The Talmud describes how, on Tu B’Av, the young women of Jerusalem would go out into the vineyards, where matches were made and Jewish homes were born. How wonderfully appropriate, then, to celebrate a Jewish wedding in a vineyard—a new family taking root in a setting that has symbolized Jewish matchmaking for thousands of years.
But the image of the field and vineyard carries us even further.
We are now in the month of Elul, the month famously described by the Alter Rebbe with the metaphor of “the King in the field.” During the year, approaching a king requires entering the palace, passing through gates and securing permission. In Elul, the King comes out to the field, where everyone can approach Him, and He receives each person graciously and with a smiling countenance.
This week’s Torah portion, Ki Seitzei, begins: “When you go out to war against your enemies.”
Chassidus reads these words not only as describing a physical battlefield, but the battlefield within each of us—the lifelong struggle between our higher aspirations and the forces that pull us elsewhere. The Torah’s words are striking: Ki seitzei—when you go out. Don’t wait for the battle to come to you. Take the initiative. And when you do, the Torah promises, “Hashem your G-d will deliver him into your hand.”
But the deeper surprise comes next: “And you will see among the captives an eishes yefas to’ar—a beautiful woman.”
The Zohar explains that this “beautiful woman” represents the neshamah, the Divine soul. The Ohr HaChaim teaches that the soul remains pristinely innocent and beautiful; it is simply sometimes taken “captive”—buried beneath distractions, habits, ambitions and the noise of everyday life.
That gives the “King in the field” an intensely personal meaning.
Elul isn't only about finding G-d in the field. It is about finding ourselves there.
Somewhere underneath the person we have become through another busy year is the person we really are. The aspirations we postponed. The mitzvah we meant to begin. The relationship we intended to repair. The Jewish voice inside that perhaps became harder to hear.
Elul tells us: go looking for it.
Perhaps that is what made this week’s vineyard wedding especially poignant. A vineyard is a place where something is planted, cultivated and ultimately transformed into something far greater.
Tu B’Av reminds us that we can find another person in the vineyard. Elul reminds us that we can find the King in the field.
And Ki Seitzei reminds us that, sometimes, the most important person waiting to be rediscovered there is ourselves.
Good Shabbos and Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Ruvi New
Field of Dreams
By Divine Providence, as we enter the season of Elul, on Thursday night, Major League Baseball returned to a cornfield in Dyersville, Iowa.
The Philadelphia Phillies and Minnesota Twins played the much-anticipated Field of Dreams Game, beside the site made famous by the iconic Kevin Costner movie. And this isn't merely an exhibition. Both teams are battling for postseason berths, making every game increasingly consequential as the regular season heads toward its home stretch. There could hardly be a more appropriate image for Elul. The Alter Rebbe famously describes this month with the metaphor of HaMelech basadeh — “the King is in the field.” Before the king returns to his palace, he comes out to the field, where everyone can approach him. He receives each person graciously and smiles upon them. And notably, baseball is played on a field. At this point in the season, teams with postseason aspirations are pulling out all the stops. Every at-bat matters. Every pitch counts. Because you don't qualify for October based on what you plan to do once the postseason begins. You get there because of the work you put in during the regular season. Elul is our regular-season stretch run. Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur are, in a sense, the “postseason” of the Jewish calendar, when the King returns to His palace in all His majesty. But our preparation happens now, while the King is still in the field: another mitzvah, another moment of Torah study, another act of kindness, another honest look at ourselves, another step closer to Hashem. And then comes baseball's ultimate stage: the World Series. It's an interesting name. Unlike soccer's World Cup, nations from around the globe aren't competing. Two North American teams play each other — yet we call it the World Series. Perhaps there is a spiritual truth hidden in the name. On Rosh Hashanah, the Mishnah teaches that the entire world passes before Hashem in judgment. It really is the World Series. Yet who is standing on the field sounding the shofar and proclaiming Hashem as King of the universe? The Jewish people. We are the team on the field, but we are playing for something much bigger than ourselves. Our prayers, our mitzvos and our shofar have an impact upon the entire world. And ultimately, that is our real Field of Dreams. Our mission is to transform this world itself into Hashem's field — a world permeated with goodness, holiness and awareness of its Creator. Every mitzvah moves us closer to the day when that dream becomes reality: the “field” of Geulah — Redemption. So as the King comes into the field, it's time to play our hearts out. May our Elul bring us a winning season, a sweet new year, and ultimately the greatest World Series victory of all — when the Shofar Gadol, the Great Shofar, sounds and ushers in the coming of Moshiach. Then the entire world will finally become Hashem's Field of Dreams. Good Shabbos and Shabbat Shalom, Rabbi Ruvi New 
Different Paths, One Destination
Dear Friends,
Over the past few weeks, I have found myself davening in places I never expected. During this first year of saying Kaddish—the mourner's prayer—for my father, a"h, I have had to ensure that I have three daily minyanim (prayer quorums) wherever I happen to be. As I have been traveling weekly these past three weeks up north, this has taken me to communities throughout New Jersey, the Catskills and Monsey—and, on several occasions, into Satmar synagogues. For someone who has spent a lifetime in Chabad, it was a fascinating experience. I am also not exactly anonymous. Between the style of my hat and the "770" embroidered on my tallis (prayer shawl) bag, everyone knew immediately where I came from. There was a time when that might have made for an uncomfortable encounter. The relationship between Satmar and Chabad was once marked by profound ideological differences that, sadly, sometimes gave rise to painful division. Yet that wasn't my experience at all. In every synagogue I entered, I was welcomed with genuine warmth. Without hesitation I was invited to the amud (the prayer lectern) to lead the services, following the practice of giving that privilege to one in the first year of mourning for a parent. What struck me even more was the davening itself. It was passionate, powerful and unmistakably vocal. The entire room seemed to pulse with energy. At first, I could barely hear my own voice. Before long, however, I found myself carried by the rhythm, deeply moved by the sincerity and intensity that filled the room. It reminded me that there are different gateways into deveikus—cleaving to Hashem. Some souls naturally express that yearning outwardly, through spirited singing, visible emotion and unrestrained fervor. Chabad Chassidus has always sought to ensure that this fire also penetrates inward—that inspiration becomes understanding, emotion becomes internalized, and one's mind, heart and actions become united in the service of Hashem. The Alter Rebbe (founder of Chabad) did not come to replace passion, but to deepen it; not to diminish emotion, but to give it lasting form through hisbonenus (contemplation) and pnimiyus (inner spiritual depth). Watching their prayers gave me a renewed appreciation for both truths: the beauty of heartfelt passion, and the gift of transforming that passion into an enduring inner relationship with Hashem. Perhaps that also explains a quiet change that has taken place over the years. Here at Boca Beach Chabad, we are privileged to welcome a steady stream of Satmar families vacationing from New York who join us for minyan. Around the world—particularly throughout the Far East—many Satmar chassidim rely on Chabad Houses for kosher food, prayer services and a Jewish home away from home. Some have become among the strongest supporters of those Chabad Houses, and today it is no longer unusual to see Satmar chassidim visiting the Ohel—the resting place of the Rebbe—or attending events surrounding the annual Kinus Hashluchim (International Conference of Chabad Emissaries). This week's Torah portion, Re'eh, contains one of the Torah's most beautiful and challenging aspirations: "U'vo Sidbakun"—"To Him shall you cleave." The Torah is not merely commanding us to believe in G-d or obey Him. It is calling us to cultivate deveikus—a living, intimate bond with Him. The Jewish people have developed different traditions for expressing that bond. Some emphasize its outward expression; others its inward cultivation. But the destination is the same: to become more deeply attached to the Ribbono Shel Olam—the Master of the Universe. As I left those synagogues, I found myself grateful—not because our differences had disappeared, but because they no longer felt like barriers. I came away with a deeper appreciation for the sincerity of their avodas Hashem (service of G-d), and with an even greater appreciation for the gift the Alter Rebbe bequeathed to the Jewish people: a path that takes inspiration beyond the moment, drawing it into the very fabric of one's inner life. Perhaps that is one of the quiet miracles of our generation. We have learned that we can appreciate another Jew's way of serving Hashem without feeling threatened by it. On the contrary, when each of us contributes our unique strengths while remembering that we are one people serving one G-d, we move one step closer to fulfilling the Torah's timeless call: "U'vo Sidbakun" — "To Him shall you cleave." Good Shabbos and Shabbat Shalom, Rabbi Ruvi New 