Rabbi's Blog

Among the many legal obligations outlined in a ketubah (marriage contract) is one line that has always struck me as remarkably personal. A husband commits to providing for his wife with the very clothes on his back if necessary. Hidden within a legal document is a profoundly romantic promise: Your well-being comes before my own comfort.

This week, a video circulating from Israel captured that very spirit—but with an unexpected twist.

A young Chabadnik approached an Israeli man to help him put on tefillin. The only problem was that the man was shirtless. Without hesitation, the Chabadnik removed his own shirt and handed it to him so he could fulfill the mitzvah with dignity.

It's one thing to give the shirt off your back for your spouse. But would you do it for a fellow Jew you've never met?

That simple act may have been worth more than a thousand speeches about Jewish unity.

We have just entered the Three Weeks, the period during which we mourn the destruction of the Beis Hamikdash. Our Sages teach that the Second Temple was destroyed because of sinas chinam—baseless hatred. The obvious antidote is not merely the absence of hatred, but the presence of Ahavas Yisrael - love for a fellow Jew so genuine that another Jew's spiritual opportunity becomes more important than your own comfort.

This week's Parshah, Pinchas, reminds us that every Jew is responsible for the spiritual welfare of another. Pinchas did not stand by as an observer. He acted because he understood that the destiny of the Jewish people is shared. While his actions were unique and cannot be imitated, the underlying lesson certainly can: don't remain indifferent when another Jew's relationship with Judaism hangs in the balance.

Most of us won't be asked to save the Jewish people with an act of heroism. But we may be asked to remove a jacket, offer a ride to synagogue, invite someone for Shabbos, help another person put on tefillin, or simply make someone feel that they belong.

The Beis Hamikdash was lost because Jews became disconnected from one another. It will be rebuilt through countless moments of selfless connection.

This Independence Day, as America marks 250 years, we celebrate a nation whose earliest settlers and founders looked to the Hebrew Bible for inspiration. They admired a society built not merely on freedom, but on covenant—on the belief that liberty endures only when people accept responsibility for one another. That vision remains as relevant today as ever. The road from sinas chinam - baseless hatred - to redemption begins not with grand declarations, but with simple acts of selfless kindness. 

Sometimes, it begins with giving someone the shirt off your back.

Good Shabbos and Shabbat Shalom and Happy Independence Day,

Rabbi Ruvi New

Watch the Video Here

There are people who are products of their times. Then there are people who transcend time.

This Shabbos is “Yud-Beis Tammuz” (12 Tammuz) the anniversary of the liberation of the Frierdiker (Previous) Rebbe, Rabbi Yosef Yitzchak Schneersohn, in 1927 who was imprisoned and sentenced to death in Communist Russia and set free on the twelfth of Tammuz. We celebrate a leader who carried the same unwavering Torah through some of the most dramatically different chapters of modern Jewish history.

One of the unique aspects of the esrog that we bless as one of the four kinds of Sukkos, is that it remains on the tree throughout every season. It endures the scorching heat of summer, the rains of autumn, the cold of winter and the winds of spring, emerging whole and beautiful. It can be said that the Frierdiker Rebbe was the human embodiment of an esrog. The seasons around him changed dramatically. He never did.

His first season was Communist Russia, where Judaism itself had been declared an enemy of the state. Teaching Torah, operating a cheder, arranging a bris or maintaining a mikvah could mean imprisonment or death. The enemy was obvious. Yet the Frierdiker Rebbe built an underground network of rabbis, teachers and activists who refused to surrender. His arrest and miraculous liberation on Yud-Beis Tammuz became far more than a personal victory—it was a declaration that no regime could extinguish the Jewish soul.

Then came Riga. Here there were no prison cells or secret police. Instead, he encountered a Westernized Jewish community blessed with freedom but increasingly detached from tradition. The challenge was no longer preserving Judaism under persecution; it was awakening Jews who no longer felt they needed it. From Latvia, the Frierdiker Rebbe transformed Chabad from a movement struggling to survive into one reaching outward. He expanded the publication of Chassidus, established schools, strengthened communities and reignited Jewish pride in an environment where assimilation, rather than oppression, posed the greatest threat.

From Riga he relocated to Warsaw. Poland was overflowing with Torah scholarship and vibrant religious life, yet Chabad represented only a small stream within a vast religious landscape. Here the challenge was neither persecution nor apathy, but building bridges. Through scholarship, humility and genuine love for every Jew, the Frierdiker Rebbe expanded the Chabad yeshivah network and inspired thousands, earning respect far beyond his own Chassidic circle. He demonstrated that one can stand uncompromisingly for truth while embracing every fellow Jew with warmth and dignity.

All the while he relentlessly continued to rally Jewish organizations and government institutions to help support the Jews of Russia, whose suffering and persecution could only be conveyed by someone who had personally endured it. It was hard for anyone who hadn’t, to really fathom and process what was going on behind the Iron Curtain.  

Finally came America. Through a series of miraculous events and a dramatic rescue effort in the winter of 1940 that involved government officials at the highest levels of US and European Governments, the Rebbe arrived on these shores. He mobilized Jewish leadership and government officials to engage more actively in rescuing Jews from Europe. Here too, American Jews didn’t fully fathom what was unfolding in Europe.  

Ironically, the freedoms of America proved to be yet another battlefield. Here there was unprecedented freedom, but many believed that authentic Torah life simply could not flourish in the modern world. Upon arriving on American shores, the Frierdiker Rebbe famously declared, "America is no different." Torah would not bend to fit America; America could be elevated by Torah. The remarkable renaissance of Jewish education, outreach and Chabad institutions throughout the world began with that conviction.

This week's double Parshah, Chukas-Balak, captures the secret of his greatness. Chukas introduces the chok—a Divine truth whose validity does not depend on changing human fashions or philosophies. Balak reminds us that while the world may try to intimidate, redefine or curse the Jewish people, our identity is determined neither by our enemies nor by the spirit of the age. We are shaped by Hashem's eternal Torah.

Every generation experiences different seasons. Today we face rising antisemitism, unprecedented technological change, growing assimilation and painful divisions within our own people. The particulars have changed, but the leadership we need has not. Like the Frierdiker Rebbe, we must possess the courage to confront hostility, the vision to inspire the indifferent, the love to unite a diverse Jewish people and the faith to remain steadfast in an ever-changing world.

If there is one book every Jew should read this summer, I would recommend Undaunted: How the Sixth Lubavitcher Rebbe Yosef Yitzchak Schneersohn Saved Russian Jewry, Reimagined American Judaism, and Ignited a Global Jewish Renaissance by David Eliezri. It is far more than a biography. It is impossible to truly understand the story of modern American Jewry—the remarkable revival of Torah after the Holocaust, the flourishing of Jewish education, and the global impact of Chabad—without understanding the life of the Frierdiker Rebbe. His journey is the bridge between the shattered world of pre-war European Jewry and the vibrant Jewish renaissance we are privileged to witness today.

The seasons changed. The countries changed. The challenges changed. But because one man refused to change his commitment to Torah and to the Jewish people, he changed the course of Jewish history.

Good Yom Tov and Good Shabbos,

Rabbi Ruvi New 

 In honor of Gimmel Tammuz- The Rebbe’s 32nd Yartzeit

Dear Friends, 

A friend involved in developing a program to combat antisemitism recently shared a fascinating exchange with a potential donor. After hearing the vision and strategy, the donor paused and asked:

“Can you sell hope?”

At first glance, it sounds like a cynical question. But perhaps it is actually the defining question of our time.

Because hope today has become a rare commodity.

We live in an age saturated with anxiety. The headlines are relentless. Israel is once again being pressured into concessions and withdrawals while the world conveniently ignores the forces sworn to its destruction. Iran signs agreements while openly threatening annihilation. Jewish students walk onto college campuses wondering whether they will be harassed for simply existing.

This week, a woman came to speak with me in tears about her college-aged son who is considering “converting out” of Judaism simply to avoid antisemitism.

Think about that.

A Jewish child in America wondering whether it is safer not to be Jewish.

And yet, perhaps this is precisely why “selling hope” may be one of the most important businesses in the world.

That, in many ways, was the Rebbe’s business.

Gimmel Tammuz is not merely a Yahrtzeit - date marking the passing of the Rebbe - it is a reminder of the astonishing power of one person to inject hope into an exhausted world.

The Rebbe inherited a post-Holocaust Jewish people shattered by trauma and threatened by unprecedented assimilation. Most experts and sociologists predicted Jewish decline in America. Judaism, they argued, could not survive the freedoms and distractions of the modern world.

But the Previous Rebbe, Rabbi Yosef Yitzchak Schneersohn, declared defiantly: “America is not different.” Torah could flourish here no less than in Europe.

And the Rebbe took that hope and transformed it into a movement.

He looked at Jews who had little background, little observance, and sometimes little interest, and saw infinite potential. He sent Shluchim/emissaries across the globe not merely to teach Judaism, but to restore dignity, purpose, joy and confidence to the Jewish soul.

The Rebbe also refused to give up on humanity itself.

As America approaches its 250th anniversary, perhaps the greatest hope for this country lies not in technological progress or political victories, but in rediscovering the moral foundations upon which it was built: that human beings are created by a Creator and endowed with inherent dignity because they carry the Divine image.

I recently watched a law enforcement official being interviewed about the phenomenon of “teenage takeovers” erupting in cities across the country. He blamed social media.

But social media is not the root cause. It merely accelerates imitation.

The deeper problem is the spiritual vacuum created when society removes G-d from the public conversation. The Rebbe repeatedly warned that when children are taught they are cosmic accidents, biological beings rather than sacred beings, the inevitable result is a collapse of boundaries, dignity, and self-worth.

Without G-d, morality becomes negotiable. Without a soul, identity becomes fragile. Without purpose, chaos rushes in to fill the void.

This idea is deeply connected to this week’s Parsha, Korach. Korach did not deny holiness. On the contrary, his rallying cry was: “Ki kol ha’eidah kulam kedoshim” — the entire congregation is holy.

But therein lay the danger.

Korach believed that if everyone is holy, then no one should lead, no one should rise higher, and no one should carry unique responsibility. In the name of equality, he undermined the very concept of visionary leadership.

Yet Judaism teaches the opposite. Precisely because every Jew is holy, because every human life is sacred, leadership matters even more. True leaders do not diminish the people; they reveal the greatness within the people. Moshe did not stand above the nation — he stood for the nation.

That was the Rebbe’s model of leadership. The Rebbe saw holiness in every Jew, and greatness in every human being and understood that people need leaders who can awaken hope when others surrender to fear, who can see possibility when others see decline, and who can remind a confused generation of its Divine mission.

In moments when the Jewish people feel exhausted, isolated, or overwhelmed, the Rebbe reminds us to refuse to surrender to despair. He reminds us that G-d believes in us even when stopped we stop believing in ourselves.

He taught us all to be purveyors of hope. In the long arch of history, we are no strangers to struggles and setbacks. But no setback can prevent the needle of redemption from moving forward on Mitzvah at a time.

Good Shabbos and Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Ruvi New

One of the most fascinating explanations offered by the Rambam for the forty-year journey through the desert appears in the Moreh Nevuchim (The Guide for the Perplexed). The generation that left Egypt, he explains, could not immediately enter and conquer the Land of Israel because they still carried the psychological imprint of slavery. They had lived for centuries under oppression, dependency, and fear. Freedom had been granted to them physically, but internally they still thought like slaves.

The desert years were therefore not a punishment alone. They were a process of transformation.

A new generation had to emerge — one born in freedom, raised under the Clouds of Glory, nourished by manna from heaven, and educated with a mindset of destiny rather than survival. Only such a generation could cross the Jordan and possess the land with confidence and courage.

This idea speaks powerfully to our own moment in Jewish history.

For decades, much of Israel’s public diplomacy has been trapped in a defensive posture — apologizing for our presence in our own homeland, endlessly responding to accusations, and often repeating narratives that were never ours to begin with. We became so accustomed to the false “Palestinian narrative” that at times we ourselves helped perpetuate it, speaking about Judea and Samaria as though our claim there were somehow secondary or negotiable.

But something is changing.

A new generation of Israeli leadership is emerging — leaders who are no longer speaking the language of exile, hesitation, or apology. Recently, Samaria Regional Council head Yossi Dagan met with members of Congress in Washington, openly and unapologetically asserting the Jewish people’s obligation to ensure the security of citizens and the historic and Biblical right to the entirety of the Land of Israel, including Judea and Samaria. There is something refreshingly historic about Jews speaking with the confidence of ownership rather than the anxiety of permission.

 
Samaria Regional Council head Yossi Dagan with U.S. Congressman Marlin Stutzman (R-In)

And predictably, the backlash follows.

Case in point: this week, reports emerged that countries such as France were moving to ban Israeli Finance Minister Betzalel Smotrich from entering the country. The old world order is deeply uncomfortable with Jews who refuse to speak like guests in their own land.

Perhaps this too is part of the lesson of the spies.

The spies said about the inhabitants of the Land: “We were like grasshoppers in our own eyes, and so we were in their eyes.”

The Kotzker Rebbe famously noted that once the Jews saw themselves as grasshoppers, that perception itself shaped how others saw them. When we view ourselves as weak, apologetic, uncertain, and dependent on the approval of the nations, we invite the world to see us that way as well.

But when Jews stand with confidence, clarity, and conviction in the justice of our cause to be able to live in peace and security, and the eternity of our connection to the land, the perception changes.

The generation that entered Israel under Yehoshua did not think like slaves escaping Egypt. They thought like a people returning home. Redemption required not only leaving Egypt geographically, but leaving Egypt psychologically.

So too today.

The effort to preserve and strengthen the Jewish presence in the Land of Israel demands more than military strength or political strategy. It requires a redemptive mindset — the courage to stop seeing ourselves through the fearful eyes of exile and to begin seeing ourselves through the eyes of Torah, history, and destiny.

It may take the world some getting used to. But eventually, truth has a way of catching on.

Good Shabbos and Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Ruvi New 

Dear Friends, 

This week’s Parsha introduces the mitzvah of the Shtei Chatzotzros — the two silver trumpets that Moshe was commanded to fashion for the Jewish people.

One trumpet was used to gather the nation. The other to signal movement, mission, and journey.

The Torah uses two fascinating terms in describing the Jewish people throughout the wilderness years: Machaneh and Eidah.

Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik, as quoted by Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, explained that these are not merely poetic synonyms. They describe two distinct dimensions of Jewish identity.

A Machaneh — a camp — comes into being because of what happens from the outside. A people under threat naturally circles the wagons, defends itself, and ensures its survival. A camp is forged by external pressures, enemies, and danger.

An Eidah — a congregation — is something entirely different. It is formed not by outside threats, but by an inner mission and vision. The word Eidah comes from the word eid — witness. An Eidah is a people united around a calling, a purpose, a testimony. The Jewish people are not merely meant to survive history, but to illuminate it. We are summoned not only to self-preservation, but to spiritual purpose as ambassadors of Hashem in the world.

Today, with antisemitism surging globally and Israel under relentless scrutiny and attack, the Jewish world has become exceptionally strong as a Machaneh. Jews across the spectrum are rallying together. Communities are organizing security. Israel is defending its citizens with remarkable courage and sacrifice. The instinct of the Machaneh is alive and well.

But how are we faring as an Eidah?

Are we articulating clearly enough — to ourselves and to the world — why this land matters to us? Are we speaking only the language of geopolitics, or also the language of Torah? Are we explaining that our connection to Eretz Yisrael is not merely historical or political, but covenantal and Divine?

And are we unapologetic about another fundamental Torah principle: that the preservation of Jewish life overrides every political calculation? The Torah’s mandate to protect life is not an ideological preference. It is a sacred obligation.

The two trumpets remind us that both dimensions are necessary.

A nation that is only an Eidah without becoming a Machaneh will not survive. But a nation that is only a Machaneh without remembering its mission as an Eidah risks surviving without purpose.

The Jewish people were never meant merely to endure. We were meant to testify.

The question is not only whether we are sounding the trumpet of defense.

The deeper question is: how loud is the trumpet of our mission?

Good Shabbos and Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Ruvi New

One of the biggest revolutions quietly transforming the modern world is not a new product, but a new obsession: efficiency.

Today, AI systems can analyze millions of data points in seconds, eliminating wasted time, streamlining workflows, and maximizing productivity. In the global shipping industry, artificial intelligence is now used to determine precisely how cargo containers should be loaded onto ships — maximizing space, reducing fuel consumption, minimizing delays, and saving billions of dollars annually. A few inches of unused cargo space multiplied across thousands of ships becomes an enormous loss. The modern world has discovered the power of maximizing capacity.

Surprisingly, this week’s Parsha already taught that lesson over three thousand years ago.

Parshas Naso describes the wagons donated by the tribal leaders for transporting the Mishkan through the desert. The Torah carefully details how the wagons were allocated: two wagons were assigned to the family of Gershon and four to the family of Merari.

Why does the Torah devote so much attention to ancient transportation logistics? Because the Mishkan was not merely being transported. A philosophy of life was being transported.

The family of Merari carried the heaviest beams, pillars, and sockets of the Mishkan. They therefore required greater carrying capacity. Every wagon, every inch of space, every available resource was utilized with precision and purpose in the service of holiness.

Nothing wasted.
Nothing idle.
Nothing underutilized.

The Rebbe derives from this a powerful lesson for life.

If the Torah insists on maximizing the carrying capacity of wagons transporting wood and beams, how much more so must a human being maximize the gifts, abilities, opportunities, and time granted to them by Hashem.

No talent was given accidentally.
No strength was given pointlessly.
No moment was created without meaning.

The Rebbe explains that every person has “unused capacity” within them — abilities they have not yet fully developed, goodness they have not yet fully shared, Torah they have not yet fully learned, kindness they have not yet fully expressed.

A person may already dedicate time to Torah, but perhaps there is room for another few minutes. One may already help others, but perhaps there is another person waiting for encouragement. One may already live Jewishly, but perhaps there is another mitzvah that can be upgraded with more beauty, consistency, or passion.

The Torah’s vision of efficiency is not about becoming robotic or mechanically productive.
It is about recognizing that life itself is sacred cargo.

Every faculty we possess is part of a Divine mission. If Hashem gave us broader shoulders, deeper wisdom, greater influence, financial resources, creativity, or leadership ability, then those capacities are not random blessings — they are indicators of responsibility.

The Mishkan traveled through the desert on carefully loaded wagons.

Our personal Mishkan travels through life on the wagons of our time, energy, and potential.

And perhaps the message of Parshas Naso is this:
Don’t leave holy capacity unused.

Not in your schedule.
Not in your talents.
Not in your generosity.
Not in your soul.

Because when every part of life is utilized with intention and purpose, life itself becomes infinitely more efficient — not merely in the modern sense of saving time or maximizing output, but in the deepest spiritual sense: nothing is wasted. Every talent serves a mission. Every resource carries meaning. Every moment moves us closer to revealing the Divine presence within the world itself.

Good Shabbos and Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Ruvi New

Dear Friends,

In 1984, when I was a 16-year-old student in Melbourne, Australia, our Yeshivah participated in the annual Lag B’Omer parade. It was shortly after the blockbuster movie E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial had captured the world’s imagination. (The movie had come out just two years earlier, in 1982, and everyone was still talking about it.)

Each group of students prepared themed floats for the parade. One group built tanks. Another worked on giant mitzvah displays. My assignment? Helping create an E.T. figure.

But in true Yeshivah fashion, we gave it a Jewish twist.

Instead of “Extra-Terrestrial,” our E.T. stood for:

“The Eternal Torah.”

At the time, it was just a clever play on words.

But looking back, I realize it captured something profoundly Jewish.

The world has always been fascinated by the mysterious, the unidentified, the unknowable — by what may exist somewhere beyond us. Humanity gazes upward in wonder, searching the skies for meaning.

And lately, with renewed headlines about UFOs, government disclosures, mysterious aerial phenomena, and speculation about extraterrestrial intelligence, that fascination has only intensified.

Are we alone?
Is there life beyond Earth?
Is someone trying to contact us?

Interestingly, Torah does not dismiss the possibility of other forms of life somewhere within G-d’s vast universe. The Creator who fashioned billions of galaxies is certainly not limited by our imagination.

But Judaism makes a critical distinction.

The unique gift of moral freedom — the ability to choose between good and evil, to shape oneself and transform the world through those choices — was entrusted to humanity.

And that is precisely the message of Sinai.

If people are searching for the ultimate “UFO,” then the Giving of the Torah was actually the ultimate IFO — the ultimate Identifiable Flying Object.

Not unidentified. Identified.

The Midrash describes how multitudes of angels descended upon Mount Sinai. Heaven itself came down to earth. The mountain trembled, the heavens opened, and an entire nation witnessed Divine revelation together.

But here is the truly revolutionary part of the story.

Most spiritual systems seek escape from the physical world. The goal is often to transcend earth and ascend heavenward.

Sinai reversed the direction.

The novelty of Matan Torah was not that human beings could climb to heaven.

It was that Heaven came down to earth.

Judaism introduced a radically different vision: that the deepest truth is not hidden in distant galaxies, but revealed through eternal Divine wisdom brought into ordinary human life.

The purpose of Torah is not to detach from the world, but to sanctify the world — to bring holiness into business ethics, family relationships, meals, conversations, kindness, community, and daily existence.

Not mystery for mystery’s sake.

But eternity with purpose.

That is why the Torah we received at Sinai is called eternal.

Not because it remains in heaven.

But because it transforms life on earth.

And that is why the most important response to Shavuos is not merely inspiration.

It is action.

A little more Torah study.
A little more kindness.
A little more holiness brought into everyday life.

In that spirit, we are excited to make Torah learning even more accessible in our community.

Beginning Thursday, May 28, we will launch a new weekly Lunch & Learn Torah class at Avi’s Grill at 12:30 PM — an opportunity to pause in the middle of the workday and reconnect to something higher.

And on June 9, we are launching a fascinating new Jewish Learning Institute course in honor of America’s 250th anniversary:

Sinai and Civics: The Jewish Ethics that Shaped America’s Founding.

At a time when society is searching the skies for meaning, perhaps Shavuos reminds us where the deepest answers are truly found:

Not in distant galaxies.

But in bringing Heaven down to Earth — one mitzvah, one act of goodness, and one moment of UFOs may come and go. Fascinations rise and fade. Headlines capture attention and then disappear into history.

But the great IFO of Sinai — the eternal and identifiable revelation of G-d at Mount Sinai — continues to illuminate and guide Jewish life thousands of years later.

May we merit to receive the Torah joyfully and inwardly, and may the eternity of Torah continue to illuminate our lives, our homes, and our world for generations to come.

Good Yom Tov and Good Shabbos.

Rabbi Ruvi New

Dear Friends,

Last week, I wrote about the extraordinary moment of a sitting American president publicly calling upon Americans to recognize and observe Shabbos in honor of America’s 250th year, in what has come to be known as “Shabbos 250.” Whatever one’s politics, it is a remarkable cultural milestone: the values of Shabbos — rest, faith, family, dignity and transcendence — entering the national conversation in a way previous generations of Jews could scarcely imagine. I encourage you to commemorate this milestone event by inviting guests to your home for a Shabbos meal this Shabbos. 

The timing is particularly prescient as this Shabbos is the 4oth anniversary of the Rebbe declaring this Shabbos - the Shabbos before the holiday Shavuos as “Shabbos Achdus” - the Shabbos of Unity, urging people to come together this Shabbos in a spirit of joy and unity. 

This week’s Parsha, Bamidbar, deepens that idea in a powerful way.

The Torah describes how the Jewish people camped in the desert, each tribe beneath its own flag, surrounding the Mishkan (Tabernacle) at the center. The Kli Yakar explains that these flags were not merely organizational. They were spiritual. Because the Shechinah (Divine Presence) rested in the center of the camp, and the people oriented themselves around that center, the nations of the world would look upon them with awe. Not fear born of military might, but reverence born of clarity, purpose and holiness.

He writes that when a people live with G-d at the center, “all eyes turn toward Him.” The flag itself becomes a symbol of victory — not victory through the sword, but through the Name of Hashem. “For they did not inherit the land through their swords, but through the Name of Hashem.” The Kli Yakar then adds a striking image from the Gemara: in the future, the righteous will form a circle around the Divine Presence, with Hashem at the center, and every soul facing toward Him together. That vision, he says, already begins in this world whenever people orient their lives around something higher than themselves.

This week, I saw two messages that felt like living examples of that idea.

The first was a follow-up note to Ahuva from Rosemary, her childhood neighbor in Albuquerque, New Mexico — the same woman I mentioned in last week’s article. More than forty years after living next door to a Chassidic family, she wrote the following:

“My thoughts on the Drizin (Ahuva’s maiden name) family. Then and Now.

I’m 57 now and I think this may have taken place when I was about 13.

You came to mind around a conversation I was having with my darling mother about our thoughts about what happens to our soul or consciousness after we die. We were reflecting on the fact that our beliefs have now grown out of our lived experiences, rather than doctrine or dogma.   ……..

My mother was postulating that (after death) we have a time of realizing our impact on others - good and bad. Essentially, we come to know how we have affected the lives around us after the veil of our inherent denial is lifted. I was thinking about how others’ beliefs have influenced my own - consciously and unconsciously.

You came into the discussion because I vaguely remembered a poster you had on your bedroom wall. I don’t remember the wording, but I think it was ‘something NOW.’ My memory is foggy on it, but I recall you talking about something like a joyful Mass Ascension - a collective rapture.

When we knew each other, we were both children, so close in age, you and I had a more peer-to-peer relationship than I had with your siblings. You have always held a place in my heart and my memory as one of my great Teachers. You taught me about the joyful embrace of religion. You didn’t seem burdened by doctrine — on the contrary, you were joyful, secure and certain. It seemed that you felt ‘lucky,’ but that’s probably the wrong term, it’s more ‘blessed.’ My own experience with religious practice was beleaguered and I recall more ‘have to’ than ‘get to’ when it came to attending church.

In my life, my interactions with your family remain the only time I’ve been close with a Hasidic family (or friends). As I told you on the phone, I feel like I’ve been ‘Jewish adjacent’ in my life, with many Jewish friends, family, my first boyfriend and many Israeli friends. You and your parents had a great deal of patience with me as I was learning how your household operated. Starting with the mezuzah, entering your home was full of unique mysteries and practices that threaded through what was a very loving and welcoming household.

There was a profound sense of mutual respect for our differences - not ‘right’ and ‘wrong. There were many teaching moments which were genuinely gentle. So many things were outside my experience.

I remember your kitchen with separate cutting boards for the meat and dairy. Your house had the best milk I had ever tasted. I always wanted to drink more than I took because I knew your father had gone to great lengths to bring it home, including watching the cows being milked!

It taught me a lot about what I take for granted.

In your household, gender roles were different from those in mine, but wonderfully supportive of my adolescent self. I liked that there were rules that avoided incidental contact between me and your father - certainly no handshakes or hugs. It was unusual for me to see such strongly differentiated gender roles, but they provided an example of empowerment, it was a new way of envisioning equality. There was a place for everyone - all of equal value.

You all taught me about the Sabbath and the rules regarding ‘carrying.’ A knock on the door at our house meant you needed a little assistance with light switches or stove burners at your house. I felt lucky that I could provide a service that helped your family specifically because I wasn’t Jewish. It’s what I now recognize as a lesson in interdependence.

I recall your family eating outside in the driveway in the sukkah.

I even attended Mellie’s bris in your backyard.

Now, as an adult, I think we all live lives that many other people would see as ‘extreme’ because we all are, in fact, different from each other. When we’re not obsessing on the differences, we can be enriched by our diversity - essentially, live and let live. But my time as your neighbor has always remained special in my heart, a true gift, a time of openness and curiosity.

Please thank your parents and siblings for their great kindness and teaching love by example. I have spent my life holding you with love in my heart and I’m so grateful to have been called to contact you and share my memories.”

Rosemary.

Extraordinary.

A child grows up next door to a religious Jewish family in Albuquerque, New Mexico, and forty years later she still carries the feeling of a home centered around holiness. Not because someone preached to her. But because she encountered a living flag.

The second message arrived unexpectedly from Rabbi Laibl Wolf in Melbourne. He sent me a photograph of a sign displaying the Seven Noachide Laws that had once hung in my father’s office.

I had forgotten all about it.

But my father clearly understood something profound: the workplace itself can become a Mishkan (Sanctuary). Business is not merely a place to earn a living. It is an opportunity to elevate the moral consciousness of the world.

That sign hanging in his office was, in its own way, a flag.

A quiet declaration that civilization stands upon moral foundations. That humanity flourishes when anchored in Divine values. That every human being is entrusted with a sacred code of dignity, justice and responsibility.

And perhaps that is the deeper meaning of the flags in Bamidbar.

Every Jew carries a flag of some kind.

Not merely what we say — but what we center our lives around.

And when Hashem stands at the center of a home, a family, a business or a community, people notice. Sometimes immediately. Sometimes forty years later.

Good Shabbos and Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Ruvi New

This week, something remarkable happened.

For what appears to be the first time in American history, the President of the United States issued a public proclamation calling upon Americans to recognize and observe Shabbos.

Whatever one’s politics may be, that moment is profoundly significant. The head of the most powerful nation on earth publicly acknowledging the value of Shabbos is not something previous generations of Jews could have imagined. For centuries, Jews sacrificed livelihoods, opportunities, and comfort in order to keep Shabbos. In many places, governments outlawed it, mocked it, or pressured Jews to abandon it. And now, in a stunning turn of history, the president of the United States speaks publicly about the importance of a day devoted to rest, faith, family, and spiritual reflection.

It is especially striking because this week’s Parsha, Behar-Bechukosai, places Shabbos at the very center of Jewish life.

Parshas Behar begins with the mitzvah of Shemittah — the land itself observing a Shabbos every seventh year: “V’shavsah ha’aretz Shabbos LaHashem.” Not only people rest. Even the earth rests. The Torah introduces the idea that productivity is not the highest value in life. There is something higher than constant output: the recognition that the world belongs to G-d.

Shabbos declares that human beings are more than workers, consumers, or producers. We are souls.

And perhaps that is precisely why Shabbos continues to captivate even those outside the Jewish world. In an age of burnout, anxiety, distraction, and endless digital noise, the idea that one day each week can become sacred time feels revolutionary.

This past week, Ahuva received a phone call completely out of the blue from a woman named Rosemary. Rosemary had grown up next door to the Drizins in Albuquerque, New Mexico, where Ahuva spent part of her childhood. Nearly forty-two years had passed since they had last spoken.

Rosemary had tracked Ahuva down through social media because she felt compelled to share something.

Rosemary had recently been reminiscing with her mother about childhood memories and how unique it was for her to witness religion woven into every aspect of her Jewish neighbors’ lives. She remembered the Sukka, the way they would knock instead of ringing the doorbell on Shabbos, and being at Ahuva’s baby brother’s Bris. She also remembered that the “We Want Moshiach Now” poster hanging on Ahuva’s wall gave her the sense that the world was connected in some bigger way — that everyone was part of a shared effort to elevate the world and move it forward together.

Forty-two years later, she was still moved by it.

Imagine that.

No lectures. No persuasion. No grand campaign. Just the quiet holiness of living Jewish authentically.

That may be one of the deepest messages connecting Behar and Bechukosai. Holiness is not created only through dramatic moments. It emerges through consistency. Through rhythms. Through building a life shaped by sacred values week after week, year after year.

The Torah promises in Bechukosai that when we live aligned with Hashem’s vision, the world itself becomes elevated and harmonious. Jewish life was never meant to remain hidden behind closed doors. We are called to become an “ohr lagoyim” — a light unto the nations.

The prophets describe the days of Moshiach with the words: “V’naharu eilav kol hagoyim” — “all the nations will stream toward it.” The world itself will recognize the beauty of G-dliness and seek connection to holiness.

For much of history, that vision seemed distant. But today we are witnessing glimmers of it unfolding before our eyes.

A president publicly speaks about Shabbos. A woman calls forty-two years later to describe how a neighbor’s Jewish life impacted her. Millions encounter Jewish life publicly, proudly, and unapologetically in ways unimaginable just generations ago.

We are living in a time when the light of Torah can travel farther than ever before.

And perhaps that is the deeper message and opportunity of this moment.

It is not enough to admire Shabbos from afar. Shabbos must be experienced. It must be tasted, heard, felt, and shared.

So many Jews can trace their connection to Judaism back to a single Shabbos table — one Friday night filled with song, warmth, meaning, laughter, challah, and conversation. Sometimes one invitation can echo across an entire lifetime. Just ask Rosemary, who forty-two years later still remembers the feeling of walking into a Jewish home where every detail of life seemed infused with holiness and purpose.

And in a beautiful providence, this coming Shabbos is the Shabbos before Shavuos — the very Shabbos the Rebbe, in 1986, designated as “The Shabbos of Unity,” commemorating the Jewish people’s arrival at Mount Sinai, where they stood כאיש אחד בלב אחד — “like one person with one heart.”

Before receiving the Torah, the Jewish people first learned how to stand together. Unity became the vessel for revelation.

Perhaps that is why Shabbos remains Judaism’s greatest unifier — a sacred space where families reconnect, communities gather, souls breathe, and we remember what truly matters.

So here is a simple challenge for all of us this week:
Invite someone for Shabbos.

A neighbor.
A friend.
Someone new to the community.
Someone who may never have experienced an authentic Shabbos before.

Open your home. Share a song, a story, a bowl of chicken soup, a l’chaim, a little Torah, a little warmth.

Because sometimes changing the world does not begin with grand speeches or dramatic gestures.

Sometimes it begins with lighting candles, making Kiddush, and making one more seat at the table.

And perhaps the greatest reminder of all is this:

You never know who is watching your Shabbos table.
You never know which candle, which song, which moment of holiness may illuminate a soul for decades to come.

Good Shabbos and Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Ruvi New

 (A Make-Up Reflection for Acharei–Kedoshim, with a Message for Emor)

I didn’t get to write last week for Acharei–Kedoshim. So consider this a meaningful “make-up”—one that, in truth, may be even more fitting now.

Because the message of Kedoshim doesn’t pass with the week. It lingers. It asks to be lived.

At the heart of the parsha is one of the most powerful directives in the Torah: “Each person shall revere his mother and father.”

The Torah doesn’t just command honor—it commands reverence. Our sages explain that there are two dimensions: honor is what we do—providing, caring, supporting. Reverence is how we do it—with humility, sensitivity, and deep inner respect.

You can do everything right on paper—and still miss the point.

Because the Torah is not only interested in actions. It is interested in relationships.

And perhaps this has never been more relevant.

Recent studies from organizations like the American Psychological Association and Pew Research Center point to a growing emotional distance between parents and children. Many adult children are supporting their parents in practical ways—but fewer report genuine closeness. At the same time, many parents feel cared for—but not truly valued.

Adding to this is a modern trend that deserves thoughtful consideration. The language of “boundaries” has become central in contemporary therapeutic culture. In its proper place, it is important—even necessary—especially in situations involving harm or dysfunction.

But increasingly, it is being applied to ordinary tensions and differences. Discomfort becomes distance. Friction becomes separation. And sometimes, relationships that could be repaired are simply removed.

The Torah offers a counterbalance—not by denying complexity, but by elevating responsibility. It reminds us that relationships—especially foundational ones—are not just about comfort. They are about growth, patience, humility, and commitment.

I didn’t learn this from a book.

I learned it from my parents.

When my maternal grandfather, Zeide Isser, had to travel from Melbourne to New York for major throat cancer surgery and treatment, my mother left our home for close to three months to be by his side—caring for him with unwavering devotion. My father stepped away from his business during that time to support her and care for his father-in-law. It wasn’t convenient. It wasn’t easy. But it was instinctive.

I remember my father sharing that before the surgery, my grandfather’s primary concern was that his beard not be compromised (in keeping with the verse in last week’s parsha about preserving the sanctity of the beard). That detail stayed with me—not only as a reflection of my grandfather’s values, but as a window into the reverence that defined the entire experience.

And it didn’t end there.

When they returned to Australia, my grandfather moved into our home for the next two years. I watched my mother care for him with extraordinary love and dedication. Because he could no longer eat solid food, she would painstakingly puree his meals—ensuring not just that he could eat, but that every bite was nourishing, thoughtful, and dignified.

This wasn’t just care.

This was honor infused with reverence.

My parents weren’t just meeting his needs—they were protecting his dignity.

That experience shaped me. It taught me that honoring parents is not measured only by what we give, but by how deeply we value the one we are giving to.

At the same time, the Torah is realistic. Caring for aging parents can be emotionally and physically demanding. Roles shift. Independence fades. The people who once carried us may now depend on us. This is not simple.

But perhaps that is precisely where the mitzvah lives.

To preserve dignity when it is most vulnerable.
To give without making the other feel like a burden.
To hold onto reverence—even when familiarity makes it easy to lose.

The Talmud goes so far as to equate honoring parents with honoring G-d Himself. These relationships are not merely biological—they are sacred.

And that brings us to this week’s parsha, Emor.

The opening verse teaches: “Say to the Kohanim… and you shall tell them”—from which our sages derive, “l’hazhir gedolim al haktanim”—that the elders must guide the younger ones.

But the word l’hazhir also means to shine.

Not just to instruct—but to illuminate.

Not just to teach—but to model.

That is what my parents did. They didn’t just tell me what it means to honor parents.

They showed me.

They shined it.

And that may be the deepest lesson of all.

Because in the end, the most powerful education is not what we say.

It is what we live.

Good Shabbos and Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Ruvi New

Dear Friends, 

We are living through what many are calling a loneliness epidemic.

In a world more connected than ever—where a message can cross continents in seconds—more people than ever report feeling unseen, unheard, and alone. It’s a striking paradox: never have we had so many ways to communicate, and yet never have we struggled so deeply with connection.

Which makes Tazria–Metzora feel uncannily current.

The Torah describes the metzora—one afflicted with tzaraas (biblical leprosy)—as being sent outside the camp: badad yeisheiv, he must sit alone. Our sages explain that this isolation is not arbitrary. It is measure for measure. One who used speech to create distance between people—through gossip, negativity, or subtle dismissal—experiences that distance himself.

But the Torah does not leave him there.

The path back is just as deliberate. As part of his purification, the metzora (leper) brings an unusual offering: two birds.

Why birds?

The Rebbe explains (per Rashi’s commentary) that birds are defined by their voice—their song. Unlike other creatures, birds are constantly chirping, calling, and communicating. Their sound is not destructive; it is rhythmic, expressive, even uplifting. The metzora (leper), whose speech fractured relationships, must relearn the art of communication from a creature whose very identity is song.

Because the opposite of harmful speech is not silence.
It is positive life-giving expression.

I was reminded of this recently listening to a podcast interview with Hadassah Carlebach, who at 99 years old was reminiscing about her visits in the 1960s with the Rebbetzin Chana Schneerson (the Rebbe’s mother). The Rebbetzin had endured profound hardship in Communist Russia—loss, displacement, and years of quiet suffering. And yet, Hadassah described how often they would simply sit together and sing Chassidic melodies.

No speeches. No explanations. Just song.

And in those moments, you could sense something lifting. The weight didn’t disappear—but it was softened, held, given expression. The song became a kind of language beyond words—a way of reconnecting, of healing.

Classical Jewish sources recognized in birds something we are only beginning to appreciate again. The Talmud relates that King Solomon understood the language of birds, hearing in their calls a form of meaningful communication. And in Perek Shirah (a chapter of song, composed 500 BCE - 1100 BCE), each creature is described as offering its own verse of praise. In the Torah’s view, birds are not just making noise—they are giving voice to connection, to harmony, to something beyond themselves.

Modern research echoes this in its own way. Songbirds use structured patterns and even “dialects.” Many learn their songs socially, much like humans acquire language. Their calls help establish bonds, reduce stress, and maintain cohesion within a group.

Birds don’t just communicate. They connect.

And perhaps that is the Torah’s deeper message.

The metzora (leper) is not only being cleansed of a past failing; he is being reintroduced into society with a new awareness: speech is not just a tool—it is a force. It can isolate, or it can invite. It can fracture, or it can bind.

We tend to think loneliness is solved by increasing contact—more platforms, more access, more noise. But Tazria–Metzora suggests otherwise.

Connection is not built on how much we speak. It is built on how we speak.

A careless word can distance. A thoughtful word can draw close. A sincere compliment, a genuine question, a moment of presence—these are the “songs” that rebuild community.

The Kohen, notably, is the one who restores the metzora—not a doctor. Because the deepest healing is not physical, but relational: to be seen again, named again, welcomed back in.

In a world filled with noise, the Torah offers a quiet directive: Not more words. Better words. Because sometimes, the distance between isolation and belonging is only a few words—spoken the right way. And sometimes, all it takes… is a song.

Good Shabbos and Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Ruvi New

Reflections on My Father’s Shloshim. 

There is a quiet but weighty custom when it comes to a matzeivah (headstone): to be exceedingly careful with the words that are etched into stone. Not to embellish. Not to exaggerate. To capture something true—something essential—because those words are not merely descriptive; they are, in a sense, a testimony. The neshamah (soul) is held accountable to them.

At the top of my father’s matzeivah are the words: “Moiker Rabbanan”—one who honored and appreciated Torah scholars.

It is a simple phrase. But it says much.

My father, Mendel New, did not just “respect rabbis” in the abstract. It was something you could see, something you could feel. Whether it was visiting Rebbes, rabbis and fundraisers who came from Israel, local rabbis from other communities, and of course, his deep reverence for the Rebbe—there was a consistency, a sincerity, a genuine sense of respect that defined him.

These memories came flooding back over this past Pesach.

From a young age, on the night of Shvi’i (the seventh day of) Shel Pesach, after the Yom Tov meal at home, my father would take us to the home of Rabbi Groner, the community rabbi whom he respected so deeply and worked alongside for over four decades. Each year, Rabbi Groner would host a farbrengen that stretched late into the night—filled with Chassidic stories, heartfelt niggunim, and words that challenged a person to grow.

Those farbrengens were unforgettable. They had everything: inspiration, warmth, and—true to Rabbi Groner’s personality—a certain theatrical flair that made them as engaging as they were elevating. But more than anything, they were wrapped in an atmosphere of Chassidic camaraderie, where titles and pretense were left at the door, and what remained was something real.

My father did not grow up in a Chabad home—his father was a Gerrer Chassid. The culture of a farbrengen was not something he inherited. And yet, he embraced it fully—out of respect for Rabbi Groner, out of appreciation for its authenticity, because he recognized that a farbrengen is a space where the soul speaks more honestly.

The next day, Acharon Shel Pesach, (the last day of Pesach)  the community would gather again—this time for Seudas Moshiach.

This too was not something my father grew up with, but something he came to cherish deeply after marrying into my mother’s Chabad family. In Melbourne, it became one of the highlights of the year: long wooden tables, simple benches, and a room filled beyond capacity with yeshiva students, Yeshiva community members, and members of the broader community—all drawn by the unique atmosphere of commemorating the anticipated final redemption and the last stop of the journey that began at the exodus from Egypt, with four cups of wine, Matzah, niggunim, and inspiring speakers.

And then there was the Rebbe’s matzah.

For many years, a piece of matzah from the Rebbe, distributed on Erev Pesach in New York, would make its way to Melbourne—arriving, almost miraculously, just in time for Seudas Moshiach on the last day of Pesach. But after traveling 12,000 miles, it no longer arrived whole. It arrived as crumbs—morsels.

I remember how carefully the package would be opened, how each person would step forward, reverently receiving the smallest piece. And somehow, that tiny fragment felt powerful.

It’s hard to explain how something so small could carry so much. But perhaps we understand it intuitively. A tiny pill can affect the entire body—we may not fully grasp the science, but we know and trust the effect. In much the same way, that morsel of the Rebbe’s matzah carried something far greater than its size: a taste of Moshiach—infusing the soul with faith, strength, idealism, purpose, joy, and the drive to help bring redemption closer.

Perhaps herein lies a connection to this week’s Torah portion: Parshas Shemini.

In one of the most intense moments in the Torah, after the passing of Nadav and Avihu, the Torah records Aharon’s response in just two words: “Vayidom Aharon”—and Aharon was silent. No speeches. No explanations. Just presence.

Because sometimes, the deepest truths are not taught through words, but through the quiet consistency of what we do.

As I reflect on my father’s life and its impact on me, I realize that many of the most powerful lessons he gave were never spoken—they were lived. They were in the way he took my hand, year after year, and brought me to a farbrengen on Shvi’i Shel Pesach, in the way he made sure we showed up for Seudas Moshiach, in the way he placed himself—and us—in environments of growth, authenticity, and connection.

In so doing, he didn’t sit me down and explain what matters most in life. He showed me. Silently. And those silent actions spoke volumes—about what to value, what to prioritize, and what a Jew should strive toward.

We don’t always need grand speeches to shape a life. Sometimes, all it takes is a small act, a steady example, a quiet hand leading the way. 

And sometimes, all it takes is one morsel of matzah to nourish a lifetime of faith.

Good Shabbos and Shabbat Shalom

Rabbi Ruvi New

Dedicated in loving memory of Menachem Mendel ben Yisroel HaCam.

Rabbi Ruvi New receiving Matzah from the Rebbe, 5 Nissan 1991 

The headlines say geopolitics.

The timing says something far more ancient.

There are moments in history when events seem to move in rhythm with something deeper than geopolitics. Even a casual observer of the current tensions surrounding Iran cannot help but notice: the timing, the language, the stakes… they feel Biblical.

When the opening strikes of this conflict first emerged, they coincided with the Shabbos Zachor when we are commanded to remember Amalek - the force that rises in every generation to challenge the destiny of the Jewish people. That timing was not incidental. It framed the events from the outset, reminding us that what we are witnessing is not merely political or strategic, but part of a deeper, recurring struggle woven into Jewish history.

And now, as developments intensify, we arrive at another striking convergence.

An ultimatum surrounding the Strait of Hormuz - one of the most strategically vital waterways in the world - hangs in the balance. And its timing aligns with Shvi’i Shel Pesach (the Seventh Night of Pesach) - the very night when the waters of the Red Sea split, when Pharaoh and Egypt met their final downfall, and when Hashem revealed Himself openly before an entire nation.

Geographically, the Strait of Hormuz is not part of the Red Sea; it connects the Persian Gulf to the Arabian Sea, while the Red Sea lies to the west, separated by the Arabian Peninsula. Yet both are narrow waterways carrying immense global significance - one sustaining ancient empires, the other fueling the modern world.

But the deeper connection is not geographic - it is symbolic.

In the Torah, water represents concealment. The sea covers what lies beneath it. When the sea split, it was not merely a miracle - it was a revelation. What is usually hidden became visible. The world itself “opened,” and the Divine reality underlying existence became undeniable.

That same dynamic echoes now.

As the world watches the waters of the Middle East, we are reminded that beneath the surface of history, something deeper is unfolding. What appears as political tension may be part of a Divine choreography guiding the world toward its ultimate purpose.

And the timing invites us not only to observe - but to respond.

Because Shvi’i Shel Pesach is not just about what happened then. It is about what can happen now.

Each of us carries within our own “sea” - places where clarity is submerged, where Hashem’s presence feels hidden beneath routine, worry, or distraction. The personal work of this night is to experience our own Krias Yam Suf - our own splitting of the sea. To push past the surface and behold, even briefly, the reality of “זה א-לי ואנוהו” - this is my G-d.

Chassidus teaches that the revelation of the seventh day of Pesach is a forerunner of the revelation of Moshiach. That energy crescendos on the eighth day of Pesach, with the Baal Shem Tov’s Seudas Moshiach - a time to internalize a consciousness of redemption, not as a distant dream, but as a lived reality.

So as we follow the news, and as we pray for the safety of our brothers and sisters in Israel, we must remember: our role is not only to watch history unfold, but to shape its inner meaning.

We do that not with headlines - but with holiness.

With presence.
With prayer.
With participation.

Join us:

Shvi’i Shel Pesach - Wednesday
Relive the splitting of the sea—where concealment gives way to revelation.

Yizkor – Thursday Morning

Stand in sacred memory, connecting generations and drawing strength from eternity.

Seudas Moshiach with Rabbi Chaim Drizin - Thursday 6:30 PM
Living in Redemptive Consciousness
Step into a mindset where redemption is not just coming—but already unfolding.

Because perhaps the most important question is not what is happening in the waters of the world—

But whether the waters within us are ready to part.

Good Yom Tov and Chag Samech!

Rabbi Ruvi New