Rabbi Yaakov Asher Sinclair

A Heavenly Rain

Just weeks ago, during the last week of summer, in Eagle Pass on the Tex-Mex border, a woman farmer stood gazing at the sky, fighting back tears. It hadn’t rained in almost six months—not a drop. She owned pecan orchards, and if it didn’t rain soon, they would die. She’d go bankrupt, and her family would be forced to leave their land.

Suddenly, a bus pulled up next to the parched orchard, and fifty yeshiva bachurim from the tri-state area piled out. The farmer looked at them, puzzled. Who were these strange-looking gringos? She had never seen gringos wearing baseball caps and pants. She approached the leader of the group and asked, “You’re Jewish, right?”

“Yes,” he replied.

“We’re desperate. Pecans have grown here in Texas for 500 years. My family has farmed this land for generations, but the last two years have been terrible. We’ve prayed and prayed for rain, but nothing has worked. I know the Jewish people have a special connection to G-d. Will you pray for us, please?”

Moved by her plea, and thinking it would be an interesting experience for the boys, the leader of the group, Shlomi Science, gathered the bachurim into a circle. Together, they sang the words from Tehillim “Esa Einai El Heharim” three times. Then, Shlomi made a short Mi Sheberach in English, asking Hashem for rain to help the woman and everyone else in need.

“Father in Heaven, You blessed our forefathers, Avraham, Yitzchak, and Yaakov. Please bless Magali, daughter of Angie. G-d, please shower this area with rain—not only for her and her family but for all the farmers around. Only You can do it, and no one else. Amen.”

Some of the boys may not have taken it too seriously—when you’re eighteen, everything can seem like a bit of a joke. But the farmer thanked them for their prayers, and the group got back on the bus to continue their trip.

That evening, Shlomi received a text from the farmer: “It rained for about an hour. This hasn’t happened in four or five months. I feel so loved by God. I want to cry. Thank you, and thank G-d. I’m so grateful for meeting you today.”

How great are our tefillot! It’s easy to think, “What can I do? What’s the power of my actions? What’s the power of my tefillah? What’s the power of my mitzvah?” Sure, in Olam Haba, it’s powerful; it does something. But in this world, it’s hard to feel that our actions make a difference. But they do. They make all the difference.

These bachurim were just regular American boys. And maybe, for some of them, it seemed like a joke. But they tore up the world. They tore up the heavens. They reversed the gezeira.

We have the power, even if our kavana is minimal. Even when we’re just saying the words, even when we’re just phoning it in. Each one of us, however small we may think we are, holds enormous power.

Believe it. Use it. Hashem loves and cherishes our every action.

Rabbi Daniel Glatstein

Every Word a Mitzvah

During the month of Elul, it’s interesting to note something about L’Dovid Hashem Ori, Psalm 27, which we recite every day. If you look closely, every single letter of the Hebrew alphabet appears in the chapter, except for one—the letter gimmel. What’s the reason for this? Why is there no gimmel?

The explanation is as follows.

The main focus of the chapter is the Pasuk, “Achas sha’alti me’eis Hashem oso avakesh shivti b’veis Hashem kol yemei chayai—One thing I ask of Hashem, this is what I seek: to sit in the house of Hashem all the days of my life.” What does that mean? It's about the desire to sit in the house of Hashem, to understand and reflect on His ways, which is clearly a reference to Torah learning.

During this month, what’s on our minds are the scales of judgment. Rosh Hashanah is approaching, and we know how it works: Hashem weighs all of our merits and sins. And as the Rambam (Hilchos Teshuva 3:3) tells us, if you have more mitzvos than sins, you’re written and sealed for a good year. If it’s the opposite, then chas v’shalom, we know the consequences. And if we’re 50-50, you hang in the balance, and we do everything we can to tilt the scales in our favor.

There’s an amazing Gemara (Berachos 16a) which discusses a Pasuk in Parshas Balak. “K’n’chalim nitayu k’ahalim nata Hashem—Like streams planted, like tents Hashem has planted.” This Pasuk compares tents to streams. The Gemara explains that tents refer to the tents of Torah, and the streams refer to those that can be used as a mikvah. What’s the comparison between a stream and a tent of Torah? Just like a stream can take a person from impurity to purity, the tent of Torah can take a person from demerit to merit. When you learn Torah, it can tilt the scales in the favor of merit.

Now, asks the Chofetz Chaim, what does this mean? Can’t you tilt the scales by doing any mitzvah? If you help an old lady cross the street, aren’t you performing a mitzvah? If you visit the sick or lend money to someone in need, aren’t you tilting the scales with those good deeds? So why does the Gemara single out Torah learning?

The Chofetz Chaim answers that yes, while all mitzvos tilt the scales, Torah learning has a unique power. When Hashem evaluates our mitzvos and aveiros, it’s not just about quality—it’s also about quantity. And one particular category can be especially dangerous, and that’s lashon hara.

How many people can you kill in one day, realistically? Even the worst criminals in history can only do so much in a single day. But when it comes to lashon hara, every single word is a separate sin. The Chofetz Chaim made a calculation that in every minute, you can speak 200 words, so if you talk for three minutes, you could speak 600 words of lashon hara. How many old ladies are there to help cross the street to balance that out? There aren't enough old ladies in the whole continent of Australia to outweigh three minutes of lashon hara!

So really, there’s only one way to tilt the scales, and that’s through the tent of Torah, Torah learning. Because with each minute of learning, you can say a few hundred words of Torah. Ten minutes of learning equals 2,000 words, each one a separate mitzvah.

Davening Shacharis is only one mitzvah. When you’re done with davening, you’ve performed the mitzvah of tefillah, tallis, tefillin, Birchas HaTorah, Shema, zechiras yetzias mitzrayim (remembering the leaving of Egypt). The better you daven, qualitatively, your davening is more valuable. But Shacharis is Shacharis. However, the Vilna Gaon writes that each word of Torah is a separate mitzvah.

I used to wonder about this. If I help an old lady cross the street, isn’t each step I take another mitzvah? The answer is no. Each step is expanding the mitzvah of helping her cross the street. All the effort you put in expands that one act of the mitzvah. But with Torah, each word is considered a separate mitzvah.

They once posed a question along these lines to Rav Yaakov Kamenetsky zt”l. Nowadays, there are many seforim which are very wordy. They might take one idea and spread it across five pages. Is each word in those books a separate mitzvah? Rav Yaakov said no. Only if each word was written with exactitude can we say that each word is a separate mitzvah. When asked for an example, Rav Yaakov said even Mishna Berurah (written by the Chofetz Chaim). It is certainly true of seforim written before the era of the Chofetz Chaim, and certainly Chumash with Rashi, for example.

Therefore, during the month of Elul, while we do many mitzvos, and acts of kindness (gemillus chasadim) are certainly fundamental, especially this month, the special focus is on Torah learning. That is the "one thing I ask of Hashem." This singular focus on Torah learning can tilt the scales more than anything else.

The letter gimmel, the Gemara (Shabbos 104a) tells us, stands for gemillus chasadim, and is therefore absent from L’Dovid Hashem. It is to emphasize the centrality and power of Limud HaTorah during this month of Elul. This doesn’t mean we shouldn’t perform gemillus chasadim or tzedakah. Of course we should, and in great measure. Rather, as a means of motivation and inspiration to excel in the quantity and quality of our Limud HaTorah, the words and letters within L’Dovid Hashem remind us.

May we use the moments of this month and the remaining days before Rosh Hashanah toward the lofty endeavor of Limud HaTorah.

Rabbi Shlomo Farhi

In Your Heart

There's a custom to perform Hatarat Nedarim (the annulment of vows) on Erev Rosh Hashanah. And we’ll do it again during Kol Nidrei, right before Yom Kippur. There's this repeated, almost incessant tradition of performing Hatarat Nedarim. I think the reason we do it so often is that, by sheer frequency, someone will eventually catch one of these declarations before the High Holidays. It iss seen as such an important thing to do before the yamim noraim (Days of Awe).

But why are we so obsessed with this particular mitzvah before the High Holidays? There are plenty of other things we could focus on. For instance, why not have someone in the synagogue remind us to avoid speaking lashon hara? Or why not have a Beit Din in the synagogue to adjudicate unresolved monetary disputes before Rosh Hashanah? These are also critical matters we shouldn’t enter the High Holidays without addressing. So why this near obsession with Hatarat Nedarim?

There’s a key part of the Hatarat Nedarim text that is puzzling. We ask the Beit Din to absolve us of our nederim (vows), shavuot (oaths), cheremim (bans), and kelalot (curses)—all things that we understand need absolution. But then we also ask for forgiveness for kabbalah b'lev—commitments we’ve accepted in our hearts. This part is more difficult to understand.

Take this example: Imagine someone in the synagogue is raising money for a man struggling to have children. You hear the appeal, and while wrapping your tefillin, you think to yourself, "I’ll give $50 to help." But before you can act on it, the collector leaves. That’s a kabbalah b'lev, an intention made in your heart. The question is: Are we truly obligated to fulfill such a vow, one that was never spoken out loud or written down?

In business, if you shake hands on something, that obligates you. If you sign a document, or make a kinyan (acquisition act), you’re obligated. Even a verbal commitment obligates you to some extent. But when the intention remains only in your thoughts, we generally say, "It’s just a thought." There’s no formal mechanism to obligate you when nothing was said or done externally.

So why are we even bothering to ask forgiveness for kabbalah b'lev during Hatarat Nedarim?

Let me explain with a story. When the Sephardim first started coming to Israel, there was a strong Ashkenazi presence, and the Ashkenazim had established much of the infrastructure, including yeshivot. While there were Sephardic yeshivot, the ones initially thriving were Ashkenazi. As more Sephardic Jews emigrated from countries like Syria, Iraq, and Morocco, they needed yeshivot that reflected their traditions.

One of the Ashkenazi rosh yeshivot, Rabbi Eliezer Yehuda Finkel of the Mir Yeshiva, recognized this need. He decided to help raise money to establish Sephardic yeshivot. This wasn’t about converting Sephardic students into the Ashkenazi system but supporting them in their own traditions.

At one point, his family questioned him: "Why are you working so hard to raise money for other yeshivot when the Mir itself is struggling to stay open?" Rabbi Finkel responded, "I obligated myself." They asked, "Who obligated you? There’s no contract, no agreement." "I was at the meeting,” he said, “and I saw the need. I decided I would help."

There was no formal obligation, no legal document binding him, but in his heart, he felt committed. This is what kabbalah b'lev represents—personal integrity. A person with integrity keeps their word, even when it’s not written down. If you said you would do it, you do it. If you thought you would do it, you still do it.

That's why, during Hatarat Nedarim, we ask to be released even from these inner commitments. We want to ensure we’re clear of any lingering obligations before we enter the High Holidays.

But there’s a deeper reason for focusing on kabbalah b'lev at this time of year. The Talmud tells a story about a rabbi who was praying when a non-Jewish merchant came in, trying to negotiate a deal on textiles. As the rabbi continued praying, the merchant kept raising his offer, thinking the rabbi's silence was a shrewd negotiating tactic. When the rabbi finished his prayers, the offer had reached a lot more than his original offer, but the rabbi insisted on selling the goods for the original amount. The rabbi explained that when the merchant first made the lower offer, he had thought in his heart, "I’ll sell it for that." And once he made that commitment in his heart, he felt bound to honor it.

The merchant wasn’t Jewish, and there was no way anyone could have known the rabbi’s inner thoughts, but his integrity dictated that he fulfill even the commitment he had only made in his heart.

Integrity matters in business and in life. The Gemara (Shabbat 31a) says that when a person stands before the heavenly court, the first question asked is, "Did you conduct business with honesty?" This comes before questions about Torah study, prayer, or keeping kosher. Did you have integrity? Was your word reliable?

And this is why we are so careful about Hatarat Nedarim before the High Holidays. We’re about to stand before God, promising to be better, to improve. But what’s our track record with promises? If we have unkept promises hanging over us, even those made in our hearts, we need to address them before we ask God to accept our new commitments.

There’s another layer to kabbalah b'lev. The Gemara (Kiddushin 49b) teaches that if a man says to a woman, "Be my wife on the condition that I am a complete tzaddik," even if he’s a known rasha (wicked person), the marriage may be valid. Why? Because perhaps, in that moment, he had a thought of teshuva (repentance), and even that fleeting thought is enough to be considered a tzaddik.

This shows the power of inner thoughts. And just as we ask G-d to forgive us for promises and commitments we made in our hearts but didn’t fulfill, we also want Him to value the teshuva we’re about to accept in our hearts during the High Holidays.

So as we approach the yamim noraim, may we come before G-d with integrity, having cleared our records of unfulfilled promises, both spoken and silent. And may the commitments we make this year, both in words and in our hearts, be granted the power to bring positive change for ourselves and the world.

Rabbi Doniel Staum

Mindful in the Moment

As the days of Elul pass and we draw closer to Rosh Hashanah, in Parshas Ki Savo, we reflect on a meaningful section of the Torah. It begins with the farmer excitedly bringing his bikkurim—the first fruits—and making a declaration. This declaration not only describes his gratitude but also leads into the vidui ma'aser, a confession of sorts. Interestingly, this "confession" isn't about wrongdoing. Rather, the person admits that they've done everything required: "I didn’t eat it when I was in mourning. I didn’t forget. I didn’t transgress Your commandments." It ends with a heartfelt plea to Hashem: "Look down from Your holy dwelling and bless us."

One phrase stands out in particular: "I didn’t transgress Your commandments, and I didn’t forget." That seems redundant. If you didn’t transgress, then obviously, you didn’t forget. How can you transgress something you’ve forgotten?

This is reminiscent of a story from Rav Chaim Volozhin zt”l. He once described a person minding his own business, just watching the world go by, when suddenly someone punches him—twice! "What was that for?" he exclaims. The person responds, "Sorry, I was spacing out. I didn't even realize I punched you!" Rav Chaim's describes that sometimes, we’re so out of touch that we’re not even aware of our actions until something wakes us up.

When we say during vidui ma'aser, "I didn’t transgress and I didn’t forget," it’s addressing a deeper issue. Sometimes, we go through the motions without being truly mindful. There’s a big movement today towards mindfulness, encouraging people to be present in the moment. But how often do we pray, study, or even spend time with loved ones without being fully aware of what we’re doing? We may be physically present, but we lose the deeper connection because our minds are elsewhere.

The farmer’s declaration is saying, "I didn’t just follow the commandments—I didn’t forget what they mean. I didn’t forget to be mindful in the moment. When I was bringing the fruits, I was fully aware of why I was doing it. I was conscious of my relationship with You, Hashem."

It's easy to go through the motions in both spiritual and mundane matters without truly engaging. The tragedy of our time is that we often invest so much into doing things on a high level, yet forget the core of it all—the connection to Hashem. It's not enough to say, "I didn’t transgress." We must also say, "I didn’t forget." I didn’t forget to be mindful of the holiness in my actions.

A friend once shared with me that for one of his New Year resolutions, he committed to being mindful every time he kissed something. Whether it was kissing his mezuzah, his tallit, or his children, he resolved to pause for a split second and think, "I’m so lucky to have this connection." Even something as routine as a kiss became an act of love and reverence when done mindfully.

There's a famous story of a man who was on the verge of leaving the yeshiva world. One day, as he finished his prayers, he saw someone close their siddur and kiss it with such love and reverence that it changed his mind entirely. That single moment of sincere connection inspired him to stay in yeshiva longer. It’s not easy to stay mindful all the time, but the Torah reminds us to remember what we’re doing and be aware of the significance of every act.

As we prepare for the High Holidays, we are reminded: don’t just go through the motions. Remember why you’re doing what you’re doing, how valuable it is, and how special the connection with Hashem—and with each other—truly is.