Rabbi Shlomo Farhi

Pray for Your Competition

A couple of years ago on Rosh Hashanah, I had the honor of opening the ark. Now, this is a story within a story, so bear with me. As I opened the ark, I announced that we were about to say the prayer for Parnassah—the prayer for livelihood. Everyone stood, and I said, “Before we begin, I’d like you all to do one thing.

“When you’re praying, don’t just pray for yourself. Think of someone else who also needs Parnassah, and include them in your prayer.” People nodded, touched by the sentiment. They had no idea I was setting them up for something more.

Then I added, “One last thing before we start—this will only take a moment. That person you’re thinking of, I’d like them to be your competitor.” I could feel the room shift.

“Pray for my competitor?” they thought. I smiled and said, “If you’re here praying to G-d for Parnassah, that means you believe He is the true Source of all sustenance. Do you not think that Hashem has enough for both you and your competitor? If you believe that your competitor’s success means your loss, then perhaps you don’t truly believe G-d is in control of your livelihood. But if that’s the case, you may as well go home.”

I shared this idea later in one of my classes. A particular student of mine heard this message, and it resonated deeply.

The next day, he went to work, where he was faced with a dilemma. His business partner said, “Someone called and asked if we could introduce them to the person who helped us prepare for our Walmart account. For a large retailer like Walmart or Target, there is strict criteria to meet, and not everyone can provide the required preparation. If we share our contact, they might become a competitor down the line. Should I do it?”

The student, still reflecting on the class, told his partner to sit down. He then played the recording of the class. Afterward, he said, “Give them everything they need. If competition doesn’t diminish our livelihood, then whatever G-d intends for us will be ours.”

Later that day, he received an email from a friend with a short note: “FYI, see below.” In the email chain was a message from a Target buyer, who had cc’d all of their competitors, asking if anyone could provide the contact information for a specific person. This was something he had never experienced before. He reached out to the buyer, who explained, “I’ve never done this before—never chased a seller or reached out to a competitor. But this was an exception.”

We both knew the deeper reason why it had unfolded in such a way, with his competitor being the one to pass along the business. It was meant to be crystal clear: Hashem Melech, Hashem Malach, Hashem Yimloch L'Olam Va'ed. The belief that competition threatens our livelihood is simply a distortion. True clarity shows us that our abundance is destined for us alone.

When he shared this story, I asked if I could repeat it, to demonstrate that the principle truly works. I retold it in another class, and the message seemed to resonate with many.

Just last week, I taught a class for women called Praying Alive, where I discussed breathing life into the words of the High Holiday prayers. Afterward, a woman approached me and shared her own story.

She explained that she had been watching the class where I shared the story about the Parnassah prayer, the Walmart account, and the Target email. Minutes after watching it, she walked into a meeting to pitch her services. She started by asking, “Who currently handles this work for you?”

The client replied with the name of a respected member of the Jewish community. Remembering the lesson, she responded, “They’re excellent—talented, skilled. You should definitely keep using them.” The client smiled and said, “We actually have no intention of using them. We just wanted to see how you’d react if we mentioned a competitor.”

But the story doesn’t end there. Just then, a door opened, and an Asian man walked in. The client turned to her and said, “Do you know, this gentleman actually works with the company we just mentioned.”

“Really?” she replied, surprised. Then the client addressed the newcomer, saying, “We mentioned that we currently work with someone from your company and wanted to see her reaction.” She had responded with genuine praise, encouraging them to continue using the other provider.

The man replied, “I don’t work with that person anymore. In fact, I just acquired his company, and we’re closing that division. And I’d like to offer that entire division to you.”

Rabbi Benzion Klatzko

A Familiar Call

I work with a family—a young couple, actually—known as the Bahars. For many years, they were unable to marry, but a few years ago, that finally changed. Now in their forties, this remarkable couple has built a family in the Old City and dedicates themselves to chesed.

Yosef Bahar is a Hollywood writer and producer. Right from the start of their marriage, Yosef and his wife, Chaya Sara, poured themselves into chesed.

Only two months after their wedding, they were approached by Jeff Seidel, who does kiruv work in the Old City. Jeff told them about a group of seven young men from Argentina—streetwise but not religious. They had come to learn Torah but were expelled from the yeshiva as a group, leaving them on the streets.

The leader of this group was named Motti. With nowhere to go, these young men seemed adrift, and their future uncertain. Yosef and Chaya Sara stepped up, telling Jeff, “Bring them to our home.” They welcomed all seven boys, fed them, and invited them to stay.

The very next day, Yosef and Chaya Sara transformed their one-bedroom apartment into an impromptu yeshiva. For six months, all seven boys slept on their couch and the floor in the dining room. Early on, Yosef taught them Shema and helped them put on tefillin for the first time. He even went down to Aish HaTorah and arranged for rabbis to come and study with them.

The boys embraced their new faith with fervor, shouting Shema Yisrael with a raw, unfiltered passion. They were grateful for the Bahars, who had rescued them from the streets and taught them Torah. After six months of intensive learning, this group of seven, led by Motti, decided to channel their love for Eretz Yisrael and join the IDF. They went into the army, proudly wearing their yarmulkes, tzitzit, and carrying their tefillin.

Then came October 7th, when they heard of the brutal attacks. Without a moment’s hesitation, they jumped into a car and raced to the nearest hotspot—Kibbutz Be'eri. Once there, they drew their weapons and engaged the terrorists, fighting with everything they had. This band of fiery young men, so full of Jewish pride, took on the attackers one by one.

Motti, leading the charge, told his friends to disperse. “We don’t know where the Jews are in the kibbutz,” he said. “They’re being slaughtered as we speak. Go from house to house.” Following his own directive, Motti entered one of the homes and soon heard terrorists approaching. Quickly, he hid under a bed, his heart pounding.

The terrorists entered, searching for Jews. Knowing he had little time, Motti uttered a silent prayer and began shooting at their legs as they approached the bed. He took them down, one by one, as they fell in agony. Then he emerged, aimed his rifle, and finished what he had started. After reuniting with his friends, they methodically cleared the kibbutz of terrorists who had brutally murdered so many.

When the gunfire ceased and silence fell, they began calling out, “You are safe! Jews, listen! You’re safe now.” But no one emerged. The survivors, fearing it was a trick by Hamas, stayed hidden. Motti realized this and turned to his friends. “We need to try something else.” So they began shouting in the streets, “Shema Yisrael, Hashem Elokeinu, Hashem Echad!” And when the Jews hiding in Be'eri heard not only the Shema but also its continuation—the words of the Shema’s next paragraph, V’ahatva—they knew that it was the IDF, and they were indeed saved.

Sometimes, that’s all Hashem asks of us—to recognize His oneness, Hashem Elokeinu, Hashem Echad. When we embrace this truth, every hardship becomes a Kiddush Hashem. The darkness turns to light, sorrow to joy, and mourning to celebration.

Rabbi Avrohom Stulberger

History at the Doorstep

Let me share with you an extraordinary tale. This story was originally told by the Chofetz Chaim, and Rabbi Galinsky later added a fascinating postscript to it.

Tsar Nicholas II of Russia was a notorious ruler whose cruelty knew no bounds, slaughtering people with reckless abandon. In the early 1900s, the Russian government sought to expand its dominion, but Poland resisted fiercely. This sparked a conflict between the Russian forces, led by Tsar Nicholas, and the Polish army. An underground resistance movement joined forces with the Poles, wreaking havoc on the Russian military. There was a growing sentiment that Tsar Nicholas had to be deposed, as his brutal regime had become intolerable.

As it became known, the Russians had made the leader of this underground movement their primary target. His face was plastered on wanted posters across the land—he was the most sought-after man in the Russian Empire. They knew his name, his appearance, and were determined to capture him. One day, the Russian authorities spotted him riding in a horse-drawn carriage. Realizing he had been seen, the rebel leader began a desperate bid to escape. But knowing he couldn’t outrun his pursuers, he leapt from the carriage and fled on foot, leaving the horse to continue on without him.

Seeking refuge, he slipped into a nearby Jewish village. Knocking on the first door, he pleaded with the homeowner, “I’m fleeing from the Russians. Please, help me.” But the man, fearing retribution from the authorities, refused to offer assistance. Undeterred, the rebel knocked on a second door. This time, the Jewish man who answered welcomed him with kindness, inviting him inside and offering him food and shelter. The host devised a plan to hide the fugitive: he gave him a tallis and instructed him to wear it, pretending to be a Jewish man at prayer. The Russians would never suspect that the leader of the rebellion, the most wanted man in Russia, would disguise himself in such a way.

The plan worked flawlessly. When the Russian soldiers arrived, they saw nothing more than a devout Jew wrapped in his tallis, swaying in prayer. They paid him no attention and left the house without further inspection. The rebel, having narrowly escaped capture, thanked the Jewish man profusely. He revealed his identity and promised that, though he was in a precarious position at the moment, one day he would rise to power. When that day came, he vowed to repay the Jewish man for his kindness.

Years passed, and true to his word, the rebel became the head of the Russian government after Tsar Nicholas was overthrown. On the day of his inauguration, he summoned the Jewish man to his palace. Terrified, the man arrived at the palace, certain that some terrible fate awaited him. When called before the new leader, he was reminded of the day he had provided refuge to the fleeing rebel. The leader expressed his deep gratitude, showering the Jewish man with gifts and privileges, and assured him that whenever he was in need, he could turn to him for help.

The Chofetz Chaim, reflecting on this story, shared a profound lesson.

When you extend kindness to someone, you never truly know the far-reaching consequences of that act. The Jewish man thought he was helping a single individual, yet in doing so, he played a role in ending the reign of a tyrant who would have continued to kill thousands. The Chofetz Chaim’s message was clear: every act of kindness has the potential to change the world in ways we may never foresee.

As we stand amidst the Yomim Noraim, this story holds special meaning. These days, we are all summoned before HaKadosh Baruch Hu, trembling as we face the unknown verdict for the coming year. Yet, just as the Jewish man was fearful of being summoned to the palace, only to find that his kindness had secured him favor, so too must we remember that our deeds—especially those of kindness and care for others—will stand in our favor before G-d. We may not realize it, but when we take care of others, we are, in essence, taking care of Hashem’s children. And in doing so, HaKadosh Baruch Hu assures us that He will take care of us in return.

But Rabbi Galinsky added yet another layer to this remarkable story. In 1921, a few years after these events, a group of eighteen yeshiva students attempted to flee Russia for Eretz Yisrael. Unfortunately, they were captured at the border by Russian authorities, and their punishment was certain death. In desperation, the Jewish community turned to Rav Chaim Ozer Grodzinski zt”l, one of the greatest Torah scholars of the generation, pleading for help. Rav Chaim Ozer, recalling the story of the rebel leader, sent a message to the Jewish man who had once saved his life. He urged him to use his influence with the new Russian leader to save these eighteen young men.

The Jewish man did as Rav Chaim Ozer requested, and the leader, remembering his debt of gratitude, intervened. In a remarkable turn of events, the eighteen students were freed and allowed to travel to Eretz Yisrael. Among those students was none other than Rabbi Yaakov Yisrael Kanievsky zt”l, known as the Steipler, the father of Rav Chaim Kanievsky zt”l, both of whom became towering figures in the Jewish world.

Rabbi Galinsky’s message added something to what the Chofetz Chaim had intended to highlight. A single act of kindness can echo through the generations. Because without that one kind gesture, some of the greatest Torah leaders might never have existed.

We may never know the full extent of the good we do, but to be sure, one small act can reverberate across time and change the course of history.

Rabbi Dovid Orlofsky

I Was Wrong

This is an idea I heard from Rav Tzvi Kushelevsky many years ago. It’s based on the Pasuk in the Parshas Nitzavim which says, "It’s not far; it’s not up in the sky or across the sea. It’s very close to you."

So, what is this talking about? Rashi says it refers to the Torah, which G-d gave us in a way that’s easily accessible. You don’t need to travel to outer space, like searching for a black monolith on Jupiter. You don’t need to go overseas or climb a mountain in India searching for the truth. Nor do you need to dig up archaeological ruins to uncover it. The truth is very easy to access—it’s right here, close to you. The Torah makes it clear that the path to truth is not hidden or distant; it’s simple and available.

But the Ramban says this Pasuk is referring to the mitzvah of teshuva (repentance). But if that’s so, wondered Rav Kushelevsky, and the Pasuk says it's easy—what does that mean? Teshuva seems so hard. And it’s true, it often feels difficult for people to do the right thing. So, why does the Torah call it easy?

The answer is that doing the right thing is easy. The hard part is acknowledging that you need to do it in the first place. As the old joke goes: How many psychologists does it take to change a light bulb? One, but only if the light bulb wants to change.

There’s a famous story about a rabbi who meets a young man. The rabbi asks, “Are you doing teshuva (repentance)?” The young man replies, “Yes, sure.” The rabbi asks, “For what?” The young man is unsure and says, “Well, you know, for teshuva.” The rabbi presses, “Like what?” The man doesn’t know, so the rabbi walks him through it. He says, “Did you kill anyone?” “No.” “Good, good.” “Did you steal anything?” “No.” “Good.” And so on. The young man responds to each question, sometimes admitting minor faults, but always justifying his actions. “Yes, I wasted time,” he says, “but it was always with a positive motivation, not just idling.”

Finally, the rabbi tells him, “You’ll never truly do teshuva. Do you know why? Because you’ve never done anything wrong—at least in your mind. You speak lashon hara (gossip)? That’s like murder. You’ve never embarrassed someone? That’s also like murder. The only reason you haven’t bowed down to idols is because the circumstances didn’t push you there. If they had, you might have done it too. You’ll never change because you don’t see yourself as having done anything wrong.”

The point the rabbi was making is critical: Teshuva is only possible if a person first recognizes that they’ve done something wrong. Without that recognition, change is impossible. That’s why the first step in teshuva is the confession: “We have sinned.” You have to say it and admit it to yourself.

This reminds me of something my mother, of blessed memory, said before Yom Kippur. She told me, “I was going over the viduy (confessional prayers) and looking through the list of sins, but I didn’t find anything that applied to me.” I laughed and said, “You, Mom? Of course not.” But there are people who genuinely look at the list and don’t see themselves in it. They go down the line and say, “Oh, I know someone like that,” or “I know a guy who did this.” But they apply it to everyone else, not themselves.

The secret of teshuva is recognizing that we all have areas to improve. Only when we admit our mistakes can we truly change. Once you take that first step, acknowledging what you’ve done wrong, the rest of teshuva becomes much easier. That’s what the Torah means when it says, "It’s very close to you." The hard part is the self-recognition; the rest comes naturally once that hurdle is crossed.

Rabbi Binyonmin Pruzansky

It’s Up to Me

The closeness we experience with Hashem is something we work on day by day, especially after a Rosh Hashanah like we just had. We reflect on our teshuva and strive to become true baalei teshuva—individuals who are able to overcome the temptations of the world and genuinely work on repentance.

There is a famous Gemara about Rabbi Elazar ben Durdaya, who was known for seeking to do many aveiros (sins). After one of his attempts to sin, he stopped himself and withheld from doing it. Seeking mercy, he called out to the heavens, asking them to request mercy for him from Hashem. The heavens responded, "We can't help you; we must seek mercy for ourselves." He then turned to the earth, the sun, and the moon, asking them for help, but they all gave him the same answer: "We have to ask for mercy for ourselves."

At that moment, Rabbi Elazar ben Durdaya realized, “Eyn hadavar talui ela bi—It’s only up to me.” The question we must ask is: why didn’t he already know that it was up to him? Why would he think that someone else could do teshuva for him? After all, he was the one who sinned.

Often, a person feels they are unworthy of doing teshuva. They think, "I can’t do teshuva. Who am I? What’s my teshuva worth?" They may think, "I’ll repent, but I know I’m going to sin again, chas v’shalom. I’ll say the words, but I won’t really mean them. It won’t change anything." This feeling leads to despair, a sense of yi’ush (hopelessness). The person might feel they can’t overcome their desires and loses motivation, thinking that their tefillos (prayers) don’t matter.

But we must remind ourselves that we all have the power of teshuva. Hashem gave us this gift, and every person has the ability to return to Him. Every person is valuable, and their teshuva makes a difference. When you do teshuva, you acknowledge what you did wrong and recognize that Hashem is running your life. By doing teshuva, not only do you draw closer to Hashem, but you also return to your own essence—your neshama (soul). Sometimes, we only feel this closeness during Neilah on Yom Kippur, but true teshuva is about working daily to feel that connection.

This was Rabbi Elazar ben Durdaya’s realization. Initially, he didn’t believe he was capable of teshuva—he saw himself as a sinner. But in the end, he understood that it was truly up to him. He recognized his own power to repent, and we must come to the same understanding. Our tefillos do matter.

Let me share another story about the power of tefillah. Rav Karlinstein shared a story in Bnei Brak about an incident that occurred thousands of years ago, and a modern-day event that mirrored it.

The Zohar tells the story of how Rav Eliezer visited the home of Rav Yossi after he passed away. Rav Eliezer came with the Chevra Kadisha (burial society) and knocked on the door, but the family didn’t want to let him in. A young girl at the door said, “You can’t come in; my brother won’t allow it.” Rav Eliezer insisted, saying, “I must come in; I’m with the Chevra Kadisha.” Eventually, they let him in. When Rav Eliezer entered the room, he saw Rav Yossi lying there, having passed away. His son was standing by his side, crying out, “Abba, Abba (Father, Father), I need you! You can’t leave me. You’re the only father I have!”

When Rav Eliezer saw the depth of the son’s grief, he sensed that a miracle was about to happen—the power of this boy’s tefillah was so great that it couldn’t be ignored. Sure enough, a miracle occurred: t'chiyas hamesim (resurrection of the dead), and Rav Yossi came back to life.

Years later, Rav Karlinstein shared this story in a shul, and afterward, a young man approached him. “Rebbe, you told a story that happened 2,000 years ago, but such things still happen today. I’m an Hatzalah (emergency medical responder) member in Eretz Yisrael, and I witnessed a modern miracle. We received a call about an overturned vehicle on a highway. I raced to the scene, pulled a 10-year-old boy from the car, but it looked like his mother hadn’t survived the crash. I put the boy in my car next to my young daughter. He wasn’t religious, but he turned to my daughter and asked, ‘Do you have a yarmulke? I want to pray.’ She didn’t have one, but she handed him a towel. He placed it on his head, ran back to the car, and stood there saying, ‘Ima, Ima, I need you! Hashem, I need my mother! She’s the only one I have in this world.’”

The Hatzalah member worked tirelessly on the mother, and after some time, he felt a pulse. They rushed her to the hospital, and after a few days, she emerged from intensive care. The young man’s tefillah had saved his mother’s life.

Sometimes we don’t realize the power of our tefillos. But there are moments, like now, when we look around at the world’s challenges, the fears on people’s faces, and we understand what is at stake. Each one of us is fighting for Klal Yisrael. Each one of us has the ability to say, “It’s up to me. My tefillah can make a difference.” Whether it’s for hostages or enemies approaching, our tefillos have the power to alter the situation.

We must believe in the power of our tefillos. If we enter Yom Kippur with this mindset—knowing it’s really up to us—our tefillos will be different. They will be elevated, helping us reach the level of complete teshuva in our hearts. Hashem will hear our prayers, just as He heard the young boy’s plea, and miracles will happen in our days as well.

May Hashem grant us a year of bracha (blessing), geula (redemption), and hatzlacha (success) in everything we do. Through unity and achdus, may we bring about the ultimate redemption.

Rabbi Avi Wiesenfeld

Burning the Book

Imagine if a book existed that documented every detail of your life—everything you said, did, saw, and heard. And now, millions of copies are about to be released for the entire world to see. How mortifying would that be? What would you do to erase it? How much would you pay to burn every copy?

The answer is … you can. This is the gift of Yom Kippur. The Sefer HaChinuch teaches that Yom Kippur is one of the greatest acts of kindness Hashem gives to Klal Yisrael—a day specifically set aside each year to cleanse ourselves of all wrongdoings. It’s a day when we have the chance to erase that book, wipe the slate clean, and begin anew. But to do that, we must first admit our mistakes.

The Seforim Hakedoshim explain that simply acknowledging our misdeeds exempts us from the consequences of those actions. This is why the central act of Yom Kippur is vidui (confession). By confessing, we are courageous enough to admit we were wrong, and in that moment of humility, Hashem is ready to take us back.

Rav Yitzchak Zilberstein tells the remarkable story of a young man named Meshulam, which illustrates the incredible power of teshuva (repentance). Meshulam, once a brilliant student, fell into despair and drifted away from Yiddishkeit after the death of his mother. He eventually left his father and traveled to India in search of meaning. When he told his father of his plans, his father, still grieving the loss of his wife, could not forgive him. Their final conversation was bitter, and Meshulam left with his father’s last words lingering: “I will never forgive you.”

Months later, while in India, Meshulam heard the devastating news that his father had passed away. Crushed by guilt, he returned to Israel and went to the Kotel, where he poured out his heart in tears, asking for forgiveness. He wrote a note to his father, pleading for forgiveness, and tried placing it in the cracks of the Kotel, but it kept falling out. After several attempts, he finally managed to tuck it in, only for another note to fall out.

Curious, Meshulam glanced at the note and was stunned to see it was addressed to him. It was a note from his father, written before he passed away. In it, his father expressed his love for Meshulam, his complete forgiveness, and his hope that Meshulam would return to the right path. Overwhelmed by this revelation, Meshulam broke down in tears and resolved to change his ways. He returned to a life of Torah, married, and built a family of frum children in Yerushalayim.

This story demonstrates the immense power of teshuva. Even when we feel distant or unworthy, Hashem is waiting for us to return. Yom Kippur is the time to admit our mistakes and seek forgiveness, knowing that Hashem will embrace us once again, just as Meshulam’s father did. If we can be honest with ourselves and with Hashem, we have the opportunity to start fresh, cleansed of the past and ready for a new beginning.