Rabbi Shlomo Landau

My Master

I’d like to share an incredible story that a Rav in our neighborhood shared this past Rosh Hashanah. As you’ll see, it is deeply connected to the Yom Tov we are currently celebrating.

There’s a fellow who recently struck up a friendship with a foreign ambassador to the United States. This ambassador is Jewish, although not observant. However, in recent times, he’s begun rediscovering his Jewish roots. As their friendship developed, the two decided to begin learning together. The ambassador asked this man if they could learn about davening, since while he prays, he doesn’t truly understand what he’s saying. The fellow readily agreed, but suggested they start with Shemonah Esrei, since that is the central part of davening. The ambassador agreed.

The first time the two of them sat down to learn together, the man turned to the ambassador and asked, “Why is it that the introductory sentence to Shemonah Esrei—'Hashem, open my lips and my mouth will declare Your praises’—begins with Hashem’s name in a way where its pronunciation mirrors its spelling (e.g. ‘Adon,’ meaning ‘my master’)? Shouldn’t we use Hashem’s four-letter standard name, beginning with a yud?”

The man continued, explaining. “Perhaps, before we begin Shemonah Esrei, we need to remind ourselves that Hashem is our Master. We are nothing, and everything we have and everything we are is only because of Hashem. Then, we can ask Him for what we need.”

Upon hearing this, the ambassador grew quiet. The man, curious and concerned, asked, “Did I trigger something? Did I say something wrong?”

The ambassador responded, “Not at all. In fact, I’m going to share something amazing with you.”

He went on to explain that, many years ago, when he first started his ambassadorship, he was placed in a third-world country where slavery was still a part of the culture. As part of his position, the government provided him with his own personal slave, who would act as his attendant. Initially, the ambassador was uncomfortable with the arrangement, but the authorities explained that the servant was simply there to help if needed. Over time, the ambassador grew increasingly dependent on this particular servant.

One day, the servant suddenly didn’t show up for work. The second day, then the third day passed, and still, he was absent. The ambassador, having grown reliant on him, became concerned. On the third day, the servant finally appeared. He was visibly ill. He apologized profusely, saying, “I’m so sorry, my master. I’ve been very ill. I didn’t tell you this before, but I suffer from a complex illness that has no cure in this country. If I don’t receive proper treatment, I will remain sick and eventually die. But you, my master, can help me. You see, if you fly me to India, I can get the cure I need, and then I will be able to continue serving you.”

The ambassador looked at him and replied, “Fly you to India? That’s not really something I had in mind. You’re a nice guy, but you’re dispensable.”

As soon as the ambassador said this, the servant threw himself to the ground and pleaded, “You don’t understand. I have no father, no mother, no wife, no children. I have no friends, no money, no passport, no way to get a cure. There is only one person in the world who can save my life, and that person is you. If you turn me down, I have no one else to turn to.”

The ambassador, visibly moved by the memory, turned to his new friend and said, “When you mentioned that word—my Master—it brought me back to that conversation. When we stand before Hashem during Shemonah Esrei, we must come with the same mindset as that servant. We must recognize that we have nothing, and that everything we have is only from Hashem. Only then can we begin our conversation with Him.”

The ambassador’s story conveys a profound truth. When the Torah speaks about the Shalosh Regalim—Pesach, Shavuos, and Sukkos—it says that three times a year we are to stand lifnei Ha’Adon Hashem, in front of Hashem, who is our Master. Even if we spend the whole year busy with our affairs, thinking that we are in control, there are three distinct times when we are commanded to pause, reflect, and acknowledge that Hashem is our true Master. Everything we have, and everything we are, is entirely dependent on Him.

The more we internalize this, the more deeply it will impact our relationship with Hashem. If we take the time to stop, reflect, and recognize our absolute dependence on Him, then Hakadosh Baruch Hu will indeed want to bestow His blessings upon us. He desires to heal us, help us, and grant us success.

As we enter these last days of Yom Tov, let us focus on this crucial realization, reflect on it deeply, and, with Hashem’s help, may it be a catalyst for tremendous success for all of us.

Rabbi YY Jacobson

The Light of Life

The Mishnah (Sukkah 51a) discusses the wicks used to ignite the large flames for Simchas Beis HaShoeva, a celebration in the courtyard of the Beis HaMikdash, where the light illuminated all of Yerushalayim. The Mishnah explains that these wicks were made from the worn-out pants (Michnesei Kohanim) and belts (avnet) of the Kohanim. As the garments aged, they would be repurposed into wicks for the lights of the Simchas Beis HaShoeva.

Tosafos asks a significant question: Why were the wicks made specifically from the pants and belts? What about the ketonet, the tunic? Why was the shirt not used? Additionally, Tosafos Yom Tov questions why the mitznefes, the Kohen's hat, wasn't mentioned. These garments, too, were worn by the Kohanim and could seemingly have been repurposed for the same sacred purpose.

In addressing this, the Lubavitcher Rebbe shared a profound insight. He noted that, according to Niglah (the revealed aspects of Torah), he couldn’t come to a fully satisfactory answer to Tosafos' question. However, based upon the Pnimius HaTorah (the inner, mystical dimensions of the Torah), there is a profound explanation.

The avnet (belt) served a distinct purpose, which as Chazal (Zevachim 88b) teach us, was to create a separation between the higher and lower parts of the body, symbolizing the separation between the higher and lower aspects of a person’s life. The pants, like the avnet, were also garments of sanctity and designed to preserve purity.

The Rebbe explained that when holiness (kedusha) is brought into these garments, which represent both the physical and spiritual realms, it transforms them into vessels for creating the light of the Simchas Beis HaShoeva. The avnet and the pants, symbolizing sanctity from the highest to the lowest parts of our being, allow us to generate spiritual light that illuminates not only our individual lives, but also the entire world. This, the Rebbe explained, is how the light of the Simchas Beis HaShoeva could fill every courtyard in Yerushalayim with both physical and spiritual brilliance.

When we imbue holiness into every aspect of our being—both the elevated and the mundane—we generate an enduring, infinite spiritual light. This light, akin to that of the Simchas Beis HaShoeva, is capable of illuminating not only our lives, but the world around us. Truly, "Mi Shelo Ra’ah Simchas Beit HaShoeva Lo Ra’ah Simcha MiYamav—He who has not seen the joy of the Simchas Beit HaShoeva has never witnessed true joy” (Sukkah 51a). Through sanctity in all that we do, we too, can partake in that infinite light.

Rabbi Shlomo Farhi

Finding Hashem

In the Gemara of Sukkah (11b), we encounter a famous debate regarding what exactly we commemorate by sitting in the Sukkah. The Torah tells us, “L'man yeid'u dorotechem—So that all future generations will remember.” What specifically are we supposed to remember? The Pasuk further states, "Ki ba’Sukkot hoshavti et B'nei Yisrael," that G-d sat the Jewish people in Sukkot when He took them out of Egypt.

There are two interpretations of this. One opinion (R’ Eliezer) is that this refers to the Ananei HaKavod—the clouds of Glory that surrounded and protected the Jews while in the desert. The other opinion, that of R’Akiva, contends that we are commemorating the actual, physical huts the Jews lived in during their journeys.

This naturally raises a question: why would we celebrate such a mundane thing like huts, when the miraculous Clouds of Glory seem far more deserving of commemoration? Would it not be excessive to have a yearly holiday to remember something as simple as the fact that the Jews constructed huts after leaving Egypt?

To address this, let us consider a different question posed by the Chida. If the focus is on commemorating miracles that sustained us in the desert, why do we commemorate only the Clouds of Glory and not the other miracles, such as the manna or the well of Miriam? These too were miracles essential for survival, so why are they not given similar recognition?

The Chida provides an answer in the name of Rav Kafusi, explaining that the manna and the well were necessary for survival. We could not live without food and water. But shade, while certainly beneficial and making life in the desert more comfortable, was not strictly necessary for survival. You could survive in the desert without it, even if it meant enduring harsh conditions. Thus, the miracles tied to our essential survival are not as prominently celebrated.

At first glance, this may seem counterintuitive. After all, we might assume that the greater miracle—the one necessary for our very existence—should be the one most celebrated. But the truth is that the miracles tied to survival were expected; G-d had to provide them because He was leading us into a barren desert. If a person embarks on a journey at the behest of another, the one sending them is assumed to provide the basics, like food and water.

However, the shade provided by the Ananei HaKavod was different. It was not strictly required for survival; it was an act of love. G-d did not need to provide this extra comfort, yet He did. The miracle of the clouds was not one of necessity, but of kindness, and it is precisely for this reason that we commemorate it—because it exemplified Hashem’s love and care for us beyond what was required.

This notion shifts our understanding of the holiday of Sukkot. The celebration is not merely about commemorating miracles, but specifically those miracles that demonstrate a deeper connection and closeness to G-d. The Ananei HaKavod symbolize G-d's love for us, going beyond what was needed for our survival and providing for us in a way that reflects His closeness to us. Sukkot, therefore, becomes a holiday where we sit under the metaphorical shade of G-d's love and protection, recalling not just His saving hand but His desire to be near to us.

With this understanding, we can approach the second opinion in the Gemara—that of R’ Akiva—who says we are commemorating the huts themselves. Why would this be significant? Rav Asher Weiss offers a profound explanation.

Both opinions in the Gemara agree that the Ananei HaKavod existed. The question is not whether or not these clouds were present but what the Torah intended for us to focus on in our commemoration. Should we highlight the miraculous clouds or the ordinary huts?

Rav Weiss cites the Ramban who writes in his commentary (end of Parashat Bo) that a person has no true share in the Torah of the Jewish people until they believe that every event in their life, whether on a national or individual level, is directly orchestrated by G-d. Whether it is a miraculous event or an ordinary occurrence, it all comes from G-d. From seeing G-d's hand in the overt miracles, we are meant to develop the ability to recognize His hand in the everyday, mundane moments of life.

R’ Akiva’s view is that what we are commemorating in Sukkot is precisely that—the ability to see Hashem’s hand in the everyday. By focusing on the simple huts, R’ Akiva is teaching us that even the mundane aspects of life are imbued with Divine Providence. The huts may seem like something natural, even trivial, but they are also an expression of G-d's care.

Imagine something as commonplace as assembling furniture from IKEA. At first glance, it might feel like just another task on your to-do list, something ordinary and perhaps even tedious. Yet, the very ability to engage with such activities—using your hands, following instructions, creating something functional and meaningful for your home—can also be seen as a reflection of Divine Providence. The huts of the Jews were, in a way, like these ordinary structures we build. On the surface, they may not seem miraculous, but the process of constructing them, the intention behind them, and the fact that they offered shelter and protection were no less infused with Divine care.

This debate between the two opinions in the Gemara reflects two psychological approaches to how we should recognize G-d's presence. Do we find Him primarily in the extraordinary, in the moments where His intervention is obvious and miraculous? Or do we find Him in the ordinary, in the simple moments of life where His presence is not as immediately apparent but is no less significant?

This is a question to ask ourselves each Sukkot. The halacha mandates that the sukkah must be covered with Schach (the roof material), but it also restricts the height of the Schach to no more than 20 Amot (Sukkah 2a). Why this limitation? The reason, according to the opinion of Rabba, is that above 20 Amot is a height beyond the range of a person's normal vision. When something is out of sight, it tends to be out of mind as well. The purpose of the Sukkah is to remind us of G-d's protection, and that reminder must be within our line of sight to truly influence us.

Perhaps this is why Rabbi Akiva emphasizes the physical huts. Open miracles, though awe-inspiring, are rare. They occur infrequently and thus provide few opportunities for us to strengthen our faith. But the mundane, the everyday, is always present. If we can learn to see G-d's hand in the ordinary, we will have countless opportunities to deepen our relationship with Him.

Rabbi Akiva is urging us to celebrate the things that are constantly within our grasp—like the huts—because these moments, too, are expressions of Divine love. Those events, whether they seem miraculous or not, are no less orchestrated by God. They are opportunities to recognize His constant presence in our lives, even when it seems like we are the ones making things happen.

This understanding brings the debate full circle. Both opinions in the Gemara acknowledge G-d's miracles, but they differ on how we are meant to internalize and commemorate them. Should we focus on the grand, unmistakable miracles, or should we train ourselves to see Hashem when assembling IKEA furniture?

May we be blessed to recognize Hashem’s hand in all aspects of our lives—both in the miraculous and in the mundane. May we celebrate not only the obvious signs of Divine intervention, but also the subtle ways in which He provides for us every day. And may we continue to strengthen our awareness of His presence, not only when He performs great wonders, but also in the small, everyday blessings.

Rabbi Yisroel Majeski

The Tool of Transformation

As we approach Simchas Torah, we find ourselves at the conclusion of an intense period of spiritual growth and reflection, beginning with Elul and moving through Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, and Sukkos. Simchas Torah is the culmination, a celebration of Torah and the connection between Hashem and His people. The Arizal teaches that every ounce of sweat shed in our dancing and celebration during Simchas Torah is mechaper avonos—it brings atonement for our sins. This emphasizes the depth of the day, a day Hashem has set aside just for us to connect with Him without distractions.

Rashi cites the Midrash that compares this time to a king whose children came to visit. When they were ready to leave, the king pleaded with them to stay a little longer, saying, "Kasha alai pridaschem"—it is hard for me to see you go. This is Hashem's message to us on Simchas Torah. After the whirlwind of the Yamim Noraim and Sukkos, Hashem doesn’t want us to rush back to our regular lives. He asks us to stay a little longer, to relish one more day of closeness before we part ways and return to our daily routines.

It's akin to when our children ask us for five more minutes at the end of a trip or an outing. We may agree, knowing those final moments are precious. Hashem is asking for that one more day of connection, urging us to take it all in so we can carry it with us throughout the year. He doesn’t want the joy and spiritual connection of this season to fade; He wants us to hold on to it by taking the Torah with us and making it a part of our lives every single day.

Beyond just the celebration, Rabbi Meir Barazir (sefer Katnos Ohr) provides a deeper insight. He explains that the Gemara makes a connection between Avodah Zarah (idol worship) and the Shalosh Regalim, the three pilgrimage festivals (Pesachim 118a). Why is there a connection between the holidays and Avodah Zarah? The Midrash tells us that Moshe was delayed by six hours when coming down from Mount Sinai, and those six hours were enough for the people to create the Egel Hazahav (Golden Calf). The dancing around the Egel represents a deviation from holiness.

Now, in halacha, if non-kosher food falls into kosher food, the mixture is permitted if the kosher food is 60 times greater in volume, making the non-kosher element negligible (known as bittul b’shishim). As such, the 360 hours of the three pilgrimage festivals—15 days in total (seven days of Sukkot, seven days of Pesach, and Shavuot)—serve to nullify the six hours of sin. The connection between Oleh Regal and the Egel Hazahav is that by using their feet to walk to Hashem and dance in joy for a mitzvah, Klal Yisrael rectifies the misstep of dancing for the Egel. The joy and excitement of fulfilling a mitzvah, especially on Yom Tov, replaces the negative energy of Avodah Zarah with the pure simcha of serving Hashem, which is exemplified by the dancing on Simchat Torah. The joy and excitement we feel when celebrating Torah and Yom Tov become a powerful tool for transformation, washing away any past mistakes.

Simchat Torah, then, is about dancing with Hashem and the Torah, showing Him that this is our joy, our purpose in life. Years ago, the Klausenberger Rebbe danced on Simchas Torah even under the direst circumstances of the Holocaust. Dancing on Simchat Torah, no matter what, represents a connection that transcends everything. His joy could not be diminished, and neither can ours. We show Hashem that nothing can take away our Simcha, our joy in being connected to Him and His Torah.

Let’s take these messages with us into Simchas Torah. As we dance and celebrate, let’s remember that this day is about reinforcing our bond with Hashem and making a commitment to carry the Torah and the lessons of this sacred time with us throughout the coming year. Let our children see in us the joy, the reverence, and the beauty of Torah so that they too can feel that same connection and love for Hashem and His mitzvos. And may this Simchas Torah be a time of true joy, connection, and renewal, bringing blessings to us and our families for the year ahead.

Rabbi Uri Lati

50 Coins for a Miracle

On Sukkot, we have a unique tradition of inviting Ushpizin, esteemed spiritual guests like Avraham, Yitzchak, Yaakov, and others into our Sukkah. This symbolic invitation is not simply a ritual; it holds deep meaning. But what does it really mean? On Pesach, we also proclaim, "Let all who are hungry come and eat." What then is the uniqueness of Sukkot?

The story is told of Rabbi Elimelech of Lizhensk and his brother, Rabbi Zusha. One evening, as they walked through the Beit Midrash (study hall), Rabbi Elimelech suddenly paused and said to his brother, "Do you smell that? It’s a smell as sweet as Gan Eden." Intrigued, they began to search for the source of this heavenly fragrance, moving from bench to bench, table to table, until they found a simple man sitting quietly.

This man, named Uri from Streletsk, held an ordinary-looking etrog in his hand, but its fragrance was extraordinary. Rabbi Elimelech and Rabbi Zusha asked Uri to explain, to which he complied.

Every year, Uri and his wife saved half of their modest income to purchase the most beautiful etrog for Sukkot. Despite their financial limitations, this had become their cherished tradition, and every year, Uri traveled to Lemberg to find the finest etrog for his community.

However, this year, something unexpected happened. On his way to Lemberg, Uri stopped at an inn to rest. While there, he overheard a wagon driver wailing in despair—his only horse, the source of his livelihood, had suddenly died. Without the horse, the man had no way to make a living, and he was inconsolable. Hearing this, the innkeeper offered to sell the driver a horse for 50 coins, but the man was penniless, unable to afford even a small part of that price.

Overcome with compassion, Uri felt a deep sense of rachmanut (mercy) for the wagon driver. In his pocket, Uri carried the exact 50 coins he had saved to purchase his etrog, but seeing the man’s desperation, he made a decision. He approached the innkeeper, negotiated the price of the horse down to 45 coins, and handed over his entire savings to buy the horse for the wagon driver. Uri was left with just five coins, barely enough to buy the least expensive etrog in Lemberg.

Shamed by his seemingly simple etrog, Uri felt he couldn’t return to his community, where everyone anticipated his usual stunning choice. He sent word to his wife, who agreed that he should stay away until Sukkot passed to avoid the embarrassment of facing their neighbors.

As Uri concluded his story, Rabbi Elimelech smiled and explained to him that there was far more to the tale. In fact, Uri’s selfless act had resonated deeply in the heavens. He told Uri that during the time between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, a severe decree had been issued against the Jewish people. In the celestial courts, the Satan had filled a wagon with the sins of the people, pushing it toward the Heavenly Beit Din to advocate for punishment. But at the same time, Rabbi Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev—the great defender of the Jewish people—was pushing his own wagon, filled with their good deeds, trying to counter the Satan's accusations.

The problem was that the Satan's wagon was gaining momentum, and Rabbi Levi Yitzchak’s wagon, laden with mitzvot, struggled to keep up. It seemed as though the negative decree might prevail—until suddenly, a series of loud cracks echoed through the heavens. The sound of a whip snapping filled the air, pushing Rabbi Levi Yitzchak’s wagon of mitzvot forward. That whip belonged to the grateful wagon driver whom Uri had helped. After receiving his new horse, the wagon driver had looked to the sky and, overwhelmed with love and gratitude toward Hashem, had snapped his whip in joy, praising G-d for not abandoning him in his time of need.

Rabbi Elimelech explained that these cracks of the whip, infused with the man’s pure joy and gratitude, had the power to push the merits of the Jewish people forward, nullifying the harsh decree. "Uri," Rabbi Elimelech said, "your act of kindness and compassion saved the Jewish people. That beautiful smell of Gan Eden? It comes not from your etrog, but from your heart and your good deeds."

As we enter and exit our Sukkot Shalom, our peaceful booths, we must remember that true joy and mitzvot come from acts of kindness and empathy for our fellow Jews. We cannot fully rejoice while others are suffering. Sukkot teaches us to invite those in need into our sacred spaces, to share what we have with those who are struggling, and to be sensitive to the pain of others.

As we sit in the Sukkah, surrounded by the spiritual presence of the Ushpizin, we reflect on how we can extend that spirit of hospitality, generosity, and care beyond our walls. Just as Uri’s simple, selfless act had cosmic ramifications, our small deeds of kindness can also bring blessings to ourselves and our community. And one day, we will all gather together in the great future Sukkah, the Sukkah of the Leviatan, to bask in the ultimate peace and joy of Hashem's presence.

Rabbi Label Lam

The Happiness Box

The Happiness Box. It's a children's book, but it's Sukkos in a nutshell. A family moves to a new house in a new town, and the father's at work and the mother's busy setting up shop.

Appliances are arriving and the little boy is doing nothing but complaining all day. There's nothing for me, and I have no friends. And then one day the mother comes up with a genius idea. She takes a giant refrigerator box, cuts out a door, and tells him, “This is for you. It's the Happiness Box. But when you go in there, you have to think only happy thoughts and focus on what you have, not what you don't have.” The boy becomes happy.

But after a while, he gets upset and he comes to his mother.

“I'm going to summer camp in a few weeks, and I can only bring a duffel bag. I can't take the Happiness Box with me. What am I going to do?” And his mother explains.

“The Happiness Box is inside you and you can take it with you wherever you.”