Sun, sand and self-sufficiency: growing up at the seaside

Our member, Women’s League President Shirley March, tells us of how a visit to a dairy farm triggered memories of her early years and how profoundly they shaped her attitude to life subsequently. Shirley writes:

The final visit on the recent Shul trip to the Galil took us to the Dugma Dairy Farm, where we learnt about cheese-making and sampled their many products. This brought back fond—and not so fond—memories of my childhood.

I was born and lived for the first 17 years of my life in Eastbourne, a seaside town on the South-East coast of England, where my Father zt”l was Rav of a very small Jewish community made up of local business people. My younger sister and I were the only Jewish children in the town; this meant no Jewish schools and, consequently, no Jewish friends. In addition, there were no Kosher shops or facilities, so everything was made at home, with my mother z”l baking bread, challot, cakes and so forth.

Another of these tasks was cheese making. My father would go to the local dairy, give the workers a pack of cigarettes (a common form of currency over 70 years ago), and come home with a churn of milk.  In fact, at that time, the dairies would take the cream and pour the rest away, unlike now when the residue is used for animal feed or sold as skimmed milk.

Once home, this milk was placed in our outhouse to get sour.  My mother would sew conical-shaped bags from fine sacking. Once the milk had become curds and whey (the curds are the solid, clumpy masses of milk protein, while the whey is the remaining liquid) it was poured into these long bags and allowed to drip over a drain in the outhouse.  After a few days when all the liquid had dispersed, my father would mix in salt and caraway seeds, tie the bags tightly and place them between two boards weighted down with heavy stones.  Waiting again for a few days, the result was a hard white cheese which could be sliced and was known as gomółka.

Below: The Grand Hotel, Eastbourne, where Debussy composed 'La Mer'

Of course, there was no Kosher meat in the town.  My father, also being a shochet, would drive out to a local farm, often with me in attendance, shecht four chickens and bring them home where my mother and I would pluck them (I still remember the tiny lice that used to jump onto us, but luckily they didn’t live long on humans), singe the skin to get rid of any remaining quills (what a terrible smell!), open them, clean them out and then kasher them.  No popping into the local butcher to get a nice clean, ready koshered chicken!  However, it was always exciting to see how many little eggs (just yolks at this stage) we could find inside. These went into the chicken soup and were always fought over.

It was with these chickens that I got my first biology lessons. My father would take the lungs, insert a straw and blow to show me how they worked, open the heart so I could see the how the blood runs, and pull the tendons in the feet so that the toes would open and close.

At that time Rakusens used to supply Rabbanim with free matzo so that problem was solved, but my Mother would make Bureke Eingemachts (beetroot jam) and Ingber (trays of carrot candy) to solve the lack of “sweets”.

Around Purim, my father would take hops and honey and make bottles of “Med” [the Yiddish for 'Mead'] which were kept in the cellar.  The problem was that the alcohol content was so high, we could sometimes hear the sound of popping as the corks were forced out of the bottles!

Things were easier for my mother when my Booba z”l moved in with us as she was also an amazing cook and seamstress.  In fact, all my dresses were made either by my mother or grandmother until I moved up to London at the age of 17.  My Booba only spoke to me in Yiddish, which I learnt to speak quite proficiently and have found very useful since we moved to Israel, using it to converse with my husband’s Chareidi family.

I attended a Church of England primary School and have vivid memories at the age of 7 or 8 of standing in the playground with all the children in a circle around me chanting “You killed Jesus, you killed Jesus!”, to which I replied “Jesus was Jewish, Jesus was Jewish!”, but of course they didn’t believe me!

I started the Girls’ High School a couple of weeks late as I had an infection.  I walked in the classroom and all the girls were staring at me.  When I sat down, I asked the girl next to me “Why are they all staring?”  To which she replied: “We were told a Jewish girl was coming and we are looking for your horns and tail!”

I was always in the annual School Play, but balked when they wanted me to play Shylock in The Merchant of Venice, just because I was Jewish!

I wasn’t allowed to go to University, but went to a local Commercial College to learn shorthand and typing so that I could support myself when I went to London where I was sent to find myself a nice frum Jewish boy which B”H I did.

These are only some of my many experiences of being a frum Jewish child in a totally non-Jewish environment and it made me determined that my own children should go to Jewish schools and not have to experience what I went through.

Silence is golden, but values are silver

Our Poet Laureate Dr Pessy Krausz has shared with us the happy news that another of her poems, 'The Meaning of Silver', will be appearing in this week's issue of Netanya's Poetry Please, and also in the journal of the Israel Association of Writers in English in December. This poem is about a very special piece of silver, the becher which appears on the right.  

Pessy's poem reads like this:

The Meaning of Silver

 Long ago and far away a century almost ago

Aron Eliyahu Hacohen my father was born

in a Polish village called Czychlyn but

moved to Lowicz, parents and siblings all

 

there its central square housed the market place 

shops to the side whose silver-tongued staff

served chatting folks exchanging woes

searching for wares hoping for bargains

 

Tim Gidal’s camera captures the scene 

head scarved women baskets on arms

children, chicks men in padded coats

under hostile elements silvery skies threatening

 

camera shoulder slung as with wife Pia

they fled Nazi onslaught arriving in Israel

where he gave me the picture I shared

with my father – by then wheelchair bound –

 

lightening recollection led him back ninety years                       

There’s Shmuel the wadding maker’s store

Moishe’s shoe shop, Yankel the baker’s next door!

Miraculous, incredible having escaped Nazi pursuit 

 

fled over hostile seas to England’s Dover

found us a village attic room while working in London

said to my mother “Here are my first earnings

go to town, buy us a Becher – a goblet for wine

 

must be of pure silver, no more no less!!” 

It graced our tiny table clad in a white cloth

though barely three I have instant recall

Kiddush with that Becher was entirely unique!

 

And uniquely it’s survived to this very day

graces my Shabbat table where Jerusalem’s home

they say Silence is Golden but Values are Silver

so generations may venerate what money can’t buy

The Blessing Yitzchak Really Intended

Parashat Toledot is a Tale of Two Blessings. But this tale is puzzling on several levels and demands to be understood. Rabbi Paul Bloom looks at a way to navigate a path through this maze of issues.

In the second half of Parashat Toledot, Sefer Bereishit Chapter 27 revolves around a dramatic pair of questions: Who will receive Yitzchak’s great blessing?  Who will be chosen to carry the covenant forward into the next generation—Yaakov or Eisav?

We would assume that the blessing Yitzchak plans to give is the blessing of Am Yisrael: the charge to be “a blessing to the nations,” the spiritual legacy of Avraham Avinu, the bond with HaKadosh Baruch Hu, and the eternal connection to Eretz Yisrael. But when the blessing arrives, it is… surprising.  Almost disappointing. Instead of a grand spiritual vision, the blessing Yitzchak gives sounds like a financial and political one: dew of the heavens, fat of the land, power, wealth, dominance. Not the covenant of Avraham, not the spiritual destiny of Klal Yisrael—just prosperity and influence.

What happened?
 Where is Eretz Yisrael? Where is the mission to bring blessing to the world?  Why is the blessing so materialistic—so un-Avraham-like? These questions, however, lead us to the deeper understanding of the entire parasha.

Was Yitzchak Really “Fooled”?

Chazal and the classical mefarshim reject the simplistic reading that Yitzchak was gullible. Yitzchak Avinu—the spiritual giant, the patriarch—was not naïvely tricked by a bowl of food and a costume.

Following the approach of the Malbim and the Sforno, we see a completely different picture: Yitzchak knew exactly who his sons were.

●      He knew Yaakov was the “ish tam yoshev ohalim,” the spiritual heir, the one destined to carry the covenant.

●      He knew Eisav was a man of action, strength, charisma, and worldly capability.

And Yitzchak believed that each son had a role to play.  His dream—his vision—was a partnership, a partnership like the later model of Yissachar and Zevulun, where:

●      Yissachar dedicates himself to Torah

●      Zevulun engages the marketplace

●      The two support, respect, and need one another.

Yitzchak envisioned Yaakov as the spiritual leader but Eisav as the powerful national leader: the financier, the military protector, the political force. Yaakov would teach Torah, spread emunah, and carry the covenant. Eisav would provide the material infrastructure for that mission.

This was a brilliant plan—if it could work

Thus the blessing Yitzchak gives—thinking Eisav is before him—is not the blessing of Avraham. It is the blessing of worldly power, the blessing of a national partner who would support Yaakov’s spiritual mission. Yaakov would receive his blessing later—the true birchat Avraham—in Chapter 28, Yitzchak explicitly gives him:

●      the covenant of Avraham,

●      the relationship with Hashem,

●      and the promise of Eretz Yisrael.

That was always meant for Yaakov. But Yitzchak hoped for a partnership.

Why the Plan Failed

But one person saw what Yitzchak did not: Rivka. She knew Eisav more deeply, more honestly. She knew that Eisav was not simply a strong, worldly personality—he was fundamentally self-centered. His talents and drive were aimed inward, not upward. He lacked the anavah, the discipline, the spiritual sensitivity to use power for a higher purpose.

Yitzchak dreamed of Yissachar and Zevulun. Rivka saw Korach. Had Eisav received material power, he would not have shared it with Yaakov.  He would have used it for himself—not to build a nation, but to feed an ego. Therefore the partnership could not stand. That’s why Rivka ensures that Yaakov receives the first blessing as well—not because Yaakov needed the power for its own sake, but because Eisav could not be trusted with it.

Yaakov would now have to carry both responsibilities:

●      the spiritual leadership

●      and the material-national leadership.

And for that, he is sent to the “Harvard Business School” of Lavan, to learn the worldly skills necessary to guide a nation.

A New Understanding of “I Already Gave the Blessing”

This interpretation also explains one of the most puzzling moments in the parasha. Eisav begs:
 “Haven’t you a blessing for me, too, Father?” And Yitzchak essentially answers:  “I’m sorry—I already gave it away.” But why should this be so?  Are blessings like coupons that can be used only once? Can a gadol ever say, “Sorry, I’ve run out of berachot”?

The answer is profound: A true berachah is not “I wish you wealth, success, power, beauty.”
 That is just good fortune. That is not a Torah concept of blessing. A Torah berachah is:
 “May you have success and use it for a spiritual purpose— for building Torah, for elevating others, for bringing Hashem’s presence into the world.” If a person cannot or will not use success for spiritual ends, no true berachah is possible.  Yitzchak is not refusing—he is recognizing reality.

The Dream for Klal Yisrael

What emerges from this parasha is a blueprint for Jewish society: The Jewish people need both forms of leadership—spiritual and material.  Both are holy.  Both are necessary. But the key is mutual respect.

Imagine a society—imagine Eretz Yisrael today—where:

●      The military and economic leaders view Torah scholars not as a burden but as the moral and spiritual backbone of the nation.

●      And the benei Torah view the soldiers, workers, innovators, and officials not as distractions but as essential partners in building a Jewish state.

That was Yitzchak’s dream.  It remains the dream of Mashiach ben Yosef and Mashiach ben David— a perfected partnership of strength and spirit. Rivka understood that it was premature in her day.  But the dream remains.

Our Role Today

We live in a time when these tensions are real—perhaps more visible than ever.  And yet the parasha calls us to strive for Yitzchak’s vision:

●      To honor those who protect and build the physical nation

●      To honor those who preserve and teach the spiritual nation

●      And to foster deep respect between them, as partners, not adversaries.

This is not only possible—it is our destiny.

Yehi Ratzon

May we merit to see a generation in which the strengths of Yosef and Yehudah, of Yaakov and Eisav’s potential, of Yissachar and Zevulun, unite to build an Am Yisrael that is both strong and holy, prosperous and humble, powerful and profoundly connected to Hashem.

May that partnership lead us swiftly toward ge’ulah.

Living the Halachic Process, volume IV, by Rabbi Daniel Mann (Book of the Month, Kislev 5786)

For chodesh Kislev our choice of Book of the Month is Living the Halachic Process, volume IV: Questions and Answers for the Modern Jew, by Rabbi Daniel Mann. This work, published by the Eretz Chemdah Institute, features answers to queries sent to the Institute. These answers are divided by field of human activity: prayer, berachot, Shabbat, festivals, kashrut, holy articles, money, family matters and, for questions that fit none of these categories, miscellany. Members of the shul have already been acquainted with one such she’elah: what should one do if, in the middle of one’s Shemon’Esrei, one remembers that one has already davened it earlier (you can enjoy Rabbi Kenigsberg’s mini-shiur on this issue here). 

This book covers lots of important topics. For example:

• Bathroom breaks during tefillah
• Berachot over pizza
• Using a dishwasher with a timer on Shabbat
• The correct routine for lighting one’s Chanukiah when coming home late
• Selling sifrei Torah that are too heavy for an ageing community
• Hosting a difficult guest
• Thanking Hashem after a “false alarm”
• Veganism
• Charging for incidental work that was not originally discussed.

We have this volume in our Beit Midrash library—but you don’t have to come to shul to borrow it. The full text is available online from the Eretz Chemdah website here. And if you want to test yourself against the book by reading the source materials and seeking to reach your own conclusions, these materials are also available online, here.

The Quiet Strength of Continuity: Toledot 5786

This piece was first published in yesterday's Hanassi Highlights.  To read it in Ivrit, courtesy of AI, click here.

n March 1921 Winston Churchill, the British Colonial Secretary of the time, visited the young city of Tel Aviv. Eager to present the best possible impression, Meir Dizengoff, the city’s mayor, arranged for palm trees to be planted along the still-bare Rothschild Boulevard. As the procession moved down the street, the crowd began to climb the newly planted trees to get a better view. The trees promptly collapsed. Churchill turned to Dizengoff and remarked dryly: “Roots, Mr. Dizengoff—without roots, it won’t work.”

That observation serves as an unexpected introduction to Parashat Toledot, the only parasha focused squarely on Yitzchak Avinu. If Avraham’s life is marked by drama, movement, and sweeping transformation, Yitzchak’s seems almost muted by comparison. He stays in the Land and avoids conflict. The Torah devotes its longest narrative about him to the redigging of wells his father had dug—even preserving their original names.

Yet it is precisely here that we encounter the depth of Yitzchak’s greatness.

Beginning a revolution is bold; ensuring that it endures is far more demanding. Avraham’s role was to introduce an entirely new spiritual vision to the world. Yitzchak’s was to ensure that vision took root—that it would not disappear once the initial excitement faded.

But genuine continuity is never mere imitation. Yitzchak could not simply repeat Avraham’s actions; his world was different, his generation different, and the spiritual challenges he faced required a distinct response. Redigging the wells was an act of renewal, not nostalgia: the same water, the same values,but drawn in a way that his generation could understand.

Rav Soloveitchik notes this idea in his explanation of the Midrash that Avraham and Yitzchak looked identical. Rashi explains that this was to silence the “leitzanei hador” —the scoffers of the generation—who questioned whether Avraham had truly fathered Yitzchak. Rav Soloveitchik explains that the critics of the time were not merely questioning biological lineage. They were doubting whether Avraham’s achievements could truly be transmitted. Could a new generation genuinely carry forward the ideals of the previous one? Would Avraham’s covenant endure, or would it fade with him?

The Torah’s emphatic answer, “Avraham holid et Yitzchak”, affirms that the legacy did, in fact, take root. The values endured. The wells flowed again.

This remains one of the central tasks of Jewish life. Each generation receives a precious inheritance, yet each must dig again. Circumstances shift, language shifts, cultural assumptions shift—but the underlying waters remain unchanged. The work of preserving the mesorah is not passive; it calls for sensitivity, wisdom, and creativity.

Yitzchak reminds us that continuity is courageous. It is the quiet heroism of ensuring that something ancient remains vibrant and life-giving even as the world changes around it. May we continue to draw from those wells with strength and clarity.

Shabbat Shalom, Rabbi Joel Kenigsberg

Non-Jewish wisdom and personal growth: a Torah perspective

 “Chochmah Bagoyim Ta’amin”: A Torah Perspective on Modern Classics of Personal Growth” was the title of the Munch & Lunch discussion led by Rabbi Joel Kenigsberg for the members of Beit Knesset Hanassi last Sunday. The following are notes on this sesssion that were kindly taken by Dr Pessy Krausz:

In his fascinating combination of sources, Rabbi Joel Kenigsberg laced his introduction to the subject with ideas drawn from a non-Jewish author, Greg McKeown.  Although McKeown’s basic concepts were published as a self-help book as recently as 2014, Rabbi Kenigsberg developed them further by drawing on Judaism’s more ancient sources—among them the writings of Rabbis Aharon Lichtenstein and Shimshon Raphael Hirsch, Avraham Kook, the Rambam as well as Kohelet and the Shulchan Aruch. 

Rabbi Kenigsberg introduced the topic pointing to Avraham’s response to the Hittites living in Canaan, "ger v'etoshav anochi imachem" (“a stranger and a resident am I among you”), when he was negotiating the purchase of a burial place for his wife Sarah (Bereishit 23:4). This phrase highlights Abraham's status as an outsider who was living among the local population but did not yet own any land there. His situation mirrors a primary as well as secondary aspect: he was a stranger and resident. Which was more essential for Abraham? The topic led to considering the viewpoint of Rabbi Hirsch that Torah study should be a primary objective which can be applied to scientific studies since Torah contains intrinsic truths. The problem arises when the reverse exists. Therefore individuals must decide which is essential and which secondary—and  how to apportion time and focus. 

Rabbi Kenigsberg discussed how this dilemma has echoes in the concept of McKeown’s  Essentialism, where he makes a compelling case for achieving more by doing less. The author aks: 

Have you ever found yourself struggling with information overload? Have you ever felt both overworked and underutilised? Do you ever feel busy but not productive? If you answered yes to any of these, the way out is to become an essentialist—the pursuit of less. Acquiring clarity of focus which requires the ability to say 'no'.  

 More easily said than done!

 A 2012 New York Times article, “The busy track”, suggested that being busy is a boast disguised as a complaint. The problem is to prioritise. Rather than do more, try to do less.

This idea is reflected in Kohelet Rabbah. When a person leaves this world, he has not fulfilled half of what he wanted to achieve. Activity and spirituality may not be in accord. But for Mesillat Yesharim, one’s spiritual drive is to be ever closer to Hashem. 

Rabbi Kenigsberg drew on four guidelines in Essentialism, linking them to Jewish sources.

 1. Zehirut = Mindfulness. Be aware of what we are doing. Sometimes we are doing so much it could be called “Motion sickness”! Rambam’s chilling insight into “busy-ness” is that, at the end of the day, we have nothing to show for it.

 2. Saying No. It takes courage to eliminate the inessential. Kohelet offers a framework. For everything there is a season under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant and a time to pluck, a time for war and a time for peace. This suggests there is a time for everything—but not all at the same time. Even though there is a time to laugh and a time to cry during the this traumatic war in Israel and Gaza which began on 7 October 2023 we sadly seem to laugh and cry at the same time. 

3. Trade-offs. Life is said to be a process of trade-offs. When we say “yes” to something we say “no” to something else.  We must know our priorities. A non-essentialist approaches every trade-off by asking, "How can I do both?" Essentialists ask the tougher but ultimately more liberating question, "Which problem do I want?" An essentialist makes trade-offs deliberately. A Torah example of priorities comes in the request of the tribes of Gad and Reuven (later joined by the half the tribe of Manasseh) They declare to Moses their wish to remain on the east side of the Jordan River, reasoning that it would provide a fertile environment for their cattle and children. Assuring Moses that they would leave all, should war be declared, joining their brethren and leading the fight. In repeating their claim Moses inverted the order, putting children before cattle and thus highlighting priorities.   

 4 Margins. We see margins round the edges of articles in books and between paragraphs. These create space and make words meaningful. In the same way we need to create marginal space in life to help us focus. Shabbat and Shmittah make us pause and give us built-in opportunities to reflect. 

Rabbi Kenigsberg concluded this exercise by quoting Hillel’s guideline (see Avot 2:5):

 Do not say “I will study Torah when I have time frfom my obligations”. Rather, “I will make time for Torah study and then continue with my other obligations”.

Eliezer’s Mission: Lessons in Agency, Kindness, and Unity

The Torah dedicates an entire, unusually detailed chapter — Genesis 24, the longest in Sefer Bereishit — to the story of Eliezer, Avraham’s servant, who travels to find a wife for Yitzchak.  On the surface, the story could have been told in a single verse:

“Avraham sent his servant to Aram to bring back a wife for Yitzchak.”

 Why, then, does the Torah recount every nuance — Eliezer’s prayer, Rivka’s act of kindness, the gifts, the dialogue with her family? Our member Rabbi Paul Bloom explains.

Clearly, this narrative carries profound lessons, not only about the formation of the Jewish people but also about our own identity and mission as servants of a higher calling. Three central insights emerge from Eliezer’s journey — each deeply relevant to our time.

The Power of the Messenger

Remarkably, the Torah never once refers to Eliezer by name in this entire chapter. He is always called “Eved Avraham” — the servant of Avraham.  Why? Because Eliezer succeeds in doing something rare and extraordinary: he completely erases his ego. His personal opinions, ambitions, and emotions vanish; only the mission remains.

When Eliezer sees himself not as an independent actor but as the shaliach — the faithful agent — of Avraham, his abilities become limitless. As long as he operates as an individual, he is constrained by human limitations. But as the extension of a great man, representing Avraham’s vision and faith, he can accomplish miracles. Indeed, his mission was humanly impossible: to travel to an unknown land, find an unknown woman, persuade her family to let her go willingly, and bring her back to marry Yitzchak. Such a task could succeed only through divine assistance — and that assistance was available precisely because Eliezer saw himself as a shaliach shel Avraham, not as Eliezer the man. This principle — koach ha’sheliach, the power of the agent — continues to shape Jewish life.

 Chabad emissaries across the world embody it. Ask any shaliach what his role is, and he won’t say, “I’m the rabbi of this city.” He’ll say, “I am the Rebbe’s shaliach.” By defining himself as a representative of a higher mission, his strength multiplies a thousandfold. We see the same principle in the soldiers of the Israel Defense Forces today.  The moment a young man or woman dons the uniform of the IDF, they are no longer acting as private individuals. They become sheluchei Am Yisrael — emissaries of the Jewish people — defending our nation against forces of darkness and destruction. Their strength, courage, and miracles flow from that consciousness: I am fighting not for myself, but for Klal Yisrael and for Hashem. And just as Eliezer’s success was a divine partnership, so too we pray that Hashem continues to protect His shluchei Yisrael, bringing them home safely and triumphantly.

The Test of Chesed: What Defines the Future of Israel

Eliezer’s test for Rivka is simple and profound. He does not ask about lineage, beauty, or intellect. He asks for water.  And when Rivka not only draws water for him but also offers to water his camels — a backbreaking act of kindness — he knows instantly that she is the one.

The entire future of the Jewish people, he understands, must rest on chesed — selfless generosity, sensitivity, and care for others.  Rivka’s greatness lies not only in what she gives, but in the eagerness and abundance with which she gives. That trait — the impulse to help, to see the needs of others before one’s own — becomes a defining characteristic of Am Yisrael.

On a deeper, mystical level, our sages explain that Yitzchak represents gevurah — strength, discipline, and exactness — while Rivka represents chesed, boundless kindness.  Only through their union can the Jewish people come into being, for our destiny depends on the synthesis of these two forces: justice tempered by compassion, strength guided by love.

The Symbolism of the Gifts: Unity and Integration

When Eliezer meets Rivka, he gives her jewelry — a golden ring weighing a beka, and two bracelets weighing ten gold shekels.  Why does the Torah record such details? Rashi, quoting Bereishit Rabbah, explains that each item carries symbolic meaning. The beka alludes to the machatzit ha’shekel — the half-shekel that every Jew gave to the Mishkan and later to the Beit HaMikdash. That contribution represented the unity of the nation: every Jew, regardless of wealth or status, was equal in this offering.  Through the half-shekel, every individual became part of the communal sacrifices, connecting personally to the spiritual life of the nation.

We see the same spirit of unity today. In Israel, people who only recently were divided by politics or ideology now stand shoulder to shoulder — comforting the bereaved, supporting soldiers, baking challot for Shabbat with notes of love and prayer, organizing care packages, and praying together for victory and protection.  This achdut, this profound sense of belonging to one another, is the living echo of the beka mishkalah — each person contributing their part to the wholeness of Am Yisrael.

The two bracelets, says Rashi, represent the Shenei Luchot HaBrit — the two Tablets of the Covenant.  Why two? Because they symbolize the two dimensions of Torah: the commandments between man and God, and those between man and man.  Eliezer was teaching Rivka — and all of us — that chesed alone is not enough. True righteousness requires both devotion to God and sensitivity to people.
 Only when the two tablets — faith and morality — are bound together does Jewish life achieve its full strength and beauty.

The Enduring Message

Eliezer’s story is not just about the origins of our people; it is a mirror for our own times.
 We, too, live in days of divine mission. Every Jew is called to be a shaliach — an agent of something far greater than themselves.  Whether serving in the army, volunteering, praying, teaching, or comforting — each of us, when we act as part of Am Yisrael and in the name of Hashem, draws on a reservoir of strength beyond imagination.

Eliezer’s humility, Rivka’s kindness, and the symbols of unity and Torah that bind them — together form the foundation of who we are.  May we, like them, fulfill our missions faithfully, act with boundless chesed, and remain forever united as one people, guided by the twin lights of Torah and love.

“Yevarech Hashem et amo ba’shalom — May Hashem bless His people with peace.”

Rising After the Fall -- Avraham’s Model for Resilience: Chayei Sarah 5786

How do we raise ourselves up after loss—not merely to survive, but to rebuild life with meaning? It is a question that runs through the human story. There are times when events—personal or national—unsettle our sense of certainty. Eventually, routine returns; we go back to work, to family, to community. Yet the deeper challenge remains: How do we move forward with faith, purpose, and hope?

Sefer Bereishit offers several models of recovery. Noach survives the Flood but cannot rebuild; from an ish tzadik he becomes an ish ha’adamah, a man of the earth, weighed down by the destruction he has seen. Lot, too, emerges from catastrophe only to lose his moral bearings. Both are tragic figures—survivors who could not begin again.

Avraham Avinu shows another way.

At the start of Parshat Chayei Sarah, Avraham returns from the Akeidah only to face another heartbreak: the death of Sarah. The Midrash, quoted by Rashi, links the two—upon hearing of the Akeidah, Sarah’s soul departs. Avraham thus faces a double trauma: the near loss of his son and the actual loss of his wife.

And yet the emotional blow is only part of the picture. As Avraham nears the end of his life, God’s great promises still seem unfulfilled. He had been promised both a land and a nation—yet he owns no land, and his entire future rests on one son, Yitzchak, who is still unmarried. The divine vision appears to have stalled, the covenant incomplete. At such a moment, many would have given up. They would have cried out: What was it all for?

But Avraham responds differently. As Rabbi Sacks zt”l (whose fifth yahrtzeit fell this week) observed, Avraham understood that God’s promises are not fulfilled by waiting but by acting. He does not sit back in despair or passive faith. Instead, he takes initiative—buying a burial cave in Chevron, the first tangible foothold in the Promised Land, and finding a wife for Yitzchak, ensuring the continuity of the next generation. Through quiet, determined deeds, Avraham transforms faith into action and promise into reality.

Even the Torah’s small details reflect his inner strength. The word livkotah—“to weep for her”—is written with a small kaf, hinting that Avraham mourns, but not excessively. He grieves deeply, yet he does not allow sorrow to paralyze him.

Avraham’s greatness lies in this balance—the ability to weep and to act, to accept loss yet still believe in the future. His story reminds us that faith is not passive trust but courageous partnership—a readiness to build, to hope, and to help bring God’s promises to life in our own time. May we too continue that legacy and play our part in shaping the ongoing story of Am Yisrael.

Shabbat Shalom, Rabbi Joel Kenigsberg

Lavan the Deceiver – Nature or Nurture?

Was Lavan always bad, or did something happen in his life to turn him to the side of evil?  Our member Rabbi Steven Ettinger speculates: 

Lavan, brother of Rivka and father to Rachel and Leah, is certainly one of the more controversial biblical figures. In one respect, he is our uncle and forefather. His sister Rivka directed Yaakov to seek a wife from his home, so she knew he would stay there for an undetermined duration while Eisav’s wrath cooled—and would know he would influence and mentor him. However, we also know that Lavan cheated Yaakov tens of times. Lavan’s most egregious swindle was to switch Leah for Rachel—an action that resulted in Yaakov’s indentured servitude for an additional seven years. Lavan was considered such a threat to the very existence of our people that the Torah describes him as a person that wanted to destroy our father (Devarim 26:5). He is consistently referred to as “Lavan ha’Arami” (“Lavan the deceiver”).

If this is truly who he was, if this was his character, how could Rivka have sent Yaakov to him? Perhaps, this was not his nature. Maybe some event changed him, an experience which taught him that the way to advance or the way to protect himself and to get what is his was through deceit and misdirection. Ironically, this turning point, this critical time in his development, may have been his interaction with the house of his sister’s new family.  In other words, Lavan learned it from the house of Avraham (via his servant)—and Rivka may have been totally unaware of this.

Let us pay careful attention to Eliezer’s interactions with Rivka and her family—with close attention to Lavan:

1. Eliezer sets out on the journey laden with the ten of the finest camels and the entire (and considerable) wealth of Avraham’s house (Bereishit 24:10).

2. He speaks to Hashem in order to set up a test to find the right woman for Yitzchak (24:12-14)

3. Rivka enters and passes the test (24:15-21)

4. Eliezer gives her expensive gold jewelry (24:22).

She reveals who her family is and brings him home. Lavan then comes out to meet Eliezer.

5. Lavan comes out of the house, sees the jewelry and then is enthusiastically and generously hospitable (24:30-32).

Eliezer explains who he is, why he is there, recounts the story (including the sign from Hashem) and asks that he bring Rivka back as a wife for his master’s son.

6. Betuel and Lavan agree (24:51). Eliezer offers nothing and they receive nothing.

7. Despite arriving with the camels and a significant display of wealth, Eliezer gives Rivka gold and silver vessels and garments, but only migdanot (presents) to Betuel and Lavan (24:53). Soo they are soon on their way back to the house of Avraham on the camels (in fact, Rivka even departed with her maid) (24:61).

Bottom line: Eliezer came, he showed off immense wealth, he perhaps implied that they would profit if they agreed to allow him to take Rivka, they agreed – and he took the girl (who actually received all of the fine gold jewelry which presumably she would take with her) and the wealth. Betuel and Lavan got played!

Lavan must have been furious! He was conned. What’s more, he was conned by the virtuous Avraham, he was conned by a wealthy man, and he was conned by family (Sarah was Betuel’s aunt). He was taught lessons that he carried through his life. Is there any wonder he became “Lavan the deceiver”?

Now fast forward many years. Yaakov arrives in Aram and he wants a wife! For Lavan the irony must be delicious. What could be better?  His sister—his rich sister and now part of the family who deceived him so many years earlier—has delivered her precious son to his doorstep. Oh, are they going to pay! They are going to pay top dollar!

The story that plays out is almost a mirror image of ours. Yaakov is by a well. He meets Rachel there.  He discovers that she is from the very family he seeks. She brings him home to meet the family. Lavan gives him the same enthusiastic and generous welcome.  Except, there is one big difference. Yaakov has no camels, no obvious wealth.

Lavan hugs/frisks him—but he feels no hidden cash or jewels.  He kisses him—but there’s nothing concealed in his mouth. Lavan will not be thwarted, his strategy must shift. He knows Yaakov is there to marry and wants to marry Rachel. Lavan is going to make him pay, with everything he is and everything he has. The deceiver emerges, the revenge trap is sprung.  “Shall you work for me for free? Tell me what you want!” (29:16). Yaakov is drawn in and is hung out to dry by his own initiative – working seven years for Rachel (29:18), which turns to fourteen years after the deception. Fundamentally, Yaakov pays for the fact that Eliezer/Avraham themselves might be said to have acted deceitfully.

Perhaps Lavan was orignally a good person, perhaps not. Perhaps Eliezer was following the correct social norms, perhaps not. It is difficult to ignore the parallels between the two stories. In parashat Chayei Sarah the family seems to have expectations of significant wealth—gold, silver, camels—as payment. But they receive nothing. This might justifiably engender bad feelings and give rise to a grudge.  In Parashat Vayetze, Lavan clearly expects payment and makes sure to extract it.

Lavan could have been compassionate, he did not have to treat Yaakov so harshly. He did not have to take advantage of his passion and his situation. This may be why Lavan is cast in such a negative light.  However, it might not entirely be his fault. Perhaps it was not his nature. Rather, it was a learned behavior.

Avraham’s Prayer—Seeing the Spark in Sodom: Vayeira 5786

 This piece by Rabbi Joel Kenigsberg was first published in this week's Hanassi Highlights.

When God reveals to Avraham His plan to destroy the city of Sodom, Avraham does the unthinkable: he argues back. We are told “Vayigash Avraham”—“Avraham stepped forward”—a term elsewhere used to describe battle. Avraham, the man of faith, goes to war with Heaven itself.

But why? Why fight for Sodom, a city whose cruelty and corruption were beyond repair?

At first glance, Avraham seems to be pleading for the righteous minority. “Will You destroy the righteous with the wicked?” he asks. Yet as the dialogue unfolds, something deeper emerges. Avraham doesn’t just ask that the righteous be spared; he pleads for the entire city to be saved - “Perhaps there are fifty righteous people within the city; would You not forgive the place for their sake?”

This is not a technical argument about justice. It’s a vision of hope. Avraham sees potential not only in the innocent few but even in the wicked many. As the Taz notes, Avraham didn’t need to argue for the survival of the righteous—Hashem would never punish them unjustly. What Avraham was really praying for was Sodom’s redemption, not its survival alone.

To understand this, it’s helpful to contrast Avraham’s approach with that of Noach. Chazal fault Noach for failing to pray for his generation. Rashi quotes the statement of our Sages that Noach was “mikatnei Emunah”—lacking in faith. The Kedushat HaLevi explains that Noach’s flaw was not a lack of faith in God but really a lack of faith in himself and, by extension, in others. Noach didn’t believe he could change his world. Avraham, by contrast, had faith on three levels: in God, in himself, and in humanity.

Sodom was everything Avraham opposed—a society that outlawed kindness and punished compassion. Yet he still believed that even in Sodom there might be a spark of holiness waiting to be rekindled. Ultimately, God revealed that it was too late for the inhabitants of Sodom, but Avraham’s struggle stands as a testament to his faith in human potential.

Avraham taught us that to believe in others is to help them believe in themselves. That belief—seeing people not as they are but as they could be—remains his legacy. To live as children of Avraham is to look at others with eyes of possibility - to see the Divine spark even in those who seem distant, and to help bring it to light.

Shabbat Shalom

Rabbi Joel Kenigsberg

Together: The Test of Our Generation

We are living through exceptional times—times that future generations will one day study as a turning point in Jewish history. We are witnessing events that pierce the heart and stir the soul. Rabbi Paul Bloom explains.

On one hand, we are surrounded by heartbreak and horror—unspeakable atrocities committed against Am Yisrael, acts that defy comprehension. The suffering of individuals, families, and communities has reached depths that words cannot capture. And yet, within this darkness, something extraordinary has emerged: the radiant light of unity. Across Israel and throughout the Jewish world, Am Yisrael has come together in a spirit of generosity, volunteering, and love unlike anything many of us have ever witnessed. The strength of this unity—the achdut of the Jewish people—has become a wellspring of hope and resilience for our nation.

Three Words That Define Our Strength

This unity has deep roots. It is embedded in three words that appear in the Torah’s description of the supreme test of faith in Jewish history—the Akeidat Yitzchak, the Binding of Isaac. What are these words? The Torah tells us: “Vayelchu sheneihem yachdav”—And the two of them went together (Bereishit 22:6). Father and son, Avraham and Yitzchak, walking side by side toward the greatest test of their lives. Each knew that something incomprehensible was about to occur, yet they went together—united in faith, in purpose, and in an eternal bond.

The Akeidah was a test of emunah that stretched the limits of human endurance. Yet, as the Zohar teaches, it was not only Avraham who was tested—it was also Yitzchak. And in some ways, the test for Yitzchak was even greater. Avraham heard directly the Devar Hashem—the clear word of God. As a prophet, he had absolute certainty of what he was commanded to do. Yitzchak, however, did not. He heard the command only through his father. His faith was not just in God—but in his father, in mesorah, in the unbroken chain of transmission that defines our people. That, says the Zohar, was the moment when the foundations of Torah sheb’al Peh, the Oral Torah, were laid. For Yitzchak’s trust in his father mirrors our trust in the sages, in the chain of mesorah through which we hear the word of God echoed across generations. “Vayelchu sheneihem yachdav”—they went together: faith transmitted, unity forged, generations bound in all eternity.

A Covenant Misplaced

But the Akeidah has another dimension, one that carries a painful contemporary relevance. The Torah introduces the episode with the words, “Achar hadevarim ha’eileh”—“After these things” (Bereishit 22:1).   After which things? The Midrash and classic commentaries, including the Rashbam and the Ralbag, explain that the Akeidah followed a significant episode—Avraham’s covenant with Avimelech, the Philistine king.

Avimelech ruled over Eretz Pelishtim, the coastal strip of the Land of Israel—what we know today as the Gaza region. Avraham entered into a covenant with him, promising peaceful coexistence and effectively conceding part of the land of Israel. But, says the Rashbam, this was a mistake. The land had been promised to Avraham’s descendants by God Himself. It was not Avraham’s to give away, even as a gesture of diplomacy or goodwill.

The Midrash Tanchuma teaches that as a result, Avraham’s descendants suffered for generations. When Yehoshua later entered the Land of Israel, he was unable to conquer the territory of Eretz Pelishtim—Ashdod, Ashkelon, Ekron, and Gaza—because of that covenant. It remained unconquered for centuries until the days of King David.

In this light, the Akeidah was not only a test of faith—it was also a form of atonement, a painful consequence of Avraham’s earlier misjudgment. He had trusted in a political covenant rather than in the eternal covenant of God.

A Lesson for Our Generation

We, too, have witnessed the tragic results of yielding parts of our land in pursuit of peace. The withdrawal from Gush Katif and the Gaza Strip was done with hopes of security and coexistence. Yet the bitter reality that has unfolded since then echoes the words of our sages: Eretz Yisrael cannot be secured through covenants with those who deny its divine promise. The lesson of the Akeidah is clear. The future of Am Yisrael does not depend on treaties or fences—it depends on faith, on courage, and on unity.

Our Test: Going Together

Just as Avraham and Yitzchak faced their supreme trial “together”, so too must we face ours. The unprecedented unity we witnessed over the past two years—families opening their homes to evacuees, soldiers risking their lives for their brothers, Jews around the world giving, praying, and standing with Israel—is the modern echo of “Vayelchu sheneihem yachdav.” Through our shared acts of kindness, our tefillot, our mitzvot, and our collective resolve, we are weaving the spiritual armor that protects Am Yisrael. Every mitzvah, every gesture of solidarity, every prayer for our soldiers, for those held hostage and their families builds unseen walls of protection—malachim born from unity and faith.

May the zechut of our togetherness—our faith and our unity—bring safety to our soldiers and comfort to the bereaved. And may the light of “Vayelchu sheneihem yachdav” continue to guide Am Yisrael toward redemption—together.