Chessed Begins at Home (Vayeira 5787)

This piece was first published in Hanassi Highlights, Thursday 29 October 2026. You can also read it in Hebrew here, thanks to Chat GPT.

In Parshat Vayeira, we encounter two remarkable acts of hachnasat orchim. Avraham Avinu, recovering from his brit milah, sits outside in the scorching heat, eagerly searching for guests. Despite his pain, he runs to welcome three strangers and personally attends to their every need.

Yet Lot's hospitality appears even more extraordinary. Living in Sodom, a society notorious for its cruelty towards strangers, Lot welcomes two visitors into his home. He knows full well the danger involved. Indeed, when the people of Sodom discover his guests, they surround his house and threaten him. Lot is prepared to risk his very life to protect them. And yet, it is Avraham who becomes our eternal model of chessed, while Lot is remembered as a deeply flawed and ultimately tragic figure. Why?

Perhaps the answer lies not simply in what each of them did, but in the homes they built. When the people of Sodom confront Lot, his response is horrifying. In a desperate attempt to protect his guests, he offers his own daughters to the mob. His commitment to hospitality is extraordinary, but his priorities have become terribly distorted. He is so focused on protecting those outside his home that he loses sight of his most basic responsibilities within it.

Rav Shimshon Raphael Hirsch draws our attention to another significant difference. Avraham's hospitality is a family endeavour. Sarah prepares the food, while Avraham involves the members of his household in caring for their guests. Lot, by contrast, acts entirely alone. His values, however admirable in this instance, have not become the values of his family. This distinction is reflected in Hashem's description of Avraham:

"For I have known him, because he commands his children and his household after him to keep the way of Hashem, doing righteousness and justice." (Bereishit 18:19)

Avraham's greatness lay not only in his personal acts of kindness, but in his ability to transmit those values to others. And here lies a profound lesson.

We naturally admire those who make a difference in the wider world, who dedicate themselves to helping others and improving society. And rightly so. But sometimes, in our eagerness to influence the world around us, we risk overlooking those closest to us.

Avraham Avinu reminds us that our greatest legacy is not necessarily measured by the extraordinary things we accomplish in the wider world, but by the small, everyday actions through which we instil values in our homes and inspire future generations to carry them forward.

Shabbat Shalom!

You can also read Rabbi Kenigsberg's post on Vayeira last year, "Avraham's Prayer: Seeing the Spark in Sodom" here.  

Do We Only Pray for the Government If it's Good to Us?

Jeremy Phillips asks: Do we have to pray for the success and welfare of a government that we do not like, is not of our choosing, and contains coalition parties or individuals whom we distrust or of whose policies we strongly disapprove?

At Avot 3:2 Rabbi Chanina, Segan HaKohanim, teaches:

 הֱוֵי מִתְפַּלֵּל בִּשְׁלוֹמָהּ שֶׁל מַלְכוּת, שֶׁאִלְמָלֵא מוֹרָאָהּ, אִישׁ אֶת רֵעֵֽהוּ חַיִּים בְּלָעוֹ

“Pray for the welfare (literally 'peace') of the government since, if it were not for fear of it, a man would swallow his neighbour alive".

In principle this sounds perfectly sensible. A government that cannot govern is a recipe for a failed state. Its rule generates anarchy, chaos and the often devastating consequences when individuals and communities have to fend for themselves, taking the law -- or more properly the absence of law -- into their own hands.

But things are never as simple as they seem. Does one pray for the peace of the realm when the government is oppressive, corrupt, selfish and immoral? Opinions are divided. Rabbi Marc D. Angel, for example, writes:

"...praying for the welfare of the government is relevant only if the government itself is just. If the government is immoral, one certainly should not pray for its welfare" (The Koren Pirkei Avot). 

Against this, it is worth considering the background to this teaching. Rabbi Chanina lived, and died, at a time of chaos and anarchy, when the Romans occupied the whole of Israel and the Levant; they were therefore the ruling power in Israel itself. Nowhere in Israel was more anarchic than Jerusalem, where the power struggle between different religious and nationalist factions resulted in the great tragedy of Jew-on-Jew murders, these being deaths that the Roman governors had no great interest in preventing. The Jewish authorities too were powerless to stop this carnage. Indeed, it was a sorry reflection of those troubled times that the members of the Sanhedrin, the supreme Jewish court, absented themselves from the Lishkat HaGazit (the Chamber of Hewn Stone, from which place alone capital cases could be tried) so that they would not be able to pass the death sentence on Jewish murderers. This decision was arguably taken on the basis that, since so many Jewish lives were already being lost and the death penalty was no longer an effective deterrent, it was folly to address the escalating mortality rate among Rome’s Jewish subjects by killing even more of them. If one is to pray for the welfare of only a good government, we may well ask whether Rabbi Chanina was ever able to follow his own advice.

Rabbi Marcus Lehmann (The Lehmann-Prins Pirkei Avoth) takes the view that Rabbi Chanina's teaching does indeed apply to corrupt governments. One does not pray, of course, that their leaders and functionaries should succeed in their evil, but that they should mend their ways and govern justly. This is reflected in the classic formula of the prayer for the King found in the British Authorised Daily Prayer Book:

“May [God] in his mercy put a spirit of wisdom and understanding into his heart, and into the hearts of all his counsellors, that they may uphold the peace of the realm, advance the welfare of the nation, and deal kindly and justly with all the House of Israel.”

This formulation does not endorse the errors and follies of the government. It does however invoke God's mercy -- and it also acknowledges that wisdom and understanding are gifts from God, gifts of which many governments throughout the world are sorely in need.

Judaism and Modernity: some thoughts from Rabbi Wein

TorahAnyTime has compiled a collection of pieces by Rabbi Wein zt’l which it is distributing in printed format. This compilation, under the title Judaism and Modernity: The Opportunities and Challenges of the Modern World, has been put together by Rabbi Elan Perchik, who serves as the Editorial and Publishing Director of TorahAnytime and has spearheaded its weekly TorahAnyTime Newsletter and book publications since 2016.

The compilation, apparently timed to be distributed for parashat Lech Lecha, consists of 38 miniatures, divided into four parts. Frustratingly for connoisseurs of Rabbi Wein zt’l’s oeuvre, there is no indication as to the original sources from which his thoughts were taken, or when, in what form and in what context they were first published.

Having said that, it is always instructive to read the words of our late Rav, and anyone who wishes to avail themselves of this opportunity may do so by clicking here.

For more of TorahAnyTime's offerings, visit its website here.

Taking Care in Government

Jeremy Phillips writes: If we were editing the mishnah in place of Rebbi (Rabbi Yehudah NaNasi), would we have made the same decisions as to what to include and what to leave out? Though this is an entirely academic question, there is a point to it.  Following the well-established methodology of the Tannaic sages, Rebbi was careful to minimize the use of words but to demand in turn that each word and each teaching was given its fullest meaning. No word spoken by a Tanna could be presumed superfluous, and no teaching should be deemed redundant on account of its apparent duplication of another one.

Would we then have admitted the mishnah at Avot 2:3 into our canon. There, Rebbi’s son Rabban Gamliel teaches:

הֱווּ זְהִירִין בָּרָשׁוּת, שֶׁאֵין מְקָרְבִין לוֹ לְאָדָם אֶלָּא לְצֹֽרֶךְ עַצְמָן, נִרְאִין כְּאוֹהֲבִין בְּשַֽׁעַת הַנָּאָתָן, וְאֵין עוֹמְדִין לוֹ לְאָדָם בְּשַֽׁעַת דָּחֳקוֹ

Be careful with the government, for they befriend a person only for their own needs. They appear to be friends when it is beneficial to them, but they do not stand by a person at the time of his distress.

Is this teaching just a verbose extravaganza, amplifying the theme of another, more succinct teaching? Shemayah (at Avot 1:10) has already taught:

אַל תִּתְוַדַּע לָרָשׁוּת

Don’t [even] make yourself known to the government.

Quite apart from that, suspicion and distrust of governments and politicians is a natural phenomenon that is almost as old as mankind itself. We might feel that, just as the common housefly needs no lessons in avoiding the hand that seeks to swat it, so too do most ordinary people instinctively shrink from embracing an institution that demands their support, expects their loyalty, taxes their income and sends them into battle.

Rabbi Yaakov Hillel (Eternal  Ethics from Sinai) suggests the importation into Rabban Gamliel’s words of an additional meaning that takes them well beyond their plain meaning while still placing them firmly within the realm of mussar.  He does this by casting the opening words, הֱווּ זְהִירִין בָּרָשׁוּת, as being addressed to politicians and those who wield power and authority.  This means translating them not as “Be careful with the government” but as “Be careful in government”.

What is the significance of this switch? Effectively it turns Rabban Gamliel’s mishnah into a message that goes like this: “Be careful when you are in government. This because you will be perceived as only befriending people when you need something from them. For this reason, don’t provide any basis for this perception to take root. In particular, make sure that you do stand by others at a time of their distress”.

Is this what Rabban Gamliel meant? And is this why Rebbi included this teaching in Avot? We can only guess, and the answer is most likely “no”—but it’s a great lesson nonetheless.

Beyond the Limits of the Present: Lech Lecha 5787

 This devar Torah by Rabbi Joel Kenigsberg is published in this week's Hanassi Highlights. You can also read it in Hebrew, thanks to ChatGPT, here.

It can be a great challenge in life to see beyond our immediate circumstances. So much of our attention is naturally focused on the present: the challenges we face, the uncertainties that surround us, and the realities that seem impossible to change. Yet sometimes a different perspective can transform the way we understand both our present and our future.

In Parshat Lech Lecha, Hashem promises Avraham that his descendants will be as numerous as the stars: “He took him outside and said: Look towards the heavens and count the stars… So shall your offspring be” (Bereishit 15:5). Why does the Torah emphasise that Hashem took Avraham outside? Surely it would have been sufficient to tell him to look at the stars.

 Rashi offers two explanations. On a literal level, Hashem brought Avraham outside to look up at the stars. But Rashi also cites the Midrash: Tzei me’itztagninut shelcha – “Go beyond your astrology.” Avraham is being shown that his future, and that of his descendants, is not bound by the ordinary limitations of nature.

 Perhaps there is an additional dimension to this message. When Hashem takes Avraham outside, He is not merely directing his gaze towards the heavens. He is inviting him to contemplate a vision far beyond the immediate present: generations yet to be born, a nation yet to emerge, and a Divine promise that will unfold over thousands of years. The stars represent more than countless descendants. They offer a glimpse of a future whose full significance cannot yet be imagined.

 Hashem is inviting Avraham to see not only what is, but what can be. And perhaps this is a lesson for us as well. We live in a time when the events of each day can consume our attention. Every crisis, disagreement and uncertainty can seem overwhelming. Yet the story of the Jewish people is not defined by any single moment in history.

 We are the descendants of Avraham Avinu, heirs to a covenant that has endured through generations of exile, persecution and renewal. Today, we have the extraordinary privilege of witnessing the return of our people to our ancestral homeland and the rebuilding of Jewish life in Jerusalem.

 These are developments that countless generations could scarcely have imagined, yet they are part of the unfolding promise first given to Avraham beneath the stars.

At times, we too need to lift our eyes beyond the immediate horizon, to appreciate how far we have come, and to recognise the possibilities that still lie ahead.

The story that began with Avraham is not merely a story of our past. It is a story that continues to unfold, and one that we have both the privilege and responsibility to help shape.

 Shabbat Shalom!

You can also read Rabbi Kenigsberg's piece for Lech Lecha last year, "A Matter of Mindsets". by clicking here.

Quest for God: Book of the Month (Cheshvan 5787)

 For our Book of the Month we return to the shelves of our Marvin  N. Hirschhorn collection, which you will find in our Beit Midrash, at the end of the Ezrat Nashim. There you will find a variety of books on Jewish philosophy, history, prayer and thought, including Quest for God by Abraham Joshua Heschel. Subtitled "Studies in Prayer and Symbolism", this slender tome tackles fundamental -- and for many people unanswerable -- questions such as "What is prayer?", a subject to which Rabbi Kenigsberg has repeatedly returned in his series of shiurim on the She'arim beTefillah of Rabbi Shimshon Dovid Pincus. Heschel also asks what actually happens when a person prays, a question to which each reader may offer a unique and personal response.

For Heschel himself, prayer is not merely a request for divine favors or a psychological release. Instead, it is an act of spiritual discipline, expression, and deep empathy. He argues that true prayer requires drawing oneself into an intimate awareness of God's presence, aiming to view reality from a "God's-eye-view".

Heschel also delivers a sharp critique of modern religious institutions, warning against the "spiritual absenteeism of the synagogue". He argues that religion loses its meaning when vital faith is replaced by rigid creeds, dynamic worship is replaced by routine discipline, and love hardens into mere habit.

A central tenet of Heschel's philosophy is that the worship of God requires a dual commitment: inward prayer and outward action. True reverence for God must express itself as ultimate reverence for human beings, meaning that mitzvot, which he terms “ethical deeds”, are themselves an extension of prayer. 

In conclusion, it can be said that there are at least three aspects to prayer that usually concern us: what it does to us when we pray, how it affects the world around us and our relationship with God, and what the words we say actually mean. This work relates in one way or another to all three though, inevitably, it will raise more questions in the reader's mind than answers.

You can access Rabbi Kenigsberg's shiurim on prayer and the She'arim beTefillah on our YouTube channel here.

The Courage to Believe in Ourselves (Noach 5787)

This piece by Rabbi Joel Kenigsberg was first published in Hanassi Highlights on Thursday 15 October 2026. Thanks to Chat GPT you can also read it in Hebrew here.

The Courage to Believe in Ourselves

There is something deeply troubling about the way our Sages describe Noach. The Torah introduces him with extraordinary praise: “Noach was a righteous man, perfect in his generations” (Bereishit 6:9). Here was a man who stood alone against an entire world of corruption. When humanity had lost its moral compass, Noach remained faithful to Hashem. And yet, Rashi famously quotes two interpretations of the words “in his generations.” Some understand them as praise: if Noach could remain righteous in such a corrupt society, imagine how much greater he might have been in the generation of Avraham! Others interpret them critically: compared to Avraham, Noach would hardly have been considered righteous at all.

Surely this seems unfair. What more could we possibly have expected of Noach? The criticism becomes even more surprising later in the parsha. When the flood finally begins, the Torah tells us that Noach entered the ark “because of the waters of the flood” (7:7). Rashi comments that Noach was mikatnei emunah—lacking in faith. He believed the flood would come, yet somehow did not fully believe it until the waters forced him inside. How can someone who devoted his life to obeying Hashem be described as lacking faith?

Rabbi Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev, in his Kedushat Levi, offers a remarkable insight. Noach's problem was not that he lacked faith in Hashem. Rather, he lacked faith in himself.  He could not fully appreciate his own righteousness or the extraordinary potential he possessed. He could not imagine that he might deserve salvation when everyone around him was destined for destruction.

And perhaps this explains an even greater tragedy. For all the years that Noach spent preparing for the flood, he failed to inspire others to change. He saved himself and his family, but not his generation. Avraham, by contrast, understood that righteousness carries responsibility. He did not simply live differently from those around him; he sought to influence them, challenge them and bring them closer to Hashem. The difference was not simply one of faith, but of recognising what faith demands of us.

Every morning, we begin our day with the words Modeh Ani, concluding “Rabbah emunatecha”—great is Your faithfulness. We believe in Hashem. But perhaps we must also remember that Hashem believes in us. True humility does not mean denying our abilities. It means recognising that they are gifts entrusted to us for a purpose.

May we have the faith not only to remain righteous in our own lives, but to recognise our capacity—and responsibility—to bring goodness, hope and change to the world around us.

Shabbat Shalom!

You can also read Rabbi Kenigsberg's parashah piece for last year here.

From Superabundance to a World That Is All Shabbat

Subtitled "Elon Musk, the Baal Shem Tov, and the Purpose of Human Progress", this piece by Rabbi Paul Bloom is designed to provoke some serious thought. Read it carefully and see how far it applies to you.

I find myself inspired by two visions of humanity’s future. One comes from the world of artificial intelligence and robotics, expressed with extraordinary ambition by Elon Musk. The other comes from our Jewish tradition: the hope for a world filled with knowledge of Hashem, spiritual purpose, and lovingkindness. As someone whose life has included both technology and Torah, I believe there is a profound conversation to be had between these visions.

Musk envisions AI and robotics creating an age of extraordinary material abundance. Machines could perform much of the labor that consumes our days, while increasingly capable intelligence could accelerate discovery and help solve difficult problems. At the World Economic Forum in January 2026, he described AI and robotics as a path toward abundance for everyone, while acknowledging their risks. He also predicted intelligence surpassing human capabilities. These are forecasts, whose timing and fulfillment remain uncertain, but the possibility they raise is remarkable: a future in which far fewer people must devote their lives to the struggle for basic necessities.

For me, that possibility evokes a much older question. If humanity were freed from so much of the burden of making a living, what would we do with the freedom?

Our tradition offers a beautiful expression: “yom shekulo Shabbat”—a day that is entirely Shabbat. The phrase appears in Mishnah Tamid 7:4, long before the Baal Shem Tov. It describes an ultimate sacred rest; it is not simply a prediction that every weekday will acquire the halachic status of Shabbat. Yet its spiritual image invites us to imagine a life in which the peace, holiness, and purpose we experience on Shabbat permeate our existence.

Think about what happens in a Jewish home when Shabbat begins. The work remains unfinished. There are still bills to pay and problems to solve. Nevertheless, we put down our tools, light the candles, and enter a different rhythm. We make room for tefillah, Torah, family, hospitality, and conversation. We remember that our worth reaches far beyond what we earn or produce.

Shabbat teaches us how to inhabit time that has been released from work. That lesson may become increasingly important as technology changes the relationship between labor and livelihood.

The Baal Shem Tov brings another essential dimension to this vision. In his famous letter to his brother-in-law, Rabbi Gershon of Kitov, he describes a spiritual encounter in which he asked Mashiach when he would come. The answer connected redemption with the spreading of the Baal Shem Tov’s teachings and spiritual wellsprings outward. The image is powerful: spiritual understanding reaching beyond its familiar boundaries and touching lives far away.

Here, too, technology presents an extraordinary possibility. A person isolated from Jewish learning can hear a shiur. Someone who struggles with a language can receive help understanding a text. A student can explore questions that might otherwise remain unasked. AI could assist teachers in reaching learners with different abilities and backgrounds. Such tools require accuracy and responsible guidance, but they can widen access to learning in ways earlier generations could scarcely imagine.

I see this as a possible modern vehicle for carrying spiritual wellsprings outward. That is an application of the Baal Shem Tov’s image, rather than a claim that he predicted artificial intelligence. The wisdom still needs teachers, communities, and people who live what they teach.

The clearest bridge between material abundance and spiritual purpose may be found in the Rambam. In Hilchot Melachim 12:4–5, he explains that the sages yearned for the Messianic era so they could pursue Torah and wisdom free of oppression and distraction. He then describes a world without famine or war, with plentiful goods, in which humanity’s central occupation is knowing Hashem.

The connection is striking. Abundance creates room for a higher purpose. Imagine the parent who can spend more time with a child, the retiree who can learn without financial anxiety, or the young adult who can devote part of the week to helping others. Imagine communities with the resources and time to welcome strangers, support families, and care for their elderly members. These are deeply human possibilities.

Yet greater productive capacity will not automatically produce such a society. Goods can become plentiful while access remains unequal. Work can diminish while loneliness grows. Free time can be consumed by distraction. A person whose livelihood disappears may need a new source of income, community, and dignity. If we hope for abundance that benefits everyone, we must help people through the transition and ensure that its fruits are broadly shared.

This is where Torah gives our optimism direction. We must ask whether our inventions protect human dignity, whether they serve those with the least power, and whether they help us become more responsible toward one another. Superintelligence describes a hoped-for level of machine capability. Wisdom also asks what deserves to be done.

Chesed will remain essential even in a world of remarkable machines. A robot might help an elderly person with household tasks. That assistance could be a tremendous blessing. The time it saves could allow a family member or volunteer to sit beside that person, listen to a story, and offer companionship. A community could use AI to coordinate meals for someone recovering from illness, then use the hours saved to visit. Technology can extend our capacity to care; we must choose to turn that capacity into loving attention.

Nor should we identify any technological milestone with the arrival of Mashiach. The Rambam cautions that the details of future redemption cannot be fully known in advance. We can welcome progress with gratitude and hope while remaining humble about how Hashem’s purposes unfold.

What excites me is the opportunity before us. We can begin preparing for greater abundance by cultivating the qualities that make freedom fruitful: disciplined learning, generosity, strong families, meaningful communities, and devotion to Hashem. We need not wait for a robot in every home to make more room for Torah or to notice a neighbor who needs help.

I believe AI can help transform the world for goodness. Realizing that hope will require us to bring our spiritual aspirations into the choices we make about technology. The engineer can help free human beings from exhausting burdens. The teacher can help them discover what to do with that freedom. Each has a vital contribution to make.

Perhaps the most precious abundance will be the abundance of time we can give: time to learn, time to listen, time to serve, and time to recognize the divine image in another person.

That is the future I hope we will help build—a world whose growing material blessings sustain a richer spiritual life, and whose everyday rhythm begins to reflect the holiness, chesed, and peace of Shabbat.

Click here for the Appendix: Sources and Their Relationship to this article

When Ten is more than just a number

The fifth chapter of Pirkei Avot, the mishnaic tractate that deals with mussar and middot, curiously opens with a mishnah that tells how the world was created with ten statements. But maybe there's a hidden message for us. Jeremy Phillips speculates.

The mishnah at Avot 5:1 links the divine notion creation of the world to the very human idea of being accountable for what we do, for good or ill:

The world was created with ten utterances. What does this come to teach us? It could have been created with a single utterance. However, this is in order to make the wicked accountable for destroying a world that was created with ten utterances, and to reward the righteous for sustaining a world that was created with ten utterances.

Many commentaries on this mishnah, including the Rambam, the Bartenura and the Machzor Vitry, recite that, in the Torah’s account of the Creation, nine acts of divine creativity are preceded by the utterance “And the Lord said…” Added to this is the first word in the Torah, “Bereshit” (“In the beginning”), which also constitutes an utterance, making up the full complement of ten.

Here’s a fresh explanation, one that does not have the support of tradition but which does offer some further meaning to this Mishnah. There is a verse in Yeshayah 51:16 that reads as follows:

And I have put My words into your mouth and have covered you in the shadow of My hand, so that I may plant the Heavens, and lay the foundations of the Earth, and say unto Zion: “You are My people.”

The Hebrew word for “My words” in this verse is דברי (divarai). If you insert a space between the letter י (the yud) of דברי and the rest of the word, you change the meaning. This is because the yud represents the numerical value 10. You now have דבר י (devar yud, “a matter of 10”). Revisiting our verse, we can now learn it as:

And I have put a “matter of 10” into your mouth and have covered you in the shadow of My hand, so that I may plant the Heavens, and lay the foundations of the Earth, and say unto Zion: “You are My people.”

The number 10 is rich with Jewish symbolism, and one of the things it alludes to is the Ten Commandments, the quintessence of the Torah and the acceptance of which can be said to perfect the creation of humankind. The idea of linking the ten utterances of Creation with the Ten Commandments is not new: it is found in the Zohar and has influenced Torah commentators ever since—including the late Lubavitcher Rebbe, who maintained that the Ten Commandments were implicit in the ten utterances.

Armed with this verse, we can return to our mishnah and postulate that, when its anonymous author is alluding to the creation of the  world, he adopts the Maharsl’s concept of the olam katan, the “small world” which is every human, in other words every one of us.

In this context the mishnah appears to envision an individual who is initially incomplete but is created in his final form through the “matter of 10,” the Ten Commandments that God uttered on Mount Sinai. With the ultimate perfection of man comes the conclusion of the Creation which began with the Heavens and the Earth—mentioned here in our verse from Yeshayah and also in the very first verse of the Torah itself. When a person destroys another human being, who has been “created” through acceptance of the Ten Commandments, his punishment is in proportion to his having broken the link between his victim and all ten of them.  Conversely, someone who saves another is taken to have affirmed all ten and his reward is commensurate with this.

Beginning Again with Responsibility

The first Shabbat of a new Torah cycle arrives with a familiar question: What will remain of the inspiration of the Chagim when ordinary life resumes? Rabbi Paul Bloom poses this question and offers some practical suggestions.

We have prayed, asked forgiveness, sat in the sukkah, and celebrated with the Torah. Now we open Bereishit again. Its account of creation offers a practical direction for the year ahead. The world belongs to Hashem, and our place within it carries responsibility. We are asked to care for what we receive, take ownership of our choices, and attend to the welfare of other people.

For those of us at Beit Knesset Hanassi in Jerusalem, the opening of the Torah has a particular resonance. Rashi, citing Rabbi Yitzchak, asks why the Torah begins with creation rather than the first commandment given to Israel as a nation. His answer concerns Eretz Yisrael: creation establishes the Creator’s authority over the earth and the foundation of Israel’s claim to the land He gives us. Before Avraham’s journey or the revelation at Sinai, the Torah’s opening already provides that foundation.

Rashi’s explanation can renew our gratitude for the privilege of living here. Jerusalem easily becomes the setting for ordinary errands, appointments, delays, and frustrations. Yet familiarity need not erase wonder. We walk streets toward which generations turned in prayer. We learn Torah and build Jewish homes in a place our ancestors longed to reach. The practical question I draw from Rashi is how our conduct should reflect gratitude for that gift. What kind of neighbors, family members, and fellow Jews will we be here?

The second chapter of Bereishit gives human responsibility a concrete setting. Hashem places Adam in Gan Eden “לְעָבְדָהּ וּלְשָׁמְרָהּ,” to cultivate it and guard it (Bereishit 2:15). Even the garden requires care. Abundance does not remove obligation; receiving something valuable creates a reason to protect and nourish it. The same insight applies to a home, a marriage, a community, or a commitment to Torah learning. Each needs effort that helps it grow and attention that protects it from harm.

A shul, for example, requires more than a building and a schedule of minyanim. Its human atmosphere also needs cultivation. A person entering for the first time may know how to daven and still feel uncertain about where to sit or whom to approach. A greeting, an introduction, or an invitation can turn attendance into belonging. Similarly, an older member’s absence may call for a phone call. These actions are modest, but they give substance to communal responsibility.

The Torah’s teaching that the human being is created “בְּצֶלֶם אֱלֹהִים,” in the image of God (Bereishit 1:27), deepens that responsibility. A person’s dignity precedes our judgment of their usefulness, ability, or agreement with us. This is most difficult to remember when we are frustrated. We see the clerk who cannot solve our problem, the person taking too long, or the relative whose opinion irritates us. Tzelem Elokim asks us to recover our awareness of the person before us, even while addressing a real difficulty. This matters especially in a community whose members bring different languages and experiences. Someone struggling to express a thought in Hebrew may need patience rather than correction. Someone unfamiliar with Israeli life may need an explanation that others take for granted. And within our own homes, people who know us best still need the courtesy and attention we readily give strangers. The opening of Bereishit challenges us to make human dignity visible in our everyday speech.

The parshah then confronts failure. Adam and Chavah eat from the tree and hide. Hashem asks Adam “אַיֶּכָּה,” where are you (Bereishit 3:9)? Within the narrative, Adam has hidden among the trees. In our own spiritual lives, we can hear the question as an invitation to examine where we stand. What have we avoided acknowledging? Which commitment needs renewed attention? Where has an explanation become a way of escaping responsibility?

Adam points to the woman given to him; Chavah points to the serpent. Each identifies an influence on the decision, yet each also directs attention away from personal choice (Bereishit 3:12–13). We know this habit. We spoke harshly because we were provoked, failed to call because nobody called us, or abandoned a commitment because circumstances became difficult. Those circumstances may be real. The remaining question is what action belongs to us now. An honest apology or a realistic renewed commitment can begin repair without pretending that life is simple.

Kayin’s answer after killing Hevel exposes a further refusal: “הֲשֹׁמֵר אָחִי אָנֹכִי,” am I my brother’s keeper (Bereishit 4:9)? Beyond its terrible immediate context, the question warns against declaring another person’s welfare outside our concern. In communal life that temptation often appears as the assumption that somebody else will notice. A respectful offer of help interrupts it. We need not take over another person’s choices to ask whether a ride, a visit, or a listening ear would be welcome.

Those who have made Aliyah can express this care through honest companionship for people considering their future. We can describe the blessings of life here while taking concerns about livelihood, children, Hebrew, and family seriously. A thoughtful conversation begins by listening. Trust grows when encouragement makes room for the actual circumstances of the person before us.

Bereishit also leaves room for hope. Before Kayin’s crime, Hashem warns him of the danger and tells him that he can rule over it (Bereishit 4:7). Rashi explains that overcoming the inclination remains possible if he chooses. [9] The next destructive response is not inevitable. For us, too, a familiar pattern can be interrupted: a sharp remark left unsaid, a neglected call finally made, or a concern heard with greater patience.

The coming week gives us a manageable place to begin. We can choose something to cultivate, something to guard, and someone whose welfare to notice. A modest commitment, fulfilled consistently, can carry the inspiration of the Chagim into ordinary days. As we open the Torah again in Jerusalem, may our gratitude for being here deepen our willingness to care for the lives entrusted to us.

The Power to See Good (Bereishit 5787)

This piece by Rabbi Kenigsberg was first published in Hanassi Highlights on 8 October 2026. Thanks to ChatGPT you can also read it in Hebrew here.

Can we create something simply by looking at it? At first glance, the question seems absurd. Creation requires imagination, effort and action. Surely merely observing something cannot be considered an act of creation?

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks suggests that this may be one of the profound lessons contained in the opening chapter of the Torah. Every year, as we begin reading Bereishit anew, we encounter the majestic account of the Creation of the world. But the Torah is not a textbook of cosmology. Its purpose is not simply to explain how the universe came into existence, but to teach us how we are supposed to live within it. The account of creation, therefore, is not just a description of what happened, but a moral guide as to how we are to become creators.

Repeatedly, in the opening verses of the Torah, we encounter three distinct stages:

·         Vayomer Elokim - “And God said…”

·         Vayehi - “And it was…”

·         Vayar Elokim ki tov - “And God saw that it was good.”

Each stage, suggests Rabbi Sacks, contains a lesson about our own capacity to create.

The first is the power of imagination. Before anything can change, we must be able to envision something different. Every meaningful achievement begins with an idea, with the recognition that the world as it is need not be the world as it could be. The second is the power of action. Ideas alone accomplish very little. It takes determination, commitment and hard work to translate our aspirations into reality. We must move from “let there be” to “and there was.”

But what about the third stage? Why does the Torah repeatedly emphasize that God saw that His creation was good? What does seeing add to the creative process? Perhaps this is the most important lesson of all. Rabbi Sacks described how, in his visits to prisons and institutions for young offenders, he encountered people with enormous unrealized potential. Often, what they lacked was not ability or ambition, but a basic sense of their own worth. Nobody had ever helped them recognise the goodness within themselves. And this is where seeing becomes an act of creation.

When we recognise the good in another person, when we acknowledge their strengths, encourage their efforts and help them appreciate their own potential, we can bring something new into existence. Sometimes, a kind word or a sincere expression of appreciation can change the course of someone’s life. The Torah teaches that we are created b’tzelem Elokim, in the image of God. We too are called upon to be creators – not only through our ideas and actions, but through the way we see the people around us. Sometimes, the greatest thing we can create is the confidence in another person to discover what they are capable of becoming.

Shabbat Shalom!

The Voice of the Lord

Tehillim 29 is the chapter of Tehillim that we recite in shul on Shabbat morning when we return the Sefer Torah to the Aron HaKodesh. In some communities (sometimes including our own) it is sung out loud by the congregation, a hymn of triumphant praise to the God who created the world with ten utterances. Indeed, the constant repetition of the phrase kol Hashem does rather echo the opening pasukim of parashat Bereishit. 

Max Stern set this psalm to music back in 1993 with the title 'Seven Voices of the Divine' and he has shared with us a recording of it that was made in Prague in 1999. The words are sung by soprano Kristyna Valouskova, accompanied by the Talich Chamber Orchestra.

The kol Hashem is depicted here by reference to the seven qualities identified by David HaMelech (1. Upon the waters; 2. Powerful; 3. Full of majesty; 4. Breaketh cedars; 5. Heweth flames of fire; 6. Shaketh the wilderness: 7. Maketh hinds to calve).

You can listen to Max's piece here.