Keeping the Flame Alive: Beha'alotecha 5786

 This piece was first published in Hanassi Highlights, Thursday 28 May 2026. You can also read it in Hebrew, via AI, here.

Sometimes an entire philosophy of religious life can be hidden inside just three words. One such example appears at the beginning of Parshat Beha’alotcha. After commanding Aharon to light the Menorah in the Mishkan, the Torah concludes simply: “Vaya’as ken Aharon”—“And Aharon did so.” Rashi comments: “Lehagid shivcho shel Aharon shelo shinah”—the verse comes to praise Aharon for not deviating from what he had been commanded.

 At first glance, the comment is puzzling. Is this really Aharon’s great praise? Aharon—the first Kohen Gadol, the brother of Moshe, the man renowned for his holiness and love of Am Yisrael—deserves praise simply because he followed instructions? The commentators suggest that hidden within these few words are several enduring lessons.

 The first is offered by the Sfat Emet. Aharon’s greatness was not merely that he lit the Menorah correctly once, but that he maintained the same sense of enthusiasm and devotion every single day. The lighting of the Menorah could easily have become routine. What begins with excitement often becomes habit; what once inspired us can slowly become stale. Yet Aharon approached the mitzvah each day with renewed passion and freshness.

 This challenge is familiar to all of us. The routines of religious life can gradually lose their vitality if performed mechanically. Chazal teach that the words of Torah should feel new each day. Spiritual growth depends not only on commitment, but on the ability to preserve a sense of wonder and meaning within the familiar.

 A second lesson emerges from the tragic background of Aharon’s sons, Nadav and Avihu. Passion in avodat Hashem is essential, but passion alone is not enough. Nadav and Avihu possessed enormous spiritual yearning, yet their desire led them beyond the boundaries Hashem had set. Aharon’s greatness lay precisely in his discipline—in his ability not to deviate, despite his inner yearning, and to channel devotion within the framework of command.

 Finally, the Alter of Kelm notes that true spiritual greatness is often revealed not in dramatic moments, but in ordinary, consistent acts. Lighting the Menorah was not the most public or glamorous service in the Mishkan. It involved daily preparation, care, and repetition. Yet Aharon understood that holiness is built precisely through those quiet acts performed faithfully over time.

 We often imagine greatness in terms of rare, transformative moments. The Torah reminds us otherwise. A meaningful life is often shaped less by dramatic gestures than by steady dedication: a daily tefillah, a kind word, a small act of responsibility, a mitzvah performed carefully even when no one notices.

 That was the praise of Aharon—shelo shinah. Not merely that he lit the Menorah once, but that he returned each day with the same sense of purpose, discipline and devotion. The greatest spiritual achievements are rarely sudden flashes of inspiration; they are flames tended faithfully over a lifetime.

 Shabbat Shalom!

The Unexpected Message of Shavuot

This post by Rabbi Kenigsberg was written for Hanassi Highlights, Shavuot and parashat Naso. 

What is the ideal way to spend Yom Tov?

Should the day be devoted entirely to spiritual pursuits—hours of tefillah, intensive Torah learning, and complete immersion in avodat Hashem? Or should Yom Tov also include physical enjoyment: good food, rest, and celebration?

The Gemara (Pesachim 68b) records a fascinating debate between Rabbi Eliezer and Rabbi Yehoshua. Rabbi Eliezer maintains that a person may choose one of two paths: “kulo laHashem”—entirely devoted to spiritual pursuits, or “kulo lachem”—entirely devoted to personal enjoyment. Rabbi Yehoshua disagrees, arguing that Yom Tov should be divided: “chetzyo laHashem ve’chetzyo lachem”—half for Hashem and half for ourselves.

Yet remarkably, the Gemara says that on Shavuot there is one point on which everyone agrees. “Hakol modim be’Atzeret de’ba’inan nami lachem”—on Shavuot there must also be an element of “lachem,” of physical enjoyment and celebration.

At first glance, this seems surprising.

Surely Shavuot—the anniversary of Matan Torah—should be the day most completely devoted to Torah learning. We stay up for Tikkun Leil Shavuot, immerse ourselves in Torah, and relive the moment of revelation at Har Sinai. Why, then, does the Gemara insist specifically on festivity and physical enjoyment?

The answer is that Shavuot is not only about accepting the Torah, but about rejoicing in it. The Torah was never meant to be experienced merely as an obligation reluctantly carried. The inclusion of simchat Yom Tov within the experience of Shavuot reflects something deeper: that Torah is meant to shape and enrich life itself. Celebration becomes part of the religious experience, not a distraction from it.

The Gemara stresses “lachem” specifically on Shavuot. Physical enjoyment on this festival is not simply permitted; it expresses something essential about the relationship between Am Yisrael and Torah. A person celebrates what they value. The festive meals, hospitality, and atmosphere of the chag are themselves part of how we mark the preciousness of Torah.

Perhaps that is part of what Chazal wanted us to experience: not a Judaism detached from ordinary life, nor a spirituality that rejects joy and physicality, but a Torah woven naturally into the fullness of human experience.

That may be why Shavuot is celebrated not only through learning, but also through simcha—because the deepest relationship to Torah is marked not only by commitment, but by joy.

On Shavuot, we celebrate a Torah that is not detached from life, but one that elevates it. However we celebrate this chag, may we remember the enduring message of Kabbalat HaTorah: ki hem chayenu ve’orech yameinu—“for they are our life and the length of our days.”

 Chag Sameach and Shabbat Shalom!

Different Flags, One Mission (Bemidbar 5786)

This piece by Rabbi Kenigsberg was first posted in the Hanassi Highlights on Thursday 14 May. You can also read it in Hebrew here and in Yiddish here.

As we approach Chag HaShavuot and the memory of standing together at Har Sinai, Parshat Bamidbar offers a striking image of the Jewish people in the wilderness. The Torah describes in meticulous detail the arrangement of the camps: each tribe with its own banner, its own position and its own identity, encamped around the Mishkan at the centre.

At first glance, it seems almost contradictory. Chazal describe the Jewish people at Sinai as standing “ke’ish echad belev echad”—“like one person with one heart.” If unity was the prerequisite for receiving the Torah, why does the Torah now emphasize distinction and separation? Why the need for different flags, different camps and different identities?

Rav Yaakov Kamenetsky explains that the tribal arrangement only took place after the completion of the Mishkan. Before the nation could express its individuality, there first had to be a shared centre. The Mishkan represented a common mission, a spiritual anchor that transcended the differences between the shevatim. Only once that centre existed could diversity become a source of strength rather than fragmentation.

Perhaps this also sheds light on a cryptic story told by Chazal. The Gemara (Zevachim 116a) recounts that at the time of Matan Torah, the nations of the world were terrified by the sounds and upheaval surrounding Har Sinai. They ran to Bilam and asked whether Hashem was bringing another flood upon the world. Bilam answered: “Hashem oz le’amo yiten”—this was not destruction, but revelation. The Jewish people were receiving the Torah.

 Why would Matan Torah resemble a flood?

Rav Meir Shapiro of Lublin offers a profound insight. During the flood, predators and prey coexisted peacefully inside the teivah. But that was not true harmony; it was unity born of necessity. The lion did not devour the lamb, simply because there was nowhere else to go. In the future, however, when “the wolf will dwell with the lamb,” the peace will be different. It will not emerge from fear or survival, but from shared purpose.

 That, Rav Meir Shapiro explains, was the nations’ misunderstanding at Sinai. They saw an entire people standing together in extraordinary unity and assumed it must have been driven by crisis. What else could produce such cohesion? But the truth is that this was not the unity of desperation. It was the unity of mission.

That challenge remains deeply relevant for us today. Over the past difficult years, Am Yisrael has shown extraordinary solidarity in moments of pain and crisis. The question is always whether we can transform that into something deeper and more enduring.

Parshat Bamidbar reminds us that Jewish unity does not require uniformity. We do not all think alike or act alike. Each tribe had its own flag and its own role. But all faced the same Mishkan.

As we prepare for Shavuot, let us strive for a unity rooted not in crisis, but in shared purpose—a unity that embraces difference while binding us together in a common mission.

Shabbat Shalom!

A Lifetime of Learning: Book of the Month, Iyar 5786

We usually nominate our Book of the Month at the new month's inception -- but the chance to honor Rabbi Berel Wein zt'l on the occasion of his book launch was too good to miss. A Lifetime of Learning, Great Mentors Who Shaped My Mind and Heart was completed shortly before our beloved Mara d'Atra passed away. 

This handsome and eminently readable tome reviews the impact upon one of the leading Jewish personalities of our era of some 15 remarkable individuals split between Rabbi Wein's family, his teachers and his mentors. There are of course some familiar names to be found; these include Rabbis Yaakov Kamenetzky, Joseph B. Soloveitchik, Yoel Teitelbaum and Yosef Shlomo HaKohen Kahaneman. Copies of the new book were selling well at the launch, possibly because there were many purchasers in shul who felt that it was not merely a book they were buying but a tangible chelek in its author himself and a memento of his immense contribution to Jewish history, mussar and community building across two continents.

Today's book launch saw a packed Beit Knesset Hanassi, sitting to rapt attention while the two speakers talked of Rabbi Wein, his life and the book that so eloquently sums it up. Rabbi Kenigsberg opened the proceedings by reminiscing over the impact Rabbi Wein had made upon him. He employed the analogy of a bridge to explain Rabbi Wein's unique quality of linking the glorious era of the pre-Second World War Torah scholars to us in our own generation in order to enable us the better to address the challenges of the future. He also observed that the qualities that Rabbi Wein identified in those who influenced him quite aptly described Rabbi Wein himself: he was the epitome of a real "influencer".

Rabbi Kenigsberg then referred to this week's Torah reading for parashat Bemidbar, where we learn how Israel's tribes were arranged by flag and allowed to cultivate their separate identities. One of Rabbi Wein's major inspirations, Rabbi Yaakov Kamenetzky, asks a question that should have been obvious: why only now, in the fourth book of the Chumash, do these instructions come, rather than in the book of Shemot when we took our first steps into the unknown paths of the desert? The answer is that separation into different tribes, each with its own identity and ethos, can be ruinously divisive. But once there is a Mishkan in place, a focal point for all the tribes, they can develop their own character while sharing a unifying common goal. Rabbi Wein too displayed uniquely unifying qualities; he was like a backbone, the beriach htichon of the Mishkan that underpinned our common interests and held them together.

Next to speak was Rabbi Wein's youngest child, his daughter Rebbetzin Sori Teitelbaum. She opened with some highly pertinent comments on the problems of performing as a public speaker, and then demonstrated how good she was at doing it when she proceeded to the main part of her address. 

With Shavuot looming large on our horizons, she led us through a memorable set of Aseret HaDibrot of her own. These were ten maxims for a good and meaningful Jewish life that Rabbi Wein either articulated or exemplified in his own life. These maxims were drawn partly from Pirkei Avot, partly other from the realms of practical psychology, self-control and the importance of personal growth and self-esteem. Each maxim was accompanied by an anecdote or vignette depicting a moment in the Wein household, and the importance of not criticizing others was elegantly emphasized by a recitation of the poem, "A Little Walk Around Yourself". The Rebbetzin also took great care to acknowledge a personality who, though not accorded a chapter of her own in A Lifetime of Learning, was plainly a major figure in Rabbi Wein's spiritual growth -- her own mother and Rabbi Wein's first wife Jackie. 

In summary, this afternoon was more than a book launch. It was an education in Rabbi Wein's approach to life, offering a rare and precious glimpse of the Rabbi as a father and a friend. It was a remarkable occasion that those of us who were privileged to attend will never forget.

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You can access Rabbi Kenigsberg's speech here
You can access Rebbetzin Teitelbaum's speech here
Copies of the book may be purchased from Pomeranz Books, Jerusalem

From Failure to Renewal: Behar-Bechukotai 5786

 This piece was first posted in Hanassi Highlights, on Thursday 7 May 2026. You can also read it in Hebrew, thanks to ChatGPT, here.

Parashat Behar–Bechukotai confronts us with one of the Torah’s most difficult passages: the tochacha (rebuke). It is a section filled with stark warnings -- describing what happens when a nation loses its moral and spiritual direction. Its punishments are so frightening that many have the custom to read it publicly in a much quieter tone. The language is harsh, the consequences severe, and the emotional weight undeniable.

Yet, if we read carefully, the Torah does something striking. It does not end there.

After all the warnings, after the description of failure and exile, comes a remarkable reassurance:

“Even then, when they are in the land of their enemies, I will not reject them or spurn them… to annul My covenant with them.”

This is not merely consolation. It is a fundamental theological principle: failure is never final. The covenant endures. The possibility of return remains.

This idea is not limited to the national story. It is embedded deeply within Halacha itself. There exists a category known as lav hanitak le’aseh -- a prohibition that, once violated, generates a new positive command. For example, if a person steals, they are obligated to return what they took. The wrongdoing itself creates a pathway for repair.

At first glance, this seems paradoxical. Why would the Torah structure mitzvot in a way that only comes into existence after failure?

The answer appears to be that the Torah recognizes a fundamental truth about the human condition: people are imperfect. The goal is always to avoid wrongdoing -- but ,when failure does occur, it is not the end of the story. Instead, it becomes the beginning of a new obligation: to rebuild, to repair, and to grow.

This perspective is expressed powerfully in Chazal’s statement (Berachot 8b):

“The tablets and the broken tablets were both placed in the Ark.”

The Ark did not contain only the second set of luchot, whole and intact. It also held the shattered remnants of the first set - the fragments born of the sin of the Golden Calf. The broken pieces were not discarded. They were preserved in the holiest place.

The message is profound. Even that which is fractured retains sanctity. Even moments of failure remain part of our story.

Behar–Bechukotai challenges us to adopt a more demanding, but also more hopeful, view of ourselves. Responsibility is real, and actions have consequences. But at the same time, no failure defines a person or a people permanently.

The Torah’s vision is not one of perfection. Rather, it is one of resilience. Not a life without mistakes, but a life in which mistakes can be transformed.

The covenant endures. The door remains open. And even the broken pieces can become part of something holy.

Shabbat Shalom!

Sacred Time and Real Life: Where Ideals Meet Reality (Emor 5786)

This post is also available on Hanassi Highlights and, in Ivrit (thanks to ChatGPT) here.

 At first glance, the Torah’s presentation of the festivals in Parshat Emor appears carefully structured and complete. From Pesach, through Sefirat HaOmer to Shavuot, and onward to the Yamim Noraim and Sukkot, the parsha maps out the sanctity of Jewish time with precision. Yet in the midst of this ordered sequence, a seemingly unrelated verse appears:

“When you reap the harvest of your land, you shall not completely remove the corners of your field… you shall leave them for the poor and for the stranger.”

Why interrupt a discussion of sacred time with agricultural laws of charity?

One approach, offered by the Ramban, reframes the question entirely. This verse, he suggests, is not a general repetition of the laws of pe’ah and leket, but refers specifically to ketzirat haOmer—the harvest performed for the sake of bringing an offering in the Beit HaMikdash. The Torah is teaching that, even when one is engaged in a lofty spiritual act, one must not lose sight of the needs of others. Devotion to Hashem does not exempt us from human responsibility; it demands it.

But the message does not run in only one direction. The Torah is not diminishing the importance of mitzvot or spiritual aspiration—far from it. The festivals themselves, and the entire surrounding framework, testify to the centrality of sacred time and divine service. Rather, the Torah is weaving together two dimensions that must remain inseparable: commitment to Hashem and sensitivity to people.

A second approach helps sharpen this point further. The placement of these laws here may indeed relate to Shavuot – the time of the giving of the Torah. The Torah deliberately shifts from the Beit HaMikdash to the field, from sacred ritual to the demands of physical labor. Because the true test of Torah is not in a protected, “sterile” environment, but precisely there—in the sweat and strain of a long day’s work.

It is relatively easy to live a life of Torah in moments of inspiration, in the Beit Midrash, or immersed in the sanctity of Yom Tov. The real question is whether that same Torah accompanies us into the field—into the pressures of work, the frustrations of daily life, and the complexity of human interaction. Does it still guide us when we are tired, preoccupied, or stretched? Does it shape not only what we aspire to, but how we act?

That is why this verse appears here. The journey from Pesach to Shavuot is not only a movement through sacred time; it is a movement toward integrating Torah into life itself. The mitzvot of the festivals and the mitzvot of the field are not competing values, but complementary ones. One without the other is incomplete.

Parshat Emor reminds us that a life of Torah is measured not only by moments of elevation, nor only by acts of kindness, but by the ability to hold both together—faithfully, consistently, and even under pressure.

Shabbat Shalom!

When the Sacred Becomes Familiar: Acharei Mot 5786

 This piece was originally posted in Hanassi Highlights, Thursday 23 April 2026. You can also read it in Hebrew, thanks to ChatGPT, here.

Parashat Acharei Mot opens with a striking instruction. Before describing the sacred service of Yom Kippur, the Torah warns that even Aharon, the Kohen Gadol, may not enter the Holy of Holies “at all times.” Rashi explains that it is precisely because the Divine Presence rests there that one must avoid becoming too accustomed to it. The greatest spiritual experiences lose their impact when they become routine. Even holiness can be dulled by familiarity.

A similar idea appears in the Navi: one who enters the Beit HaMikdash through one gate must leave through another. Even retracing the same steps risks diminishing the uniqueness of the encounter. The Torah alerts us to a basic truth about human nature: habit reshapes perception. What is repeated often enough begins to feel ordinary—even when it is anything but.

This challenge is not confined to the Beit HaMikdash. It is woven into the fabric of everyday life. Moments that once felt extraordinary—moments of clarity, gratitude, even transformation—gradually recede as routine reasserts itself. The intensity fades, not because the reality has changed, but because we have grown used to it.

And that same dynamic shapes our relationship to Eretz Yisrael. Living through the miraculous return to our homeland after centuries of exile, do we still experience a sense of wonder? Or has the extraordinary quietly become familiar?

In 1967, in the immediate aftermath of the Six-Day War, Rabbi Norman Lamm cautioned that if we do not open our eyes, we may fail to recognize a “giluy Shechinah” unfolding before us. The danger is not only denial—it is habituation. When something becomes part of the texture of daily life, we cease to see it for what it truly is.

Perhaps the avodah of our time is not to seek constant intensity, but to guard against indifference.

To notice again what we have begun to take for granted. To approach familiar mitzvot with fresh attention. To speak and think in a way that reflects awareness rather than assumption. Above all, to ensure that what is sacred does not become merely routine.

The Torah’s message is both simple and demanding: do not become too familiar. Because when we preserve that sense of awareness, we allow even the ordinary to become a space in which the Divine presence can once again be felt.

Shabbat Shalom!

Seeing the Extraordinary: Tazria-Metzora 5786

This devar Torah by Rabbi Kenigsberg was first posted in the Hanassi Highlights, Thursday 16 April 2026.  You can also read it in Hebrew, thanks to ChatGPT, here.

Parashat Tazria–Metzora confronts us with one of the Torah’s most unusual phenomena: tzara’at. Often (mis)translated as “leprosy,” it was far more than a medical condition. It affected not only the body, but even clothing and homes.

There were those who sought to explain it in purely natural terms. Some suggested that discoloration in houses was simply the result of damp or mould. However, the dominant voice of our mesorah—including such giants as the Ramban and the Rambam—insists that tzara’at was not a natural illness at all, but a Divine sign: a spiritual phenomenon requiring the intervention not of a doctor, but of a Kohen.

What is remarkable is not only the phenomenon itself, but the disagreement about how to understand it.

The striking point is this: even something as extraordinary as tzara’at could be explained away. Throughout the generations, there were those who reduced it to a natural occurrence. When a person’s vision is limited, even the most remarkable events can appear mundane. Even what is meant to awaken us can be dismissed as ordinary. The question is not only what is happening before our eyes—but whether we are prepared to see it for what it is.

The Gemara (Arachin 16a) teaches that tzara’at comes as a consequence of various moral failings, most notably lashon hara. Among them appears a less obvious trait: tzarut ayin—narrowness of eye. Beyond stinginess, it reflects a constricted way of seeing the world: a failure to recognize significance, to appreciate what lies before us.

That insight is deeply relevant to the days in which we find ourselves.

We stand once again in the shadow of uncertainty. Ongoing conflict has brought disruption, tension, and a fragile reality that may yet shift again.

And yet, at the same time, we approach Yom Ha’atzmaut—the anniversary of the restoration of Jewish sovereignty in our land after nearly two thousand years, something that within living memory seemed impossible.

The danger is not that we see the challenges—it is that we see only the challenges.

To live with tzarut ayin is to look at the events of Jewish history unfolding before our eyes and interpret them as merely political, merely military, merely coincidental. To see with openness is to recognize something larger at play: the ingathering of exiles, the rebuilding of a homeland, the resilience of a people under fire.

We are living through a chapter of Jewish history that previous generations could scarcely imagine. Like tzara’at, it can be viewed in different ways. One can explain it away. Or one can recognize it for what it may be: an extraordinary unfolding of Divine providence.

In a week that moves from remembrance to celebration—from Yom HaShoah to Yom HaZikaron and Yom Ha’atzmaut—the challenge is not only to feel, but to see.

To resist tzarut ayin.
To widen our vision.
And to recognize the fulfillment of Divine promise unfolding before our very eyes.

Shabbat Shalom!

Approaching with Humility: Shemini 5786

 This item is also published in today's Hanassi Highlights. An AI-generated version of the text in Ivrit is reproduced here.

Parashat Shemini brings us to a moment of culmination. After the long process beginning with the Exodus, the construction of the Mishkan is complete, and the eighth day finally arrives—the moment at which the Divine Presence will dwell among the people.

At the centre of that moment stands Aharon HaKohen, the same Aharon who is praised for fulfilling the command to light the Menorah without deviation. Aharon is the model of zerizut, of faithful and consistent avodat Hashem without hesitation.

And yet, here, at the very inauguration of his service, he hesitates.

Aharon must be encouraged: “Krav el hamizbe’ach”—“Come forward to the altar.” The wording is striking.

Rashi explains that he was overcome with shame and fear. The Ramban adds that the appearance of the mizbeach evoked for him the image of the Golden Calf. At the threshold of his greatest role, Aharon is confronted by a lingering sense of failure. How could he be the one to bring about the resting of the Shechinah?

Yet he is told: “Why are you ashamed? For this you were chosen.” Chazal’s formulation can be read in more than one way: not only that Aharon was chosen for this service, but that he was chosen for it precisely because of his reluctance.

Aharon’s hesitation is not incidental. It reflects a profound awareness of the gravity of avodat Hashem. He does not approach the mizbe’ach lightly. He is conscious of the responsibility, and of his own limitations. That very awareness is what qualifies him.

This becomes clearer when set against the later episode of Nadav and Avihu. They bring an esh zarah, a fire that was not commanded, and suffer tragic consequences. Chazal offer a range of explanations, but a common thread emerges: a failure of restraint, an element of overconfidence. Where Aharon hesitates before acting, they do not.

The contrast is sharpened further by Aharon’s response to their tragic deaths: “Vayidom Aharon”—“Aharon was silent.” Even in the face of personal tragedy, he does not presume to explain. His silence reflects the same humility that marked his hesitation at the outset.

Aharon’s greatness lies not in certainty, but in perspective—the ability to carry responsibility without the illusion of complete mastery.

“Krav el hamizbe’ach.” The call to step forward remains. It is a call to step forward with awareness—with the knowledge that what we are doing matters, and that even when we do not feel fully equal to the task, we are called nonetheless.

Perhaps that is the enduring lesson of Aharon’s first step: not that one must feel ready, or certain, or even worthy, but that one must be willing to approach, carrying that very sense of hesitation.

For it is not despite that hesitation that a person is able to step forward—but sometimes precisely because of it.

Shabbat Shalom!

 

Taking the First Step: Shabbat HaGadol 5786

This piece was first published in Hanassi Highlights, Thursday 26 March. You can also read it in Hebrew here, thanks to ChatGPT.

The Shulchan Aruch tells us that the Shabbat before Pesach is called “the great Shabbat” (Shabbat HaGadol) because of the miracle that occurred on it, yet surprisingly offers no further elaboration. An entire siman is devoted simply to the fact that this Shabbat has a name, without any clear practical consequence. It leaves us wondering: what exactly is so significant about this “greatness,” and why does it matter?

The familiar explanation, recorded by the Tur, relates to what occurred just days before the Exodus. On the tenth of Nissan—Shabbat in that year—Bnei Yisrael were commanded to take a lamb and set it aside for the Korban Pesach, tying it to their bedposts in full view of the Egyptians, who worshipped the sheep as a deity. When challenged, they did not hide their intentions; they stated openly that they were preparing it for slaughter. The miracle was that the Egyptians saw and heard, yet did nothing.

The Bach, however, offers a striking shift in perspective. The real drama of that Shabbat, he suggests, was not the reaction of the Egyptians, but the transformation of Bnei Yisrael themselves. After generations in Egypt, they had not emerged untouched; Chazal describe a spiritual state in which they were not so easily distinguishable from their surroundings. Redemption could not begin until something changed from within.

Seen in that light, the act of taking the lamb was not merely a provocation of Egyptian idolatry, but a rejection of their own. It was a quiet but decisive break with the past—an indication that they were ready, at least in some initial sense, to move in a different direction. The miracle of Shabbat HaGadol was therefore not only that the Egyptians remained passive, but that a nation of slaves found the courage to take its first step toward freedom.

This reframes the entire process of ge’ulah. It is not only something that happens to a people, but something that begins with us. Before the dramatic miracles of the Exodus and the splitting of the sea, there was a moment no less significant: a willingness to step forward, to begin even before everything was fully in place.

That idea feels particularly resonant in our current moment. Jewish history rarely unfolds under ideal conditions, and the instinct can be to wait—for clarity, for stability, for a sense that the path ahead is fully secure. Yet Shabbat HaGadol reminds us that this is rarely how change actually begins. More often, it starts with a step taken within an incomplete reality, even while the wider picture is still unfolding.

As we approach the Seder, with all its focus on freedom and redemption, Shabbat HaGadol quietly sets the tone. It reminds us that freedom is not only something we commemorate, but something we prepare for. It begins with an inner shift—with a willingness to let go of what holds us back and to take a step, however small, toward something greater.

Shabbat Shalom!

From Obligation to Willingness: Vayikra 5786

 This post, first published in Hanassi Highlights, Thursday 19 March 2026, can also be read in Ivrit, here, thanks to AI.

Sefer Vayikra is defined by precision. It is a world of careful detail, structure, and exact sequence. Therefore it is striking that, when the Torah introduces the system of korbanot, the order appears counterintuitive. Rather than beginning with the obligatory offerings (korbanot chovah), the Chumash opens with korbanot nedavah—voluntary offerings that may be brought of one’s choosing. As Rashi notes at the outset: “The topic begins with korbanot nedavah.” Only later does it turn to those korbanot that a person is required to bring. At first glance, this seems puzzling. If korbanot form a structured system of service, should not the essential come first? Surely what one must bring should precede what one may choose to bring.

The Lubavitcher Rebbe offers two complementary approaches. On a practical level, he suggests that these parshiyot reflect a moment of spiritual elevation, around the time of the Mishkan’s inauguration. At such a moment, the people were not primarily preoccupied with sin and atonement, but with contribution and closeness—responding to the call to build a dwelling place for the Shechinah. The korbanot most relevant were therefore voluntary—expressions of generosity and a desire to draw near to Hashem, rather than those required to atone for sin.

But beyond the historical context lies a deeper idea—one that speaks not only to korbanot, but to avodat Hashem as a whole.

The Ramban famously explains that the essence of a korban is internal, not merely ritual. One who brings a korban should imagine that what is being done to the animal ought, in truth, to have been done to him. The act is meant to awaken reflection, humility, and return. Without that inner process, the offering is empty. Indeed, the prophets repeatedly rebuke a nation that brings korbanot while remaining spiritually unchanged; in such cases, the korban becomes not only meaningless, but even offensive.

But this raises a question: if intention is so central, why does the Torah not state so explicitly?

Perhaps, rather than stating it explicitly, the Torah builds this message into the very structure of the parsha. By opening with korbanot nedavah, the Torah establishes a principle: the defining feature of a korban is not merely obligation, but willingness. Even a korban brought out of necessity must ultimately be rooted in a sense of inner offering and a readiness to give of oneself.

In this light, Rashi’s comment takes on new depth. “The topic begins with korbanot nedavah”—the very essence of korbanot is the spirit of voluntary giving. The opening section is not just one category among others; it sets the tone for all that follows.

This idea extends well beyond korbanot. Chazal teach that Hashem seeks the heart. Halachic observance is defined by action, but its vitality depends on the inner world that animates it. Two people may perform the same mitzvah; one does so mechanically, the other with intention and presence. Outwardly identical, inwardly worlds apart.

That may be the deeper message of the opening of Vayikra. Before speaking of obligation, it begins with nedavah—to teach that even what we must do should ultimately be done as if we have chosen it.

When duty is infused with that spirit, it is no longer experienced as burden, but as privilege. And it is in that space—where obligation becomes desire—that avodat Hashem reaches its fullest expression.

Shabbat Shalom!

Builders of Time and Space: Parshiyot Vayakhel–Pekudei and Parshat HaChodesh 5786

This piece was first published in Hanassi Highlights, Thursday 12 March 2026. You can also read it in Ivrit, thanks to AI, by clicking here. 

The central mitzvah of each of the two parshiyot that we read this week is puzzling in its own way.

If we were asked to choose the very first mitzvah the Jewish people should receive, it is unlikely that sanctifying the new moon would top the list. Why should this technical command about the calendar be the Torah’s opening mitzvah?

Similarly, the Torah devotes extraordinary attention to the Mishkan. Its construction is described at length, repeated again and again. Why does the Torah linger so extensively on these details?

A common theme links the two.

The command to build the Mishkan marked a profound turning point for the Jewish people. Until that moment, their experience had largely been one of witnessing miracles performed on their behalf: the plagues in Egypt, the splitting of the sea, and the miraculous sustenance of the desert. But the Mishkan required something new. It demanded initiative, craftsmanship, generosity, and creativity. The Torah repeatedly describes those whose hearts lifted them to participate—“kol asher nesa’o libo.” Through this project, a nation of former slaves became a nation of builders.

The Mishkan transformed the people from passive recipients into active participants in a sacred mission. Perhaps for the first time, they were not merely observing redemption; they were helping to shape it.

The same idea lies behind the mitzvah of Kiddush HaChodesh. Rav Soloveitchik pointed out that one of the defining differences between a slave and a free person is the relationship to time. A slave does not control time; time is imposed upon him. Only a free person is able to take responsibility for time.

In giving the Jewish people authority to sanctify the new month, the Torah effectively hands us the keys to the calendar. The festivals themselves depend on that human declaration—hence the beracha “mekadesh Yisrael vehazmanim”: first Israel, and through Israel, the sacred times.

These two mitzvot therefore define the beginning and the culmination of redemption. The Jewish people are entrusted with responsibility over both time and space—sanctifying time through the calendar and sanctifying space through the Mishkan.

Perhaps this is the deeper message of these readings. Redemption is not only something that happens to us; it is something we are called upon to build. Even after failure and setbacks—even after something as grave as the sin of the Golden Calf—the Torah reminds us that the Jewish people are capable of rising again, partnering with Hashem in shaping the world.

That calling remains with us today: to be builders—shaping the sacred spaces of our community and using the sacred time we are given to fill our lives with meaning.

Let the cow clean up the mess of the calf: Ki Tisa 5786

This piece was first posted in Hanassi Highlights, Thursday 5 March. You can also read it in Hebrew, via AI, by clicking here.

Parshat Ki Tisa contains one of the most jarring moments in the Torah. Only weeks after the revelation at Har Sinai, Bnei Yisrael construct the Golden Calf. The speed of the collapse is almost as disturbing as the sin itself. How, so soon after Har Sinai, could the nation that heard the voice of Hashem fall so far?

Chazal link this parsha with Parshat Parah, which we also read this Shabbat. Their striking formulation is: “Tavo parah vetekane’ach et tzo’at b’nah” — let the cow come and clean up the mess made by her calf. On the surface, the association is symbolic. But the connection runs far deeper.

The Kuzari famously explains that, in building the Calf, the people were not consciously seeking to abandon Hashem. They were afraid. Moshe had not returned, and they felt spiritually disoriented and vulnerable. They wanted something tangible through which to focus their Divine service—a visible intermediary that would provide structure and reassurance.

In that sense, their impulse was not entirely foreign to the Torah itself. Surrounding the episode of the Calf are the parshiyot describing the Mishkan, with its physical vessels, sacred space, and golden keruvim atop the Aron. Judaism does not reject the physical; it channels and sanctifies it.

The crucial difference, however, is that the Mishkan was commanded; the Calf was not.

That distinction is decisive. When religious creativity detaches itself from the framework of Divine command, even sincere intentions can become spiritually destructive. The desire to make avodat Hashem accessible, tangible, or emotionally resonant is understandable—but, without commandedness, it risks becoming self-directed spirituality.

Parshat Parah responds with a very different posture. The Torah introduces the Red Heifer with the words: “Zot chukat haTorah.” It is the quintessential chok—a mitzvah that resists human logic. The Parah Adumah purifies the impure while rendering the pure impure. It cannot be neatly explained or fully rationalized. It calls for obedience even in the absence of full comprehension.

The Golden Calf represents the instinct to shape avodat Hashem in a way that feels understandable and reassuring. Parah represents the willingness to serve even when we do not fully understand—to act because we are commanded, not because we have constructed a system that satisfies our expectations.

Ki Tisa invites quiet reflection. Spiritual passion is essential. The desire for depth, connection, and meaning is not a weakness; it is one of our strengths. But that passion must remain anchored in something beyond ourselves. The difference between the Mishkan and the Golden Calf was not artistic talent or symbolism—it was submission to Divine command.

The message of Ki Tisa and Parshat Parah is that Torah does not always yield to our logic. Sometimes growth comes precisely through accepting that we do not stand at the centre. The purification of the Parah begins not with understanding, but with humility. Spiritual purity emerges when we allow the Torah to shape us, rather than insisting that we shape it.

Shabbat Shalom!

Moral Clarity in an Age of Confusion: Shabbat Zachor 5786

This piece was first posted in Hanassi Highlights, 26 February. You can also read it in Hebrew translation, via ChatGPT, here.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks zt”l once drew attention to a deeply uncomfortable truth: modern Western culture has largely lost the concept of an enemy. We instinctively assume that hostility must be the result of grievance. If someone attacks, there must be something we did to provoke it. Surely hatred must be rational.

Parshat Zachor challenges that assumption.

The Torah commands us: “Remember what Amalek did to you… do not forget.” Amalek attacked Bnei Yisrael in the wilderness without warning, without provocation, targeting the weak and stragglers at the rear. There was no territorial dispute, no prior history, no political grievance. It was aggression for its own sake.

Strikingly, the Torah’s response to Amalek is vividly different from its response to Egypt. The Egyptians enslaved us, oppressed us, and decreed the murder of our children. Yet the Torah instructs: “Do not despise an Egyptian.” Why? Because, as Rabbi Sacks explains, “The Egyptians feared the Israelites because they were strong. The Amalekites attacked the Israelites because they were weak.”

Pharaoh himself said, “The Israelites are becoming too numerous and strong for us.” Their hatred, though immoral and cruel, was rooted in fear and self-preservation.

Amalek was different. They attacked not because they were threatened, but because they encountered vulnerability. That distinction is not merely historical. It is moral and theological. Amalek represents the phenomenon of evil that cannot be reduced to misunderstanding or insecurity. It is the hatred that seeks vulnerability and exploits it. It is the ideology that glories in destruction.

The Rambam explains that the mitzvah to remember Amalek is about sustaining moral clarity: “to remember always his evil deeds and his ambush… to arouse enmity.” The Torah commands us not to forget the existence of such evil. Forgetfulness breeds confusion; confusion breeds danger.

We no longer know who the biological descendants of Amalek are. Since the time of Sancheriv, former national identities have long been blurred. Amalek today is not a genealogical category but a moral one—a  symbol of those forces, in every generation, that seek the destruction of the Jewish people simply because we exist.

As we read Parshat Zachor, its message remains larger than any particular chapter of history. Jewish experience has repeatedly reminded us that not all hatred can be reasoned with, and not all evil can be explained away.

Amalek may symbolize hatred without cause—but Am Yisrael symbolizes covenant without end. On Shabbat Zachor we do not only recall an ancient enemy. We reaffirm our identity as a people sustained by memory and bound to a Divine promise that has outlived every empire that sought to undo it.

Our task is not simply to survive history, but to remain faithful within it -to carry the covenant forward with faith, dignity, and moral courage.

Shabbat Shalom!

Planting the Future: Parshat Terumah 5786

This piece was first published in Hanassi Highlights, 19 February 2026. An Ivrit translation, via AI, can be found here.

Parshat Terumah opens with an extensive list of materials required for the construction of the Mishkan: gold, silver, copper, wool, skins—and wood. The Torah instructs that “atzei shitim”—acacia wood—should be used for the beams that would form the Mishkan’s structure. One of the classic questions raised by the commentators is simple yet striking: where did this wood come from? Bnei Yisrael had just left Egypt and were traveling through the wilderness. Forests were hardly abundant. How did they obtain the materials needed to build the sanctuary?

Rashi, quoting the Midrash Tanchuma, offers a remarkable answer. Yaakov Avinu, when he descended to Egypt generations earlier, planted cedar trees there. He foresaw, through ruach hakodesh, that his descendants would one day build a Mishkan in the wilderness, and he ensured they would have the necessary materials. According to another Midrashic tradition, these trees were first planted by Avraham in Be’er Sheva and later transported by Yaakov to Egypt, carefully preserved for this very purpose.

When Yaakov arrived in Egypt, he knew his family was entering exile. Egypt offered stability and prosperity—but it was not home. Yaakov emphasized this explicitly at the end of his life, insisting his descendants take an oath not to bury him in Egypt. He wanted them to understand that their presence there was temporary. The trees he planted gave concrete expression to that message. They stood as a quiet but constant reminder that redemption would come, that Egypt was only a chapter in a much larger story.

But the trees served another purpose as well. When Bnei Yisrael later built the Mishkan, they were not using anonymous materials gathered along the way. They were using beams planted generations earlier by their forefathers. Every plank carried memory. Every beam testified that this moment had been anticipated long before. The Mishkan was not only a response to the present—it was the fulfillment of a vision planted in the past.

Yaakov Avinu did not leave his descendants only a promise of redemption. He left them its raw materials. He ensured that when the moment came, they would not only remember their destiny—they would be able to build it.

We, too, are the beneficiaries of foundations laid by earlier generations, and we are entrusted with the responsibility to continue building. Living in Jerusalem, seeing Jewish life flourish once again in our ancestral home, reminds us that we are part of a story far larger than ourselves. Like Yaakov Avinu, we plant seeds whose full impact we may never see—but which ensure that the future of our people will stand strong and endure.

Shabbat Shalom!

From Revelation to Responsibility: Parashat Mishpatim 5686

This piece was first published in Hanassi Highlights, 12 February 2026. You can also read it in Ivrit, thanks to AI, by clicking here.

After the drama of Ma’amad Har Sinai—the thunder, fire, and overwhelming revelation—Parshat Mishpatim can feel like an anticlimax. We move abruptly from the Ten Commandments to a long and detailed list of civil laws: damages, property, loans, lost objects, and interpersonal disputes. It is hardly the soaring spiritual vision one might expect to follow Sinai.

“Ve’eleh hamishpatim asher tasim lifneihem” — These are the laws you shall place before them. Why does the Torah descend so quickly from revelation to regulation?

The commentators note the Torah’s deliberate use of the connecting vav—ve’eleh hamishpatim. These laws are not a new chapter but a continuation of what happened at Sinai. Revelation was never meant to remain abstract or confined to lofty ideals. It was meant to shape real life.

Rashi sharpens the question even further. Parshat Mishpatim follows immediately after the command to build the mizbe’ach , the altar. Why place detailed civil law next to the symbol of divine worship? What do courts, contracts, and damages have to do with sacrifices and holiness?

The answer emerges from a scene at the end of the parsha—one that Rashi explains actually took place before Sinai (invoking the principle that events in the Torah do not necessarily follow chronological order). As Bnei Yisrael entered into a covenant with Hashem and declared na’aseh venishma, korbanot were brought. Their blood was divided: half sprinkled on the mizbe’ach  and half on the people.

Rashi adds a striking detail: an angel was required to divide the blood precisely in half. Rav Hutner zt”l explains why this mattered. This moment defined the essence of Torah itself. The mizbe’ach  represents bein adam laMakom—our relationship with God. The people represent bein adam laChaveiro—our responsibilities to one another. The blood, the symbol of life, had to be shared equally. Neither dimension outweighs the other. Without both, the covenant is incomplete.

History shows the danger of forgetting this balance. The Mishnah describes how competition among Kohanim in the Beit HaMikdash once degenerated into violence—even murder—at the foot of the mizbe’ach  itself. Religious devotion severed from ethical responsibility can become deeply distorted.

This is why Parshat Mishpatim follows the mizbe’ach . Serving Hashem is not limited to moments of prayer or ritual. It is expressed just as powerfully in how we conduct ourselves at home, at work, and in society. The Torah insists that holiness must permeate our everyday interactions.

Ve’eleh hamishpatim are not a step down from Sinai. Rather, they are its fulfillment: the blueprint for building a holy society and bringing God’s presence into every corner of our lives.

Shabbat Shalom!

Changing the Theory, Not the Facts: Yitro 5786

This piece was first published in the Hanassi Highlights, Thursday 5 February 2026. You can also read it in Hebrew, via AI, by clicking here.

At first glance, Parshat Yitro can feel like a collection of unrelated episodes. The arrival of Yitro, an administrative restructuring, and the thunderous revelation at Har Sinai do not obviously belong together. Yet when we look more carefully, a unifying thread emerges—one that speaks powerfully to human growth, leadership, and faith.

There is a quote attributed to Albert Einstein: “When the facts don’t fit the theory, change the facts.” This line captures a very human tendency: to protect our assumptions even when reality challenges them. Parshat Yitro presents the opposite model. Three times in this parsha, we encounter individuals or a nation willing to revise their “theory” in the face of compelling truth.

The first is Yitro himself. The Torah tells us that Yitro heard, and he came. Chazal describe Yitro as someone who had worshipped every form of idolatry known to the ancient world. He was not ignorant, naive, or sheltered; on the contrary, he was experienced and worldly. And yet, when he heard what had happened to Bnei Yisrael—the Exodus, the miracles, the survival against impossible odds—he  did not explain it away. He listened, he processed, and he changed. In a world where most people doubled down on their beliefs (much like our world today), Yitro was willing to say: I was wrong.

The second example is Moshe Rabbeinu. Yitro observes Moshe judging the people alone, from morning until night, and offers unsolicited advice: this is unsustainable. Moshe could easily have rejected the suggestion of the outsider. Yet instead, the Torah emphasizes that Moshe did everything Yitro suggested. For the greatest leader and prophet in history to accept guidance from an outsider is not a small detail—it is a profound statement about humility and openness. True leadership is not threatened by new perspectives; it is strengthened by them.

The third, and most dramatic, transformation is that of Bnei Yisrael at Ma’amad Har Sinai. We often forget just how revolutionary this moment was. In the ancient world, gods were visible, tangible, and embodied—statues, images, faces carved into stone and metal. To worship an invisible God, with no physical representation, was not only new; it was deeply counterintuitive. It is small wonder that throughout Tanach, the struggle against avodah zarah continues incessantly. Seen in this light, the commandment immediately following the revelation at Sinai—“Do not make with Me gods of silver or gods of gold”—is not incidental. It is a deliberate reinforcement of a radically new way of relating to God.

Parshat Yitro challenges us to ask ourselves: where might we be clinging to old patterns, assumptions or habits that no longer reflect the truth we know? Do we change the facts to fit our theories, or do we have the courage to revise the theory itself?

May we learn from these examples: to listen honestly, to remain open, and to live our lives guided not by inertia or convenience, but by what is right and true.

Shabbat Shalom!

Two Ways of Seeing: Beshalach 5786

 This piece was first published in Hanassi Highlights, 28 January 2026. You can also read it in Ivrit (translation by AI) here.

Parshat Beshalach opens with a striking tension. On the one hand, the Torah tells us that Bnei Yisrael left Egypt chamushim—armed, prepared, and resolute. On the other hand, the very same passage explains why God deliberately avoided leading them by the direct route: lest they see war and lose heart, and return to Egypt.

Which was it? Were they strong or afraid? Courageous or hesitant?

The Torah does not resolve the contradiction—because it is not a contradiction at all. It reflects a complexity of perspective. The same people who carried weapons were also capable of fear. At the sea, they cried out to God in faith—and moments later accused Moshe of leading them to their deaths. The Ramban notes that the Torah itself alternates between two descriptions: sometimes they are called Bnei Yisrael, a people bound by covenant and destiny; at other times, simply ha’am, a frightened crowd reacting to danger.

Those who saw themselves as ha’am experienced only threat and uncertainty. Those who remembered they were Bnei Yisrael—part of something larger than the moment—were able, even amid fear, to sense that history was moving.

Our own time carries a similar emotional complexity. We have lived through prolonged anxiety, grief, and exhaustion. Moments of relief have arrived alongside pain; closure has come without simplicity; gratitude has not erased loss. It is entirely human to hold contradictory emotions at once—sorrow and relief, pride and fragility, hope and weariness.

And yet, despite this complexity, something unmistakable has emerged. Again and again, we have seen faith, resilience, and courage rise to the surface. We have witnessed extraordinary bravery—soldiers leaving families and livelihoods, time after time, to defend Am Yisrael without hesitation. Alongside them, we have seen a nation mobilize and a quiet awakening of faith. Far from paralysis or despair, what has defined this period has been courage, responsibility, and emunah.

This, too, is a way of seeing: choosing not to view ourselves merely as ha’am, caught in and reacting to the immediacy of events, but as Bnei Yisrael—a people who understand that even painful chapters sit within a far longer story.

In 1991, during the Gulf War, Rabbi Jonathan Sacks zt”l addressed a British solidarity delegation visiting Israel. He reminded them of the debate in the Talmud whether Yetziat Mitzrayim would remain central in Jewish memory, or whether a future redemption would eclipse it. The prophet Yirmiyahu speaks of such a moment—a return so powerful that it would reshape Jewish consciousness.

Rabbi Sacks observed that, in Moshe’s time, God Himself feared that if Bnei Yisrael faced war, they would lose heart and turn back. Yet in his own day, as missiles fell and commercial flights were cancelled, one set of flights never stopped—those bringing Soviet Jewry back home to Israel. People knew the risks. And they came anyway.

That, he said, was an Exodus of a different kind.

In this past week, we have experienced a moment that captures the complexity of our time: relief alongside pain, gratitude intertwined with grief. Like those who left Egypt chamushim, we move forward as Bnei Yisrael—carrying our past, sustained by faith, and confident that our story is still unfolding.

Shabbat Shalom!

Remembering Miracles—and Recognizing Them Today: Bo 5786

 This piece by Rabbi Kenigsberg was first published in Hanassi Highlights, 22 January 2026.

Every day, twice a day, we fulfill the command to remember Yetziat Mitzrayim—the Exodus from Egypt. The Torah anchors this memory in countless mitzvot: Tefillin, Mezuzah, Shabbat, Kiddush, Matzah and many others are all described as zecher l’Yetziat Mitzrayim. The Exodus is more than a historical event; it is meant to shape our Jewish outlook on life itself.

This week’s parsha recounts that extraordinary moment when the Jewish people left Egypt amid open and dramatic miracles. The ten plagues marked the complete suspension of the natural order. For a brief period, the impossible became real.

Why is the Torah so insistent that we remember these events constantly?

The Ramban explains that the Exodus was not only about the past; it was meant to transform the way we see the world in the present. Through the open miracles of Egypt, we are supposed to learn to recognize the hidden miracles that surround us every day. As he famously writes:

“Through the great and obvious miracles, a person will come to recognize the hidden miracles, which are the foundation of the entire Torah… A person has no portion in the Torah of Moshe Rabbeinu until they believe that all our experiences are miraculous, and that there is no such thing as mere nature or coincidence.”

The open miracles of the Exodus happened only once, but they were meant to teach an eternal lesson: the world we call “natural” is itself miraculous. We simply become accustomed to it and stop noticing.

Yet this idea applies not only to the laws of nature, but also to the laws of history.

In our generation we have been granted the privilege, and at times the challenge, of witnessing modern miracles with our own eyes. Over the past two years we have lived through a period of war and uncertainty, with real pain and loss that have touched so many families. There have been moments of fear, grief, and deep anxiety.

And yet, alongside the hardship, we have also seen remarkable resilience and extraordinary acts of Divine protection: communities that have stood strong, soldiers who have fought with incredible bravery, a nation that has refused to break, and countless stories that can only be described as miraculous. Even in the midst of darkness, there have been rays of unmistakable light.

More broadly, only one lifetime ago the Jewish people were shattered and homeless, and the idea of a Jewish state seemed unimaginable. Today Israel stands as a centre of innovation, strength, and Torah learning on a scale never seen before. What once appeared impossible has become everyday reality.

Centuries ago, Rav Yaakov Emden wrote that the continued existence of the Jewish people is the greatest miracle of all—greater even than the splitting of the sea. How much more true is that statement in our times, when we have witnessed not only survival, but renewal and rebirth.

When we mention the Exodus each day, we remind ourselves that our world is not governed by chance. Even in difficult times, we live in miraculous times.

Shabbat Shalom!

You can also read this piece in Hebrew, thanks to ChatGPT, here.