Rabbi Dovid Orlofsky

The Joy of Gan Eden

It is fascinating that during Sheva Berachos, we bless the chassan and kallah that they should merit, “The joy of Adam and Chavah in Gan Eden.” Theirs is described as a special, unique kind of joy. But why specifically that joy?

Think about it. There was only one man and one woman in the world. No confusion, no endless “Who should I date?” questions. There was absolute clarity: this person was created for me. Hashem Himself brought them together. That’s emunah and bitachon in their purest form; the certainty that this relationship is meant to build the world.

And that’s exactly the blessing we give to every chassan and kallah. Each person is an olam katan, a world unto themselves, and when they marry, they create a new world together. But to build that world, you need bitachon, faith and trust that Hashem sent you the right person.

Of course, today it’s not so simple. There’s no barcode or sticker to confirm a match, though imagine if there were! You’d just scan and say, “Yes, this is my bashert.” It would save countless evenings of awkward conversations and Diet Cokes in hotel lounges. (Actually, one girl corrected me—it’s Diet Sprite, because you whiten your teeth before dating and don’t want them stained. Fair enough!)

So why don’t we have that same certainty Adam and Chavah had? The Ben Yehoyada (Mesechta Kiddushin) gives a brilliant parable.

There was once a wise and respected Rav of a large town who realized he was getting older and could no longer serve the community as effectively as before. Remarkably, he chose to step down and seek a smaller position. It was a rare decision, since most people have to be dragged away from their posts kicking and screaming. Like Joe DiMaggio, who retired at the height of his career, saying, “When a child pays to see me play, he deserves to see Joe DiMaggio at his best.” That kind of humility and self-awareness is rare.

This Rav announced his resignation and accepted a new position in a smaller community. When the wagon came to collect him, however, the townspeople revolted, literally. They attacked the wagon, shouting that no one could take their Rav away. The driver fled for his life. Puzzled, the Rav summoned the town leaders. “I thought you agreed I could leave,” he said. “We did,” they answered. “Then why did your people attack the wagon?” “We don’t know,” they replied innocently.

A second attempt ended the same way—another riot, another retreat. Finally, the Rav demanded a promise. “You must let the wagon enter undisturbed.” They reluctantly agreed. The wagon rolled into town amid jeers and shouts—“Thieves! You’re stealing our Rav!”—but this time, the Rav quickly packed his belongings and departed.

Before leaving, he turned to the leaders and asked, “Why did you put me through this?” They smiled and said, “Rebbe, it was our parting gift. When you arrive in your new town, they’ll be thrilled to have you. But eventually, as challenges arise, they might begin to doubt: maybe we got an old man the last town wanted to get rid of. Now they’ll remember: they had to fight hard to get you.”

The Ben Yehoyada explains. Adam and Chavah had perfect clarity. They possessed daas, the ability to see from one end of the world to the other. They knew with absolute certainty that they were meant for one another. But we don’t have that clarity. Hashem designed it that way. Because when life gets hard—and it inevitably does—we might be tempted to think, “Maybe this isn’t my bashert… maybe my parents or the shadchan made a mistake.” But Hashem wants us to remember that we worked to find our bashert, that we struggled and prayed and persevered. That effort creates depth and commitment.

So when we bless a couple with the joy of Adam and Chavah in Gan Eden, we’re not wishing them effortless perfection. We bless them with the clarity, faith, and devotion to know that they were brought together by Hashem Himself. And with that perspective, they are blessed to build their world, and by extension, to help build the entire world.

Rabbi Michael Kaplan

The Mother of All Life

In Parshat Bereishit, we read the haunting words spoken to Adam: “By the sweat of your brow shall you eat bread until you return to the ground” (Bereishit 3:19).

After Adam and Chavah ate from the Eitz HaDa’at, the world descended into a shadow. Death entered creation, and toil and pain became the human condition. In that moment, when everything seemed shattered beyond repair, Adam did something extraordinary.

He turned to his wife, the very partner in his downfall, and named her Chavah, “The mother of all life.”

It’s astonishing. If ever there was a moment for anger or despair, this was it. If ever there was a reason to condemn or to withdraw, this was the time. And yet, Adam chose otherwise. He chose to see not failure, but potential; not darkness, but the spark of light still flickering within it.

The Alter of Kelm teaches that in this moment, Adam was imitating the ways of the Creator Himself. For even after the sin, Hashem performed the first recorded act of chesed in history: He made garments for Adam and Chavah and clothed them. He granted them compassion, even as He exiled them. The Torah begins with chesed and ends with chesed: it begins with Hashem clothing the fallen and ends with Hashem Himself burying Moshe Rabbeinu.

The message is timeless. True greatness is not measured by how we treat the perfect, but by how we treat the broken. Adam looked at Chavah, the woman through whom death entered the world, and still called her “the mother of all life.” He refused to define her by a single mistake. He saw the fullness of who she was, the goodness she had already brought into the world, and the promise that still lived within her.

That is chesed. Chesed is not hosting a gadol for Shabbos; that’s an honor. Chesed is when a noisy, awkward meshulach knocks on your door and you welcome him warmly. It’s when you choose to see another person not through the lens of the moment, but through the arc of a lifetime.

If we want our relationships with spouses, children, and friends to flourish, we must learn to see others as Hashem saw Adam and Chavah: not as a snapshot of a failure, but as a portrait of potential. If Adam could look at Chavah and still call her Eim Kol Chai, surely we can look at those around us and see the goodness still pulsing within them.

Because when we choose to see with compassion instead of criticism, we participate in the very first chesed of creation.

There was once a Rav who lived this truth not only in words but in action: Rav Yitzchak Vaknin, a talmid chacham in Morocco who founded a girls’ seminary. He made a quiet promise to himself that no Jewish girl would ever be turned away. Not one. He knew that every neshamah is a world, and that sometimes, a single breath of kindness can awaken a spark that has long lain dormant.

One day, a broken father appeared at his door. His voice trembled as he said, “Rabbi, I have a daughter who has been expelled from every school. Wherever she goes, there is chaos. But she’s my child. Please, I’m begging you, take her.” Rav Vaknin didn’t ask for background, guarantees, or reports. He simply said, “If she is a daughter of Am Yisrael, she belongs here.”

From the very first day, it was hard. The girl mocked teachers, broke rules, and sowed unrest. Within two days, the staff was ready to give up. But Rav Vaknin, calm and gentle, said, “Don’t send her away. Try one more day.” On the third day, she vanished. And for years, Rav Vaknin carried that pain, wondering if perhaps this was the one soul he could not reach.

Decades later, after making aliyah to Eretz Yisrael, a call came from London. The dayanim on a beit din asked, “Rav Vaknin, a woman here claims to be Jewish. She’s married to a non-Jew but wants a brit milah for her son. She says you were her rabbi in Morocco.” In a flash, he remembered her; the face, the eyes, those two turbulent days. “Yes,” he said, “she is Jewish. Without question.”

After the brit, the woman approached the beit din, tears streaming down her face. “I made mistakes,” she said. “Many mistakes. But when I was seventeen, I spent two days in a seminary in Morocco. Two days, and I saw what a Jew looks like, what a Rav looks like. And I promised myself that if I ever have a child, he will be a Jew.”

And at that moment, Rav Vaknin understood. There is no such thing as a lost act of chesed. No word of kindness vanishes. No spark of love fails to kindle another soul. Sometimes it takes years, even generations, for that light to emerge, but it always does.

To see life where the world sees dust, that is Bereishit. That is the opening note of the Torah, and the eternal melody of Am Yisrael.Hashem clothed Adam and Chavah. He saw beyond the sin to the divine spark still glowing within them. That compassion became our national DNA. Rav Vaknin didn’t see a rebellious girl; he saw a neshamah waiting to come home. And because he did, a Jewish child entered the covenant of Avraham Avinu, and the chain of eternity remained unbroken.

Bereishit is the courage to look at imperfection and say, “There is life here yet.” Every time we forgive, every time we look past a flaw to find the goodness still living inside another, we are reliving the first act of creation, transforming darkness into light.

We remind Heaven that the children of Adam still believe in Chavah. And from that moment on, the world begins again.

Rabbi Yehuda Zev Klein

Four Billion in Return

In 1985, a new company called EA Sports approached the legendary NFL coach and broadcaster John Madden with an exciting offer.

“Coach,” they said, “we want you to be the face and voice of our new football video game. We’ll pay you $100,000 for the rights to use your name.” But then they sweetened the deal. 

“Mr. Madden, in addition to the $100,000, we’ll let you buy as many shares in our company as you want—unlimited stock options—at the current market price.”

The stock was selling for about fifty cents a share. Madden paused. “You mean I’d have to buy them?” he asked. “Yes, sir,” they replied. “At the current market value.” He thought for a moment and said, “I’ll give you my time, but I’m not giving you my money. Just pay me the $100,000.”

And that was that.

What followed was video game history. EA Sports released Madden NFL, which went on to become one of the most successful entertainment franchises of all time, selling over 120 million copies and generating more than $7 billion in revenue.

Today, Madden NFL is not just a game; it’s a cultural icon. Had John Madden taken the stock deal, he could have owned about 10% of the company—worth over $4 billion today. Instead, he took the quick win, the short-term comfort, and missed out on the reward of a lifetime.

That story is more than a business anecdote. It’s a mirror of life itself.

How often do we trade the long-term reward for the short-term thrill? How often do we choose comfort over challenge, ease over effort, instant gratification over eternal growth?

The Mirrer Mashgiach, Rav Yeruchem Levovitz zt”l writes something profound.

“If you place all your ma’asim tovim—your Torah, your chesed, your mitzvos—done without struggle, on one side of the scale, and on the other side place just one small deed done with hardship and pain, that one act of mesirus nefesh outweighs them all.”

Hashem measures not the size of our mitzvos, but the strength it takes to do them.

It’s not easy to look away from something that catches your eye. It’s not easy to keep your temper when you’re angry, or to keep believing when life feels unfair. But those are the moments that define who we are. Every time we resist the pull of the easy way out, every time we choose effort over comfort, we’re buying the eternal stock. We are investing in spiritual shares that never lose value.

Because in the eyes of Heaven, walking away from a $100,000 challenge today is what earns you the $4 billion reward tomorrow.

Rabbi Yisroel Majeski

The Antidote to Jealousy 

Right in the middle of Parashat Bereishis lies one of the most tragic stories in human history: the story of the first two brothers, Kayin and Hevel.

Both bring a korban to Hashem. Kayin, in fact, has the idea first. Yet when Hashem accepts Hevel’s offering and rejects his own, Kayin becomes enraged, and jealousy drives him to commit the unthinkable. He kills his brother.

How could this happen? Kayin knew Hashem! He had spoken directly with Him. He was raised by Adam and Chavah who surely told him about Gan Eden, and about the greatness they once had and the fall that came from a single misstep. So how could he fall so far, so fast?

The answer, as simple as it sounds, is kinah, jealousy.

Jealousy destroys. It destroys relationships, it destroys marriages, it destroys lives. And in this story, we see that jealousy can even destroy the world’s first family.

But where does jealousy really come from? The root of jealousy is a lack of emunah.

Because if a person truly believes that everything they have comes from Hashem, and that everything someone else has also comes from Hashem, then there’s simply no space for jealousy. If I needed what you have, Hashem would have given it to me. And if you have it, then it’s because you need it for your mission; not mine.

When you understand that, you begin to live with peace. You stop fighting for someone else’s role and start embracing your own. That’s why Moshe Rabbeinu and Aharon HaKohen are the perfect model of brotherly love. When Moshe was chosen to redeem the Jewish people, he worried that his older brother might feel hurt. But Hashem reassured him: “V’ra’acha v’samach b’libo—Aharon will see you, and he will rejoice in his heart.”

Aharon wasn’t jealous. He was genuinely happy for Moshe. And because of that lev tov, that pure heart, Hashem gave him the Choshen to wear over his heart forever.

That’s what happens when we’re free of jealousy: our hearts become vessels of blessing. And when we allow jealousy to rule us, the opposite occurs: we shrink.

Perhaps that’s one reason we follow the cycle of the moon and not the sun. From the very beginning of creation, Hashem made “two great luminaries,” the sun and the moon. But the moon complained: “Can two kings share one crown?” Hashem said, “If so, make yourself smaller.”

The moon’s jealousy caused it to shrink, and every month, when we look up at that thin crescent in the sky, we’re reminded of the same lesson: jealousy never enlarges you; it only makes you smaller. True joy comes from sameach b’chelko—being content with what Hashem has given you—and rejoicing in the blessings of others.

There’s a story told about two men who grew up together, constantly jealous of each other. As children, as adults, no matter what one had, the other always wanted it too.

The king of their country grew weary of their rivalry and decided to teach them a lesson. He summoned one of them and said: “I will grant you anything you ask for, anything at all. But know this: whatever you receive, your friend will receive double.” The man thought long and hard. Finally, he said, “Your Majesty, please... take out one of my eyes.”

Better to lose everything, he thought, than to see his friend blessed with more. That is the power, and the poison, of jealousy.

The antidote is faith: the calm, steady knowledge that Hashem runs the world and gives each person precisely what they need to fulfill their mission.

When we remember that, we stop competing and start connecting. We stop shrinking like the jealous moon and begin to shine like Aharon with a heart that’s full, not of envy, but of joy.

So as we begin Sefer Bereishis, the story of all beginnings, let’s remember this: Be happy with what you have. Be happy for what others have. Because while jealousy takes away your light, faith restores it.