Rabbi Yoel Gold

Of Sensitivity and Scorpions

I once spoke to Rabbi Yaacov Haber from Ramat Bet Shemesh, who shared with me the following.

When Rabbi Haber was newly married, he and his wife lived in a small apartment in Jerusalem. In their neighborhood there was a homeless Jewish man who would knock on doors asking for a bit of money or a warm meal. As young newlyweds, Rabbi Haber and his wife felt compassion and invited him in. They gave him food, treated him with dignity, and welcomed him from time to time.

Over time, however, the situation began to change and the man grew increasingly comfortable. He started coming almost daily, and eventually, he stopped knocking altogether. He would simply walk in. The boundaries blurred, and the couple found themselves unsure how to handle it.

Eventually, their lease ended. They were also expecting a child and needed a larger apartment. Before moving, they asked a halachic authority whether they were obligated to inform the homeless man of their new address. Given the circumstances, they were told that they were not. They moved, and the man no longer knew where they lived. Naturally, the visits stopped.

Shortly after settling into the new apartment, one morning, Rabbi Haber’s wife put on her shoe and felt something inside. She shook it out—and a scorpion fell to the floor.

Alarmed, they called an exterminator. Yet nothing more was found. But then another scorpion appeared. And another, this time in the kitchen, and then in the bathroom. They brought in multiple professionals, but no one could explain what was happening. The apartment was deemed safe, yet the scorpions kept appearing.

At a loss, Rabbi Haber decided to seek guidance from Rav Chaim Pinchas Scheinberg zt”l. When he described the situation, Rav Scheinberg responded calmly. “You have scorpions? Let’s see what the scorpion says.”

He opened Perek Shirah, the ancient text that assigns a verse of praise to every element of creation, and looked up the scorpion. The Pasuk read:

“Hashem is good to all, and His mercy extends to all His creations” (Tehillim 145:9).

Rav Scheinberg offered no interpretation. He simply said, “I don’t know your story. Take this message and do with it what you will.” Rabbi Haber left, still unsure what it meant. But as he boarded a bus to return home, he looked out the window, and there he was. The homeless man. Walking the street.

In that moment, everything clicked.

“Stop the bus!” he called out. He ran off, embraced the man warmly, and said, “I haven’t seen you in so long. We moved. Please, come with me now.” He brought him home, gave him a hot meal, and treated him once again with warmth and kindness.

From that moment on, the scorpions never appeared again.

This story is not a simplistic message about ignoring boundaries. Halachah matters and boundaries matter. The couple had acted correctly according to the ruling they were given. But teshuvah is not only about technical correctness. It is about repairing what was broken, restoring compassion where it quietly slipped away, and responding when Heaven nudges us to look again at our actions.

Hashem, in His great mercy, sometimes sends us messages not to accuse us, but to invite us to grow. Teshuvah is more than just regret. It is the courage to make things right.

Rabbi Shraga Kallus

The Jew Who Saved Vilna

Nearly 250 years ago, in the time of the Vilna Gaon, a serious threat arose from the Karaite sect. The Karaites claimed that they alone were the “true Jews,” rejecting Torah She’baal Peh and accepting only the Written Torah. Their practices reflected this rejection: they would not light candles on Shabbos, they would sit in darkness, and they held interpretations that ran directly counter to the mesorah of Chazal.

Seeking legitimacy and power, the Karaites approached King Stanisław of Poland, demanding a public theological debate with the Rabbinic Jews. The stakes were terrifyingly high. The king decreed that whoever lost the debate would be forced to abandon their faith. If the Karaites won, the Rabbinic Jews would have to become Karaites; if the Jews won, the Karaites would be forced to convert to Christianity.

Word of this decree reached Vilna, and the Jewish leaders immediately turned to the Vilna Gaon. The Gaon, however, said that he himself would not attend. Instead, he appointed a Torah scholar named Rabbi Aryeh Leib Maitis to represent the Jewish people.

Before sending him, the Gaon gave him two instructions. “First, you must answer with wisdom. Second, know that this is pikuach nefesh.” The lives of the Jewish community quite literally depend on the outcome.

The debate was scheduled for Shabbos. The Karaites, who denied the Rabbinic laws of Shabbos, had no problem signing the formal agreement that day. The Jewish representative, however, was faced with a grave dilemma. Refusing to sign would immediately forfeit the debate. Remembering the Gaon’s words—that this was pikuach nefesh—Rabbi Aryeh Leib signed.

Then something unexpected happened.

As he entered the royal palace for the debate, Rabbi Aryeh Leib removed his shoes and carried them in his hands as he walked inside. This behavior immediately drew ridicule. The Karaites mocked him openly, claiming he lacked basic etiquette and was even insulting the king’s dignity. King Stanisław himself was visibly angered, interpreting this as disrespect toward the monarchy.

The king demanded an explanation.

Rabbi Aryeh Leib calmly responded. “Your Majesty, the Torah commands us to remove our shoes when standing on holy ground. To us, a place where matters of Torah and life are decided carries sanctity.” The Karaites scoffed. “Show us where that is written in the Torah!” Rabbi Aryeh Leib replied, “This teaching comes from Torah She’baal Peh; something you deny.”

The king, intrigued, pressed further. “If so, why are you holding your shoes? Why not leave them outside?”

Rabbi Aryeh Leib answered. “We have a tradition that when Moshe Rabbeinu removed his shoes at the Burning Bush, they were left behind, and taken by the Karaites. From this, we took on the practice that when standing among those who deny the Oral Torah, one must guard his shoes carefully.”

At that moment, the Karaites erupted. “This is nonsense!” they shouted. “Moshe Rabbeinu lived thousands of years before Karaites even existed!”

And with that outburst, the truth became undeniable to all those around and to the king himself.

“You have just disproven yourselves,” the king said. “You admit that your movement arose long after the Torah was given. How, then, can you claim that only you preserve its original meaning?”

The debate ended before it truly began.

Through a single act of chochmah, Rabbi Aryeh Leib exposed the internal contradiction of the Karaite claim and the Jewish people of Vilna were saved. And on his tombstone it is written that he performed a teshuah gedolah b’Yisrael, a great salvation for the Jewish people, and saved the city of Vilna through his wisdom.

Wisdom and integrity go a long way. Sometimes, they even save lives.

Rabbi Yossi Bensoussan

Look At Your Land

“Do not judge your friend until you have reached his place” (Avos 2:4).

These words are generally understood to mean that a person should not judge his friend until he has arrived in his friend’s place and understood his friend’s unique set of life circumstances. But perhaps the Mishnah can also be read to refer to arriving at your own, personal place.

Do not judge another before standing in your own space and looking into your own life. Don’t look outward and see what everyone else has. Look inward and appreciate what you have and who you are.

I was once speaking with an Amish man, and the conversation stayed with me. Anyone who has ever driven through Amish country has seen the immaculate landscape, almost startlingly so. Every field is tended, every fence aligned, and every inch purposeful. There is a quiet order to it. I remarked to him how remarkable it is what a person can build when there are no endless distractions.

As I drove through the countryside, I saw a young child alone in a field, guiding a horse and plow, working the land. He was young, but he carried an aura of responsibility.

And then the Amish man said something simple, but profound to me. “We believe the land you stand on reflects who you are.”

In Torah language, that idea already has a name: daled amos—your four cubits, your place.

The land you are personally standing on is holy. It’s good enough. Do not look outside your daled amos. Because the moment you do, you begin declaring that everything outside of you is wrong, or just as destructively, that everyone else is right and you are the problem. Both are distortions. Both pull you out of your lane.

You can never truly judge someone else’s place, because you are not meant to stand there. You do not have their information, their context, their tools, their burdens, or their perspective. And when you judge from the wrong place, the problem is not that you are “too judgmental;” it is that you are judging from where you do not belong.

The Mishnah is teaching something liberating: stay in your lane. Focus on your land, your daled amos. Only there are you qualified to evaluate. There, you have lived experience and reality. There, you can make an informed decision. What needs to change? What needs improvement?

That kind of judgment is not destructive; it is constructive. It’s how a person grows. It’s how a life becomes orderly, purposeful, and literally grounded. When you stay rooted in your place, you become calmer, happier and more effective. And when each of us faithfully tends to our own ground, the world itself becomes a more ordered and dignified place.

So stay in your daled amos. Work on yourself. And let the rest finds its own way, just the same.

Rabbi Yitzchok Aryeh Epstein

 A Promise for Long Life

The first words of Sefer Shemos begin: “V’eileh Shemos Bnei Yisrael—These are the names of the children of Israel.” The Ba’al HaTurim notes that the letters comprising the words “Ve’eileh Shemos” form an allusion to a powerful promise: if a person is careful with Shnayim Mikra Ve’Echad Targum, reciting the words of the Parsha twice and the Onkeles translation once, he merits long life.

The source is the Gemara in Berachos (8a-b), where Chazal speak about the obligation to complete the weekly Parsha.

But here’s the question.

This exact phrase “Ve’eileh Shemos Bnei Yisrael” already appears earlier in Parshas Vayigash (46:8). And yet, the Ba’al HaTurim is silent there. Only now, in Shemos, does he suddenly attach this remez about Shnayim Mikra. Why is that?

One answer is that the Ba’al HaTurim is sending a message that is not only halachic, but practically relevant.

This is what happens every year.

People get busy. Life fills up. Deadlines, pressures, weddings, children, Shabbos preparations, and the voice in a person’s head keeps saying: “Tomorrow. I’ll catch up tomorrow.” Then Shabbos comes, and the plan was: “I’ll wake up early. I’ll learn. I’ll be mavir sedra.”

And suddenly it’s 8:15, and davening already started, and the whole week got away again.

So the Baalei Mussar give practical advice: don’t leave it for one heroic session. Do it steadily, one aliyah a day for a few minutes. And if you add Rashi, even better. But the point is consistency.

And now we understand why the Ba’al HaTurim highlights it specifically here, in Shemos.

Shemos is a fresh beginning. A person may have missed Vayeishev, missed Miketz, missed Vayigash. Chanukah came, life came, the year moved, and a person can fall into a dangerous mindset: “Forget it. I blew it. If I already missed, I’m out.” So the Ba’al HaTurim turns to you in Shemos and says: Start now. Don’t let yesterday’s failure cancel tomorrow’s growth. Shemos is the beginning of the story again, so begin again.

And halachically too, the Shulchan Aruch (Orach Chaim 285:4) discusses catching up, and many note that there is room to complete what was missed up until later in the year, even until Simchas Torah. The yetzer hara loves “all-or-nothing.” But Torah is “start-and-continue.”

R’ Lipa Schechter once related in the name of Reb Chatzkel Levenstein zt”l that a person who is not careful with Shnayim Mikra is either a tipesh (fool) or an apikores (heretic) because he either doesn’t understand what it means that every moment of life is priceless, or he doesn’t take Chazal’s promise seriously.

Because every extra day of life is not just “time.” It’s a chance to study more Torah and perform more mitzvos and grab priceless, precious opportunities.

There was a sofer named R’ Elazar Kemper, a man who spent his life writing Sifrei Torah, Mezuzos, and Tefillin. Across the course of his life, he wrote fifteen Sifrei Torah. He passed away at the age of 102, and in his final year he was still buying the honor of Chasan Torah during Simchas torah. He once remarked that he was careful with Shnayim Mikra Ve’Echad Targum, and he attributed his longevity to that consistency.

The detail that shook people: he was niftar the week of Parshas Shemos, and it was said that he was holding the sefer Torah and was in the middle of Shnayim Mikra when he passed.

Whether or not we can measure reward in this world, one thing is certain.

Chazal promised long life. The Ba’al HaTurim reminded us. And Parshas Shemos tells you: begin again.

Rabbi Avi Wiesenfeld

The Beginning of Redemption

We begin Sefer Shemos with the opening chapter of Galus Mitzrayim, the exile, but at the very same moment, we are also introduced to the beginning of the Geulah, the redemption.

Hashem tells Moshe Rabbeinu that he will take Klal Yisrael out of Egypt. And then He adds something striking: “This will be your sign—that when you take the people out of Egypt, they will serve Me on this mountain” (Shemos 3:12). A clear reference to Har Sinai.

But the question is obvious: why is this the sign now? What relevance does Har Sinai have at this early stage, when the nation is still crushed by slavery?

The Malbim explains that Hashem was revealing the merit that would justify their redemption. But I heard a beautiful insight from my dear friend, Rabbi Naftali Chaim Dover, that reframes the entire dialogue.

Moshe Rabbeinu was struggling. How could he possibly take a nation so immersed in tumah, so spiritually degraded, and lift them out of Egypt? How do you redeem a people who seem so far gone?

Hashem’s answer was profound: Don’t look at who they are now; look at who they are capable of becoming.

In just seven weeks after leaving Egypt, this very nation will reach such spiritual heights that every single one of them will hear Hashem speak directly to them at Har Sinai. That is the sign. That is the proof.

Hashem was telling Moshe: if you can believe in their potential, you will be able to believe in their worth. And if you believe in their worth, you will succeed in redeeming them.

What a lesson for Moshe, and for every one of us.

Every Jew carries infinite potential, because embedded within him or her is a spark of the Infinite itself, a pure and beautiful neshama. Circumstances may obscure it, failures may cover it, and exile may bury it. But it is never erased.

I once heard an illustration from the business world that captures this idea.

There is a network called The Jewish Entrepreneur, which pairs aspiring Jewish business owners with experienced mentors. One day, a young Jewish man walked in with a rough, unpolished idea and very little confidence. Most people dismissed it as a hobby at best. Even he wasn’t sure it could work.

But one mentor looked at him and said something simple: “I believe in your vision. Let’s build it together.”

He didn’t just give advice. He helped refine the idea, sharpen the plan, introduce him to investors, and connect him with real customers. Today, that business is thriving, entirely because someone saw potential in him before he saw it in himself.

That is exactly what Hashem was conveying to Moshe Rabbeinu.

Yes, the yetzer hara works tirelessly to convince us that we are stuck, limited or unworthy. But when we learn to look past the present moment and see the deeper truth of who we can become, everything changes.

The moment a person recognizes his own potential—that moment is the beginning of his personal geulah.