Rabbi Avrohom Stulberger

Lights On

Late one evening, two young men in Israel decided to drive from Ashdod to the Kosel. It was a spontaneous idea, perhaps even an impractical one. Yet they davened, spent some time there, and then returned to Ashdod around two o’clock in the morning. Exhausted, they began walking home through the quiet streets.

As they passed a local shul, they noticed something unusual: the lights were on.

Pause for a moment and consider the scene. Two o’clock in the morning. The streets are empty. The simplest response would have been to shrug and walk on. But one of the men said to the other, “Why would the lights be on? If no one is inside, they’re just wasting electricity. Let me check.”

It was a small decision. A minor inconvenience. A step out of his way.

He opened the door—and discovered that the shul was not empty.

Inside were two people. One was a teenager studying intensely for an upcoming exam. The other was a kollel fellow, whose name he came to learn was Moshe, a man in his early thirties. Moshe was crying.

The visitor approached him gently and asked what was wrong. Moshe did not speak in abstractions. He spoke plainly.

“My wife threw me out of the house tonight,” he said. “She told me that I may be learning Torah, but I’m not taking care of my family. There’s no food in the house and the children went to bed hungry. We don’t even have soap or shampoo. She locked herself in the bedroom, crying. I didn’t know where else to go, so I came here. I turned to Hakadosh Baruch Hu and asked, ‘What do I do now?’” At two o’clock in the morning, Moshe sat alone in a shul, broken and desperate.

The visitor responded instinctively. “I have some shampoo at home,” he said. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

But as he stepped outside, he stopped. Shampoo alone would not solve this problem.

He told his friend what was happening. Between them, they had four hundred shekels. Without hesitation, they decided to find a market and buy Moshe everything he would need for Shabbos—food and the other basics.

At two o’clock in the morning in Ashdod, there was only one place open: a brightly lit convenience store called “24/7.” They were uncomfortable shopping there as it was open even on Shabbos—literally 24/7—but they knew Moshe could not go home empty-handed. They bought challah, meat, fish, groceries, soap, shampoo. Everything. Every shekel they had was spent.

As they loaded the bags into their car, they realized something else. Moshe would be uneasy if he knew the food came from a store that operated on Shabbos. So they began transferring everything into plain bags.

Unbeknownst to them, the store owner had been watching. He approached and asked, “What are you doing?” Nervously, but honestly, they explained the situation. They expected anger, maybe mockery.

Instead, the man broke down crying.

“I’m not fully religious,” he said, “but I’ve been growing. I was learning regularly with a chavrusa two hours a week and it changed my life. When he moved away, I lost that connection. Tonight, I prayed to G-d and said, ‘I want to come closer. I want this Elul to mean something. Please help me reconnect.”

Then he looked at them and said, “And now, at two o’clock in the morning, you walk into my store to help a kollel fellow who has nothing.”

He made them an offer. “I want one of you to learn with me for two hours a week. In return, I will give my maaser—not to you, but to Moshe. He will have steady support.”

And that was not the end of the story.

Moshe was able to continue learning and his home stabilized. The store owner as well regained his chavrusa and furthered his spiritual journey. And months later, the store changed its name and its sign.

No longer “24/7.”

It became “24/6.”

All of this… from one small moment. One person saying, “Let me check the shul lights.” One step. One decision.

Never underestimate the impact of a single act of responsibility or one gesture of kindness. We often have no idea whose life we are touching or how far the consequences of our choices will reach.

They stretch beyond the imagination.

Rabbi Doniel Osher Kleinman

The Eye in Gan Eden

One of the most formidable leaders in world history was Alexander the Great. He ascended the throne at just twenty years old, and by the age of thirty had conquered vast territories across Asia. His empire stretched from Greece to northwestern India, an achievement unparalleled in scope.

Chazal relate a striking encounter during one of his campaigns when Alexander came upon the entrance to Gan Eden (Tamid 32b). Standing there, he declared arrogantly: “I am Alexander the Great. Open for me. This is my domain.”

The response was unequivocal: “Zeh ha’shaar la’Hashem tzaddikim yavo’u vo—This is the gate of G-d; only the righteous may enter.” Alexander, undeterred, replied: “If I cannot enter, at least give me something.” Surprisingly, his request was granted. From Gan Eden emerged an object that rolled toward him.

At first, Alexander assumed it was a jewel, a priceless gem, and curious, he placed it on a scale. To his astonishment, though, the scale immediately tipped downward. He then began piling gold and silver on the opposite side, but nothing balanced it. The eye outweighed them all.

Perplexed, Alexander summoned the elders of Eretz Yisrael. They looked at the object and said, “This is no jewel. It is a human eye.”

They explained that the human eye is never satisfied. It is never full, never content. It always wants to see more, to possess more, to conquer more. No amount of gold or silver can outweigh the unchecked desire contained within it.

To demonstrate, they took a small handful of dust and covered the eye, and instantly, the scale balanced. The eye, unable to see, suddenly lost its overpowering weight.

The story is deeply perplexing. Why would Alexander be given a gift from Gan Eden at all? And why an eye—an object that symbolizes desire, lust, and insatiability? What place does such an eye have in Gan Eden?

The answer lies in the message being conveyed.

They were explaining to Alexander precisely why he could not enter. “You cannot control your eye. Wherever you look, you seek to dominate. Nothing is ever enough. This unrestrained desire—the endless need to see, to take, to expand—is what drives your campaign for world conquest. A person ruled by such desire does not enter Gan Eden.”

But there is another side to the message.

This eye—this same eye of desire—was in Gan Eden. Why? Because an eye has the potential to learn restraint and be eye that covers itself and chooses control. All of its potential desire can remain contained, disciplined and unexpressed. And that restraint transforms it into something of immeasurable value, and more precious than all the gold and silver in the world.

That is why it belongs in Gan Eden.

We are all confronted with constant tests: the desire to look, the urge to see, the pull of temptation. These challenges never end. But the choice is ours.

We can allow the eye to rule us or we can rule the eye.

And when we say no and elevate desire rather than surrender to it, we transform something ordinary, even dangerous, into the most precious jewel imaginable.

A jewel worthy of entry into Gan Eden.

Rabbi Aharon Pessin

The Finger of G-d

When the magicians of Egypt finally conceded defeat during the plague of kinim, lice, they turned to Pharaoh and said, “Etzba Elokim hi—This is the finger of G-d” (Shemos 8:15).

But why a finger? And why do they say this specifically at that point—during the plague of lice—and not earlier, during the plague of blood or frogs? What changed?

The Ostrovtzer Rebbe in sefer Me’ir Einei Chachamim offers a brilliant explanation.

Chazal tell us something astonishing (Eruvin 21a). The size of the entire world is half an amah. Rashi explains that this measurement is not measured by our amah, but by Hashem’s amah.

An amah is six tefachim. Half an amah is therefore three tefachim. So in terms of Hashem, the entire world measures three tefachim.

Chazal tell us elsewhere that the world measures approximately 6,000 parsa. Egypt, by contrast, measures 400 parsa by 400 parsa (Pesachim 94a).

If we do the math, Egypt is one-fifteenth of the world (6,000 divided by 400).

The Gemara (Menachos 41b) states that one tefach equals five fingers, when utilizing the middle finger as the reference. Therefore, if the world is three tefachim, the world equals 15 fingers in the “hand,” so to speak, of Hakadosh Baruch Hu.

Fifteen fingers equals the whole world, and Egypt is one-fifteenth of the world, which puts Egypt corresponding to one finger.

Now everything makes sense. Blood and frogs spread wherever there was water. They were devastating plagues, but not geographically spanning every part of Egypt. But kinim, lice, covered every inch throughout the entire land of Egypt.

As such, for the first time, a plague encompassed one complete “finger” of Divine measure. And that is why the magicians said what they said and exactly then: “Etzba Elokim hi—This the finger of G-d.”

It wasn’t simply a metaphor. It was precise. “This is no longer magic,” they said. “This is no longer coincidence. We are witnessing a Divine act measured, exact, and complete—a full finger’s worth of the world touched by Hakadosh Baruch Hu.”

Rabbi Zechariah Wallerstein

When Silence Hears

I was once in Toronto, where there is an extraordinary yeshiva for deaf boys, which has been operating for decades. The rosh yeshiva himself is deaf, as is his wife, and the students. At the time, there were about twelve boys, ages fifteen through eighteen. I can say without exaggeration that they are among the happiest, most radiant boys I have ever encountered. Not superficially happy, but deeply and genuinely alive.

Before my visit, I received a call from their interpreter. She told me that the boys usually daven with the neighboring yeshiva, but they had one request. Since I was in town, they wondered if they could have their own minyan, just to daven together with me.

I’ll be honest. For a moment, the technical questions ran through my mind. A minyan? Kaddish? Are we yotzei? Then I stopped myself. You’re being offered the opportunity to daven with twelve deaf boys whose sincerity pierces Shamayim. Why would I ever miss that zechus? And I can tell you: the Shechinah was present in that minyan in a way few places ever merit.

I told her I would absolutely be there.

That Thursday night, when I arrived in Toronto, she called me again and said, “The boys are beside themselves with excitement!” Afterward, she said, I would speak with a signer translating. “No problem,” I said.

When I walked in, they greeted me with hugs and pure, overflowing joy. I’d spoken to audiences before, but I had never received so much warmth in my life. If anyone ever feels down, I strongly recommend getting on a plane and going to that yeshiva. These boys are extraordinary and so filled with happiness, love, and an openness of heart and soul.

When we began to daven, the chazan stepped up. He was a young man with a cochlear implant, able to articulate more clearly than some of the others. And then he began to pronounce the words more carefully and with more concentration than people who have been davening fluently their entire life. Each word mattered. The boys davened—some vocally, some silently—but all wholeheartedly.

Then we reached Shema Yisrael.

They stood there, hands over their eyes, saying Shema as best as they could. And as they did, I broke down crying.

Shema means “listen.” Shema Yisrael—listen, Israel. But these boys cannot hear! I found myself crying out silently: “Hashem, I don’t understand. How can they say Shema Yisrael?”

And then the Shema continued.

“Baruch Shem Kevod…”—the words recited by the angels, as the Midrash teaches (Devarim Rabbah 2:36). And then the Shema goes on even further with the next paragraph: “Ve’ahavta es Hashem Elokecha bechol levavcha—Love Hashem with all your heart.”

And suddenly it hit me. Shema does not mean listening with your ears. It means listening with your heart. And in that room, it was deafening. The intensity of their hearts filled the space. And I thought to myself: They have one up on me. I may think I hear, but they hear far more than I do.

Not with their ears, but with their hearts.

After davening, I stood up and spoke to the boys. I told them my famous elevator mashal about a person who gives up just one step before the breakthrough, not realizing success was within reach.

Later, when I addressed the broader community, I said something I meant with complete sincerity. Toronto is protected, I said. As long as those boys are learning Torah in that yeshiva, as long as that minyan exists, there is nothing to fear.

And yet, listen to this. At the time, the boys were learning in trailers. I said to the community, “These boys don’t deserve trailers. They deserve a castle.”

We are allowed to ask questions in life. Moshe Rabbeinu asked questions. But Hashem told him something fundamental: “You can ask, but you are misunderstanding.”

“I am Hashem,” he told Moshe. I bring people into the world who can hear and people into the world who cannot hear. But it is all the same Hashem. I do not “run out of parts.” I don’t suddenly realize I’m missing components—missing hearing here, sight there, intelligence here. Everything is deliberate. Everything has meaning. Everything is exact.

And what you see is not what you get.

That is what Hashem was teaching Moshe Rabbeinu. And Moshe was far greater than we are. Yet even Moshe said, “You sent me to save them? You sent me to make things easier. And look what happened; it got harder. What is going on?”

And Hashem’s response was: Hold on. Parshas Va’eira begins with the words, “And G-d spoke to Moshe, and He said to him, ‘I am Hashem’…”

The Names Elokim and Hashem are the same, Hashem told Moshe: If I am doing this, I am doing it intentionally. Nothing here is accidental. I wanted Pharaoh to make it harder because one plague was about to become ten, and ten were about to become two hundred and fifty at the sea.

This was not a setback. This was a setup.

And when we learn to not simply hear with our ears, but with our hearts, we can pick up the faint whisper of Hashem telling us, “I am Hashem… I am here with you.”

Rabbi Label Lam

Me Versus Me

Most people are competitive, to one degree or another. We notice what others have, what they achieve, how they live, and that awareness can motivate us, push us forward, and sometimes even elevate us. In that sense, competition can be healthy.

But instead of measuring ourselves primarily against others, especially in arenas that are superficial or ultimately inconsequential, what if we shifted the focus?

What if the real competition was with ourselves?

Not me versus you, but me versus me. Yesterday versus today. Today versus tomorrow. Who am I now and who am I capable of becoming?

That is a far more meaningful contest. Competing with our own potential in areas that actually matter: becoming more helpful, more grateful, more disciplined, more emotionally and spiritually in control.

That is a competition no one else can win or lose for us. And it is one where every small victory counts.

So let the games begin. And may the best version of you win.