Rabbi Paysach Krohn

Behind the Podium

I was once speaking to Rabbi Avrohom Ausband zt”l who told me about his days in the Telshe Yeshiva in Cleveland years ago. The bachurim (students) were taught to speak, he said. You might expect it to have been taught by a speech coach or a communications expert. It wasn't. It was the Rosh Yeshiva, Rav Eliyahu Meir Bloch zt”l, himself.

The Rosh Yeshiva would gather the students around a Midrash and say, "Boys, today we're going to learn this Midrash together." Then he would point to one student, and say, "Imagine you're speaking under the chuppah at a wedding and you have a few minutes. How would you use this Midrasht to make a point?" He would then turn to another student.

"Now you. You're speaking at a bar mitzvah. How would you present this Midrash?" Then to another. "Suppose you're speaking at a bris. How would you adapt it there?"

His goal was to teach his talmidim how to communicate Torah. How can you take an idea and present it differently depending on the audience and the occasion? After Rav Eliyahu Meir Bloch passed away, Rav Mordechai Gifter continued that very tradition.

Rabbi Avrohom Ausband himself was one of the finest speakers I have ever heard. One of the reasons he was so exceptional is because he is remarkably articulate, and not only in Yiddish, but in English as well. That matters. And this brings us to our first point.

There is no language called "Yinglish." If you constantly mix English, Hebrew, and Yiddish together, eventually you won't sound fluent in any of them. You won't communicate with precision, and your audience will struggle to follow you.

Let me give you a humorous illustration.

Many years ago, Chaim Weiser wrote a book called Frumspeak. His point was to capture the unique dialect that many yeshiva bachurim speak; a kind of hybrid language where an English sentence is filled with many Yiddish and Hebrew expressions that, while perfectly understandable inside the yeshiva world, it becomes almost unintelligible to everyone else. It's charming and even funny. But it isn't effective public speaking.

Take the opening of Abraham Lincoln's Gettysburg Address: "Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal."

Every word is simple and every sentence is clear. The power lies not in complicated vocabulary, but in elegant composition.

Now listen to the "Yeshivish translation":

"Be'erach a yovel and a half ago, the meyasdim shtelled avek on this makom a naye malchus with the kavanah that no one should have ba'alus over his chaver, and on this yesod that everyone has the same zechuyos."

It's conveying roughly the same idea. But imagine delivering that on camera. You're probably not making it onto TorahAnytime. The message matters, but so does the language.

Here's another example. Many of us learned the Pledge of Allegiance in elementary school. Every morning we stood, placed our hands over our hearts, faced the American flag, and recited: "I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the Republic for which it stands, one nation under G-d, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all."

Now imagine saying it in Yeshivish:

"I'm mekabel upon myself, bli neder, to hold shtark to the siman of the United States of America and to the medinah, which is gufah the tachlis. One feste chevrah, b'ezras Hashem, echad v'yachid, with simchah and achdus for the gantze oilam."

You smile because it sounds bizarre. The point isn't that Hebrew or Yiddish shouldn't be used. The point is that every audience deserves clarity. If your goal is to inspire people, they shouldn't have to translate your sentences before they can understand your message. That is why learning how to speak is so important. It is not enough to have great ideas. You have to know how to express them.

I once had the tremendous privilege of delivering the hazkarah (memorial service) for Rabbi Shimon Schwab zt”l. Rabbi Schwab was one of the true giants of the previous generation who was a towering talmid chacham, a gifted speaker and a masterful writer. He was a leader who profoundly influenced his own kehillah and, through his teachings, thousands throughout Klal Yisrael. He passed away more than thirty years ago, but his words continue to resonate.

In fact, I often think that had today's technology existed during his lifetime, Rabbi Schwab would have been known across the Jewish world. His derashos, his extraordinary clarity, and his remarkable ability to communicate profound Torah ideas would have reached hundreds of thousands of people. At the hazkarah, his son shared something fascinating with me.

When Rabbi Schwab first arrived in America as a young man, he made it a point to study the speeches of Franklin D. Roosevelt. Not because he necessarily agreed with Roosevelt's policies, but because he recognized that Roosevelt was an exceptional communicator and wanted to learn how a master speaker used language, how he built ideas and how he moved an audience.

That is an important lesson. If you truly want to have an influence on others, then you must learn not only what to say, but how to say it. The greatest speakers of our generation who teach Torah to thousands upon thousands of listeners speak clearly. That is why people listen and why they have such extraordinary influence.

So now the question is: how do you do that? When you're given the opportunity to speak, how do you build a speech? How do you transform great Torah into a message that people will never forget?

The 4-Way Highway of a Speech

I think the simplest way to understand a speech is to compare it to a highway. A well-designed highway has four essential components, and so does every effective speech.

First, it has a road. Without a road, no one can get anywhere. In the same way, every speech needs a clear direction. It needs a beginning, a destination, and a logical path that allows the audience to travel with you from one idea to the next.

Second, a beautiful highway is more than just pavement. Think about the Garden State Parkway, the Taconic State Parkway, the Sawmill, or even Interstate 80 once you're out of New York. The trees, the scenery and landscape all make the journey enjoyable. A speech is no different. The "scenery" of a speech is its stories, illustrations, humor, and memorable examples. Those are the elements that capture attention and make people enjoy the ride.

Third, every highway needs clear signs. If an entrance and exit ramp are marked improperly, an accident is bound to happen. This, in fact, has unfortunately happened before. One driver entered what he believed was the entrance while another was exiting at high speed. They collided head-on and both were killed.

A simple lack of clarity had devastating consequences. The same is true in public speaking. Your audience should never wonder where you're going. Your transitions should be unmistakable and your message should be so clear that when people leave the room, they can immediately answer the question, "What was the speaker trying to say?" Better yet, if you've done your job well, they'll still remember that message months or even years later. They won't remember every word, but they'll remember the idea, especially if you've made it practical.

Finally, every highway should provide a smooth ride. No one enjoys driving over potholes and bumps. Likewise, a speech should flow naturally from one idea to the next. If you overwhelm your audience with difficult terminology, obscure sources, or highly technical discussions that belong in the beis medrash rather than before a general audience, they'll lose the thread of your message. Unless you're delivering an advanced shiur, always ask yourself one question: who is my audience? Speak to them, not above them. The greatest speakers are not those who know the most. They are those who make profound ideas accessible.

So every great speech has four essential qualities: a clear road, beautiful scenery, well-marked signs and a smooth ride.

Know Your Audience

Let me give you a practical example.

Years ago, I prepared a speech for what was probably one of the largest audiences I have ever addressed. It took place in France and was a unique challenge. It wasn’t because of the size of the audience of approximately two thousand people, but because of the moment in which they were living.

Many French Jews were frightened after the recent rise in antisemitism and the tragic events of those past few weeks. The occasion was a Dirshu Siyum on Mishnah Berurah, and my responsibility was not merely to deliver information. It was to give people chizuk. That raises the question: how do you build a speech for an audience like that? The first step is simple. Know your audience.

Before you write a single sentence, ask yourself: who will be sitting in front of me? Who's going to be there? Only men? Only women? A mixed audience? If it's men, who are they? Are they roshei yeshivah, talmidei chachamim, ba'alei batim? Are they primarily Ashkenazim? Are they Sephardim? Every one of those questions matters. The audience determines the presentation.

Imagine you've found the perfect story, but the entire punchline depends on a Yiddish expression. If your audience is predominantly Sephardic, many people won't understand it. The story falls flat because it wasn't designed for the people listening. A great speaker doesn't simply prepare a speech. He prepares a speech for this audience. That's the first principle: know who you're speaking to.

There's another factor as well.

How many people will be there? Are you speaking to thirty people or three hundred? Those are two completely different experiences. The content may remain largely the same, but your preparation, your delivery, your energy, and your interaction with the audience will all be different. Every effective speech begins with the same question: who am I speaking to? The better you understand your audience, the more powerful your message will become.

Questions to Ask Before Speaking

Here is a further example.

Years ago, I was invited to speak at a program in Boro Park. When the organizer called, I asked, "How many people are you expecting?" "We have seating for three hundred,” she said. Only afterward did I realize that she hadn't actually answered my question. She told me how many chairs they owned. Not how many people were coming.

That night, about ten people showed up. It was early in my speaking career, the event hadn't been advertised well, it was late in the evening, and the turnout was minimal. Baruch Hashem, I still gained experience. But it's a very different feeling when you prepare mentally for three hundred people and end up speaking to ten. That's why one of the first questions you should always ask is: how many people will actually be there?

The second question is: how long do they want me to speak? One of the quickest ways to lose an audience is to overstay your welcome. The moment people begin looking at their watches, the moment they're wondering, "When is this going to end?" you've already lost them. So before you prepare your speech, determine exactly how much time you've been given.

Rabbi Ausband reminded me of a wonderful piece of advice from Rav Yaakov Galinsky zt”l. He used to say, “If you're allotted forty-five minutes, speak for forty.” That may sound simple, but in reality, it's one of the hardest things for a speaker to do. Every speaker wants to add one more story or idea. But discipline is part of professionalism. If you consistently finish a few minutes early, people will invite you back. They'll know you're respectful of their time and they'll know they can rely on you. And most importantly, they'll leave wanting more instead of wishing you had stopped sooner. Respecting the clock is part of respecting your audience.

There's another practical detail that many speakers overlook. Before the event, find out what the room will actually look like. Will you be speaking in a shul? A private home? A hotel ballroom? Will there be a podium? And if there is, does it actually have a ledge to hold your notes? It sounds like a trivial question, but it isn't.

I remember speaking once at a hotel for a well-known organization and they gave me a lectern. The only problem was that it had no lip at the bottom. There was nothing to keep my notes from sliding onto the floor. Now, I never speak without notes. I'm always thoroughly prepared and I have no problem glancing down at an outline during a speech. But that evening I spent half the time holding my papers in place, and every time I gestured with one hand, I had to use the other to keep my notes from falling. I felt less like a speaker and more like a traffic officer, waving one hand while trying to keep everything from collapsing with the other. That's not how you want to deliver a speech.

So remember to prepare by asking these practical questions:

Who is my audience? How many people will be there? How much time do I have? What will the room look like? Will the setup allow me to speak comfortably? The more carefully you prepare these details beforehand, the more confidently you'll be able to focus on what really matters: communicating your message.

Building Your Speech

Now let me show you how I actually build a speech. This is simply my method and you don't have to do it this way. But after many years, I've found that it works extremely well.

Let's say I'm preparing a shiur on hakaras hatov or on Shabbos or on tefillah. The first thing I do is begin gathering material. I'll search for a Chazal, a Midrash, a Gemara, a Rambam, a Pasuk, or an insight from a sefer. I'm not looking for what everyone already says. I'm looking for something fresh. Something memorable and something that will make people think.

Whenever I find a source that I want to keep, I write it down on an index card. Over the years, those cards have become an extraordinary resource. Baruch Hashem, after many years of speaking, I now have more than nine thousand of them. Just think about that for a moment. Over the last twenty-five years, I've personally researched and catalogued more than nine thousand Pesukim, Gemaros, Midrashim, Rambams, and other Torah sources.

Every time I came across an idea worth preserving, I recorded it. As a result, whenever I'm preparing a new speech, I'm not starting from scratch. I'm drawing from a library that I've been building for decades.

For the Dirshu Siyum on Mishnah Berurah, one of my cards contains a source from the Mishnah Berurah, another card contained a Gemara in Chagigah, and another was a passage from the Rambam's Sefer HaMitzvos. Each card represents one carefully chosen source.

Then comes the next step. Once I've decided on the order—perhaps I'll begin with the Gemara, follow with the Pasuk, and then bring the Midrash—I arrange the cards in that sequence. Today I simply photograph four cards at a time and place them together on a single page. Each card represents one building block. And once you've collected enough building blocks, constructing a speech becomes far easier. You're no longer searching frantically for material. You're selecting from a carefully organized treasury of Torah ideas that you've spent years assembling.

Simplify Your Talk

There's another lesson I've never forgotten.

When I was a teenager, my father a”h took me to hear a Rosh Yeshiva speak in Williamsburg. During the speech, the Rosh Yeshiva quoted a Pasuk. As soon as he finished, my father leaned over to me and quietly said, "That's not what the Pasuk says." Afterward we looked it up. My father was right. I learned something that evening that had nothing to do with the subject of the speech. I learned that when a speaker misquotes a Pasuk or a Chazal, he loses credibility. Perhaps not with everyone, but with those who know the source, confidence in the speaker begins to erode. That's why accuracy matters. Whenever you record a source, write it out in full. If it's a Pasuk, write the words exactly as they appear. Include the nekudos if that helps ensure you'll read it correctly. If it's a Gemara, write the precise citation. If it's a Midrash, record the exact reference. Never rely on memory. Memory is a wonderful servant, but a terrible authority. Over time, begin organizing your material. Have a file for Chumas, a file for Gemara, a file for Midrash, a file for mussar, a file for stories. Whatever system works for you, build it consistently. Then, whenever you discover a useful source, add it to your collection. Photograph it if that's easier. Catalog it. Because once you've done the work once, you'll be able to draw on it again and again throughout your speaking career.

But beyond organization, there's another principle that I believe is absolutely essential.

Simplify.

One of the marks of a great speaker is not that he says complicated things. It's that he expresses profound ideas in a way everyone can understand. In fact, I'm about to share something that I can almost guarantee you'll remember.

If I meet you again a year from now—or even two years from now—I suspect you'll still be able to repeat it. Why? Not because it's complicated. Exactly the opposite. It's simple, clear and memorable. That's one of the secrets of effective communication. The greatest speakers don't merely inform people. They give them ideas they can carry home, remember, and repeat to someone else.

A Simplified Example

Now let me show you what I mean by simplicity. Until recently, I had never thought of this idea. It only occurred to me when I was preparing the speech for the audience in France.

Imagine you're speaking to French Jews today. After the tragic terrorist attack outside the kosher supermarket, many people were frightened. Antisemitism had become a daily reality, and they were looking for chizuk. So I asked myself: what message could capture both their pain and their strength? Then I thought about a familiar Pasuk: when Yaakov Avinu's sons proclaimed, "Shema Yisrael, Hashem Elokeinu, Hashem Echad."

The Maharal of Prague offers a remarkable insight into the word echad. Aleph represents Yaakov Avinu himself, the choicest of all the Patriarchs whose children all remained faithful. Ches represents the eight sons born to Rachel and Leah, and Daled represents the four sons born to Bilhah and Zilpah. Together they spell echad. One family and one nation.

Then another thought occurred to me. The gematria of echad is thirteen. What else equals thirteen? Ahavah, love. Perhaps that's not accidental. When you truly love someone, you become one with that person. Their joy becomes your joy. Their pain becomes your pain. The word da'agah, worry, is also thirteen. Suddenly, the message came together. To our brothers and sisters in France, we say, “We worry for you, and we know you worry for us.”

Today, wherever Jews live in the world, we carry one another's burdens. We are united by our concern for one another and our love for one another. We are echad. And perhaps that is why a worldwide siyum on the Mishnah Berurah is so powerful. It brings together thousands of Jews across different countries studying the very same halachos.

Notice how simple that idea is. Three words: Da'agah. Ahavah. Echad. Everyone can remember them and repeat them. Everyone can take them home.

That's the goal of a speaker. Not to impress people with how much you know, but to give them one idea that changes the way they think. Never speak to display your brilliance. Speak so that someone in the audience walks away saying, "He was speaking to me." That's what great public speaking is. The greatest speakers are not those who sound the smartest. They are the ones who inspire people to become their best.

Making it Memorable

Let me give you another example.

This is a beautiful story that Rabbi Yissocher Frand once shared, and I think it captures an essential principle of public speaking. One of the most powerful tools a speaker possesses is a story because everyone loves a story.

A three-year-old loves stories and a ninety-three-year-old also loves stories. Stories capture attention in a way that abstract ideas rarely can. But don't tell a story merely for entertainment. Tell a story that carries a lesson. A story should illuminate the message, not distract from it.

Here's the story.

A lawyer from Manhattan once went to visit Rav Yitzchok Zev Soloveitchik, the Brisker Rav. During their conversation, the Brisker Rav asked him, "What do you do?" The man replied, "Rebbe, I'm a lawyer in New York." They continued talking for a few more minutes. Then the Brisker Rav asked him the very same question again. "What do you do?" The lawyer was puzzled. Surely the Brisker Rav hadn't forgotten the answer in the space of five minutes. "Rebbe," he repeated, "I'm a lawyer in New York."

The Brisker Rav smiled. "That's not how a Jew answers that question." That was why he had asked it a second time. He wanted to teach him something. Then he pointed to the story of Yonah. When the sailors questioned Yonah aboard the ship, they asked him, “Mah melachtecha—What is your occupation?"

Take a look at the Pesukim in Yonah, chapter one. They ask him directly, "What do you do?" And how does Yonah answer? "Ivri anochi—I am a Hebrew." Only afterward does he continue, "V'es Hashem Elokei haShamayim ani yarei—I fear Hashem, the G-d of Heaven."

The Radak makes a remarkable observation. When Yonah answered, "Ivri anochi," he had already answered their question. His profession did not define him. His identity did. That was exactly the lesson the Brisker Rav wanted this lawyer to understand. You are not, first and foremost, a lawyer or doctor. Those are occupations. They are not identities, though. Before everything else, Ivri anochi, I am a Jew.

Rabbi Frand related that after giving this shiur in Baltimore, he received a letter from a stockbroker. The man wrote that the message had changed the way he worked. Every day he handled transactions involving large commissions. There were moments when he was tempted to cut corners or make decisions that weren't entirely honest. So he had a custom paperweight made and on it were engraved just two Hebrew words: Ivri Anochi. He placed it on his desk and every time he picked up the telephone, every time he faced a difficult ethical decision, his eyes fell on those words: Ivri Anochi. Before I'm a stockbroker, I'm a Jew. That's unforgettable.

Every single person in the audience can relate to it. Whether you're sitting in the beis medrash, speaking to your parents, involved in a shidduch, working in an office, driving a bus or teaching a class. You're certainly doing something for a living, but your profession does not define you. Ivri Anochi does. That's your identity.

That's what people remember. And that's what I mean by keeping a message simple. A great speech doesn't overwhelm people with complexity. It gives them one sentence they can carry with them. One idea they can repeat and changes the way they live.

Let me mention one final technique.

Whenever appropriate, tell a story about yourself. If you tell an authentic story from your own life, I can almost guarantee the audience will lean in. Personal stories create authenticity and tell the audience: "I'm not speaking at you; I'm speaking with you. I've struggled and I've grown." The moment people see that you're real, they become far more willing to hear what you have to say. Stories teach. But personal stories build trust. And together, they create speeches that people remember long after the applause has ended.

Personal and Real Experiences

I've told this story many times, and to this day people stop me on the street and don't even tell me the whole story. They simply say the punchline. That tells you something. A good story stays with people.

When it actually happened, I wasn't laughing. But years later, I can.

Years ago, on the night of Simchas Torah, I was in Eretz Yisrael and I fell. When I fell, I ruptured both of my quadriceps tendons, the muscles that connect the thigh to the knee, and I couldn't stand. Hatzalah came and transported me to the hospital. Eventually I had to return to the United States for surgery.

Since I couldn't bend my legs, I had to fly lying down. They put me in first class so I could keep my legs extended, and before that they actually loaded me into the belly of the airplane on a stretcher, along with the luggage, the bagels, and the ice cream. It was quite an experience.

Baruch Hashem, I had an outstanding surgeon, Dr. Mark Silverman, who performed the operation, and everything ultimately worked out well. While I was recovering in the hospital, someone called me. "You know, what happened to you is wonderful." I thought to myself, "Wonderful?" I asked him to repeat what he had said. "No, it's really something special." At that point I was wondering whether he thought I had become some kind of kapparah for Klal Yisrael.

Then he delivered the punchline. "Because now everyone can say... ‘Pesach fell on Succos.' My last name is Paysach and I fell on Simchas Torah. At the time, I wasn't exactly in the mood to appreciate the humor. Today? I can laugh. But here's the lesson. People remember that line. Not because it's profound. Because it's personal. It's connected to a real experience, and that makes people listen.

There's another technique that works remarkably well.

Mention someone in the audience. Now, if I suddenly mentioned your name, you'd probably turn bright red. But something else would happen. Everyone else would immediately become more attentive. They'd begin wondering, "Does he know me? Is he going to mention my name next?" Instantly, the room becomes more engaged.

And ten years from now, that person will probably still remember it. People never forget being noticed. When you can appropriately personalize a speech—whether by sharing your own story or acknowledging someone in the audience—you transform the experience. The audience no longer feels like they're listening to a lecture. They feel like they're part of a conversation. And that's exactly what every great speaker is trying to create.

Believe Your Story

People often ask me, "How do you remember so many names?" The answer is not because I'm a great speaker. It's because I've learned to be a good listener. That's one of the secrets of becoming an effective speaker. You have to listen. Listen to people's stories. Listen to their struggles. Listen to their experiences. The more attentively you listen, the more material you'll have to inspire others.

But let me give you one important warning.

Never ruin a good story. You'd be surprised how many people do exactly that. How? By drowning the audience in details that have absolutely nothing to do with the point. Imagine someone says, "I wanted to ask a shailah." So far, so good. Then he continues: "I wasn't sure whether to fly KLM... no, maybe it was Air France... actually, I think it was El Al..." Who cares? Get to the story. Or someone says, "I went to see the Rav." Then he spends five minutes describing how the Rav wasn't there, how he came back another day, how he couldn't find parking, how the secretary wasn't available... None of that matters. Tell me the question. Tell me the Rav's answer. That's the story.

Too many speakers lose themselves in unnecessary details and by the time they finally arrive at the punchline, the audience has already checked out. Good storytellers know what to leave out. They understand that every detail must move the story forward.

There's one more principle: never tell a story you don't believe in. If you don't think it's a great story, don't tell it. Sometimes speakers feel they need to fill time. So they throw in a story or a vort that they themselves aren't excited about. The audience can sense it immediately.

People are remarkably good at detecting authenticity. If you're not convinced by your own message, why should anyone else be? The stories that change people are the stories the speaker genuinely believes are worth telling. When you believe the message, your audience will believe it too.

Information to Inspiration to Transformation

As a rule, I'll only tell a story if I genuinely believe it's powerful. There is a very famous story that many speakers tell. Personally, I don't believe it ever happened, and because I don't believe it, I would never use it in a speech.

The story goes like this. A man inherited a rare pair of tefillin that had been passed down through generations. They were a treasured family heirloom. One year he decided to sell the tefillin in order to purchase an exceptionally beautiful esrog. He came home proudly carrying the esrog, and his wife asked, "Where did you get the money?" "I sold the family tefillin,” he said. She was horrified. "You sold generations of family tefillin for an esrog?" In her anger, she grabbed the esrog, threw it to the floor, and the pitom snapped off.

The story continues that the husband quietly picked up the esrog and said, "Ribbono Shel Olam, now I no longer have the tefillin and no longer have the esrog. Should I also lose my shalom bayis? No. I'm not going to become angry."

It's certainly a beautiful message. But personally, I don't believe the story. I don't believe that an ordinary human being could react that way in such a moment. And even if, by some chance, it actually happened, I still wouldn't tell it. Why? Because the audience won't believe it either. And if they don't believe the story, you've lost them.

The lesson may be wonderful, but the vehicle you've chosen to deliver it lacks credibility. That's an important principle for every speaker. Never tell a story that you yourself don't believe and never tell a story that your audience won't believe. People can sense when something feels exaggerated or unrealistic. The most powerful stories are believable and sound like life.

Stories are one of the greatest tools a speaker has because they bring ideas to life. Remember the analogy of the highway. Stories are part of the beauty of the journey. They make people want to keep listening. But beauty alone isn't enough. The third characteristic of a great speech is that it must be practical. People should leave with something they can actually do. Something they can change. Something that alters the way they think, speak, or live. A speech should never end with the audience saying, "That was interesting." It should end with them saying, "I'm going to do something differently because of what I just heard." That's the goal. Inspiration is valuable, but inspiration without application rarely lasts.

A great speech always moves from information to inspiration to transformation. It gives people one practical step they can begin taking the moment they walk out of the room.

Make It Practical

The third principle of every effective speech is that it must be practical. People should leave knowing exactly what they can do differently tomorrow morning. One of the subjects I speak about more than almost anything else is saying the korbanos each day as part of davening.

Wherever I travel, people come over to me and say, "Rabbi, because of that speech, I now say the Ketores every day." Personally, I find it difficult to imagine beginning the day without them. After all, is there anyone who can honestly say he never has an improper thought? Never makes a mistake? Never commits an aveirah unintentionally? If the Beis Hamikdash were standing, wouldn't we be bringing korbanos? So why wouldn't we at least recite the Parshiyos of the korbanos?

And among them, one passage has always been especially meaningful to me: Ketores. The Zohar in Parshas Vayakhel says that one who recites the Ketores each day with proper concentration is protected from harm that day. Think about that. When you tell an audience something like that, people naturally think, "I'd like that." Nobody wants something bad to happen during the day. Suddenly, you've given them something practical. Something they can begin tomorrow morning.

Personally, I believe there's another beautiful dimension to the Ketores. Among all its fragrant spices was one ingredient that actually had an unpleasant smell: Chelbanah. In my Siddur, I've underlined that word. In fact, I encourage people to underline meaningful words in their Siddur. Every time you encounter them, they speak to you again. Whenever I reach the word Chelbanah, I'm reminded of one lesson: love every Jew, even the one who may not be as observant as you are and even the one who's different from you. Perhaps that's part of why the Zohar associates the Ketores with protection. When a person includes every Jew, just as the Ketores included every spice, he brings blessing into his life.

Now notice what has happened. You haven't asked the audience to finish Shas. You haven't asked them to spend hours learning each day. You've given them one practical step. "Tomorrow morning, say the Ketores." People can do that.

Here's another example.

I'll tell you something that I genuinely believe can change a person's life. Every single day, do one act of chesed for another person. Then write it down. Keep a notebook. Beginning today, don't let a day pass without recording one act of kindness. I'm convinced it will transform the way you live. Why? Because Dovid Hamelech writes, "Hashem tzilcha—Hashem is your shadow” (Tehillim 121:5). The way you treat others is reflected back to you. You do for others, and Hashem sends others to do for you.

I've known people who have kept such journals for years. One former bachur began doing exactly that, and year after year, he would send me updates, recording the acts of kindness he had consciously performed. It changed the way he viewed every day.

And here's the beauty of it. Every single person can do this. You don't have to be wealthy, famous or possess extraordinary talents. You can help another bachur understand a Tosafos. You can encourage someone who's struggling. You can make another person feel valued. Those are acts of chesed and that's how people grow.

That's what I mean by a practical speech. Don't leave people inspired but uncertain. Leave them inspired with something concrete they can begin doing today. That's the kind of message people remember. And more importantly, that's the kind of message that changes lives.

Never Begin With a Joke

Let me leave you with just a few final thoughts before we conclude with one last story.

First, never begin a speech with a joke. Most opening jokes aren't funny. And worse yet, they immediately lower the audience's expectations. If your first words make people think, "Oh no... we're going to have to sit through this?" you've made your job much harder.

Now, there are exceptions. I can remember one opening line that absolutely brought the house down.

Years ago, I was invited to speak on the same program as Rabbi Berel Wein zt”l. I was terrified. How do you follow Rabbi Wein? I told the organizers, "I have to speak first. I can't possibly follow him."

The topic that evening was Preparing for the Geulah. There were nearly nine hundred women in attendance, standing room only, and I prepared for that lecture meticulously. For fifty-five minutes I covered virtually every aspect of the topic that I could think of. When I finished, Rabbi Wein walked up to the podium and said only this: "I learned a lesson many years ago in the rabbinate: when the mohel finishes, there's usually very little left for the rabbi to do." The audience erupted. It was spontaneous and perfectly timed. And, most importantly, it fit the moment. But that's the exception. Most opening jokes don't accomplish that.

So my advice is simple: don't begin with a joke. Begin with substance. Start with a Chazal. Start with a story. Start with a question. Start by explaining why you've come. Give the audience confidence that what they're about to hear matters.

There's another opening you should avoid.

Never begin by saying, "On the way here, I was thinking..." You were only thinking about your topic on the way here? If someone invited you to speak, they entrusted you with a responsibility. Your audience deserves more than a thought you happened to have in the car. They deserve preparation.

When people give you their time, they're giving you something precious. The least you can do is honor that gift by preparing carefully. Every speech should communicate one message before you even begin speaking: "I respected you enough to prepare."

Gather, Forget and Leave Over

Let me leave you with just a few final thoughts before we conclude with one last story.

First, keep moving. Go from point...to point...to point. Don't linger too long on any one idea.

While preparing my haskarah for Rav Shimon Schwab, I came across a beautiful insight that he used to share about public speaking. He said every speaker should remember three mitzvos associated with the harvest: Leket. Shikchah. Pe'ah.

Leket means gather. Choose a few meaningful ideas on your topic. Don't try to tell the audience everything you've ever learned. No one can absorb that much. Leave them wanting more.

Then comes Shikchah, forgetfulness. If, in the middle of your speech, you suddenly realize you forgot one of your points, forget it. Don't go back. Don't interrupt the flow just to squeeze it in. Most of the audience doesn't even know you left something out. Only you do.

Finally, Pe'ah. Leave something for another time or someone else. No speaker has to say everything. Torah is infinite, and your responsibility is not to exhaust the subject. It's to illuminate part of it.

Before I conclude with the final story, let me do something else that I believe every speaker should do: review. One of the reasons I always summarize at the end is because it reminds the audience that there was a structure to the speech. It wasn't a collection of random thoughts, but it was carefully built.

So what have we learned? First, appreciate the privilege of speaking. Today, a single lecture can reach people across the world. Second, learn to speak proper English. Read well-written articles and expand your vocabulary. You don't need complicated words. You need the right words.

Third, build your speech carefully. Know your audience, know how many people will be there, and know how much time you've been given.

Fourth, simplify your message. Ideas like Da'agah, Ahavah, and Echad. Or Ivri Anochi. Those are ideas people can remember.

Fifth, use stories. Tell only the details that matter. Whenever appropriate, tell stories from your own life. People remember authenticity.

Sixth, make your speech practical. Give people something they can begin doing tomorrow. Whether it's saying Ketores with greater kavanah, performing one act of chesed each day or any other concrete commitment. Leave your audience with a next step.

Seventh, don't begin with a weak joke. And never say, "On the way here I happened to think of something..." Your audience deserves to know that you prepared.

There's one final point. Presentation matters. Every time you stand before an audience, remember that people are listening not only to your words. They're also looking at you. Personally, I have my own standard. I don't think I've ever delivered a speech without wearing cufflinks. For me, they're a reminder that this is something special. They're my way of dressing with respect for the occasion. You don't have to wear cufflinks. That's not the point. The point is that you should present yourself with dignity. Your shirt should be tucked in and your clothing should be neat. Your appearance should communicate that you take this opportunity seriously, because the audience forms an impression before you ever speak your first sentence. A speaker communicates not only through his words, but through his preparation and professionalism and the respect he shows the people who have come to listen. When your message, your preparation, and your presentation all work together, your words have the greatest chance of making a lasting impact.

End With a Story

And finally, it's always good to conclude with a powerful story. People may forget your outline. They may forget your sources. But they'll remember a great story.

A few years ago, I was invited to South Africa by Chief Rabbi Warren Goldstein to participate in a remarkable event called Sinai Indaba. "Indaba" is a South African term meaning a conference devoted to important matters. Rabbi Goldstein explained that thousands of baalei teshuva would be attending. There would be eight speakers from around the world. On Friday night, four of us would speak, and on Motzei Shabbos, the other four would speak.

During the day on Sunday, there would be dozens of concurrent sessions where attendees could choose whichever speaker they wished to hear. Then Rabbi Goldstein asked me for one favor. "I've just published a book together with Rabbi Wein about Lithuanian Jewry—Telshe, Slabodka, Kovno, and the great yeshivos. During the four o'clock session, would you interview Rabbi Wein and me about the book? We'll have copies available afterward for people to purchase and have signed." "I'd be delighted,” I said.

Shabbos arrived and the crowds were enormous, the atmosphere extraordinary. Then Sunday came. Every hour, on the hour, another session began. And I have to tell you, we could all learn something from the South African community. Everything started exactly on time. If the program said nine o'clock, it began at nine o'clock. Not 9:05. Not 9:10. Exactly nine.

Here's how they managed it. Each session lasted forty minutes, and at the thirty-minute mark, someone sitting in the front row would quietly hold up a sign: "10 minutes remaining." Five minutes later, another sign appeared: "5 minutes remaining." And if you still hadn't finished by forty minutes, well, the joke among the speakers was that the earth simply opened up and swallowed you whole. Your time was over.

At exactly four o'clock, I began interviewing Rabbi Goldstein and Rabbi Wein. Everything was going according to schedule. At 4:30, the familiar sign appeared. "10 minutes remaining." At 4:35, another sign. "5 minutes remaining."

And I knew, this was the moment I had been waiting for.

What Are You Going To Do?

I turned to Rabbi Berel Wein and said, "Rabbi Wein, may I ask you a question that's been bothering me for forty years?" He looked at me in surprise. "Forty years?" "Yes," I replied. "What is it?" he asked.  "Do you remember forty years ago,” I said, “when you came to a large shul in Miami for Pesach? A baby was born on the first day of Yom Tov, and the family needed a mohel for the second day. They called me and asked if I would spend Yom Tov with you and your family so I could perform the bris."

He smiled. "Of course I remember," he said. I then continued. "We had a wonderful Yom Tov together and the bris was beautiful. Then, on Motzei Yom Tov, your shul was overflowing with people. Miami was packed that year. I looked around the room, Rabbi Wein, and I noticed something.

"You were the only person in Miami without a suntan.” The audience laughed.

I said, "Rabbi Wein, you never leave your house. You're always writing, always teaching, always learning. You've produced thousands of lectures, countless books, articles and recordings. In the last forty years you've accomplished more than many organizations accomplish in a lifetime." If anyone here goes onto Rabbi Wein's website, you'll see an output that is almost impossible to comprehend.

"So tell me honestly… don't you ever get tired?" He paused. Then he said, "I want to tell you a story."

"I was eleven years old. It was 1946. I'm an only child, and one day my father said to me, 'We're going to the airport.' 'Why?' I asked. ‘'Because a great tzaddik is arriving,’ he said, ‘and he's going to address the rabbanim and yeshivah bachurim of Chicago.'" 'Who is he?' I asked. 'Rabbi Yitzchak Isaac HaLevi Herzog, the Chief Rabbi of Eretz Yisrael,’ he said. In those days, people were permitted to walk right onto the tarmac. Rabbi Herzog descended the stairs from the airplane, and a procession of cars accompanied him to the yeshiva. He then addressed the rabbanim.

Then he turned to the approximately two hundred yeshivah bachurim who were present. Remember, this was 1946 and the Holocaust had just ended. Rabbi Herzog said, "I have just returned from Rome and I met with Pope Pius. I brought him a list of ten thousand Jewish boys and girls. I pleaded with him, 'These are our children,’ I said. ‘Give them back to us!’" Many Jewish parents, believing they would not survive the Holocaust, had entrusted their children to convents and monasteries. Others had simply been taken. Rabbi Herzog begged for them to be returned, but the Pope refused. "Why?” I asked him. “Because every one of these children has been baptized and Church law does not permit us to return them.'"

"I pleaded,” said Rabbi Herzog, “I begged. I implored him. But he would not return even one child." Rabbi Wein told us that at that moment Rabbi Herzog lowered his head onto the shtender and began to cry. The room fell completely silent. No one moved and no one spoke.

Everyone simply listened to the sound of a great man weeping for Jewish children. Then Rabbi Herzog slowly raised his head. His face was red, his eyes burning with intensity. And then he said, "I can no longer save those ten thousand children. But you...” He looked directly at the yeshivah bachurim. "You can save the future children of Klal Yisrael! So what are you going to do for the children of Klal Yisrael? Don't ever forget what I am telling you. What are you going to do for the future of our people?" Then he sat down.

Rabbi Wein continued, "Afterward, everyone lined up to shake his hand. When my turn came, Rabbi Herzog grasped my hand, looked me directly in the eyes, and asked me one question: 'Will you remember what I said? Don't forget what I told you. What are you going to do for the children of Klal Yisrael?'"

Rabbi Wein looked at me and said, "Every time I feel like putting down my pen... Every time I feel like slowing down... I hear those words ringing in my ears. ‘What are you going to do for the children of Klal Yisrael?’ Those words have never left me."

Neither have they left me.

And perhaps that's the question every one of us must answer.

The Jewish world needs Torah. We cannot imagine how many Jews are searching for guidance, for meaning, for inspiration. And one of the greatest ways to share that Torah is to learn how to communicate it. Not merely to become talmidei chachamim—which is, of course, the highest aspiration—but to become talmidei chachamim who can speak to people and can teach and touch hearts.

May the Ribbono Shel Olam help every one of us to communicate the Torah, the yiras Shamayim, and the values that we’ve acquired. And may we go out and help shape the future of Klal Yisrael, heralding Mashiach speedily in our days.