Rabbi Leiby Burnham

Goodbye is Never Forever

As we begin Parshas Re'eh, the Torah presents a striking commandment: "You are children of Hashem, your God. You shall not cut yourselves, nor make a bald spot between your eyes for the dead" (Devarim 14:1). At first glance, the prohibition seems unusual.

In the ancient world, and even in certain cultures today, people expressed overwhelming grief by cutting themselves or shaving parts of their heads. These permanent marks became symbols of lifelong mourning and loss. The Torah forbids such practices. Why is that?

Immediately afterward, the Torah explains: "For you are a holy people to Hashem your God, and Hashem has chosen you to be His treasured nation from among all the peoples upon the earth" (Devarim 14:2). What is the connection between mourning for the dead and being Hashem's chosen people?

Rashi, cited by the Ramban, explains that because we are Hashem's children, it is not fitting for us to disfigure ourselves. A child of the King should carry himself with dignity, not with a permanently marred appearance. The Ramban, however, raises a difficulty. If the concern were simply preserving one's dignity, then the Torah should prohibit self-inflicted disfigurement under all circumstances. Why mention it specifically in the context of mourning?

Instead, the Ramban cites the Ibn Ezra, who offers a different explanation.

These mourning rituals reflected more than grief; they expressed protest. By cutting themselves, mourners were declaring that a terrible injustice had been done, that their loved one had been taken from them unfairly. Judaism acknowledges the pain of loss, but it does not view death as an injustice.

That is why, at a funeral, we recite “Baruch Dayan HaEmes,” Blessed is the True Judge. Even in our deepest sorrow, we affirm our belief that Hashem judges with perfect truth and justice, even when His ways remain beyond our understanding. The Ramban then offers his own, even more profound interpretation.

The Torah begins by reminding us, "You are children of Hashem." Why? Because children eventually return home to their Father. Death is not the end of existence. It is the soul's return to its Creator. Had death been absolute, had it marked the complete and permanent end of the person we love, such overwhelming expressions of despair might seem understandable. But Judaism teaches otherwise.

The soul is eternal and life continues beyond this world. One day, we will once again be reunited with those we have lost, and ultimately, with the coming of Techiyas HaMeisim, the resurrection of the dead, that reunion will be complete.

This does not diminish the pain of loss. We mourn and we cry. We miss those who are no longer with us. But our grief is never hopeless. The Jewish way of mourning is rooted not only in love for those we have lost, but also in faith that death is not the final chapter.

Because for the children of Hashem, goodbye is never forever.

Rabbi Avi Wiesenfeld

Not Forgotten

In this week’s Parsha, the Torah promises, "Hashem will bless you in all your deeds and in all your undertakings" (Devarim 15:10). How does one merit such a blessing? What must we do to receive it?

Give tzedakah with joy.

The Gemara (Bava Basra 9b) teaches that one who gives a perutah to a poor person receives six blessings. R’ Yitzchak adds that one who also speaks kindly and compassionately to the recipient earns a total of eleven blessings. At first glance, this seems surprising. Of course it is proper to be pleasant when giving tzedakah, but why should a few warm words be worth almost twice as many blessings as the gift itself?

Rabbi Chaim Friedlander, in his sefer Sifsei Chaim, explains that every human being longs for something deeper than material assistance. More than money, people yearn to know that they matter; that someone genuinely notices them and cares about them. A gift addresses a person's need. Kindness addresses the person. The money may relieve a burden, but a warm smile, sincere eye contact, and a few thoughtful words restore dignity. They remind someone that they have value.

There is a beautiful story that illustrates this truth.

A school bus driver drove the same route for many years. Every morning, dozens of children climbed aboard. Most kept their heads down, found their seats, put on their headphones, and the ride continued in silence. But there was one boy named Daniel.

Every morning, as Daniel stepped onto the bus, the driver would look him in the eye, smile, and say, "Good morning, Daniel. It's great to see you. How are you today?" It took no more than five seconds. Years passed. Daniel graduated, the bus driver retired, and life moved on.

Then one afternoon, there was a knock at the driver's front door. Standing there was a young man holding a chocolate cake. "Do you remember me?" he asked. The driver studied his face but couldn't place him. "I'm Daniel," he replied. "I rode your bus every morning." His eyes began to fill with tears. "You probably have no idea what those few words meant to me. My parents were going through a painful divorce. Home was cold and school was lonely. Most days I felt invisible.

"But every morning, before anyone else spoke to me, you looked at me as though I mattered. For those few moments, I felt seen and I felt important. I felt like someone was genuinely happy that I existed."

The bus driver had long forgotten those brief conversations. Daniel never did.

This week's Parsha does not simply command us to open our hands. It first teaches us to open our hearts. Because sometimes the greatest gift we can give another person is not what is in our hand, but the feeling that they are truly seen.

And that has the power to change a life forever.

Rabbi Aryeh Royde

Trust the Plan

As Moshe prepares the Jewish people to enter the Land of Israel, he gives them a clear command. The land is filled with idolatry. Everywhere they look there will be pagan altars and idols, including on the mountaintops, on the hills, and beneath the trees.

The Torah commands, “You shall break apart their altars; you shall smash their pillars; and their sacred trees burn in fire…” (ibid. 12:3). Immediately afterward, the Torah says, "Lo sa'asun kein la’Hashem Elokeichem—Do not do the same to Hashem, your God" (ibid. v.4). At first glance, that seems obvious. Of course we shouldn't destroy the Beis Hamikdash.

Perhaps there is another lesson hidden within these words. There are moments in life when our pain becomes so overwhelming that we begin to take it out on Hashem. "Why are You doing this to me? Where were You? Do You even care?" In our frustration, we can end up striking at the One we are meant to trust.

Perhaps that is the Torah's message. Hashem tells us, "Yes, destroy the idols and break the false gods. Tear down everything that distances you from Me. But don't turn that anger toward Me. Don't spend your life beating up Hashem because life did not unfold the way you hoped.”

Judaism has never been afraid of questions. Avraham questioned, Moshe questioned and Iyov questioned. We are encouraged to ask and seek understanding. But there is a profound difference between asking Hashem a question and accusing Hashem of wrongdoing. And sometimes the only honest answer is: "I don't understand."

That is not a failure of faith. It is the recognition that the Creator of the universe sees a picture infinitely larger than the one we can see. Our perspective is limited and His is not.

So when life hurts, and sometimes it hurts really badly, ask your questions. Search for meaning. Cry if you need to. But don't beat up Hashem.

Trust that even when His plan is hidden, His wisdom is not.

Rabbi Yaakov Asher Sinclair

The Power to Rebuild

The year was 1991.

Long before politics, and long before anyone imagined he would one day become President of the United States, Donald Trump was one of the most recognizable businessmen in America. His name crowned skyscrapers, luxury hotels, casinos, and major real estate developments. To many, he embodied extraordinary financial success.

Then everything changed.

His business empire entered one of its darkest financial periods. The Taj Mahal casino filed for bankruptcy, creditors were demanding payment, and the banks were closing in. By his own account, it was one of the most difficult chapters of his career.

One morning, while walking through Manhattan with his wife on the way to an important meeting with bankers, they passed a man sitting on the sidewalk asking for money.

Trump stopped. Pointing toward the beggar, he said, "That man is a billion dollars richer than I am." His wife looked at him in disbelief. "What do you mean?"

Think about that for a moment. Imagine someone had offered you a choice that day. Would you rather be the man sitting on the sidewalk with nothing... or the businessman carrying a billion dollars of debt? On paper, the beggar appeared wealthier. Yet almost no one would have traded places. Why? Because a person's true worth is never measured by his present circumstances.

Trump's balance sheet may have shown enormous debt, but it could not measure what he still possessed: decades of knowledge, hard-earned experience, valuable relationships, resilience, and the ability to rebuild.

His temporary condition did not define his permanent potential. The same is true spiritually. Too often, we evaluate ourselves by our failures. We see our mistakes, our missed opportunities, our weaknesses, and convince ourselves that this is who we are.

But Judaism teaches otherwise. A Jew is never defined by the lowest point on his spiritual balance sheet. Within every Jewish soul lies infinite potential to grow. No matter what yesterday looked like and no matter how many mistakes have been made. Our present reality is not our ultimate identity.

The world may tell us that we are nothing more than the sum of our failures. But we know that within every Jew is an inexhaustible reservoir of strength. So the next time life convinces you that you are spiritually bankrupt, remember: your circumstances do not define your worth. Within you lies the power to rebuild.

And that is a wealth no one can ever take away.

Rebbetzin Elana Mizrahi

See It All

I once took my children to one of the largest parks in the heart of Jerusalem.

It was packed with families everywhere. Children ran from one attraction to another, from barbecues to popcorn, cotton candy, go-karts and laughter. Parents were doing what they could to give their children a nice summer day.

As we were leaving, though, I noticed a piano.  It wasn't just any piano. It was one of the pianos placed throughout Israel in honor of the hostages still being held in Gaza. On it was the photograph of a young man, a gifted pianist, along with his story, reminding everyone who passed by not to forget him or the others still waiting to come home. Someone sat at the piano, quietly playing.

I stood there listening to the music, the laughter, the smell of popcorn and the joy of children. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a couple slowly pushing a wheelchair carrying a very sick child.

In a single moment, I saw it all. Joy and pain. Loss and life. I turned to my daughter and said, "Let's stop for a moment." Together we recited a chapter of Tehillim and prayed for those who were ill. Then we continued on our way.

As we walked, I found myself thinking about something we often hear: "When the cup is half full, don't see it as half empty." But perhaps that's not the whole story. The cup is half full. And the cup is half empty.

Why should we pretend otherwise? Maybe we need to see the emptiness in order to appreciate the fullness. Hashem doesn't ask us to ignore suffering. He asks us to see all of it.

That is exactly how this week's parashah begins. "Re'eh—See." Open your eyes. "See, I place before you today a blessing and a curse." The Torah does not say, "Only look at the blessing." Nor does it tell us to become consumed by the curse. It tells us to see both.

Life contains moments of extraordinary beauty and heartbreaking pain and to deny either one is to miss reality. Sometimes we need to pause long enough to feel another person's suffering and ask ourselves, "Hashem, what do You want me to do with what I've just seen?" The goal is to open our eyes wide enough to see the entire picture and then choose how to respond.

That is Moshe's message. See the blessing and see the curse. See the joy and the pain.

And then make the choices that bring you closer to Hashem.

Rabbi Doniel Staum

Inspiration to Last

The Sifri describes what would happen when a Jew came to Yerushalayim: "V'hayah ro'eh shekulam oskim b'meleches Shamayim u'ba'avodas Hashem—He would see that everyone around him was occupied with the work of Heaven and with serving Hashem” (see Tosafos, Bava Basra 21a). Seeing that environment would change him.

The Torah, in particular, tells us that a person would bring his ma'aser sheini to Yerushalayim and eat it there, “So that you will learn to fear Hashem, your God, all the days” (Devarim 14:23).

Rav Aharon Leib Shteinman zt"l (Ayeles HaShachar) points out something fascinating. A Jew already traveled to Yerushalayim three times a year for the Shalosh Regalim. Why did he need another reason to spend time there?

It is because inspiration does not last forever. A person needs to return periodically to an environment that reminds him of who he is and what his life is supposed to be about.

Imagine entering Yerushalayim in those days. The entire city revolved around one center: the Beis Hamikdash. You saw Kohanim performing the avodah with extraordinary zerizus and the Levi'im singing their shirah. Everywhere you looked, you encountered people whose lives were centered around avodas Hashem. You didn't merely learn about yiras Shamayim. You saw it. And after spending time in that environment, you returned home different.

Rav Shteinman explains that this lesson is particularly important for someone who lives far from a strong Torah community. A person can be devoted, but living constantly outside an atmosphere of Torah can slowly affect him. Every so often, he needs to return. He needs to immerse himself again in an environment of Torah and yiras Shamayim.

We see something similar today.

Yeshivos organize Yarchei Kallah, giving people an opportunity to leave their regular routines and return to the atmosphere of the beis midrash. Chabad shluchim live throughout the world, often far from major Jewish communities. Yet each year they gather together at the Kinus HaShluchim. That gathering reminds them: you are not alone. You are part of something larger.

Rav Steinman adds one final, remarkable point.

There were ten miracles that regularly occurred in the Beis Hamikdash (Avos 5:7). Yet the Sifri does not say that a person acquired yiras Shamayim by witnessing the miracles. He acquired it by witnessing people with yiras Shamayim. There are things we can learn from books, and there are things that can only be absorbed by seeing how another person lives. When you spend time among people who genuinely live with Hashem, something rubs off.

Perhaps that is one of the great opportunities of Elul and the Yamim Nora'im. Elul is our annual return to Yerushalayim. It is a period when the atmosphere itself changes; a time to step outside the routines that have consumed us and remember what our lives are really about.

We periodically need moments of concentrated inspiration so that their impact can accompany us kol hayamim, throughout all the ordinary days that follow.