Parsha with Rabbi David Bibi

How quickly do we judge—our children, our students, our neighbors—without ever truly standing in their place? In this morning’s class on Parashat Mishpatim, we explored the Torah’s demand that cuts against our instincts: אַל תָּדִין אֶת חֲבֵרְךָ עַד שֶׁתַּגִּיעַ לִמְקוֹמוֹ—don’t judge another until you reach his place. But what if we can never really get there? Drawing on Pirkei Avot, the story of Ḥannah and Eli HaKohen, and the Torah’s repeated warning not to oppress the ger, this class challenges the easy assumptions we make when we look only at the outside and ignore the unseen storm within. The Torah does not deny struggle—it redefines how we respond to it. “Because you were strangers in Egypt” is not a license to toughen others up; it is a command to soften. Through powerful stories and Chazal’s piercing insights, this class confronts a dangerous trap: turning our own suffering into a measuring stick for others. If you’ve ever thought, “I had it harder—so why can’t they handle this?” this shiur asks you to pause, rethink, and transform your past pain into empathy rather than judgment. This is not a feel-good message—it’s a demanding one. And it may change how you look at the people closest to you.

Parashat Mishpatim opens with a surprise. The Torah’s first case of civil law is not murder or assault, but a thief who cannot repay what he stole — an eved Ivri, placed by Beit Din not into a cell, but into a Jewish home. In a country where nearly two million people sit behind bars and recidivism remains stubbornly high, the Torah offers a radically different model of justice. Instead of warehousing criminals, Mishpatim asks a far more demanding question: what does it take to actually repair a broken human being? In this mornings class, we contrast the modern prison system — built around deterrence and incapacitation — with the Torah’s deeply counterintuitive approach to rehabilitation. Drawing on Chazal, Ramban, and a penetrating insight from Rav Frand, we explore how dignity, responsibility, emotional attachment, and even carefully measured pain are used not to crush the sinner, but to awaken conscience and restore sensitivity. Mishpatim becomes a laboratory for moral repair, challenging us to rethink punishment, ownership, and what it truly means to take something that belongs to another person.

Parashat Mishpatim is where the Torah moves from revelation to responsibility. After the thunder of Sinai, the Torah turns to contracts, damages, accountability, and justice — not as social convenience, but as spiritual necessity. According to the Zohar, these laws are the mechanisms through which balance is restored in the world, and through which souls repair what was left unfinished. Mishpatim is not only about how people live together; it is about why souls sometimes must return again. This morning’s class weaves the Zohar’s teachings on gilgul neshamot together with a powerful true story from the world of Telz and London, as told by Rabbi Hanoch Teller. It is a story of misunderstandings carried for decades, of grievances left unresolved, and of how Heaven orchestrates encounters so that accounts can finally be closed. The message is both sobering and hopeful: what we fail to repair may follow us — but what we choose to repair now can change everything.

Judaism cannot be lived from a distance. It is not a religion of spectators, summaries, or spiritual drive-bys. In this morning’s Breakfast and a Class on Parashat Yitro, we explored why Torah only truly takes root when it is lived immersively—through consistency, community, and presence. Drawing on a powerful teaching of the Kotzker Rebbe, we reframed the warning at Har Sinai—“do not touch the edge of the mountain”—as a challenge to avoid superficial engagement and instead climb fully, wholeheartedly, into avodat HaShem. The class weaves together classical sources, a vivid Hasidic story about Rav Simcha Bunim of Peshischa, and a living contemporary example: a group of women who have been learning Torah together every morning for six straight years, culminating in a recent siyum. At its heart, this episode is about the courage to show up daily, the role of simcha in sustaining spiritual growth, and the quiet power of being “all in.” Not touching the edge—but climbing the mountain.

Kayin Returns to Sinai: Yitro and the Long Road to Techiyat HaMetim is not a historical class—it is an exploration of why revelation itself had to wait. Why does the parashah of Matan Torah bear the name of Yitro? What does reincarnation, brotherhood, gratitude, and resurrection have to do with standing at Sinai? Drawing on Chazal, the Arizal, the Zera Shimshon, and classic mefarshim, this class traces the long spiritual journey from the first murder in history to the moment Torah could finally descend. Through Yitro’s arrival, the repair of Kayin and Hevel begins, emunah finds its final home after the splitting of the sea, and techiyat ha-metim emerges not only as an end-of-days belief, but as a way a Jew is meant to live every morning. This is a class about hearing and moving, healing old fractures, and living with gratitude for life returned. Join us for a thoughtful, source-based journey that reframes Sinai—and our own lives—through the lens of repair, humility, and resurrection.

Why does the parashah of Matan Torah begin not with thunder and lightning, but with Yitro — a non-Jew, an outsider, a man who looks at Moshe Rabbeinu and says, “You’re doing this wrong”? Drawing on the Ohr HaChaim and insights highlighted by Rabbi Frand, this class reframes a foundational assumption: the Jewish people were not chosen for brilliance, and Torah is not acquired by raw intelligence. Yitro’s advice before Sinai teaches that wisdom exists everywhere, but Torah is given as an act of Divine love — and it belongs to those willing to work for it. From Moshe’s forty days without food or water, to Rashi’s sharp critique in Parashat Devarim, to the quiet heroism of boys who stay in shul before and after tefillah pushing themselves to learn, and women waking early each morning to study together on the phone, this shiur explores what truly creates Torah greatness. Not genius, but effort. Not talent, but shvitz. In a world of comfort and convenience, Yitro comes before Sinai to remind us: Torah is not inherited by the smartest in the room — it is earned by those who show up, struggle explains, and refuse to walk away.

Why is the parashah of Matan Torah named after Yitro — a convert, a former priest of idolatry, a man who crossed a desert because he heard something? In this class, we explore what Yitro truly heard: not only the miracle of Keri‘at Yam Suf, but also the chilling appearance of Amalek immediately afterward. We confront a sharp question from the Gemara — that converts are not accepted when the Jewish people are “on top” — and discover that Yitro’s geirut was forged not in triumph alone, but in the willingness to join a people who are loved by HaShem and hated by Amalek at the same time. From Pharaoh’s palace to the Black Sea in 1942, this shiur traces the unbroken line of antisemitism through history — from Amalek in the desert to the tragedy of the Struma — and asks what it means to hear HaShem’s message in a world of both miracles and massacres. Yitro teaches us that faith is not built by wonders alone, but by choosing to listen, to move, and to live among people who refuse to be cooled by hatred. The question this class leaves us with is deeply personal: in the face of history’s cold splash, are we Amalek-Jews or Yitro-Jews?

What’s With Yitro and Elokim? In this morning’s class we looked at a small nuance in the opening pesukim of Parashat Yitro that changes the whole way we see Yitro, Amalek, and even our own lives. Why does the Torah say that Yitro heard “all that Elokim did for Moshe and for Israel,” but then in the very same pasuk switch to “for HaShem took Israel out of Egypt”? Why are Yitro’s korbanot described as “to Elokim,” when almost everywhere else in the Torah korbanot are tied to Shem Havaya? From there we traced Yitro’s journey: how he sees midah keneged midah at Yam Suf, how he understands the frightening precision of din in Moshe’s life, and how, as a gilgul of Kayin who once said “ein din ve’ein dayan,” he comes back into the world specifically to fix that mistake by declaring “atah yadati” and helping Moshe build a system of justice “lifnei haElokim.” We then asked: if Yitro is so moved by Divine justice, why is the war with Amalek the final piece that pushes him to convert? The answer takes us into the tension between a world where HaShem can drown Egypt in a moment, and a world where Amalek still walks around attacking the weak and “cooling off” emunah. We spoke about Rabbi Akiva’s mashal of wheat and bread, the unfinished world that needs human partners, and the quiet places where Shekhinah rests — at a simple table “lifnei haElokim,” where people choose justice, chesed, and responsibility. The class closes with three very practical “Yitro moves” for the week: learning to see din in our own lives, accepting that HaShem’s expectations of us change as we grow, and stepping up as partners in a world that He deliberately left unfinished.

What happens when Torah has no room? When the chairs are gone, the tables are filled, and the beit midrash is reduced to a corner, a stairwell, or a crowded room? This morning's breakfast and a class was born out of such a moment. Following yesterday morning when a Bar Mitzvah celebration displaced the usual learning space, men and boys gathered wherever they could—standing shoulder to shoulder, sitting in stairwells, Gemarot balanced on knees, learning without comfort or convenience. And in that moment, the question became unavoidable: what does it really mean to support Torah? In Parashat Beshalach, the Torah describes bitter water that could not be drunk—until Moshe is shown an eitz, a piece of wood, and casts it into the water. Chazal teach that mayim is Torah. The Chatam Sofer explains that Torah can exist, and yet feel bitter, when it is not upheld, supported, and entered into by those around it. Drawing on the teachings of the Chatam Sofer, Rabbi Asher Weiss, and lived experiences—from a crowded synagogue to clandestine Torah learning under Soviet oppression—this class explores a demanding truth: Torah cannot survive on learning alone. It needs people willing to make space for it, even when there is none.

In Parashat Beshalach, Am Yisrael receives the Ma’an—daily sustenance from Heaven that could not be stored, hoarded, or controlled. Each morning required fresh faith. The Ma’an was not only food; it was a discipline. It trained a generation to live one day at a time, to trust that the same Hashem who provided today would provide again tomorrow. In a world obsessed with planning, stockpiling, and securing the future, the Torah introduces a radically different model of parnassah—one built on trust rather than anxiety. In this morning’s breakfast and a class, we explore the Ma’an as a timeless lesson in bitachon, and how it shapes our relationship to work, worry, and Shabbat. Woven into the discussion is a personal reflection inspired by my father, whose yahrzeit falls this week, and who constantly reminded us not to live burdened by tomorrow’s fears. The Ma’an teaches us that faith is not theoretical—it is lived daily, quietly, and faithfully. Not by knowing what will be, but by trusting Who is taking care of us now. ⸻ If you’d like, I can tighten it further for Apple Podcasts length, or soften it slightly for a broader audience—without diluting the message.

As the Jewish people leave Egypt, the Torah highlights an unexpected detail: while others gather gold and silver, Moshe Rabbeinu carries the bones of Yosef. Why does the Torah emphasize this act at the very moment of redemption? And why does Yosef bind his final request to the words pakod yifkod — “G-d will surely remember you”? This class explores how memory, reassurance, and quiet faith outlast wealth, power, and even generations of exile. Interwoven with this Torah insight is a deeply personal story spanning 57 years — a blessing given quietly by a grandmother, remembered decades later by the man whose life she changed, and returned to her grandson months after her passing. Together with a reflection on the yahrzeit of Rabbi Abittan זצ״ל, whose defining gift was instilling confidence and calm, this class reveals a timeless truth: the greatest legacy we leave behind is not what we give, but what others remember carrying because of us.

 We all face moments when life refuses to move. A personwho won’t listen. A situation that hardens instead of softening. A fear thatdoesn’t go away with logic or optimism. Parashat Bo opens with a startlingphrase that speaks directly to those moments: “Bo el Paro” — Come to Pharaoh.Not “go.” Come. The Torah is teaching us something essential about barriers,resistance, and what it really means to walk forward when the path feelsblocked.     In this class, we explore a powerful teaching drawn fromthe Zohar, the Rambam, and timeless stories from Chazal: that the veryobstacles that frighten us are often the clearest sign that HaShem is presentand active. Pharaohs in our lives — external and internal — are not random, andthey are not the source of their own power. They are part of a Divine setupmeant not to stop us, but to shape us. This is not a class about escapingdifficulty. It’s about learning how to stand inside it without losing faith,clarity, or purpose — and discovering who we are meant to become because of it.  

Parashat Bo teaches that darkness is not only something we see — it is a spiritual state that can paralyze, confuse, and isolate. And yet, in that same darkness, the Torah declares: “Or b’Moshvotam” — for Am Yisrael, there was light in their homes. This shiur explores the final plagues of Egypt as one unfolding movement of darkness and redemption, the power of midnight as a turning point in history, and what it means to live with inner light during uncertain times. Through Torah, Chazal, and lived experience, we discover how the Jewish people have always learned to carry light — even when the world around them grows dark

This is an amazing and eye opening class .... What begins with the fire of Korban Pesaḥ carries us back to Gan Eden, through the Cheit Eitz HaDa’at, the contamination introduced by the nachash, and the long furnace of Egypt that refined it. From there, the journey brings us home — to a woman’s kitchen on Erev Shabbat, to flour sifted by hand, dough kneaded slowly, challah separated, bread baked in fire, blessed, eaten, and thanked for. Along the way, we discover that bread is not merely food, baking is not merely preparation, and women’s avodah is not symbolic. Bread carries unfinished history. Fire purifies what was damaged. And the quiet acts women perform each week are among the most powerful tikunim entrusted to human hands — repairing what was broken at the very beginning of time.

Rosh Ḥodesh Shevat is not about starting something new. It is about stopping something old. In this morning's class, we explore a quiet but demanding avodah rooted directly in the Torah itself: the discipline of not switching. Through the laws of Temurah—where the Torah forbids reconsideration after a sacred designation—we uncover the inner work of Shevat: learning how to decide, and then allowing that decision to stand. Not emotionally, not impulsively, but with integrity. At the center of this class is a striking phrase from the Torah: “Vehaya Hu” — “It remains what it is.” From this pasuq emerges the seruf of Shevat, ה־י־ו־ה, not as mysticism but as mental stability. We trace this idea from Vayiqra to the story of Noaḥ, showing how belief without settlement delays redemption, and why holiness cannot rest on a mind that constantly revises itself. This is a month about leaving “draft mode” behind—and learning how to stay.

 The opening Parshiot of Sefer Shemot confront one of theoldest human assumptions: that God may have created the world, but does notinvolve Himself in the individual. Paro can accept Elokim — a force, a power —but he cannot accept Hashem: a G-d who knows names, intervenes in lives, anddirects events with precision. Through the plagues, through history, andthrough the words of the Neviim, the Torah insists otherwise. Our class exploredthat tension, drawing on the parashiot, the haftarah of VaEra from Yechezkel,and the rise and fall of empires to uncover the deeper truth of hashgachapratit.  From Egypt and Bavel to Shanghai, 1967, and a quietsynagogue in Ashdod at 2:30 a.m., our talk traces how world events — massiveand small — unfold not by coincidence, but by design. Sometimes history turnsto awaken a nation. Sometimes it turns for a single soul. This is aShabbat-born, discussion based reflection on why the Torah teaches that theentire world can move for one moment, one choice, and one person — and whatthat demands of us.  

Thanking Water and Dust – The Hidden Torah of Hakarat HaTov . Today’s shiur is לְעִילּוּי נִשְׁמַת שַׁעְיָא אַבִּיטָן ע״ה, four years since his פְטִירָה. Last night we stood together with the family as they brought a new Sefer Torah into the world. Not just any Torah — a tiny, magnificent scroll, about six and three-quarter inches high. Exquisite כתיבה, a jewel of a Torah. You almost feel you should pick it up with two fingers and whisper. It reminded me of that שַׁס piece: the king has a special Sefer Torah that “goes in and out with him,” on his arm, wherever he goes — not in the Aron, but on the body. “וְהָיְתָה עִמּוֹ וְקָרָא בוֹ כׇּּל יְמֵי חַיָּיו” (דברים י״ז:י״ט), and ḥazal say: “כְּשֶׁיּוֹצֵא – מַכְנִיסָה עִמּוֹ, כְּשֶׁנִּכְנָס – מוֹצִיאָה עִמּוֹ.”  You look at Ariel’s little Sefer Torah and you think: maybe this is what that royal Sefer Torah looked like — something small enough to bind to the arm, close enough the hat a king never forgets Who is really in charge. And then, standing there, I saw an old friend I haven’t seen in decades — Michael Safdie, who now has a podcast on בִּטָּחוֹן בַּה׳. And he spoke about how your father, Rabbi Abittan זצ״ל, changed his life, about learning with your brother Victor, about how the Rav always carried a sefer, always spoke about bitachon and hoda’ah — appreciation, הַכָּרַת הַטּוֹב. The Rav used to say: “מוֹדֶה doesn’t only mean ‘I thank you.’ It also means, ‘I admit I needed you.’” That’s our topic this morning. In Parashat וָאֵרָא, HaShem brings the first plagues on Egypt, but hidden inside the makkot is a quiet, royal-sized Sefer Torah on the arm: the Torah of הַכָּרַת הַטּוֹב — gratitude — and how it builds real בִּטָּחוֹן. ⸻ Act I – When Even Water Gets a “Thank You” We’ll start simple. The Chumash tells us: “וַיֹּאמֶר ה׳ אֶל־מֹשֶׁה, אֱמֹר אֶל־אַהֲרֹן: קַח מַטְּךָ וּנְטֵה יָדְךָ עַל־מֵימֵי מִצְרַיִם… וְהָיוּ דָם” (שְׁמוֹת ז׳:י״ט). HaShem tells Moshe what to do — but the one who actually hits the water is Aharon. Rashi says why: “אֱמֹר אֶל אַהֲרֹן… לְפִי שֶׁהֵגֵן הַיְאוֹר עַל מֹשֶׁה כְּשֶׁנִּשְׁלַךְ לְתוֹכוֹ, לְפִיכָךְ לֹא לָקָה עַל יָדוֹ לֹא בַּדָּם וְלֹא בַצְפַרְדְּעִים…”  The Nile saved Moshe as a baby — therefore Moshe can’t be the one to strike it. Same with the third plague: “נְטֵה אֶת מַטְּךָ וְהַךְ אֶת עֲפַר הָאָרֶץ… וַיְהִי הַכֵּן” (שְׁמוֹת ח׳:י״ב–י״ג). Again, Rashi: Aharon, not Moshe, hits the dust — because the earth once hid the Egyptian whom Moshe was forced to kill to save a Jew.  And the Gemara crystallizes the rule with a sharp folk saying: “בְּאֵרָא דְּשָׁתִית מִינֵּיהּ מַיָּא – לָא תִשְׁדֵּי בֵּיהּ כֵּיפָא.” “A well from which you drank water — don’t throw a stone into it.” (בָּבָא קַמָּא 92b)  Now, the simple Musa r is one we’ve all heard: if Moshe Rabbeinu owes gratitude to water and dirt, how much more so to a human being who has helped us. But Rabbi Mordechai Kamenetzky asks a tougher question. He quotes this same Rashi and then says: one second — isn’t it a great honor for the water and the dust to be the vehicle of HaShem’s open miracles? Wouldn’t it be a spiritual elevation for the Nile to scream out “there is no god but HaShem” in bright red blood? So why is hitting the Nile called a lack of gratitude? Wouldn’t that be the best “thank you” you could give to water and dust?  He brings, in the name of Rabbi Nosson Shapira of Krakow (1585–1633), a story – preserved in later collections – about a pious widow in the Krakow market who sold bagels while reciting Tehillim. A wealthy man offered to support her so she could sit and learn and pray all day. Beautiful. She accepts. But after a month she returns all the money. Why? Because when she left the bagel stand, she lost her constant hakarat ha-tov. She says: when it rained, I thanked HaShem for the farmers. When the sun shone, I thanked Him again. When I sifted flour, when the dough rose, when the bagels baked golden, when each customer came… my whole day was “todah, todah, todah.” Now I sit at home with no bagels — and I barely remember to say thank You. This “kollel” is killing my gratitude. I want my bagels back.  Rabbi Kamenetzky explains: Moshe lived with that kind of awareness. Every time he saw the Nile, every time his foot stepped on Egyptian soil, he reminded himself: HaShem used you to save my life. Those inanimate things became his daily triggers for gratitude. If Moshe would turn the Nile to blood, or the dust to lice, yes, it would be a national miracle — but he would lose his personal reminder, his private “thank You” points. And Moshe Rabbeinu is not willing to pay that price. So Aharon does the public miracle, and Moshe keeps the quiet daily Sefer Torah of gratitude on his arm. And that already speaks to today. On a yahrzeit, there are “big miracles” — the speeches, the Torah, the dedication. But there are also the tiny, daily memories of Shaya — a word he said, a smile, a Friday night at the table — that are supposed to become our “bagels,” our daily reminders to say, “Todah, Hashem, she-zakhinu.” Current word count: ~600 words ⸻ Act II – Gratitude vs. Ego: From Pharaoh to the Bathhouse Rabbi Naftali Reich, in an essay this very week called “Thanking the River,” points out something subtle. Why are people so allergic to saying “thank you”? It’s not because we’re not polite. It’s because “thank you” also means: I am not self-sufficient. I needed you. I owe you. And the ego doesn’t like being “in debt.”  That’s why the Hebrew word הוֹדָאָה is so deep. • “מוֹדֶה אֲנִי לְפָנֶיךָ” — I thank You. • “מוֹדֶה עַל הָאֱמֶת” — I admit the truth. Same shoresh. Gratitude and confession are the same spiritual muscle. To have הַכָּרַת הַטּוֹב you have to admit: I am not the whole story. Rabbeinu Baḥye, on “וַיָּקָם מֶלֶךְ חָדָשׁ… אֲשֶׁר לֹא יָדַע אֶת יוֹסֵף” (שְׁמוֹת א׳:ח׳), brings a Midrash that connects this straight to emunah: “כׇּל הַכּוֹפֵר בְּטוֹבָתוֹ שֶׁל חֲבֵרוֹ, סוֹפוֹ שֶׁיִּכְפּוֹר בְּטוֹבָתוֹ שֶׁל הַקָּבָּ״ה.” Whoever denies the good of his friend will, in the end, deny the good of HaKadosh Barukh Hu.  First Pharaoh “doesn’t know” Yosef — wipes out the gratitude for the man who saved Egypt. A few psukim later he says: “לֹא יָדַעְתִּי אֶת ה׳” (שְׁמוֹת ה׳:ב׳) — I don’t know HaShem either. Once a person trains himself never to say “thank you,” he won’t say it to people — and he won’t say it to G-d. Rav Yaakov Yitzchak Ruderman זצ״ל (Rosh Yeshiva, Ner Yisroel), in Sichot HaLevi on Va’era, pushes it further. He quotes a remarkable story recorded in the Shitah Mekubetzet to Bava Kamma 92b about Rabbeinu Yitzḥak Alfasi, the Rif.  The Rif refused to judge a din Torah about the local bathhouse. Why? Because he used that bathhouse. He felt he owed it הַכָּרַת הַטּוֹב — and therefore he would not risk “hurting” it by ruling that it should be closed or sold. You hear that? Gratitude to a building. To hot water and steam. Rav Ruderman says: from here you see that הַכָּרַת הַטּוֹב is not a nice extra; it is one of the foundations of עֲבוֹדַת ה׳. If a person cannot admit that he receives — from people, from objects, from the very earth under his feet — how will he ever bend his head and say: “מֹדֶה אֲנִי לְפָנֶיךָ מֶלֶךְ חַי וְקַיָּם”? This is exactly what we were talking about last night with Michael and with Abi Abittan. Rabbi Abittan זצ״ל lived a life of hoda’ah. He didn’t just teach bitachon as “Hashem will take care of me.” He taught that the way you train yourself in bitachon is by practicing, constantly, “I am not self-made. I receive. I depend.” You see an older man in a wheelchair in shul — you think, “I should sit and learn with him,” or “I should call him Motza’ei Shabbat.” The moment you act on that is the moment you’re admitting: my time is not only mine; my koach is borrowed from HaShem; my life is entangled with other Jews. That’s hoda’ah; that’s bitachon. So in Act I we saw Moshe refusing to strike water and dust. In Act II, we see that going one level deeper: if you train yourself to see every gift — from your shower to your breakfast — as something that obligates you, you are slowly crushing the yetzer that says, “I did this. I deserve this. I am owed this.” And that’s how a person becomes a ba’al bitachon. Not by slogans, but by thousands of small “todahs.” Current word count: ~1,200 words ⸻ Act III – From Inanimate Objects to Living Souls Now let’s bring it closer to our lives, and to this morning’s yahrzeit. Rabbi Reich, in that same piece, tells a simple, modern mashal. A great sage is eating in a hotel with a young talmid. The Rav says, “The owner of this hotel is such a fine person. Look at the meal he prepared for us, the service…” The student pushes back: “Rebbi, come on. He’s getting paid. He’s making a tidy profit. Why should I feel grateful?” And the Rav answers: that is exactly the sickness. You are working so hard to avoid gratitude — to find every reason not to feel obligated, not to feel you owe someone thanks. But who loses? The owner still gets his money. You lose the chance to become a better person. Recognizing the good in others, even when they “had to” do it, makes you bigger.  That’s the same point Rabbi Yissocher Frand makes from our parashah. The Nile didn’t do anything “heroic” for Moshe. It was just being water. Objects have no beḥirah, no merit. But הַכָּרַת הַטּוֹב is not measured by the giver’s effort; it is measured by the receiver’s gain. Since Moshe’s life was preserved through that water, he is obligated in gratitude — even to a river following the rules of physics.  And Rabbeinu Baḥye adds: that’s why the Torah later says, “לֹא תְּתַעֵב מִצְרִי, כִּי־גֵר הָיִיתָ בְאַרְצוֹ” — “Do not despise an Egyptian, for you were a stranger in his land” (דברים כ״ג:ח׳). Even after everything Egypt did to us — the slavery, the bricks, the blood — the Torah still says: there was a moment, at the beginning, when you needed a place to go and they took you in. Never erase that from your memory.  “כׇּ

THE NECK THAT WON’T TURN — AND THE TORAH THAT WON’T LEAVE - Am K’shei Oref - Ani HaShem and the War Over Timing   This morning’s Va’era class asks a deceptively simple question: if Bnei Yisrael believed in HaShem, cried out to Him, and were promised redemption—why does the Torah describe them as Am K’shei Oref, a stiff-necked people? We follow a powerful framework that emerged from a Friday-night conversation and a small booklet written by my friend Robbie Rothenberg, and then widen the lens through the insights of Rabbi Eliezer Ashkenazi (Ma‘asei HaShem) and Rabbi Chaim Jachter. The result is a new way to read Va’era: not as a battle over miracles, but as a battle over timing, control, and what happens when faith cannot “breathe.” Along the way we discover that “stiff-necked” is not only a criticism—it can be destiny. The same rigidity that can make a person refuse rebuke can also make a people unbreakable, capable of carrying Torah through exile and history. We explore kotzer ru’aḥ, the psychology of a crushed spirit, the difference between HaShem “hearing” our pain and our readiness to move, and why the Golden Calf was not simple atheism but panic when structure disappears. The episode closes with a direct, personal takeaway: if we are stiff-necked, we must choose the direction—stubborn against HaShem, or steadfast for HaShem—until we merit the full Ge’ulah במהרה בימינו אמן.

 What does it mean to trust HaShem when things are gettingworse, not better? In Parashat Va’era, Moshe is sent back to Pharaoh again andagain—only to see the burden on the Jewish people increase. This morning’sbreakfast class explores a deeper, more demanding definition of bitachon:not blind optimism, but the courage to believe that even hidden, delayed, orpainful processes are purposeful and guided. Drawing on the Torah’s language ofsivlot (burdens), the letter tet of tov, and the teachingsof Chazal, we confront the tension between effort and trust, responsibility andsurrender.  This morning’s class takes a hard look at how Jews are meantto carry difficulty without losing HaShem. From the Ramban and Ohr HaChaim toHillel HaZaqen, Rabbi Akiva, and the weekly gift of Shabbat itself, the episodereframes bitachon as a lived posture rather than a slogan. It is a conversationabout endurance, meaning, and how to work hard while resting the heart in thehands of the One who truly runs the world.  

short story for Friday night Table