Parsha with Rabbi David Bibi

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 

This morning’s episode of Breakfast & a Class opens Sefer Shemot with an unsettling question:  How does slavery return without chains? The Torah’s answer is not violence first, but language, reframing, and selective forgetting. Drawing from Chazal, Midrash, Zohar, and the Maharal, this shiur explores how exile begins when names turn into categories, when gratitude becomes historical footnotes, and when “being clever” replaces moral clarity. From Pharaoh’s calculated amnesia of Yosef to the Torah’s definition of Golut HaDa‘at—exile of the mind—we uncover how oppression takes root long before suffering is visible. Without panic, politics, or prophecy, this class asks listeners to think clearly about patterns—ancient and modern. What does it mean when protections erode quietly, when definitions shift, and when Jewish legitimacy is reframed rather than attacked outright? Why does redemption in Shemot come quickly once clarity returns? And what does Torah demand of us now—not to run, but to remember? This episode is a sober, source-driven call to strengthen Jewish identity, normalize connection to Eretz Yisrael, and live with one eye open—because Mitsrayim ends when Jews remember who they are. 

 Who really owns the Land of Israel — and why does thatquestion never seem to go away?  In today’s class, we step back from slogans andsoundbites and return to the Torah itself. From Avraham Avinu walking the landwithout owning it, to Moshe Rabbeinu being told at the burning bush that thetime for inheritance has finally arrived, we trace how the Torah understandsland not as something seized, but as something entrusted. Along the way, weexplore three timeless ways land is acquired — presence, recognition, anddefense — and why Am Yisra’el uniquely stands on all three, while still insistingthe land is ultimately a gift from HaShem.     Drawing on Chumash, Midrash, and Gemara — including aremarkable courtroom exchange in Sanhedrin where the Jewish claim to the landis tested before the nations of the world — this class reframes one of the mostcontested issues of our time with clarity and dignity. We look at history,archaeology, international recognition, and even modern parallels, but alwaysthrough the lens of Torah. This is not a political argument. It is a Torahconversation — about responsibility, restraint, and why the Jewish connectionto Eretz Yisra’el is deeper than power, louder than accusation, and older thanhistory itself.  

What qualifies someone to lead the Jewish people?  Not brilliance. Not charisma. Not even miracles. In this episode, we return to theopening parashiyot of Sefer Shemot and read Moshe Rabbenu’s “résumé” the way the Torah actually presents it — not as a list of achievements, but as apattern of burden-bearing. From Moshe walking out of the palace to see thesuffering of his brothers, to carrying a runaway lamb on his shoulders, tositting on a stone while Israel fights Amalek, Chazal reveal a single definingtrait: נֹשֵׂא בְּעוֹל עִם חֲבֵרוֹ — carrying the weight of others as your own.     This class is not about leadership as a title, but leadership as a responsibility ofthe heart. Drawing on Midrash, Gemara, and the lived texture of the Torah’snarrative, it challenges us to rethink influence, compassion, and Jewishresponsibility in difficult times. The takeaway is simple and demanding: theworld doesn’t need more voices — it needs more shoulders.  

Koh va’Koh is a short phrase in Shemot 2:12, but it opens a whole way of seeing. In this Breakfast & a Class, we follow Moshe Rabbeinu’s moment of decision — “Vayifen koh va’koh… vayar ki ein ish” — and build, step by step, from the simplest peshat into a deeper understanding of why “koh” keeps showing up at moments of transmission in the Torah. We explore the hidden structure behind the number 25, the “Ohr HaGanuz,” and the kind of clarity that isn’t sunlight, but perception — the ability to see beyond the immediate moment into what will be born from our choices. Along the way we connect Moshe’s koh va’koh to Birkat Kohanim as a channel of blessing, and to Pirkei Avot’s definition of wisdom: “Eizehu chacham? Ha’ro’eh et ha’nolad” — the one who can see what will come of his actions. The takeaway is simple and sharp: before you speak, before you react, before you act, pause and ask one question — what will be born from this? If you’re looking for a Torah lens that turns impulse into leadership and emotion into clarity, this episode is for you.

 In this week’s EJSNY 11AM class, we open Parashat Vayechi with one of the strangest questions Ya‘aqob Avinu ever asks: “מִי אֵלֶּה?” — “Who are these?” He’s looking at Ephraim and Menasheh — and yet Chazal insist this isn’t a grandfather forgetting faces. It’s a question of absence. Because Yosef was meant to father twelve shevatim, and only two stand before him. From there we enter the hidden world beneath the words: Yosef’s test with the wife of Potiphar, the meaning of that startling Baraita, the Zohar’s language of “lost potential,” and the Ohr HaḤayim’s breathtaking hint inside the word בָּזֶה — ב׳–ז״ה: two instead of twelve.  But the class doesn’t stay in theory. We trace how time itself becomes a battlefield: twelve hours of day aligned with the Shevatim, twelve hours of night aligned with Eisav and his alufim — and why ḥatzot is the turning point when din breaks and a Jew can reclaim the darkness. From David HaMelekh’s midnight harp to Hillel buried in snow, from “ בֵּית יַעֲקֹב אֵשׁ… וּבֵית יוֹסֵף לֶהָבָה” to the shattering path of the Ten Martyrs and the Arizal’s teaching of ibur, this episode builds to one simple takeaway: don’t surrender the night. Choose one fixed night. Open a sefer after dark. Twenty minutes. One hour. Because when a Jew learns Torah at night, he becomes the missing shevet for that hour — and the night starts to lose.     

When does exile really begin?  Not when a people are enslaved—but when they become comfortable. In this mornings class on Parashat Vayechi, we explore the quiet danger of a beautiful Egypt: success without direction, stability without identity, life that functions but no longer aims. Drawing on Chazal, the final words of Ya‘aqob Avinu, and the penetrating teachings of Rav Hillel in Emunah u’Bitachon, this class reframes galut not as geography, but as an inner condition that slowly erodes clarity.    From Yosef’s defining moment of temptation, to the mystery of why Ephraim and Menashe became the eternal model of Jewish blessing, this episode asks one unsettling question: How does a Jew live fully in exile without becoming exiledinside? It is a class about memory, identity, and the small, quiet choices that protect a soul. Not inspirational fluff—clear Torah, carefully sourced, and painfullyrelevant.     

From Babylon to Broadway: The Siege Then, the Siege Now Most people think destruction begins with fire. With shattered walls. With exile. This class argues otherwise. Asarah B’Tevet marks the moment before everything collapses — the day the siege began, when nothing was burning yet and everything was still reversible. Drawing from Tanakh, Chazal, and the haunting words of the prophets, this episode traces how quiet decisions, ignored warnings, and comfortable illusions brought Jerusalem to ruin — and why this fast is treated with a gravity unlike any other. It is the only fast that can fall on a Friday, and according to early authorities, one that might have demanded fasting even on Shabbat. Why? Because beginnings matter more than endings. From the armies of Babylon to the streets of modern New York, this episode confronts the uncomfortable parallels between then and now: rising antisemitism, false confidence, dangerous leadership, and the temptation to believe “it can’t happen here.” This is not a history lesson. It is a wake-up call. A class about recognizing the siege while it is still forming — and about what Jews must do now if we want to reverse the story before the walls close in again.

This Sunday’s breakfast class wasn’t prepared in an office or a study hall. It was spoken after to a berit milah in Yerushalayim — a Jewish child entering the fold, blessed like Ephraim and Menashe, carrying the name of a man whose quiet integrity shaped lives long after he was gone. Parshat VaYechi stops being history when blessing meets loss, when memory becomes continuity, and when responsibility replaces resentment. In this class, we explore how Yehudah’s single step forward shattered a pattern that had haunted Sefer Bereshit for generations — jealousy, rivalry, brothers who could not survive one another. We ask why Ephraim and Menashe became the eternal Jewish blessing, what it means to raise Jewish children in “Egypt,” and why the Rambam insists that Jews raised far from Torah must be drawn close with words of peace, not contempt. This is a class about breaking cycles, healing families, and choosing responsibility when the old instinct would be to step back. VaYechi is not about how things end — it’s about how they finally begin to heal.