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My humility was the problem

Thu, 30 Jul 2026 10:34:00 PM

Know the feeling of walking into a room and immediately feeling small? Not physically. The other people seem more put-together, successful, or sure of themselves. Did you ever think: I don’t belong here?

This week’s portion, Eikev, describes the desert our ancestors crossed toward the Land of Israel: “the great and awesome desert, of snake, serpent, and scorpion, and thirst where there is no water.”

That great desert is the exile mindset that lives inside a person. One looks out at the world and sees other peoples’ successes and assumes they have it all figured out. Then concludes: I am just a small fish in a big pond. The moment you decide the world is bigger than you, you’ve handed it a power over you it never actually had.

When a Jew is connected to Hashem, nothing in the world holds real authority over him. The haftarah this week says it clearly: kings will be your caretakers and their princesses your nursemaids.

So why do we feel small? We run the numbers wrong. We look in the mirror and see someone unimpressive. We look out the window and see something enormous. And here’s the sneaky part: it doesn’t feel like a spiritual problem. It feels like humility: “I’m just being honest about my place in the world.” But that’s not humility, that’s the opening move of exile. Real smallness before Hashem makes you bigger because you’re plugged into something infinite. Smallness in front of the great world out there just shrinks you.

Recently I started reading a book about major gift fundraising. The very first thing it tells you is that you have to change your mindset. Instead of thinking of yourself as someone asking, or, dare I say, begging, for support, recognize that what you’re really doing is making sure your mission and the donor’s own goal to make an impact (on Jewish life) are aligned. You’re not schnorring, you’re just checking whether alignment exists. It is the same conversation, yet a completely different approach.

That’s exactly our situation. Often we feel insecure, like the underdog, while someone else has all the power. But that’s not the truth. We are a piece of Hashem placed deliberately in this world to change it for good. We’re not begging the world to let us in. We’re encouraging it to align with its G-d given purpose of being a home for Him.

The next time you catch that feeling, in a crowd, at work, scrolling through someone else’s highlight reel, run the numbers again. You are not small or insignificant. You are a piece of Hashem, here on purpose, with a job only you can do. Walk into the room like you belong there, because you do.

Good Shabbos,

Rabbi Kushi Schusterman

The Call Without the Call Back

Thu, 23 Jul 2026 10:49:00 PM

Have you ever done something good, put yourself out there, and walked away sure that you accomplished absolutely nothing? You made the call, showed up, said the thing, and got silence back. No thank you, no visible change, nothing. And you thought: well, that was a waste.

This week’s parsha, Vaeschanan, opens with Moshe setting aside cities of refuge. If someone accidentally killed a person, they could flee there and be safe. The Torah is very particular about the roads to these cities: they had to be kept in perfect repair, wide and clear, and at every single crossroads there had to be a sign reading “Refuge, Refuge,” pointing the way.

Picture the world before Waze. You’re on foot, in unfamiliar terrain, and your life depends on getting to the right place quickly. A signpost at the crossroads is everything.

There are two kinds of signs. The stone marker, or regular street sign; it stands in one spot, and it only helps the person who happens to stop and read it. And then there’s a living sign; a human being who stands at the crossroads and actively calls out to travelers, “This way. Go right. That’s where safety is.” (Like the people waving signs “50% off”.)

Our job is to be the second kind.

Not to sit in our own quiet, refined spiritual corner reading our own signposts, but to go out to where other people are standing at their crossroads, unsure which way to turn, and show them the way. To be a living sign that moves, not a rock that waits.

Now here’s the part that speaks to that feeling of “I accomplished nothing.”

The Rebbe, in a talk, describes rabbinical students who would travel from town to town to meet with local Jews. Some of them would come home convinced they had wasted their time. They spent hours on the road, knocked on doors, and as far as they could tell, nothing happened.

Similar to the law of searching for chametz before Passover. You turn the whole house upside down looking for it. Even if you find no chametz at all, the blessing you made was still a real blessing. You did exactly what was asked of you. The mitzvah was fulfilled completely, whether or not you have a crumb to show for it.

Results are not the measuring stick. The showing up and putting in effort is.

The Rebbe Rashab gave an ironclad promise: “There is a real assurance that effort to spread Torah and mitzvos is never expended in vain.” Never. Not once. You may have accomplished something enormous and simply not be aware of it. The effect ripples out in ways you’ll never trace.

Here is a great example about those rabbinical students: A person is sitting at home and glances out the window. He sees a young man with a beard hurrying by. And suddenly he remembers: his own father had a beard like that. He remembers his father telling him, “Every morning when you wake up, say Modeh Ani. Before you go to sleep, say Shema Yisrael.” And right there, at the window, he says the words again and something in him wakes up.

The young man walking by never knew. He’d probably have told you the walk accomplished nothing.

This is not just a nice thought; it changes how we live. Because the moment you believe your impact depends on seeing the results, you stop trying when results don’t show up. You get discouraged and conclude you’re not making a difference and you sit back down.

However, if you actually internalize that the doing is the accomplishment, you become unstoppable. You make the call without needing the call back. You extend the invitation without needing the yes. You do the good deed and trust that the ripples are real even in the silence.

Do one good thing where you’re fairly sure you won’t see a result. Invite the person who probably won’t come. Reach out to the old friend who might not reply. Put up the mezuzah, say the extra prayer, share the word of Torah, without waiting to find out if it “worked.”

You are a living signpost standing at somebody’s crossroads. You may never know that they turned the right way because of you.

Do it anyway. It’s never wasted.

Good Shabbos,

Rabbi Kushi Schusterman

The holiest thing you'll do this week isn't pretty

Thu, 16 Jul 2026 10:28:00 PM

What's more meaningful to a marriage: a candlelit anniversary dinner or a husband quietly doing the dishes on a random Tuesday night?

We'd all say the dinner. It's romantic, elevated and feels like love. But let’s be honest: nothing says "I see you and I care about you" quite like someone doing the thing they really don't want to do. Whether it’s the dishes, the diapers, or the garbage that is being done with no applause and nothing in it for them. The candlelit dinner is beautiful. The garbage is love.

This week we begin reading the fifth book of the Torah, Devarim, Deuteronomy. The first four books were spoken by G-d directly through Moshe, word for word, no filter. Devarim, Moshe says "on his own." It's still Torah, still holy, and still divine. However, now it's been absorbed into a human mind and repackaged in human words.

Why the change? Because this generation was about to leave the desert.

In the desert, everything was handed to them. Food fell from the sky, their clothing never wore out, their protection came from clouds of glory. It was a spiritual paradise and the Rebbe says, it was also a little selfish. It felt amazing, yet it didn't actually connect them to G-d's essence. It was the candlelit dinner.

The moment they crossed into the Land of Israel, everything changed. Now they had to plant, build, work, and deal with the physical world and its mess. And that, not the desert, is where the real connection lives. Making the ordinary, stubborn, and physical world into a home for G-d is the whole point. That's the garbage, and that's the love.

Devarim comes to us via Moshe filtering G-d’s words instead of repeating what G-d said, because the job now is to bring the highest things all the way down into real, everyday life. If you can only feel it in the desert, you haven't really brought it home yet.

Here's a line I heard: "If I'm spiritual in shul but not a mentch on the street, was I ever really spiritual in shul?" The proof of a spiritual life isn't the beautiful moment in the synagogue. It's the person you are in the parking lot afterward.

Take one ordinary, un-spiritual, slightly annoying task that you'd rather skip, and do it. On purpose, as an act of connection, not meditation, not the perfect prayer. The dishes, that's how you connect to G-d’s essence.

Good Shabbos,

Rabbi Kushi Schusterman

Ever wanted to just be left alone?

Thu, 9 Jul 2026 9:02:00 PM

Ever wanted to just be left alone? Just... a quiet corner of life where you don't have to fight anyone’s battles, where you can tend to your own flock, keep your own routine, and let the rest of the world sort itself out.

That's what the tribes of Reuven and Gad asked for in this week's parsha, Matot. The land on the east bank of the Jordan was perfect grazing land for their large herds of sheep and cattle. They came to Moshe with a request: let us stay here and settle our families.

Moshe's reaction was fierce. "Your brothers are going to go to war and you're going to sit here?" And then he goes on to accuse them of discouraging the entire nation and of repeating the sin of the spies, who talked the Jewish people out of entering the Land in the first place.

Reuven and Gad never said they wouldn't fight. They never said Israel wasn't worth conquering. They just wanted to live somewhere quiet. Why does Moshe treat that like treason?

Because of what it reveals underneath.

The spies didn't want to enter the Land either. Not because they doubted G-d, but because life in the desert was, spiritually speaking, easy. Manna fell from the sky. Clothes never wore out. Every day was just Torah; no mortgage, no meetings, no marketplace. Why trade that for a land where you have to plow fields or run a business?

Reuven and Gad wanted the same thing, just with sheep instead of manna. Stay out here, stay simple, stay untouched by the noise of building a society. Let everyone else go do the complicated, physical, sometimes-messy work of settling the Land.

And here's the part that hits closest to home: that instinct isn't wrong. There's a real place in Jewish life for people to learn Torah full-time, undistracted by the marketplace. That's why Yissachar and Zevulun made their famous deal. Yissachar would learn and Zevulun would work and support him, and they'd split the reward. Torah scholars and working people need each other. Masters of Torah, masters of good deeds and both are essential.

But here's what Moshe would not accept: doing it in your own bubble, cut off, uninvolved, unintegrated with everyone else engaged in building the world around you.

Once Reuven and Gad said, "We will cross over and fight alongside our brothers," Moshe didn't argue anymore. He let them stay. Not because their preference changed, but because their posture did. They were no longer opting out. They were showing up for the war and choosing their corner of the map afterward.

Where in your life have you built a quiet corner to avoid the noise? A busy schedule that doesn’t make room for someone who needs you. Maybe it's a spiritual routine so private that nobody else benefits from it. Perhaps it's simply easier to stay on your side of the river.

It's not that quiet and private are wrong. It's that Hashem doesn't want your Jewishness parked on the sidelines. He wants it in the game, transforming the actual, physical, occasionally inconvenient world you and I live in.

A mission for this week: find one place where you've been standing on the sidelines (a person, a cause, a mitzvah) and cross the river. Show up for it, even if your sheep are perfectly happy where they are.

Good Shabbos,

Rabbi Kushi Schusterman

America turns 250! Was your soul written into the plan?

Thu, 2 Jul 2026 11:06:00 PM

Have you ever felt like just a number? A face in the crowd, a name on a list, one of millions who all sort of blend together?

This Shabbos, July 4th, America turns 250. It's a milestone worth pausing on. It turns out the number 250 is hiding in this week's Torah portion in a way that speaks directly to who you are.

This week’s Torah Portion, Pinchas, contains a census of the Jewish people. On the surface, in a census everyone counts as exactly "one". The great scholar and the simple farmer are alike. However, this counting is different. Generally, the Jews were recorded by tribe; this time, the Torah lists the individual families within each tribe. Reuven's son Chanoch became the Chanoch family. Palu became the Palu family. Name by name, branch by branch.

The first and only other time the Jews were counted by family was 250 years earlier. Yaakov was leaving Canaan to go to Egypt and the Torah lists each one by name. One family, seventy souls, walking into exile.

Two hundred and fifty years later, that one family has become an entire nation. Now, standing at the edge of the desert, they are about to enter the land of Israel.

Here's what struck me. At the two most pivotal moments, leaving the land and preparing to return to it, Hashem stops to name each family individually. Right when they are about to be absorbed into something enormous (exile on one end, nationhood on the other), that is precisely when Hashem insists on calling out each name, one at a time.

To explain why, we need to discuss something else.

When the land of Israel was divided among the tribes, it wasn't divided by logic or by committee, it was divided by lottery. Random and above reason (seemingly). Shouldn't something as important as your spiritual inheritance be worked out carefully and rationally?

A lottery isn't random at all; it’s higher than logic. Every tribe received exactly the portion of the land that matched the root of its soul. Every single person has a specific spiritual "portion": a mission, a calling, a corner of the world waiting for you to transform and elevate. Not because you reasoned your way to it, but because it was written into your soul from the very beginning.

This is why the Torah names the families. A census could have left them as an anonymous total. Instead, Hashem says: I see Chanoch. I see Palu. I see each and every family. Each one is part of a great nation and each one is irreplaceable.

America at 250 is, in its own way, a story of individuals: people who came from somewhere else, each carrying a spark, each contributing something only they could. A nation is not a blur. It is millions of distinct souls, each with their unique portion.

Every person has a special mitzvah or mode of Divine service that relates specifically to him. That resistance you feel toward a particular mitzvah isn't a reason to give up on it, it might be the very reason it's yours. The struggle is the fingerprint.

Which is it for you? The mezuzah you haven't yet put up? The additional few minutes that you want to celebrate Shabbos, the kosher step you keep postponing, or the shul you keep meaning to walk into? Something unique?

Hashem made sure everyone felt seen and counted. This Shabbos, as America counts 250 years, remember: you were counted too. Not as a number, as you.

Wishing you a joyful Shabbos and a happy Fourth of July.

Rabbi Kushi Schusterman

Are you willing to get your hands dirty?

Thu, 25 Jun 2026 11:18:00 AM

Have you ever avoided doing something good because you were afraid of what it might cost you? Have you held back from reaching out to someone because you worried it might complicate your own life? Have you ever thought “I want to help, but not if it means getting my hands dirty?”

This week's Torah portion, Parshas Chukat-Balak, opens with one of the most mysterious commandments in the entire Torah: The Red Heifer. A perfectly red cow, completely unblemished, is taken outside the camp and burned to ash. Those ashes are mixed with water and then sprinkled on someone who has become spiritually impure, rendering them pure again.

Beautiful! But there is one astonishing detail: The Kohen who performs the purification ritual himself becomes impure in the process. The very act of purifying someone else makes him impure. The one who helps becomes the one who now needs help (albeit in a smaller way).

King Solomon, the wisest of men, said he understood every commandment in the Torah except this one. It doesn't follow the rules. It doesn't make logical sense.

That is precisely the point.

Some of the most important things we do in life don't fit neatly into our personal spiritual spreadsheets. We can't always calculate the cost of kindness before we extend it. We can't always protect our own comfort while showing up fully for someone else.

Those who drift from their Jewish identity, regardless of whether they grew up observant and life pulled them away, or they never really had a positive connection to begin with, are in the category of ‘impure*’ and need to be ‘purified*’. It is the responsibility of those around them to be the “Kohen”. Temporarily losing out on our own spirituality does not absolve us of the obligation.

It is natural to think: I'll invite the Jewish co-worker when I have the perfect Shabbos table. I'll reach out when I know exactly what to say. I'll engage with others spiritually when I'm sure it won't affect my own spiritual routine.

The Red Heifer commandment teaches us to go now. Even when it's inconvenient. Even when it might cost you something. Even when you don't fully understand why. Because their spark matters more than your comfort.

Put on your own oxygen mask first. You do need to tend to your own Jewish life. However, the Torah is also telling us that at times, the act of helping someone else breathe, is itself what keeps you alive.

You might finish that Shabbos dinner feeling like you gave more than you got. You might feel a little "impure", a little out of your routine, a little stretched. That's okay. That's the Red Heifer. That's what love in action sometimes looks like.

Reach out to one person (friend, family member, or neighbor) in your life whose connection to Jewish life is strained. Invite them to join you in something simple. A Shabbos dinner, a Torah class, or a conversation over coffee. Don't wait until you feel ready. They are ready and waiting. All that's missing is you being willing.

Wishing you a Shabbos filled with joy.

Rabbi Kushi Schusterman

* The terms "impure" and "purified" are used here in their halachic/ritual sense as defined by Torah law, not as a moral judgment or reflection of a person's worth. Every Jewish soul is inherently holy. These terms simply describe a state of spiritual disconnection, and the longing, conscious or not, to reconnect with the living G-d.

Live your best life!

Thu, 18 Jun 2026 7:38:00 PM

Today is the 32nd yahrtzeit of the Lubavitcher Rebbe.

Personally, today’s an important day. It’s a day that I remind myself that my responsibility is to follow the Rebbe’s lead.

The Rebbe is the Moses of our generation. The original Moses wanted to be the high priest. He wanted to go into the Holy of Holies and live a life of ecstasy and oneness with Hashem. Despite his high stature, his job was not to live a life sheltered in holiness, but to be a leader who lived in the physical world and transform it. His job was to get his hands dirty and deal with all people; the spiritually elevated and the deeply challenging alike.

Moses didn’t resent it, he embraced it. He understood that Hashem gives each of us a personalized, G-d-given mission. His was uniquely his, for his soul to fulfill its purpose in this world.

When Korach challenged Moses demanding the High Priesthood, Moses responded: I also want to be the high priest and yet Hashem has other plans for me. I recognize that I have to do MY mission and not someone else’s, and you should do YOUR mission. Moses also cautioned Korach that it’s dangerous to do someone else’s mission. Ignoring the warning, Korach suffered a fatal blow.

We need to see ourselves as Hashem does; An awesome soul in a body full of potential! We should recognize how amazing we are and how much good we can accomplish in the world. Often, instead of embracing our own uniqueness and the talents Hashem has given us, we look at others and think less of ourselves. We become jealous and want what someone else has, or to accomplish what someone else did.

Moses and the Rebbe saw every individual as a part of Hashem. We need to also see ourselves, and everyone around us, as our soul; untouchable and untainted. Anything negative is really an external shell. Reach out to someone and reach inward to yourself. Recognize each one’s greatness, not from a place of ego but by seeing their soul.

Have a great Shabbos and I look forward to seeing many of you at Shabbat 100. We are blessed to have over 100 locals come together to join in the biggest Shabbat dinner in Harford County!

Rabbi Kushi Schusterman

You've Graduated

Thu, 11 Jun 2026 2:52:00 PM

Imagine having a world-class coach in your corner. You bring her your questions, and she gives you clear direction on what to try and what to avoid. However, when you ask her about one particular project, whether to move forward with it or not, she pauses and says: "This decision is yours to make."

Would you do it?

Many people would hear that as the coach's way of saying no, not a good idea and refrain from going with it. Others may decide to take on the challenge.

Some may pause and try to figure out why the coach isn't guiding them and conclude that they are being told: "You've graduated from needing me to make decisions for you. You no longer need training wheels. You're an adult now and I trust you to make the right call."

Often, the focus of this week's parsha is the mistake of the spies sent to scout the land of Israel, causing that generation of Jews not to enter the land.

When reading inside, many commentaries hold that Moshe is the one at fault as he made the decision to send the spies. When Moshe asked Hashem whether to send the spies or not, Rashi explains Hashem’s response as: "Send for yourself, at your (Moshe's) discretion; I am not commanding you, but if you wish, send." Moshe should have understood that it was not a good decision.

However, the Rebbe explains that Moshe didn't hear Hashem say: "Beware, I, G-d, am not commanding you," Moshe heard, "You are now able to make decisions. I, Hashem, trust you to make the right one." Hashem was giving him agency to make his own decisions.

Moshe passed on this autonomy to the spies. The mistake they made was taking it too far. Moshe asked for a report on what was happening in Israel. The spies did come back with a report, they took their autonomy too far and shared their conclusion.

Hashem clearly wanted them to enter the land; all they needed to do was report on how to go about it, but they erroneously concluded that they were unable to go in.

This isn't only a story from 3,337 years ago; it's a message for us today. Connecting with Hashem is not supposed to be robotic, simply following what we're told. We need to be human beings who think for ourselves and build our own personal relationship with Hashem. Simultaneously, we need to recognize where we have agency and where we should simply follow and not try to rewrite what Hashem asks of us.

Have a good Shabbos,

Rabbi Kushi Schusterman

Why are you searching under the streetlight?

Thu, 4 Jun 2026 3:21:00 PM

A policeman sees a drunk man searching under a streetlight and asks what he's lost. "My keys," says the man. After searching together for a few minutes, the officer asks: "Are you sure you lost them here?"

"No," admits the man. "I lost them in the park."

"Then why are you searching here?!"

"Because," answers the man, "this is where the light is." -the principle of the drunkard's search.

We look for meaning in the familiar, connection in the convenient and our Jewish identity in the places that are easy, comfortable, and already lit up. However, sometimes, the real treasure is somewhere that requires us to do a little more work to illuminate.

In 1907, the Rebbe Rashab, Rabbi Sholom DovBer of Lubavitch, was at a health spa in Würzburg, Germany. A group of Chassidim came to spend Shabbos with him. After kiddush and a few heartfelt l'chaims, Reb Yosef Yuzik Horowitz asked a seemingly simple question:

"Rebbe, what is a chossid?"
"A chossid," said the Rebbe, "is a lamplighter. He walks the streets carrying a flame at the end of a stick. He knows the flame is not his. And he goes from lamp to lamp to set them alight."
"What if the lamp is in a desert?" questioned Reb Yosef Yuzik.
"Then one must go and light it. And when one lights a lamp in a desert, the desolation becomes visible. The barren wilderness will then be ashamed before the burning lamp."
"What if the lamp is at sea?" continues Reb Yosef Yuzik.
"Then one must undress, dive in, and go light it." Answered the Rebbe.
"But Rebbe, I do not see the lamps!" Reb Yosef Yuzik cries out.
"Because," said the Rebbe quietly, "you are not yet a lamplighter."
"How does one become a lamplighter?" asked Reb Yosef Yuzik.
"First, you must reject the evil within yourself. Start with yourself, cleanse yourself, refine yourself, and you will see the lamp within your fellow. When a person is himself coarse, G‑d forbid, he sees coarseness; when a person is himself refined, he sees the refinement in others."
Reb Yosef Yuzik then asked: "Is one to grab the other by the throat?"
Replied the Rebbe: "By the throat, no; by the lapels, yes."

Every single one of us is both a lamp waiting to be lit as well as a lamplighter for someone else.

Not everyone inspires the same way. Some, like my childhood rabbi, Rabbi Raichik of Los Angeles, led with such tenderness. When he had to tell you something wasn't kosher, he would sigh first as he genuinely wished you could have enjoyed it. His path was kindness.

Others inspire with rigor; a spiritual personal trainer who pushes you because they see what you're capable of.

Both are valid. In fact, there are seven pathways, like the seven branches of the Menorah, each casting its light at a different angle. Each illuminating something the others can't quite reach. The same soul may need a different flame at different moments in life.

Sometimes we inspire directly and at other times, the most powerful thing we can do is simply live in a way that makes others lean toward the light.

The Mishnah in Avot says: Be among the students of Aaron; loving peace, pursuing peace, loving people, and drawing them close to Torah. Not compromising the Torah. Attracting people toward it without watering it down.

It’s our job to be a lamplighter; to do whatever it takes to bring the light of Hashem and His Torah to others.

Where in your life are you searching under the streetlight, when your real keys are somewhere that needs you to bring the light?

Who do you know that might be an unlit lamp, waiting for someone to show up and light the way? You don't need to be a scholar or prepare a polished speech. Just carry the flame and walk toward them.

Even a genuine invite counts, we're 14 RSVPs from our goal for Shabbat100 😉.

As the Rebbe teaches: "By the throat, no. By the lapels, yes."

Warm regards and a bright Shabbos,

Rabbi Kushi Schusterman

P.S. I'm curious how/if you see this as relevant in your own life.

Every marriage has its moments

Thu, 28 May 2026 12:57:00 PM

Everyone I know who has been married for a bit has had a rough week with their spouse and thought: are we okay?

Not necessarily a dramatic fight or a crisis. Just… a distance, where the connection felt thin, where you did your own thing and didn’t quite show up the way you know you should. When Friday night comes with Shabbos candles and a meal together, somehow we remember: we’re solid. That rough week didn’t define us. It was a moment, not our marriage.

This week’s parsha, Naso, contains one of the most puzzling passages in the Torah: the laws of the sotah, a woman suspected of being unfaithful. But betrayal isn’t only in marriage, so why does the Torah make such a big deal specifically about a married woman? Betrayal is wrong, but why focus on betrayal in marriage specifically?

Because the Jewish people are, in the deepest sense, married to Hashem. Not metaphorically, not poetically. This is the actual spiritual reality. Hashem is the husband. We are the wife. The Torah is our ketubah. The mitzvos are the way we show up for each other every day.

Practically, this means every single thing we do carries the weight of that relationship. A kind word, a mitzvah done with joy, a moment of honest prayer, these are acts within an intimate relationship. But so is every stumble.

When a married person slips up, even in a small way, it lands differently than if they were single. Not because G-d is keeping score differently, but because the bond is deeper. Even a minor lapse in our relationship with Hashem, something we might brush off as inconsequential, carries spiritual weight precisely because of how close we are.

And yet, the sotah, even if she entered a questionable situation, is not declared impure. She may well be entirely innocent. And the moment the process is complete, the Torah says she will be cleared and will conceive.

This is relevant to us because even in our most compromised moments, the bond isn’t broken. The inner spark of every soul, the pintele Yid, the Divine spark within, cannot be given to another. Hashem promised: “My glory I will not give to another.” That connection is permanent, even when we’ve temporarily acted like someone who forgot who they’re married to.

A rough week doesn’t end a good marriage. It’s an invitation to come back closer.

You might be in a season of feeling close to Hashem, where praying feels alive, Shabbos feels holy, and the mitzvos feel meaningful.

Or you might be in a season where it all feels distant. You’re going through the motions. You haven’t really prayed with intention in longer than you’d like to admit. The connection feels shaky.

Either way, the marriage is still there. Hashem hasn’t filed for divorce. The ketubah is still in effect.

The only question is: what are you going to do to show up for it this week?

Light the Shabbos candles. Make Kiddush. Come to shul. Do one mitzvah today with the awareness that you’re not just checking a box, you’re tending to the most important relationship of your life.

Good Shabbos,

Rabbi Kushi Schusterman

P.S. When the sotah is cleared, the Talmud says she gives birth with greater ease and to children of greater spiritual quality than before. In other words, returning to the relationship with full heart doesn’t just restore what was, it creates something even more beautiful. That’s the power of coming home.

Don’t Just Inherit It

Wed, 20 May 2026 1:02:00 PM

Have you ever met someone who keeps every Jewish law perfectly, but you can tell they’ve never thought for themselves? Have you ever met someone who questions everything, who finds new meaning in every text, who makes Torah feel alive, yet you sense they’re building on quicksand?

Shavuos is essentially the Jewish answer to this tension.

The Gemara tells a remarkable story. Moses ascends to heaven and finds G-d tying tiny crowns onto the letters of the Torah. Moses asks: why the decorations? G-d answers: there will be a man, named Akiva ben Yosef, who will derive mountains of Jewish law from every single one of these crowns.

Moses says: show him to me.

He’s transported forward in time and sits in Rabbi Akiva’s class. He didn’t understand what was being taught. Moses, who received the Torah directly from G-d, couldn’t follow the class?! Moses was sad, “His strength waned”.

A student asks Rabbi Akiva: where does this law come from? Rabbi Akiva answers: it’s a halacha transmitted to Moses from Sinai.

Moses’ mind was put at ease.

Since Torah tells us that Moses was the most humble person who ever lived, this can’t be about ego. Something much deeper is going on.

The Mishna uses two Hebrew words to describe two kinds of people: a bor and a be’er. A bor is a cistern, it holds water put in from the outside. A be’er is a well, it generates water from within. Both contain water. However, only the well is alive.

Rabbi Akiva didn’t learn to read until he was 40. He then became the greatest be’er of his generation, a living spring of Torah insight. How? Because even his most creative, mind-bending interpretations were ultimately rooted in what Moses received at Sinai. The creativity and novelty were real for the foundation was unshakable.

G-d wants that from each of us. Not just to carry Torah but to live it. Wrestle with it. Ask what it’s actually saying to you, in your life, right now.

However, creativity without a solid Torah foundation is not everlasting.

When we only go by what feels right, what resonates, what seems meaningful in the moment, we’re not discovering truth. We’re just hearing our own voice echo back at us. The ego is very good at disguising itself as spiritual insight.

That’s not be’er. That’s still just a bor being filled with your own thoughts instead of anyone else’s.

What kept Rabbi Akiva’s genius honest? The same thing that reassured Moses: a transmission, a chain, a foundation that doesn’t shift based on how you’re feeling that day. Moses was worried that maybe Akiva was just making things up until he realized Akiva traced everything back to the same source. Real creativity in Judaism isn’t about replacing the foundation. It’s about going deeper into it.

You are meant to question, push, explore, and find new meaning. But every time you do, you check: does this connect? Is there a Sinai at the root of this?

Practically, this means two things.

First: don’t coast. Ask questions. Figure out what the Torah is actually saying to you, now. If a mitzvah feels hollow, that’s not a reason to drop it, it’s an invitation to go deeper.

Second: keep coming back to the foundation. When you feel strongly that something is spiritually true, run it against the tradition. Not to suppress your insight, but to verify it. The best insights always hold up.

Be a be’er. Find your own water. Discover your own depths.

And make sure you know where Sinai is.

Chag Sameach and Good Shabbos,

Rabbi Kushi Schusterman

You are greater than you imagine

Thu, 14 May 2026 5:54:00 PM

Yesterday, Harford Chabad hosted the regional Kinus (a gathering of Chabad Rabbis from across the MD, VA, PA, NJ, DC and DE region).

A video of the Rebbe talking about what one is capable of achieving was shown. He said that what has been accomplished so far is "pale in comparison with what is truly possible". Not a criticism, more of a challenge and a statement of belief in us. The possibilities, he said, are much greater than we imagine.

The Torah portion this week speaks directly to this, beginning with Hashem commanding Moshe to count the Jewish people; tribe by tribe, person by person. In the census of the Jewish people, the greatest scholar and the simplest person both register as "one."

Counting seems to be about quantity, not quality. If counting minimizes everything unique about a person: their character, their achievements, and their journey, why count?

Perhaps that is the point! The fact that every Jew counts as exactly one, no more and no less, is a statement of equal, infinite worth. On a soul level there is no hierarchy. The essential Divine spark in the most righteous person and in the one who is just beginning to find their way (or hasn't even begun yet) is the identical spark.

The mission is not to evaluate where each Jew stands spiritually, rather it is to bring as many people as possible to engage in their relationship with Hashem. When you increase the number of people connected, the quality and depth follow naturally. What we have accomplished so far pales in comparison with what is truly possible! There is more to do, we cannot rest!

I ended the day with two simultaneous feelings: gratitude and discomfort.

Gratitude for everything that our community has built here. For the people who have walked through our doors and for the families who have connected with their soul identity and their Judaism. Grateful for a community that has grown in ways I could not have predicted.

As well, I felt productive discomfort. The Rebbe was not saying "great job, take a break". He was saying: look at the gap between where we are and where we could be. That gap is your responsibility and on every one of us.

The Jew who has not yet had a real Shabbos experience. The family that has thought about connecting and hasn't yet made it happen. The one who hasn’t thought about Judaism since going to Hebrew school twenty (Thirty? Forty?) years ago. Each of these individuals is a one in the count of the Jewish people. We need each and every one to make our community whole.

Don't be deterred by undesirable qualities (as long as they do not pose a risk to others) or circumstances. What matters is the essential Jewish soul. That soul is precious beyond measure in every single one. The Rebbe shows us that every individual is precious and our potential to actually reach each and every one is realistic. He encourages us to succeed beyond our wildest imagination.

Let's prove him right!

Here is my challenge and statement of belief for you. Shavuos, the holiday when we relive the giving of the Torah, is approaching on May 22. The Torah tells us about that moment: every single Jew had to be present. The Talmud says that if even one of the Jewish people had been missing, G-d would not have given the Torah! That means the Torah belongs to each and every one of us.

This year, before Shavuos arrives, reach out to one person in your life who wouldn't celebrate otherwise. Invite them to be counted. One text or phone call saying ‘come join me’. Check harfordchabad.org/shavuos for this year's events and times. If you are out of town, join one of my fellow rabbis at a Chabad near your destination at www.HarfordChabad.org/centers.

Good Shabbos,

Rabbi Kushi Schusterman

This is the video they showed of the Rebbe Talking

What Mt. Sinai and My Zeidy have in common

Thu, 7 May 2026 5:10:00 PM

My grandfather, Mordechai Schusterman, passed away in 1995. This Shabbos is his yahrtzeit. He ended off his will with the following:

"The one request I have of my children and grandchildren is that they should not be haughty." (In Yiddish: ניט בלאזן פון זיך don't blow hot air about yourself).

This week's Torah portion, Parshas Behar, opens with a seemingly odd detail. G-d gives Moshe the laws of Shemita, the Sabbatical year, and the Torah goes out of its way to tell us that this happened on Mount Sinai.

Rashi, the classic commentator, asks; All the Torah's laws were given at Sinai, why mention it specifically here?

Sinai itself is teaching us something.

Mount Sinai was the lowest of all the mountains. When the Torah was about to be given, every mountain showed up before Hashem with its credentials. Mt. Tabor said: I'm the tallest. Mt. Carmel said: I helped split the Red Sea. And little Sinai? It just stood there. Hashem chose Sinai. Not despite its smallness, but because of what that smallness represents. Mount Sinai wasn't a valley or flat ground; it was elevated above the terrain around it. It had genuine height and real qualities.

The Rebbe points out that the other mountains weren't wrong to see themselves as elevated. The problem was that they came to G-d boasting about them. "Look at me. Look at what I've got. Give me the Torah because of my greatness."

True bitul, true humble self-awareness, doesn't mean you don't know your own worth. Rav Yosef in the Talmud said, "Do not teach that humility has ceased, for I am here." He knew he was humble, and he said so out loud and fascinatingly that's not a contradiction. Knowing your qualities while not being driven by them, that's the real thing.

The Torah describes Moshe as "more humble than any person on the face of the earth." And yet Moshe knew he was the one chosen to receive the Torah. He knew his greatness.

How did he hold both?

He understood that his gifts came from Above. If Hashem had given those same qualities to someone else, that person might have done more with them. His humility wasn't false modesty; it was an accurate accounting of where greatness actually comes from.

And because of that humility, he became the vessel through whom the Torah was given to the world.

My grandfather wasn't a Rabbi; he was a printer and worked hard. He also merited to read the Torah for the Rebbe in 770 for close to 39 years. He knew struggle and hard times. And yet, the single ask he put in his will was: don't be haughty.

That's Mount Sinai.

Humbleness is the prerequisite for receiving the Torah. (Shavuot is coming up in two weeks www.harfordchabad.org/shavuot). Pride says, "it's mine," and Torah says, "it's G-d's." Ego and Torah cannot coexist in the same space.

Is there a relationship in your life where your ego is in the way? A conversation you haven't had because it would require admitting you were wrong? A person you've been looking down on, even subtly?

Sinai teaches that the way up is actually down. That the vessel for the greatest thing in the world, the Torah itself, was the smallest mountain. My grandfather, who lived that lesson in his own modest, devoted life, left it as the only inheritance that really matters.

Good Shabbos,

Rabbi Kushi Schusterman

P.S. Rabbi Heschel is giving a class in Pirkei Avos, Ethics of our Fathers, every Shabbos morning at 9:15 am between now and Shavuos. It's the ultimate guide to the nurturing very qualities my grandfather was talking about. Come join and learn with us.

Remember being a kid and not having to do anything?

Thu, 30 Apr 2026 10:05:00 PM

Life is a three-part experience.

The first part is a gift; childhood. You didn't have to work. You didn't have to do anything other than be home. Hopefully your parents were able to provide food, clothing, shelter, and love. They were simply given to you.

At some point, as a teenager or young adult, you started to pave your own path. That path came with bruises and bumps. You had to work through things. You had to show up and do the work.

And hopefully, eventually, you find yourself. You recognize what makes you you. You become comfortable living in the oneness and awareness of who you really are.

This is exactly the experience of Passover, the Omer (the seven weeks between Passover and Shavuos), and Shavuos itself.

On Passover, we were redeemed from Egypt as a gift from G-d. We didn't deserve it. The matzah, made from wheat, flat and simple, represents that humility and unearned kindness.

Then comes the Omer period. The offering brought during these 49 days is made from barley, animal fodder. It represents the work we do on our animal self: the self-absorbed, reactive, impulsive part of us.

On Shavuos, culminating the Omer counting, we bring a wheat offering. The very thing that's forbidden on Passover, leavened bread, becomes the mitzvah on Shavuos. Why? Because by then, we are so in tune with truth and with who we really are that our ego and our intellect are no longer selfish. They become a conduit for G-d and G-dliness.

We get to experience this same three-part journey every single day.

We start the morning with saying Modeh Ani; thanking G-d for gifting us another day. A pure gift, before we've done a thing to earn it. A Passover moment.

Then we say the Shema, the contemplation, the internal work, the soul-searching. That's the Omer offering.

And we end our prayers with the Amidah, standing before G-d in complete oneness with Hashem. That's Shavuos.

Three times a day. Every day.

When we read about the sacrifices and offerings in this week's Torah portion, don't think of them only as ancient rituals that haven't been experienced in thousands of years. Think of them as a guide for life; ways we can sacrifice our internal instincts, our ego, our animal impulses, in order to become one with Hashem.

The Temple may not be standing. But the three-part journey? That's available to each one of us, every single morning.

Good Shabbos,

Rabbi Kushi Schusterman

You'll have to answer for the pleasures you didn't enjoy

Fri, 24 Apr 2026 12:05:00 AM

We all desire good things in life. Good food, a comfortable home, a vacation, a promotion at work, and a glass of wine. It would seem that indulging in these physical wants would conflict with and perhaps compromise our spiritual growth. Yet we see that Judaism doesn't ask us to stop wanting any of that; it’s part of being human. The Jerusalem Talmud (did you know there are two Talmuds?) actually says that in the world to come, every person will have to give an accounting for every permitted pleasure they did not enjoy. You will need to explain why you didn't allow yourself to experience those pleasures that you denied yourself.

We live in a reality where "just one more" really isn’t just ONE more. A world where a business trip can quietly turn into a moral crisis. Where the buffet, the phone, the social media, the drink, etc., have a pull that is hard to ignore. In this reality, limiting our access is not a restriction on our freedom; it is the infrastructure to gain freedom.

Don't ignore your physical desires, and don't feel guilty for wanting things. When you engage with the world the correct way, with structure and intention, you're not just “not sinning”, you're revealing G-dliness and elevating that food, that moment, that experience.

Putting aside the phone to enjoy a steak dinner with your family transforms the dinner into intentional family time. A Shabbos meal isn't just “not doing work”, it's actively celebrating Shabbos. Disconnecting for a focused Torah study session, because otherwise that time will evaporate. Deciding in advance what you'll order so you can choose deliberately. These restrictions and limitations are like the scaffolding at a construction site that allows us to build something holy in the first place.

Let’s keep the traditions our grandparents upheld, not only because we're nostalgic, but because they have kept our people elevated for thousands of years. Add in your kosher adherence, put up another mezuzah, light Shabbos candles, make kiddush, and come to shul in the morning.

Enjoy the steak, the Shabbos meal, the vacation, the success, the good life, just put up the fence first! It's not there to keep you small, it's there to keep you you.

Good Shabbos,

Rabbi Kushi Schusterman