Rabbi's Blog

Og was the biblical giant, the king of Bashan, the man whose bed stretched thirteen feet. What many don’t know is that Og was the first antisemite.

When Avraham celebrated Yitzchak’s birth, he invited the world’s leaders. The Midrash tells us that Og stood among them, looked at the eight-day-old baby, tiny and fragile, and sneered:

“This? This little thing is the future? I could crush him with one finger.”

On the surface, Og seemed to be commenting on physical strength. Beneath the surface, he was doing what antisemites always do: Dismissing the Jewish future. Dismissing Jewish worth. Dismissing Jewish destiny.

Og didn’t see a covenant. He saw a nuisance. He didn’t see eternity. He saw weakness.

Hashem responded instantly:
“You will live to see thousands of his descendants, and you will fall in their hands.”

This became the Jewish script ever since. Every Purim, every October 7th, every pogrom, every exile, every comeback, and every miracle. Antisemites rise loud and towering and fall just as hard.

Like every Torah story, this one is not just about ancient villains. It’s about you I.

Inside each of us lives a quiet voice that whispers Og’s words:

“You? Really? You think you can make a difference?
 You want to grow spiritually? Why bother?
 You’re too small. Too inconsistent. Too late.
 Crushable with one finger.”

That voice is the internal antisemite. Not against Jews, but against the Jew within you.
The part that wants to pray, to give, to grow, to love, to improve, to return, and to connect.

That voice mocks your first steps. It belittles your progress. It sneers at your potential just as Og sneered at Yitzchak. And just like Og, it dresses intimidation up as logic.

Og’s error was simple. He measured size whereas G-d measured purpose. Og saw an infant where G-d saw infinity.

Every Jew carries that same covenant; an identity that begins before we can think or choose, like Yitzchak’s bris at eight days old. It isn’t earned, intellectual, nor is it fragile. It is essential,  inborn and permanent.

That’s why the inner Og has no real power.

He can bark, but he can’t bite.
He can roar, but he can’t rule.
He can loom, but he can’t lead.

Every time we do something Jewish, whether it’s lighting Shabbos candles, giving tzedakah, putting on tefillin, saying Shema, or learning a line of Torah, we prove the giant wrong.

The promise Hashem made to Og wasn’t just a punishment; it was a prophecy:

“You will see the Jewish future, and you will fall before it.”

That’s exactly what happens inside us. Every inner critic, every hesitation, every “you’re not enough” does not survive real action. A mitzvah is stronger than fear. A Jewish step forward is heavier than the giant blocking your way.

Yitzchak grew up and the giant didn’t stop him. The Jewish people grew up, and the anti-Semites didn’t stop us.

And you? You have the power to grow past every barrier, every mocking voice, and every self-minimizing thought. Because you are not fueled by ego.  You are fueled by Avraham’s legacy; that calm certainty that G-d is the only true reality. Nothing can stand in the way of a Jew who moves forward with purpose.

Og said, “He’s nothing.”
G-d said, “Watch.”
And the world is still watching.

Have a good shabbos,

Rabbi Kushi Schusterman 

Sometimes we overthink things.

We imagine that spiritual life must be lofty, mystical, deeply emotional, or profoundly intellectual. We tell ourselves: “When I’m inspired… when I understand more… when I feel something… then I’ll do more mitzvos.”

But Judaism works the other way around.

Do the mitzvah first.

The inspiration follows.

Kabbalah explains that Avraham represents the soul and Sarah represents the body. Astonishingly, when Sarah passes away, it is Avraham (the soul) who cries for the body. The soul doesn’t look down on the body. It loves it, misses it, and remains forever connected to it.

Jewish tradition doesn’t view the body as an obstacle but as a partner. And not just any partner, ultimately, the body becomes the primary vehicle for G-d’s purpose.

That is why G-d tells Avraham, “Whatever Sarah tells you, listen to her voice.” In other words: when it comes to fulfilling G-d’s mission in this world, the body leads.

The point?

Judaism is not an escape from the physical world.

It is a transformation of it.

You can meditate on the spiritual meaning of tefillin, or Shabbat candles for hours, but if you don’t actually put them on, or light them, beautiful intentions aside, you have not fulfilled the mitzvah. Worse, you have missed the mitzvah altogether.

But if you do put them on, even without lofty intentions, you’ve done exactly what G-d wants.

There is a time for study.
There is a time for inspiration.
There is a time for understanding.
But first: There is a mitzvah to do.

In the messianic era, when Moshiach comes, the soul will receive its life-force from the body, not the other way around. In G-d’s ultimate plan, the simple, concrete, physical act carries more holiness than the most elevated spiritual meditation.

That means your mitzvah, your physical mitzvah, the one you do, is priceless.

When you light Shabbos candles, give tzedakah, say Shema, put on tefillin, affix a mezuzah, or help another Jew, you bring G-d into the world in a way no abstract spirituality ever can.

The next time you feel uninspired, the next time you feel unprepared, the next time you feel like you “don’t understand enough”, do a mitzvah anyway.

Not because you’re perfect.
Not because you’re holy.
Not because you’re inspired.
Do it because G-d asked you to.
Do it because your body is G-d’s toolbox.
Do it because every mitzvah brings the world closer to Moshiach.
Do it because sometimes the deepest spirituality begins with the simplest action.

Mitzvos. Just do them.

Have a good Shabbos,

Rabbi Kushi Schusterman
P.S. No services at Chabad this week.