Each of us has things we hold close and precious. For most people, it’s health, family, financial security, and comfort. Our soldiers on the front lines are willing to give up their lives to protect us and the values upon which this country stands.
But what about us? For what goal are we willing to give up some of our creature comforts? What are we willing to risk our lives for?
In this week’s parsha, Yehuda stands up to Yosef, fully aware that he is outmatched. The Midrash describes the confrontation and concludes: Yosef kicked the stone pillar upon which he was seated, turning it into a heap of pebbles. Yehuda, seeing this says, “This one is mightier than I.”
Yehuda knew Yosef was stronger and that there were many more Egyptians then the 11 brothers. And yet, he did not retreat. Why? Because a Jewish child was in danger. For that, Yehuda was willing to risk everything.
Today, when speaking with people about strengthening Jewish life and involvement, the most common obstacle is priority. For children it may be sports; for adults it may be work, travel, or the many luxuries of modern life.
Let’s learn from Yehuda. He was willing to go to war to ensure that one child remains connected Jewishly. Fortunately, we do not need to go to that extreme. However, at times, we do need to give up creature comforts in order to prioritize our Judaism.
The most powerful way to teach children is by example, and the best way to teach ourselves, is not through words alone, but by taking action. What are we willing to place second in order to place our connection with Hashem first?
This has been a really, really hard week. I have not been able to stop thinking about the terrorist attack in Sydney.
The fear and pain is sitting in our homes, in our children’s questions, in the quiet moments when we wonder what tomorrow will bring.
Sorella Abrahams, a Bondi Beach survivor, put it into words in a way that stopped me cold.
She spoke about her family and the large menorah they keep outside their home year-round, especially since October 7th. The neighbors know the house. It has become a symbol of Jewish presence, strength, and warmth, and they’ve received a lot of positive feedback about it.
And then came the fear.
Her family had been on Bondi Beach when the attack unfolded.
That night, when the family finally made it home, their children were crying. They begged.
“Please, Mom. Aba. Turn off the menorah. Our house is going to become a target.”
As parents, they looked at each other and said what Jews have said for generations: “No way. We’re not going down like this. We don’t turn off menorahs. We don’t hide our kippahs. We stand proud and loud.”
But the children kept crying. Begging. Afraid. And so, as a mother, she turned it off to calm the kids, despite how she felt.
The next day, a Christian neighbor came by the house. She shared that her own daughter, a non-Jew, had driven past, had seen that the menorah had gone dark, and burst into tears.
“No, Mom,” the girl cried. “They’re turning off their menorahs. The evil can’t win.”
Hearing this, they decided without hesitation: “No matter what, that menorah goes back on. We don’t turn off menorahs … We don’t go down in darkness. We shine light. That’s the only way to push out darkness. We look out for each other. We spread goodness. We spread kindness. That’s what we do. That’s all we know.”
Because every Jew knows we carry a spark of G-d inside. Our job, especially when it’s hard, is to let that spark shine.
Our children are scared, and that makes this moment unbearable. Yet fear does not get the final word; light does.
The entire Egyptian exile and redemption begins with dreams. The dreams of Yosef and his brothers, the dreams of the butler and the baker, and the dreams of Pharaoh.
In regular times, growth needs to make sense. Slowly taking on more mitzvahs. Adding one candle each night. Slow and steady. However, exile is like a dream where two opposites can happen at the same time. Even an elephant can fit through the eye of a needle in a dream.
The antidote to exile is to hold two opposing emotions and two dissonant behaviors at the same time. It’s counterintuitive, yet you can struggle with faith while observing mitzvahs. You can light Shabbos candles even if you are not fully Shabbos observant. You can study Torah daily, even if you don’t keep kosher.
Do something defiant (in the best sense) to make sure that light prevails.
An easy way to add in daily learning is to sign up for the Chayenu magazine, and/or download the daily study app. Audio and text study available.
Have a good Shabbos,
Rabbi Kushi Schusterman
P.S. Let me know if we can support you in any way.
You can be added to the Shabbat time text reminder list, join the weekly torah class, and learn how to keep kosher. Just let us know.
P.S.S. Click here to watch the full interview with Sorella Abrahams from Sydney.
What makes someone a true soldier? It’s not bravado or toughness. It’s dedication to the mission. It’s the readiness to do whatever needs to be done; whether it’s a task that feels beneath their dignity or a responsibility far outside their comfort zone.
The kabbalists explain that the sincere, “simple” Jew, who observes Torah and mitzvot to the best of their ability, connects to the very simplicity of G-d, His essence. Just as a soldier who follows orders becomes bound with the essence of the country they serve, so too the simple Jew is bound with the essence of G-dliness.
Jacob, our forefather, embodied this. He could have chosen the quiet life, continuing to learn in the yeshiva of Shem and Ever. Yet, Jacob was a soldier. He went to Charan, to Lavan’s home. Not because he wanted to, and certainly not because it would be easy, but because that was where the mission led him. And when he left Charan, he emerged spiritually and materially wealthy, with a beautiful family. Jacob understood that challenges are not meant to break us; they are meant to shape us. They can make us stronger, more refined, and more connected.
We see this same principle in the story of Chanukah. According to Jewish law, the Maccabees, at that time, could have lit the menorah with impure oil. Technically, it would have been fine. But something deep within them, the simple Jew mindset, the soldier’s dedication, refused shortcuts or loopholes. They yearned for purity. And because of that unwavering commitment, a miracle occurred: one flask of oil, meant to last one day, burned for eight days.
Chanukah also represents a national reboot; a fresh dedication to our mission. When you begin something new, every small choice matters. A tiny scratch on a young sapling becomes a large scar years later. When the Jewish people rededicated the Temple, they made sure every detail was done in the most beautiful, uncompromised way. As we educate our children, both those who are young in age, and those young in their spiritual journey, we must ask ourselves: Are we being equally careful? Are we modeling commitment without shortcuts?
As we prepare for Chanukah, we must ask: Are we ready to be G-d’s soldiers?
This doesn’t mean risking one’s life. It means dedicating one’s life.
It means showing up when staying home is easier. Showing up when the world feels overwhelming. Showing up when mitzvot feel small, repetitive, or unnoticed.
A soldier does what’s right even when comfort calls louder. A soldier chooses light even when the world encourages the opposite. A soldier finds sparks of holiness at home, at work, in daily conversations, and elevates them.
When we live this way, we lift ourselves and the world around us toward deeper personal and global connection with Hashem.
A wealthy merchant once passed through Mezritch and, having heard of the Maggid, decided to visit him. As he walked down the modest street and approached the Maggid’s home, a simple, even poor-looking dwelling, he grew increasingly confused. Inside, he could not hide his shock.
Seeing his discomfort, the Maggid asked what troubled him.
“With all due respect,” the merchant said, “I don’t understand. A man of your greatness! I expected a more dignified home. Perhaps in a small village you would avoid a mansion, but surely inside there should be furnishings or objects befitting a leader of the generation.”
“Tell me,” the Maggid replied gently, “in your room at the inn, what do you have there?”
“Just travel necessities, some clothes and account books.”
“And what of your fine furniture and treasures?”
The merchant laughed. “I wouldn’t drag my paintings and chandeliers on the road! The inn is only temporary. But at home, ah! there I have beautiful possessions that reflect my success.”
“Exactly,” said the Maggid with a smile. “This world is only an inn, a temporary stop. I keep here only what I need for the journey. My true treasures, my Torah, my mitzvot, and the merit of all I have taught, those are waiting for me at home.”
In this week’s Torah portion, Rashi explains Jacob’s words, “I dwelled (garti) with Lavan.” Jacob hints that he lived there only as a stranger, his oxen, donkeys, and sheep were merely tools, not his true identity. His real home was where he connected to his soul through Torah and mitzvot. The word garti shares the letters of taryag, 613, teaching that even in Lavan’s environment, Jacob kept the 613 mitzvot. How? Because he never gave the physical world undue importance. It was simply a vehicle to serve Hashem.
This is our lesson too. The noise of the world, celebrities, politicians, peers, often take up far too much space in our minds. Instead, we must anchor ourselves in our values, resist peer pressure, embrace our Judaism proudly, and live with confidence in who we are.
This Tuesday, G-d willing, we will gather for a 19 Kislev farbrengen, and you’re warmly invited. Chassidus has always given Jews the strength not to be defined by the world’s opinions, but to refine the world and connect meaningfully with Hashem.
Have a good Shabbos,
Rabbi Kushi Schusterman
P.S. Here is a great video of a song about this story with the Maggid
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