Rabbi's Blog

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

We all have parts of ourselves that we love; the pieces that feel easy, smooth, and clear. And then there are the parts we struggle with; the ones we’d rather hide. At times, even from ourselves.

Chassidus describes these two dimensions as the sheep and the struggler, Rachel and Leah.

Rachel is the part of us that’s pristine, uncomplicated, idealistic, like the gentle white ewe whose name she carries. Leah is the part that is weary and wrestling, the part that is trying so hard to tame what refuses to stay polished.

To be leaders, whether in our homes, in our community, and/or in our own souls, we must be honest about who we are. Because wherever you run… you bring yourself along.

And here’s the paradox:
It’s the very act of wrestling with our “demons” that shapes us into who we’re meant to become.

We read the story of Yaakov marrying Leah and Rochel. The Midrash sets the scene:
It was Yaakov’s wedding night and he believed he was marrying Rachel, the woman he had worked seven long years for. However, beneath the veil stood Leah, trembling yet determined, following her father’s plan. All night she carried the role perfectly.

When morning came, Yaakov, stunned to see Leah beside him, cries out: “Leah?! Daughter of a deceiver! Why did you trick me?”

Leah looked at him softly and answered: “Who taught me to do this? When your father asked, ‘Are you my son Esav?’ didn’t you answer, ‘I am Esav, your firstborn’? Don’t you teach your students that whatever a person does eventually comes back to them?”

The words hit him, yet but beneath them was a message even deeper:
“Yaakov, you think you’re marrying Rachel, the perfect, innocent version of yourself. But before you reach that part, you must meet me. The struggler. The part of you that confronts the world, the Esav-energy you’ve been afraid to acknowledge. My eyes are weary because I’m struggling to do the hard inner work. I can help you do yours, only if you admit that these parts of you exist and must be refined.”

Leah’s very name means weary. Because doing the real inner work is draining…yet, it’s also the path to your deepest power.

Chassidus teaches that Esav had the potential to be a thousand times greater than Yaakov, if only he had done the work.

We often picture holiness as smooth, clean, angelic perfection. Torah teaches the opposite. Greatness is the one who falls and gets up again. The one who keeps walking. The one who doesn’t hide their imperfections, but transforms them into purpose.

That is Leah. That is the soul. That is us.

There’s a story I love:
A king owned a breathtaking diamond. One day it slipped from his hands and was scarred with a deep scratch. Jewelers from across the world tried to repair it and all failed. Finally, a simple pauper said he could help. He didn’t remove the scratch at all. Instead, he etched a rose around it, using the scratch as the stem. The flaw became the foundation of beauty.

This is the work of Leah. The work of the soul. The work we are each called to do.

May we embrace our inner Leah and acknowledge our struggles with honesty and courage. May we turn our scratches into roses. May we uncover the beauty hiding inside the parts of ourselves we’ve been afraid to face.

Have a deep, meaningful Shabbos.

Rabbi Kushi Schusterman

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.

Life is full of surprises, and sometimes, frustrations. We try to help others, to lift them, to guide them. At times, we see progress; other times, it feels like we’re walking in circles. You give your heart, your time, your prayers, and the push back is exasperating.

You see this clearly when helping someone struggling with addiction. There are good days: they go to meetings, they stay clean, they seem to be turning the corner. And then, suddenly, a relapse. Maybe a dealer convinces them to “try it just once more.” Or it may be a well-meaning friend who says, “Come on, just have one drink.”

It’s heartbreaking. But it’s real.

In our own spiritual work, it can feel similar. As Jewish people helping other Jewish people connect, we sometimes wonder if we’re making any impact at all. You invest in someone, teach them, show them the beauty of Judaism and then they don’t engage. You may not hear from them for quite some time. It can feel like all your efforts were for nothing.

The Torah reminds us that nothing good is ever wasted.

Yitzchak (Isaac) digs wells. The first is filled in by the locals, the second is stolen from him and given to the Philistines. Yet he doesn’t give up. He keeps digging, again and again, until he finds water that no one takes away.

Yitzchak understood something profound: beneath the surface, the water is always there. You just have to keep digging.

Whether you’re helping someone break free from addiction, trying to awaken another Jew’s soul, or even building a business that seems stuck, the lesson is the same. Don’t give up. Don’t let setbacks convince you that the effort is pointless. The real growth, the real breakthrough, often happens right after the hardest struggle.

Keep digging. Keep believing.

If what you’re doing is good, it will bear fruit! Even if it doesn’t make sense yet.

Good Shabbos,

Rabbi Kushi Schusterman
P.S. May we all uncover the living waters; the deep G-dliness within ourselves and those around us.

Rabbi, my husband isn’t Jewish. Shouldn’t we give our children a little of each religion and let them decide later on?

On the surface, this seems fair and balanced. Why not expose children to everything and let them choose?

Judaism is not a flavor or a hobby. It’s not something to sprinkle lightly into life, alongside other options. Judaism is our very identity, our essence. A Jewish soul doesn’t “become” Jewish when it decides; it is Jewish from birth. To give Judaism as a watered-down sample, as just one of many options, is to hide its true nature.

We see this by giving a boy a bris at 8 days (the earliest safe time to perform a bris). Even before a child understands anything, we create an irreversible covenant. This shows that, from the very first moment, their Jewish identity is who they are. Not “lite,” not half-measure, not postponed for later. Children need to know that being Jewish means belonging to a people whose bond with G-d is not limited by nature or logic. This identity is planted deep when they’re young, and it lasts forever.

One would not give their child “a little bit” of food and say, “When you’re older, you can decide if you want a full meal.” A child needs proper nourishment from the very beginning to grow strong and healthy. If something is life itself, you give it as it is. Judaism is life.

This doesn’t mean being harsh or heavy-handed, G-d forbid. It means being real. Show your child the beauty of Shabbos candles, the warmth of a Seder table, the joy of a sukkah, and the pride of saying Shema at night. These are not just rituals; they are encounters with G-d that shape a soul for a lifetime.

To give a child “a taste” of Judaism is like feeding them watered-down nourishment. It may fill them for the moment, but it won’t strengthen their Jewish soul.

Give them the real thing. Proud, authentic, relevant, vibrant Judaism. That’s what will carry them, guide them, and give them true strength in life.

Have an amazing Shabbos,

Rabbi Kushi Schusterman

P.S. This applies to all Jewish children, and to ourselves. Don’t sell yourself short; give yourself authentic Judaism, regardless of your age. Incorporate one new mitzvah in your life, and once you get comfortable with it, add another one.

Life is busy. We often speak about being overwhelmed by material concerns; family, work, finances, or politics. There is another kind of overwhelm, subtler yet just as real: being flooded with spirituality and communal responsibility.

What happens when helping others, even in the name of holiness, begins to drain us? How do I know if I am truly serving G-d or simply turning mitzvah-work into another job title?

The Lubavitcher Rebbe teaches that the answer to both kinds of overwhelm is the same: anchor yourself in Torah and prayer. Begin your day with Modeh Ani before your feet hit the ground. The Rebbe designated this simple prayer as his favorite, pointing out that its message is: G-d has a lot of faith in us, because He gave us another day of life even though He didn’t have to. 

Before you plunge into the floodwaters of daily life, declare: My entire being comes from G-d, Who returned my soul this morning. The same G-d Who gave me Torah is giving me the strength to navigate today. The Rebbe emphasized that when we feel internal pressure, anxiety or ‘flooded by tasks’, the remedy is not simply better organization but returning to Torah and mitzvah observance.

If what I do strengthens my Torah observance and my relationship with Hashem, it is holy work. If it chips away at my prayer, study, or mitzvah-observance, it is not true service. It is mis-directed energy, even if cloaked in spirituality.

Take a personal example: I am both a rabbi and a father. From time to time, I get a call to visit someone in need. However, I cannot visit on Shabbos. In addition, I cannot allow communal duties to cancel my personal responsibility to pray, study Torah, or be present for my children and family.

If rushing to “save the world” means I skip my prayers or Torah study, then it’s not actually G-dly. If I do ensure that my observance remains intact; that I pray and study with intention and that my family responsibilities are honored, then that visit is true chesed, kindness.

The Rebbe taught that Torah study and proper prayer are our lifeboats, our personal Noah’s Ark, protecting us not only from the waters of materialism but also from the floods of well-intentioned but mis-directed spiritual activity.

Have a calm Shabbos,

Rabbi Kushi Schusterman

“The way one sets oneself on Shabbos Bereishis determines the tone for the entire year.” – the chassidic masters

At first glance, it seems puzzling. What is special about this Shabbos, when we read Bereishis in particular?

Because Shabbos Bereishis, when we read the story of creation, reminds us of the foundation for all of life and all of our service throughout the year. It teaches us that the world is not a separate, independent reality; its entire existence is because Hashem is creating it.

Imagine running a small business: bills are due, payroll is coming up, and sales are slow. The normal and natural reaction is stress, maybe even panic. The evil inclination whispers to you: maybe you need to cut corners (something unethical?), work nonstop (no time for family?), and forget about Shabbos or Torah study until things calm down.

Chassidic teachings explain that “In the beginning G-d created” indicates that Hashem created the heavens and the earth from absolute nothingness. This act of creation is not a one-time event but continuous; every moment the world is being recreated through Hashem’s word (see Tanya). Thus, the very existence of the world is nothing but Divine speech sustaining it.

With this Shabbos Bereishis perspective: if the entire existence of the world is Hashem’s word, then my success isn’t only about hustle or luck—it flows from Hashem Himself. That doesn’t mean I sit back and do nothing. I still need to put in effort. But it means my effort is guided by trust in Hashem, not fear of the unknown. When one internalizes this (not an easy feat!), even mundane activities can be filled with holiness; saying a verse of Psalms, learning a Torah thought while walking down the street (daily study app), or doing a good deed that tips the world toward merit.

So instead of doing something unethical or breaking Shabbos to finish a deal, we close shop early, light Shabbos candles with family, and remember Who really sustains our business. That mindset itself brings calm, removes the crushing anxiety, and often opens the channel for blessing in ways we can’t predict.

In other words: Shabbos Bereishis teaches that the world is not against us; the world is sustained by Hashem for us. And when we live with that, we find the strength to make better choices, to stay calm in challenges, and to see more revealed goodness in our lives.

To rewrite the adage: if we set ourselves up to recognize that everything is a result of Hashem’s creation, and that everything in our spiritual life and all our material needs are in Hashem’s hands, this sets the tone for the entire year to be one of calmness and connection with Hashem.

Have a calm, good Shabbos,
Rabbi Kushi Schusterman

Don’t miss the real High Holydays!

Wait a second, didn’t we just finish Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur? Should we already be preparing for 2026?

Well, yes and no. (Go ahead and mark your calendar: Rosh Hashanah 2026 is Friday night, September 11 through Sunday, September 13, and Yom Kippur 2026 is Sunday night, September 20 - Monday the 21st.)

But the truth is, the High Holydays aren’t over yet.

Most people think they begin and end with Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. But dare I say, the real High Holydays are Sukkos and Simchas Torah.

On Rosh Hashanah, we crown Hashem as King, recognizing His sovereignty as the true force in the world.

On Yom Kippur, we reveal the deepest essence of our souls, reconnecting with who we truly are.

However, all of that remains lofty, spiritual.

Enter Sukkos, where the inspiration comes down to earth. We don’t just keep G-d in our prayers; we invite Him into our homes, our meals, our celebrations. We eat, laugh, and live inside the sukkah, bringing holiness into the very fabric of daily life.

And then comes Simchat Torah, the celebration of ultimate joy. It’s not just about what we believe, but about who we are at our core. On this day we recognize that our relationship with Hashem is not an add on to life, not a layer sitting on top of our identity, it is our very essence. The bond is so strong, so real, that it defines us completely. That’s why we allow ourselves to dance with abandon, openly and with unity, celebrating not only the Torah but the truth of who we are. This is the culmination and essence of the High Holidays: the moment we don’t just experience holiness, we become it.

Think of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur as reconciling who we are and Sukkos and Simchas Torah celebrate it.

So don’t stop at Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.

Join us for Sukkos Services, the Sukkah Open House (with a special kid’s program!), Torah Studies in the Barnett’s Sukkah, Yizkor Service and Simchas Torah Hakafos Party and the finishing of reading the Torah, rolling it back to the beginning, and celebrating with more dancing and joy.

These are true High Holiday moments. You don’t want to miss them. Join us as we celebrate who we are.

Looking forward to seeing you,

Rabbi Kushi Schusterman 

The other week I walked into Saxon's Diamond Centers and gave them a chain. I asked them to undo the knot. Minutes later, they were back with the knot gone.

The hours that went into trying to undo that knot… Pins, olive oil, YouTube, nothing doing. The jeweler spreads a square of dark velvet, lays the knot down, and, without force, begins to tease the threads apart. One loop, then another. He doesn’t yank. He listens to the chain. Minutes later, it lies smooth and shining, like it was never tangled.

That is Kol Nidrei, the prayer that starts off Yom Kippur, which all Jews celebrate tomorrow night. We bring in a year’s worth of knots (promises, never agains, from now on) and Kol Nidrei lays everything on velvet. It doesn’t rip; it releases. It’s the art of loosening what shouldn’t bind so we can re-tie what should.

A word of clarity: Kol Nidrei addresses promises between us and G-d (our personal vows). It doesn’t cancel debts to people or let us wiggle out of responsibility. If anything, it restores us so our word can be trustworthy again. This isn’t a loophole, it’s a life-line.

Let me give you three short meditations for Kol Nidrei, wherever you spend your services.

Meditation 1 Unsubscribe
A teacher once asked a class to write three “I am” statements they repeat in their heads.

The list was brutal
I am bad at prayer.
I am not a morning person.
I am the one who always messes up.

These are labels and lies disguised as facts. When labeling ourselves, we are signing a contract without reading the terms. Then we wonder why our soul can’t move. Kol Nidrei says: Unsubscribe. Those “I am’s” are not you.

Meditation 2 Covenant not Contracts
A contract is about performance: I do X, you do Y. A covenant is about presence: I am with you even when X and Y are hard. Many of our inner commitments (vows) are contracts we made saying:
“If I control everything, I’ll be safe.”
“If I please everyone, I’ll be loved.”
Those contracts keep charging our card and the product is never delivered.

Kol Nidrei cancels counterfeit contracts so we can renew the covenant with Hashem, with our people, and most importantly with our own soul. Not “I promise to be perfect,” but “I promise to be present.” That’s holier (and harder).

Meditation 3 We not I
The story is told about the sainted Rav Aryeh Levin of Jerusalem, who once went to the doctor with his wife because her leg was in pain. When the doctor called the couple into his office and asked what was wrong, Rav Levin responded that “our leg hurts.” Only after further questioning did the doctor understand that it was Rabbi Levin’s wife’s leg that was the problem. Rav Levin was not trying to be cute; rather, his life was so intertwined with that of his wife, and he cared for her so deeply, that he actually felt her pain.
When one part aches, we all come limping.

Notice the wording of Kol Nidrei. It’s not I, the individual. It’s we standing together, loosening knots together. Shame isolates; holiness gathers. If you’re tangled, please know that you don’t have to untie it alone. On kol nidrei night, we borrow each other and together we annul our vows, our collective and personal vows. “We” can do together what “I” cannot do alone.

Wishing everyone an easy fast and to be signed and sealed for a good and sweet year.

Rabbi Kushi Schusterman

We just celebrated Rosh Hashanah; the birthday of the world and the day we crowned Hashem as King. On Rosh Hashana we opened ourselves up to a greater vision for our lives.

For me it was inspiring, uplifting, and a little overwhelming.

The real question is how do we take that inspiration and bring it into our everyday lives?

The answer is hinted in this week’s Torah portion, Vayelech, “and he walked”. Our spiritual journey is meant to be a walk, not a run or jump. Walking isn’t dramatic; it is steady, small steps forward. Every step pointed in the right direction moves us further from where we were and closer to where we are meant to be.

That’s the gift of this Teshuva season. Teshuva means “returning”—returning to our truest selves. It doesn’t demand instant perfection. It simply asks for direction. One small step for man can be a giant step for the soul. It might be lighting Shabbat candles, saying Shema before bed, dropping a coin in the tzedakah box each morning, speaking a little kinder, or putting on tefillin.

The challenge after Rosh Hashanah is not to let the inspiration fade, but to anchor it in action.

What’s your step? What’s the one mitzvah you can commit to this year to keep the momentum going?

Have a wonderful first Shabbos of the year, 

Rabbi Kushi Schusterman

Every so often the news carries a story of a prison break. Someone digs a tunnel with spoons, climbs walls with ropes, or sneaks out in disguise. For a moment, they breathe the sweet air of freedom. But it usually doesn’t last. Again and again, the escape is cut short by the same mistake: hunger. Searching for food, knocking on doors, or scavenging in trash bins is what so often gives them away.

The Baal Shem Tov taught that everything we see or hear can be a lesson in our service of Hashem. What can we learn from this?

Rosh Hashanah is the time when we reconnect to our truest freedom. At our core, we aren’t meant to be enslaved to habits, to distractions, or to anything other than Hashem. On Rosh Hashanah we proclaim Hamelech, Hashem is King, and remind ourselves that our only real dedication belongs to Him.

But inspiration is like an escape. At first it feels thrilling. We walk out of shul filled with clarity, uplift, and resolve. The question is: will we make it past the first days and weeks? Or will “hunger” send us searching, and in that search, cause us to slip back into old patterns?

The answer is food, spiritual sustenance. We need to pack food for the journey ahead. That food is the small, practical resolutions we take on that give lasting strength.

It doesn’t have to be dramatic. In fact, we are encouraged to keep it simple:

• Give tzedakah before lighting Shabbat candles.
• Say the Shema daily and spend two or three extra minutes in prayer with real focus.
• Attend a Torah class, or listen to a weekly Torah podcast (weekly class is on Spotify or Apple Podcasts)

These are the morsels that nourish the soul, the food that keeps inspiration alive long after the shofar has sounded.

As we step into 5786, let’s not just break free for a moment. Let’s stay free. Let’s prepare with enough food for the road ahead.

Wishing you blessings for a Good Shabbos and a Shana Tova!

Have a good Shabbos,

Rabbi Kushi Schusterman

For Rosh Hashanah info and services: HarfordChabad.org/holydays

One of the songs sung in Chabad tradition during the month of Elul is the haunting melody of the Alter Rebbe, sung to the verse from Shir HaShirim:
“Kol Dodi Dofek, Pischi Li Achosi, Raayosi, Yonasi, Tamasi – My beloved knocks: Open for me, my sister, my love, my dove, my perfect one.”

It is the voice of the Hashem, gently knocking at our hearts.

But the verse raises a question: How can He call us both “sister” and “beloved”? Isn’t that a contradiction?

Chassidic teachings explain: A husband and wife share two levels of connection. On the surface, they are two individuals who choose to bond together. That bond, like any choice, can theoretically be broken. However, at a deeper level, they are like siblings, sharing the same essence, inseparable at the core. Husband and wife are, in truth, two halves of the same soul, destined to reunite.

That is why Avraham asked Sarah to describe herself as his “sister” when they faced mortal danger in Egypt. When the external bond is threatened, it is the essential connection, the sibling like unity, that remains unbreakable.

A story that captures this beautifully. A man (some say Moses Mendelssohn), was misshapen and hunchbacked. When he met his wife, she was at first so shaken by his appearance that she burst into tears. He explained that when he was born, his future wife had already been destined for him, but she was meant to be deformed or hunchback. “O Hashem,” he prayed, “let her be whole and beautiful, and give me the humpback instead.”

She saw his sincerity, and several months later they were married.

This is the message of Elul. Hashem knocks and whispers: “Open for Me, My sister, My beloved.” Yes, we can choose whether to embrace Hashem, like a spouse chooses love. But at the deepest level, we are inseparable, like siblings. Our soul is part of Him.

Elul invites us to nurture that essential bond. To quiet the distractions, tend to the soul, and remind ourselves that this connection cannot be broken.

So when the knock comes, answer.

Rabbi Kushi Schusterman

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