Rabbi Joey Haber

Win Before You Start

 As we journey through life, we inevitably encounter failure. We speak, and our words don’t always land the way we intended. We invest effort into something—a conversation, a recipe, a relationship—and sometimes, it simply falls apart. We carry these failures with us. They become part of our inner landscape, etched into our thoughts before we even begin the next endeavor.

And yet, that is the very essence of growth.

One man recalls playing basketball as a young adult—perhaps in his twenties—in a pick-up game at a park. A referee was present, yet every call he made was incorrect. A basket would be scored, and called off and not counted. Someone dribbled, and the ref called traveling. A foul occurred, and no call. Time and again, the referee’s decisions seemed arbitrary, unfair.

Eventually, a player from the opposing team shoved the man forcefully to the ground. He looked up from the pavement, expecting justice. The ref stood silently. Frustrated, he called out, “Referee, I don’t understand. Every single call you’ve made is wrong. Why are you doing this?”

The referee responded, “Because I want to prepare you for life. That's how life goes. A lot of things in life are unfair. And if you don't know how to get up from something being unfair, then you're not going to know how to succeed in life. So I want you to sit on the floor for a minute and experience what it feels like.”

To thrive in life, we must learn to rise from the blow of disappointment. We must let go of the weight of our past, whether it be our last failure, our last rejection, our last mistake. If we can’t release it, we won’t have the strength to bring our full selves into the present.

This is true even for world-class athletes. Consider a player being paid tens of millions of dollars. Yet you’ll hear he’s in a slump. Why? His confidence is low. But how can that be? He’s in the top 0.001% of all athletes on the planet. The reason is simple: he missed a shot five minutes ago… and ten minutes ago… and now it’s in his head. The talent remains, but the power to access it falters.

That’s why we all need encouragement. We need people who cheer for us who believe in us, especially when we’re struggling to believe in ourselves. We need parents, spouses, friends, and even children who become our cheerleaders.

I want to share another story that speaks to this theme.

In the 1930s, there was a man named Tom Carvel. He purchased a truck and began selling ice cream. One day, disaster struck and his truck got a flat tire. He couldn’t drive. The ice cream began to melt and his entire inventory was at risk of ruin.

He opened the truck and began selling what he had…melted ice cream.

Anyone else might have thrown in the towel. But that moment of apparent failure became the birth of something entirely new: soft serve ice cream. Tom Carvel eventually founded the Carvel brand, which expanded into hundreds of stores across the country. The empire was born from a moment of loss.

Failure need not be the end. It can be the beginning of something greater. But only if we don’t let it rob us of our momentum or our strength. That’s why encouragement matters. That’s why a kind word, a warm gesture, a vote of confidence— they matter. They give people strength to keep going.

Even I, who speak and teach regularly, benefit from this. Often in Israel, someone will come up to me—“Rabbi Haber, I listen to your classes.” One of the girls recently asked, “Rabbi, doesn’t that get annoying?” Not at all. I cherish every kind word. Every bit of encouragement is fuel. We all need it.

That’s perhaps why the Aron, the Ark in the Beit HaMikdash, was adorned with Keruvim; two cherubs facing one another. There are many interpretations, but I believe one message is clear. Our strength as a nation is found when we face each other. When we support and uplift each other, we become stronger.

Let me share a deeply personal moment from just this week.

It was Tuesday and we’d had a long, full day of travel in the north, visiting kevarim. Since we didn’t need a minyan for the girls, and we had a tour guide, my wife, the seminary director, and a whole itinerary, I found myself without an opportunity to daven Maariv.

We returned to the hotel around 1:00 a.m. I still hadn’t davened. I’m in the year of mourning for my father, so davening with a minyan is especially important.

I was completely exhausted, physically drained. But our tour guide, one of the finest—Moshe Sasson—offered to arrange a cab to Zichron Moshe so I could catch a late Maariv. He was so encouraging. “Don’t worry, Rabbi. You’ll get there.”

Dragging my legs, I climbed into the cab. I asked the driver how much the ride would cost as he didn’t appear turn on the meter. “150 shekel,” he said. “150? That’s a lot,” I responded. “Okay, how about 140?” he said. Then he added, “I’m charging you because I want you to daven with peace of mind. I don’t want you rushing out worried about the fare. I want you to pray properly—for the soldiers.”

Intrigued, I asked about his background. He told me he has six children, and two of them are soldiers. One, 18 years old, is stationed in Gaza. The other, 37, is a father of four and stationed on the Lebanese border.

Then he added, “By the way, I’m Halabi.”

I lit up. “We’re Halabi too! We’re Syrian. We’re the best, right?” He laughed, “The best!”

When we arrived, I davened Maariv at Zichron Moshe, exhausted but determined. I prayed with kavana—for the soldiers, for this man’s sons, for our people. When I returned to the car, the driver began to open up.

“You know Knesset Ades?” he asked—the famed Syrian shul in Jerusalem.

“Of course,” I replied. “I read my Bar Mitzvah parsha there, Parashat Vayigash.”

“Six years ago,” he went on, “I had a stroke. I don’t remember much from before. But the doctors told me I shouldn’t be alive, let alone speaking.” Hearing this, I said, “You know my son, who is twenty-five, also had a stroke. He’s in the midst of recovering.” At this point, I noticed that he was religious and wearing a kippa, something I hadn’t noticed at first. He then went on to outline a number of things my son could do to assist his recovery. And then said, “Let me tell you something else.

“My grandmother had a great zechut. She gave her house near Machane Yehuda to a yeshiva for free, gifting it to Rav Tzion Bracha. Today it would probably be worth 10 million dollars today.”

He said, “Outside the yeshiva there’s a plaque: 'Donated by Sarah Dishi.' That’s my grandmother. In her zechut, I recuperated, despite what the doctors said.”

Then he told me something else.

“Every Friday, I collect money with a few other cab drivers. We buy food, and I drive down to Gaza and deliver it to the soldiers. I leave at noon and return by 3:00 p.m. for Shabbat.”

I was stunned. A cab driver, not a wealthy man, sacrificing time and resources every week. Out of love.

When we reached the hotel, I handed him 160 shekel. Then I pulled out another $100 bill and said, “Please use this for the food on Friday.” He kissed my hand. “Give me your son’s name,” he said.

I told him: Menachem ben Miriam. He wrote it down: Refuah Sheleimah for Menachem ben Miriam.

Then I asked, “What are your sons’ names, so I can daven for them?”

He looked at me and said, “No. Kol ha’chayalim banim sheli—All the soldiers are my sons.”

That moment broke me. His selflessness, his love for Am Yisrael.

When I got back to my room, I told my wife, “Hashem, look at Your people. Look at how much strength we have when we face each other.”

The Gemara (Yoma 54b) says that when the Beit HaMikdash was destroyed, the Keruvim were still facing each other. The meforshim ask: how could that be? When Hashem is angry, the Keruvim are supposed to turn away. The answer is that in times of hardship, we come closer to one another, we turn toward one another, we become each other’s strength.

We don't always appreciate the power of the Jew. When other nations try to weaken us, we face each other more than ever. We cheer for each other, we root for each other, we care for each other. That gives us strength.

Because that’s what we need whenever we endeavor into something.

When you're about to embark on anything that matters, you can't just bring your physical skill. You have to bring your mental strength. Your confidence, courage, decisiveness, happiness, upbeat, ready-to-go attitude, believing it's going to work. Many people fail before they start. But the Jewish people, we win before we start.

Rabbi Shraga Kallus

Different than the Cat

There is a profound and sobering lesson in the tragic episode of Nadav and Avihu, the sons of Aharon, who were consumed by a heavenly fire. The Yalkut Shimoni (Iyov #921) comments poignantly: “Who would not tremble at such a thing?” Consider the striking contrast: Titus HaRasha, the wicked Roman general, brazenly entered the Kodesh HaKodashim, the Holy of Holies—committing what may be the most flagrant sacrilege imaginable—yet he entered in peace and departed in peace. In contrast, Nadav and Avihu entered with holy reasons, seeking to perform what they believed to be the greatest mitzvah, and yet they did not leave in peace. The verse says that they were consumed by fire.

This is a difficult to understand within the hanhaga (conduct) of Hashem.

How can it be that such azus (brazenness)—Titus's arrogance—goes seemingly unpunished, while the two righteous sons of Aharon meet such a fate? How could the wicked go untouched, and the righteous be struck down? This touches the very depths of the derech Hashem, the ways of Divine providence.

To illuminate this, let us turn to an insight from Rav Eliyahu Lopian zt”l.

The Kohen Gadol would enter the Kodesh HaKodashim on Yom Kippur in absolute kedusha and tahara, such that even a fleeting, improper thought could result in death. Titus, though, a blasphemer, enters the same place without suffering any consequence. How can this be?

Rav Lopian recalled a story from his own childhood. As a boy, he was once overly playful and broke something in the house. His mother scolded him and disciplined him, teaching him a lesson. Moments later, a cat ran inside and broke something as well. But the response was entirely different. She simply chased the cat away.

Rav Lopian turned to his mother and asked, “Why the difference? Why do I get punished and the cat simply gets shooed away?” His mother responded, “Whom do I love: you or the cat?” “Me,” he answered. “Exactly. I punish you because I love you. I want to teach you. I want you to grow. I want you to be successful, to become someone who contributes to the world, not someone who damages it. The cat? Who cares. I just get it out of the house.”

“This is the chiddush,” says Rav Lopian. When it comes to Titus, Hashem says: "Let him go. Who needs him?" Ultimately, his reckoning will come and he will receive his punishment. But for now, Hashem lets him be.

But those whom Hashem loves, He speaks to them and He disciplines them. Because He knows they will listen and His words are not wasted on them.

That is the essence of onesh, Divine punishment. When we experience suffering or difficulty, Hashem is speaking to us. We must not interpret it as rejection. Rather, we must recognize it as love. Of course, we do not seek punishment. But if it comes, we must perceive it as a message of care from the Ribbono Shel Olam.

Hashem only speaks to those He is close to. As the Pasuk says in Tehillim (50:3), regarding tzaddikim who are close to Hashem, “Around Him, it storms mightily.” Those who are closest to Hashem, the tzaddikim, those who dwell in His inner circle, they experience the full force of His scrutiny, because they matter most to Him.

This is the ultimate expression of Hashem’s love and closeness. When Hashem disciplines, it is not a mark of distance, but of profound love.

Rabbi Aryeh Kerzner

The Old Pitch

When I was a child, I vividly remember a legendary pitcher who was widely regarded as the best baseball player in the world. He was a perennial all-star, dominating the game year after year with unmatched talent. Eventually, he concluded his illustrious career and was inducted into the Hall of Fame. During his induction speech, he shared a deeply personal story that marked a turning point in his journey.

In the early stages of his career, he experienced tremendous success. Year after year, he was recognized as the top player in the league. However, at a certain point, he was traded to a new team and everything changed. Suddenly, his performance collapsed and he entered a prolonged slump. He lost command of his pitches, prompting the media to question what had gone wrong. Fellow players whispered about his decline, as it seemed his once-unshakable confidence had vanished.

Desperate to regain his form, he turned to his original pitching coach, the very mentor who had helped shape his early success. The coach observed him closely over a series of games and eventually pulled him aside. “I know exactly what’s wrong,” he said. “At the start of your career, your greatness came from your fastball. It was extraordinary and no one could touch it. That’s what brought you to the big leagues. That’s what made you who you were. But now, after the trade, you’ve shifted your focus. You’ve started emphasizing your curveball, your slider, trying to reinvent yourself. And in doing so, you’ve lost sight of what made you great. Go back to your fastball. Master it. Refine it. Polish it until it shines. That’s your gift, and make it your focus, your mission, your legacy.”

This message echoes the wisdom of our Sages. At the end of Masechta Makkos (23b), the Mishnah teaches: “Ratzah HaKadosh Baruch Hu lezakos es Yisrael—God desired to merit the Jewish people.” Therefore, “Hirbah lahem Torah u’mitzvos,” He gave them an abundance of commandments.

The Rambam raises a powerful question. If Hashem truly wants to benefit us, wouldn’t it have been more reasonable to give us fewer commandments? Shouldn’t He have minimized our obligations, making it easier to attain merit? The Rambam explains that this is a fundamental misunderstanding. G-d indeed desires our success. And He knows that it takes only one mitzvah—done with absolute sincerity and perfection—to earn one’s share in the World to Come.

So why did He give us so many mitzvot? Out of love. Because each individual has a unique strength, a unique spiritual “fastball.” For one person, it may be kindness; for another, it might be Torah study. For some, it may be prayer, or Shabbos, or care for others. Each mitzvah represents a different gateway to spiritual greatness.

Hashem, in His wisdom, provided us with a vast array of mitzvos, so that each person could find the one that resonates most deeply, the one they can perfect, the one that reflects their soul’s unique calling. That, says the Rambam, is the ultimate expression of Divine love.

Our task in life, then, is to discover our personal fastball—the mitzvah that speaks most to us, the area in which we naturally excel—and to devote ourselves to it with clarity, passion, and purpose. Refine it. Perfect it. Let it carry you to greatness. Let it be your ticket to eternity.

Rabbi Label Lam

This Far

I recently saw an image of a sign meant to inspire continued effort in preparing for Pesach. The message read: “You didn’t come this far to only come this far.” But the message, to me, resonates far beyond just Pesach preparation. It carries a national and even global significance.

We are standing on the one-yard line of history. This is the final push, the goal-line stand. When the journey becomes most difficult, that is precisely when the determined rise. Now is not the time to grow weary or to retreat.

We must keep our focus, our resolve, and our hearts set on the ultimate goal. We owe it to the generations that paved the way before us. We owe it to Hashem. We owe it to ourselves. Because truly—you didn’t come this far to only come this far.