Rabbi Naftali Horowitz

Unplugged for Life

After one of my recent shared Vayimaen videos, my office assistant sent me an email. A man from overseas had phoned the office, urgently emphasizing that he wished to speak to me. “It’s extremely important,” she said.

As soon as I dialed his number and the man picked up the phone, he began to choke up with emotion. “Naftali,” he finally got out, between his breaths, “I just want to thank you and the people behind Vayimaen for saving my daughter’s life.” I was taken aback, as he began to recount what had transpired the other day.

“It had been a particularly difficult and draining day at work. I finally wrapped things up and was about to head out, when I was overcome by a moment of weakness. I began to click on something I knew I shouldn’t, when suddenly the imagery your portrayed in one of your previous Vayimaen videos flashed before my eyes. It was of a bull tied to a tree by a shoelace. The bull, now fully grown and developed, is certainly much stronger than the shoelace, and yet it has been habituated to believe it cannot break loose. At that moment, I walked straight to the plug of my computer and yanked it out, instantly running out of the office, knowing that if I would linger around any longer, I would fall.”

“That is incredible,” I said. “You embodied the very essence of Vayimaen and Vayanas Ha’chutzah. You were just like Yosef HaTzaddik who fled outside to escape the wife of Potiphar.”

“But that’s only the beginning of the story,” he went on. “My house is about twelve minutes away from my office. But as I pulled onto my street, to my horror, I noticed five Hatzalah vehicles in front of my house. My heart dropped. Something was very wrong. I rushed inside, only to see my daughter collapsed in the foyer, surrounded by multiple Hatzalah team members. They were attempting to resuscitate her. I looked around and saw my wife and other children, sitting and standing in different corners, their eyes stricken with tears as they mumbled words of Tehillim. They were scared, and so was I. My wife was inconsolable, unable to bear the sight of our daughter, who had underwent a seizure, fallen backwards, banged her head and stopped breathing.”

“Baruch Hashem, Hatzalah managed to revive her. But what I later patched together, after inquiring of the details from my family and the members of Hatzalah, shook me to my core. The exact minute that they had initially got back her pulse was when I pulled out the plug at my computer at my office. And that’s why I wanted to call you. To thank you. That imagery you painted for me with the bull tied to a tree on a shoelace saved my daughter’s life.”

“This moment may very well shape the rest of your life forever,” I finally said.

After letting the man’s words sink in for a few moments, I went on to ask. “Let me ask you one thing. If, chas v’shalom, you would have succumbed to your yetzer hara and then returned home, only to find the unthinkable—your daughter had not made it—what would you have done?” “I’d never be able to forgive myself,” he said. “I would forever blame myself and wouldn’t know how to live with what I had done.”

“I thought you would say that,” I responded. “And let me tell you, you’d be wrong. The Torah tells us, ‘Lo yum’su banim al avos—Children will not perish due to the iniquities of their father’ (Devarim 24:16). So allow me to offer another perspective. I do not have ruach ha’kodesh, but I believe this to be so.

“At the moment you stood in your office, there must have been a debate going on in Shamayim. Your daughter’s time to return her soul to Heaven had arrived, and the Malach HaMaves (Angel of Death) was about to be dispatched to carry out his bidding. But before he could, the Malach Refael stood up and interceded. “She is young. She isn’t yet married and she hasn’t brought children into the world. How can her time be up?”

“The Satan, though, was unconvinced. “Her judgment is final. Nothing more can be done. Her time is up.” But the Malach Rafael didn’t give up. “Let me find a zechus (merit) that will give her more time on earth.” The problem was that nothing could be found with which to grant her extra life. Until the Malach Rafael said, “I know what we can do. What if we give her father a test, an extremely difficult test? If he passes that, it will accrue to his daughter as a merit and that will be enough to give her more years.”

“It was at that moment that you were faced with a tremendous struggle. But you didn’t give in and falter. Instead, you stood up, pulled the plug, and fled the office. And in doing so, you gave your daughter her life.”

“You must never forget that moment,” I told the father. “It was through you and your own overcoming of an unbelievably overwhelming struggle which granted your daughter the zechus she needed. As she grows older and is eventually walked by you down to her chuppah, and she builds her own family, and you watch your grandchildren and experience the nachas of her family, remember. Remember what you have done, and let it continue to affect you and change you.”

We never know the power of what one moment can do, what effects it can have, what lives it can change. And sometimes, what lives it can save.

Rabbi Zechariah Wallerstein zt”l

The Heat of Day

Parshas Tazria speaks about the mitzvah of giving a baby boy a bris milah on the eighth day. The first time we learn about this mitzvah, however, is back in Sefer Bereishis.

There, in Parshas Va’yeira, the Torah tells us that Hashem appeared to Avraham Avinu on the third day following his bris milah “K’chom ha’yom—In the heat of the day” (Bereishis 18:1). The Baal HaTurim notes that the gematria (numerical value) of the words K’chom ha’yom are both Gehinnom and Dam milah (the blood of circumcision). Why would these words, which describe the weather, have anything to do with the fires of Gehinnom and the mitzvah of bris milah?

The Gemara (Eruvin 19a) says that Avraham Avinu sits at the entrance of Gehinnom and prevents anyone who has a bris milah from entering. Now, what does this mean? First off, what about women who don’t have a bris milah? Secondly, how does Avraham Avinu know who does or does not have a bris milah? The Neshamah, after a person passes away, separates from the body, which remains and disintegrates in the grave. How can Avraham Avinu know if the body underwent a bris milah if he only sees the Neshamah? Lastly, simply because a person has a piece of skin cut off, even if he commits every sin in the Torah, he’ll be spared from everything? How can that be?

To answer this, we must turn to the Zohar. The Zohar explains that the orlah, foreskin, is not simply a physical barrier which is removed, but a spiritual blockage. When a person passes away after one hundred and twenty years and doesn’t contain a spiritual barrier over his Neshamah, Avraham Avinu notices and ensures he will not enter Gehinnom.

With this, we can answer our questions. Removing the spiritual impediments and blockages in life applies to women as much as to men. As well, Avraham Avinu doesn’t look toward the body to check if the bris milah was performed, but rather to the Neshamah. And lastly, it is not simply the cutting away of physical, human skin which grants a person this protective merit, but the effort to clear away any spiritual tumah from his or her life, so they can be free of any spiritual barriers.

How, though, does a person remove this spiritual orlah, especially if he has committed aveiros in his life?

The answer, says the Zohar, is with the knife of teshuva. When a person changes their ways, they cut away the spiritual growths which cover their Neshamah.

This is why K’chom ha’yom references Gehinnom. Avraham Avinu, so to speak, sits “in the heat of the day”—at the entrance to Gehinnom—preventing anyone who has a spiritual bris milah from entering. Just as Avraham Avinu did so when he himself underwent his own bris milah in this world, he does the same in the Next World.

But this leaves us with a new question. If a person who has a bris milah like Avraham Avinu does not enter Gehinnom, why would he be sitting in the heat of the day? If he is not in Gehinniom, he should outside and away from the heat of the day, not in it?

The answer is that there’s another heat of the day which the Pasuk is alluding to. The Gemara (Chagigah 12a) tells us that at the time of the creation of the world, Hashem created a special, spiritual light (“Ohr HaGanuz”) which he hid away for the tzaddikim in the World to Come. While this supernal light was originally intended to brighten up this world, Hashem determined that those who were wicked were not deserving of it, and therefore stored it away to be later benefited by the tzaddikim.

This is what is otherwise meant by the ‘heat of the day.’ When someone who has underwent a spiritual bris milah in their life on this earth removes the spiritual barriers which cover their Neshama, when they arrive in Heaven, they do not enter Gehinnom. They do not sit in that heat of the day. Rather, specifically because they have done teshuva and removed the orlah around their Neshama, they sit in a different heat of the day—the light of the Ohr HaGanuz.

Now, sometimes we wonder if we are worthy or capable of meriting this. How can we, so immersed and stuck in our old ways and habits, break free and change? How can we do teshuvah if we are so far gone? It’s just about impossible to overcome the challenges of life in our modern day.

The Midrash (Bereishis Rabbah 49:2) says that when Avraham Avinu began to circumcise himself, he was scared. At his elderly age of ninety-nine, it wasn’t a simple feat to circumcise himself alone. What happened? Hashem stretched out His Hand to hold Avraham’s, and together, they performed the bris milah.

If you ever think that your challenges to spiritually circumcise yourself are too hard, too much, too beyond you, do one thing: reach out to Hashem. Tell Hashem that you need His help. “I can’t do it alone. I need You.” And He will come to your side and hold your hand.

Life is not a light matter. It’s very serious and we must recognize that our every action leaves a mark, leaves an impact. But teshuvah can change that all and remove the spiritual impediments. We just need to try, and if we are ever overwhelmed, turn to Hashem. If we do so, when we arrive in Shamayim and come before Hashem, Avraham Avinu will be there and see us and say, “You have a bris milah. You do not belong in Gehinnom. You belong in Gan Eden with us.”

Rabbi Yehuda Zev Klein

When Illusion Meets Treasures

As we are introduced to the discussion of Tzaraas in this week’s Parsha, we learn that it can appear on a person’s home, then garments, and finally body, should a person not take to heart the warning Hashem is giving and continue in his old ways. When detailing how it appears on one’s house, the Torah tells us: “And the one who has a home shall come and tell the Kohen, saying, ‘Like a nega (affliction) has appeared to me in the house” (Vayikra 14:35).

The man’s words, however, are striking. Why does he say, “Like an affliction has appeared to me in the house.” He should simply say, “An affliction has appeared to me in the house.” Why does he qualify it ambiguously by saying, ‘K’nega—Like an affliction’?

The Vilna Gaon offers a profound insight.

The Mishnah (Shabbos 29b) discusses one who extinguishes a candle on Shabbos. If he does so in order to protect himself from non-Jewish enemies, bandits, or to allay his spirit or for a sick person so he can sleep, he is exempt. However, if he does so in order to conserve the candle, the oil or the wick, he is liable for violating Shabbos.

Notably, in phrasing this latter law, the Mishnah say, “K’chas al ha’ner, k’chas al ha’shemen, k’chas al he’pesilah,” which literally translates as, ‘Like he conserves the candle, like he conserves the oil, like he conserves the wick.’ Why, asks the Gaon, does the Mishnah phrase itself with the letter chaf prefix? It should simply have said that he preserves the candle, oil or wick outright?

The Gaon explains brilliantly. The word k’chas is not just referencing what the person does, but his mindset, his attitude. In such unnecessary cases when a person extinguishes the candle or oil or wick, he believes that he will be conserving these to be used later. But he should not have been worried and feel the need conserve them. And this is because the Gemara (Beitzah 16a) tells us that a person’s annual income is determined on Rosh Hashanah, except for his expenditures of Shabbos and Yom Tov. What is spent and used toward the honor of Shabbos and Yom Tov is not counted toward his fixed annual income.

As such, when he extinguishes the candle thinking that he will be gaining, he is not realizing that it is but an illusion. He doesn’t need to save anything or skimp on Shabbos, because Hashem will take care of it entirely.

This is why the Mishnah employs the prefix chaf. Grammatically, the letter chaf at the beginning of a word is called a ‘chaf ha’dimyon,’ for it qualifies the meaning of the word. But chaf ha’dimyon also means ‘the illusory chaf.’ Such a person who believes they are gaining by saving a few pennies of oil or wick is not really gaining at all.

With this, we can return to our Parsha. When a homeowner discovers an affliction on his home, he may initially panic, thinking to himself, “Will I need to tear my house down? Where will my family live?” Thinking this, he runs to the Kohen and declares, “K’nega nir’ah li ba’bayis—Like an affliction has appeared to me on my house.” He reflects the same thinking. He doesn’t wish to demolish his house because it will come at great expense. However, he is missing something.

Our Sages teach (cited in Rashi, Vayikra 14:34) that the Emorites used to hide gold and silver in the walls of their home. As such, when a Jewish homeowner would demolish their home because an affliction appeared on it, they would discover those treasures. What therefore appeared at first to be a total loss and demolishment carried with it tremendous blessing. It wasn’t a true nega; it only appeared to be like one.

Lastly, we encounter this transformative prefix chaf elsewhere as well. When Hashem created a companion for Adam, He said, “I will make for him a helper k’nego—opposite him” (Bereishis 2:18).

Why k’negdo? Why not simply negedo, opposite him?

Again, the Torah is hinting to a deeper truth. A spouse may seem to oppose us. He or she may challenge us, question us, highlight our faults. But that tension is not true opposition; it is k’negdo. It only appears adversarial.

In truth, this is what makes the spouse an ezer, a helper. Constructive criticism, honest feedback, and differing perspectives are not threats to growth. They are the very conditions that make growth possible. A successful marriage is not built on uncritical praise. It flourishes when both partners help each other see what they cannot see alone. The friction of k’negdo is not a conflict; it is a catalyst.

So whether it is k’chas (a mistaken attempt to save), k’nega (a hardship that becomes a hidden gift), or k’negdo (a challenge that leads to growth), the message is the same: when we look beneath the surface, what we first perceive as loss, opposition, or suffering may turn out to be the source of our deepest blessings.

The prefix chaf reminds us that appearances can be deceiving. What seems like a nega is often the very tool Hashem uses to reveal our hidden treasures.

Rabbi Label Lam

Pick up a Broom

I was recently reminded of a powerful teaching from Orchos Tzaddikim—one we used to display in our kitchen alongside a picture of a broom: "A small act done with humility is accepted before Hashem a thousand times more than a great act done with arrogance." This idea offers profound encouragement to those quietly performing everyday acts of goodness, often unnoticed by others. It affirms that genuine spiritual value lies not in the size of the deed, but in the purity of intention behind it. Reflecting on this, I almost feel inspired to pick up a broom

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