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Rabbi Daniel Glatstein
Where is Lag Ba'Omer Hiding?
At a Lag Ba’Omer tisch, the Sar Shalom of Belz once spoke about the extraordinary Hashgacha surrounding the placement of the story of R’ Shimon bar Yochai and his son R’ Elazar—who fled Roman persecution—in none other than Mesechta Shabbos, Daf 33. But not only Daf 33, but specifically Amud Beis (the second side of the folio), a clear allusion to 33b, or Lag Ba’Omer itself. Such precision, he observed, is not coincidental.
One of his eminent disciples, R’ Shalom Mi’kaminka, pointed out an even further insight. He noted that in this very story, where R’ Shimon famously states, “All that the Romans established, they only did so for their own benefit,” which led to R’ Shimon going into hiding, is not only found on 33b, but astonishingly is also the 33rd recorded statement of R’ Shimon bar Yochai in the entire Shas. The numerical resonance between R’ Shimon and the number 33 is undeniable.
The Aruch HaShulchan (Orach Chaim 493:7) records that R’ Shimon emerged from the cave on Lag Ba’Omer. The Bnei Yissasschar teaches that he was born on Lag Ba’Omer. And of course, according to our tradition, Lag Ba’Omer marks his hilula, his passing from this world.
This inspired me to wonder. If R’ Shimon is so deeply connected to the number 33, might there be a link to the 33rd Perek (chapter) in Tehillim?
Now, one might ask: are the chapter divisions in Tehillim truly meaningful? Is there any intrinsic significance to the number assigned to a given Perek?
This has long been a subject of my interest and research. And I found sources affirming that the numbering of chapters in Tehillim is no coincidence.
The Chidah, in his commentary on Chapter 131, writes that the theme of that chapter—Dovid Hamelech’s profound humility ("my heart was not haughty”)—is perfectly suited to its numerical position of 131. Why? Because 131 is the gematria (numerical value) of anavah, humility. Thus, the Chidah affirms a correlation between the content of a chapter and its number.
Similarly, the Kozhnitzer Maggid, in Seder Avodas Yisroel (Likkutim), observes that Perek 42 in Tehillim, which includes the verse, “My soul years for Hashem,” reflects a yearning that aligns with the tone of Sefiras Ha’Omer. He explains that 42 is a reference to the 42-Letter Name of Hashem as embedded in the prayer of Ana Ba’Choach, which is associated with Sefirah. Again, the number and the message align.
We also find that Chapter 91—the same gematria as the word Amen—is filled with references to angels: “He will command His angels on your behalf.” And when one says a beracha with concentration, an angel is created who then answers Amen to that person’s beracha (Bigdei Yesha 167:33 in the name of the Arizal). Here again, the number of the Perek matches its content.
In the Sefer Nishmas Kol Chai, it is brought from the Megaleh Amukos that the 100th Chapter in Tehilim—Mizmor Le’Todah—corresponds to the 100 daily blessings one must recite. The word Modim, central to gratitude, is itself 100 in gematria, and thus it is no surprise that Dovid Hamelech designated Chapter 100 as the chapter of thanksgiving.
This principle is already embedded in the Gemara. In Megillah (17b), the Gemara explains why the Blessing for the Seasons (Birchas Ha’Shanim) was placed as the ninth blessing. R’ Alexandri explains that it because of the Pasuk in the 9th Chapter of Tehillim, “Break the arm of the wicked,” a prayer against those who manipulate food prices. (The Gemara there explains that these words are counted as the 9th Chapter, despite actually being in the 10th, as two earlier chapters are counted together). Here again, the chapter’s numerical placement carries halachic and liturgical significance.
Returning now to Chapter 33… With all this in mind, the Sefer Orah V’Simcha by R’ Avraham Simcha Howoritz points to a number of beautiful allusions to Lag Ba’Omer. Chapter 33 is indeed the chapter of Lag Ba’Omer.
The words, “Mim’chon shivto hish’giach—From His dwelling place He oversees”—an expression of Divine providence, the roshei teivos (the first letter of each word) equal the gematria of Lag Ba’Omer (345). In Pasuk 19, moreover, it says, “To save their souls from death,” a veiled allusion to the end of the plague which claimed the lives of R’ Akiva’s students.
The chapter continues: “For on that day his heart will rejoice,” a verse which speaks to the joyous nature of Lag Ba’Omer.
Additionally, there is a striking musical connection. Lag Ba’Omer is marked by the end of mourning practices and the return of song and celebration. And Chapter 33 is replete with reference to musical instruments: “Praise Hashem with the harp”; “With a lyre of ten melodies sing to Him”; “Play well with joyful song;” “Sing to Him a new song.”
And of course, the opening words, “Ranenu Tzaddikim—Rejoice, O righteous ones.” The Zohar often refers to R’ Shimon as ‘HaTzaddik,’ making this phrase particularly resonant.
So the next time you open the 33rd Chapter of Tehillim, take a moment. Read slowly and sing. Embedded within its verses are the secrets and song of Lag Ba’Omer, the joy of the students of R’ Akiva, and the eternal light of R’ Shimon bar Yochai.
Rabbi Joey Haber
Windows in Jail
Shortly before my father’s yahrzeit, I managed to find the only remaining minyan where I could still say Kaddish. I prayed, gave tzedakah to a few different causes, and was just about to leave when a few people came over to exchange blessings and kind words. I listened, appreciated the warmth, and then made my way out of the Kotel plaza, only to find there were no cabs.
My plan was to make my way back to my hotel. I headed toward the Shaar Yafo, where I saw a couple of security guards, and asked if any cabs were coming. “Yeah,” one of them said, “about one every ten minutes.” I nodded and began walking away.
Just then, one of the guards called out, “Where are you headed?” I told him the name of my hotel. At that moment, an older Jewish couple happened to walk by, who must have overheard what he had said. “Oh, we're heading to that hotel,” they said. “Do you want a ride?” I thanked them and accepted the offer. As I was walking toward their car, the man turned and asked, “Wait, who are you again?” I smiled and said, “I don't know… maybe Joey Haber?” He laughed warmly. “Oh, we love your messages. Beautiful stuff.”
I got into the car, and as we started driving, the man said, “Can I share a story with you?” I nodded. That’s the price of hitching a ride with strangers, but it turned out to be more than worth it.
He began.
“My wife’s grandfather was a Holocaust survivor from a town in Romania called Sighet. He was a wealthy man and had gone to Budapest on business. While he was there, the Nazis invaded Romania, and he was forced to remain in Budapest throughout the war. After the war, he returned to Sighet and found that many Jewish children had been left orphaned and were now in Romanian orphanages. Romania was under communist rule at the time, but since he had both the means and the heart, he took it upon himself to rescue these children. Quietly, he began smuggling them out and sending them to safer Jewish communities.
Eventually, the Romanian authorities caught him. They gave him a choice: either betray the others involved in the rescue effort or go to jail. Without hesitation, he refused to turn anyone in. A court case followed, and the judge sentenced him to 27 years in prison. Upon hearing the verdict, he actually smiled. The judge, puzzled, asked, ‘Why are you smiling?’ He replied, ‘Because I’m not a young man. I didn’t know I’d live another 27 years. Thank you for telling me I have that long left.’ And with that, he was taken to prison.
In the end, he served seven years. The Vizhnitzer Rebbe and Skulener Rebbe worked together to have him released. But here’s the extraordinary part: this man knew Mishnayot by heart. All of Shas. His whole life, people would see his lips moving, constantly reviewing.
In prison, he found a bar of soap and used it to write a new Mishnah on the window each day. He would then teach that Mishnah to the other Jews in the prison. Every day, a new Mishnah. He would review it, teach it, and move on to the next one.
We only learned about this after he passed away in his 80s. During the shiva, people came and shared their memories: ‘I learned the entire Masechet Peah with him,’ one said. Another, ‘I learned Bava Batra.’ Some had learned entire Sedarim—multiple Masechtot—with him. Six days a week, for seven years, he wrote and taught a Mishnah.”
The man paused, then added: “I’m sure he davened to leave prison. I’m sure he begged Hashem. But Hashem’s response was: ‘Leaving prison may be what you want. But staying—and giving of yourself with mesirut nefesh—is what others need from you. It’s what you are needed for.’”
After his release, the man rebuilt a life. He raised children and grandchildren who brought light to the world through Torah and mitzvot. In fact, he had grown up in the same neighborhood as Elie Wiesel. Years later, he bumped into Elie and said, “Elie, you were a chasidish boy once. What happened to you?” That comment planted a seed. Slowly, Wiesel began reconnecting with his Judaism.
Another time, he was walking on Shabbat when a car pulled over. A man jumped out, shook his hand, and said, “Do you remember me? From Sighet?” The man looked at him and said, “Do I remember you?! You’re driving on Shabbat! You were a religious Jew!” He pointed at the car and said, “Leave it right there. Don’t move it until after Shabbat. You’re Shomer Shabbat—I don’t want to hear anything else.” And the driver listened. In time, he came back to full observance, even wearing a shtreimel and embracing his chassidic roots.
Sometimes, Hashem decides that your path leads out of the jail. And sometimes, He says: You’re not done here yet. There’s something greater waiting to emerge from your darkness. Just like Esther Hamalkah. Just like Dovid Hamelech. Just like countless Jews throughout history.
In the end, we don’t want Hashem to give us what we want. We want Him to give us what we need. We may think we know where we’re going, but we’re oftentimes running around a maze. Only Hashem sees the full picture. And that is what tefillah is—asking not for our will to be done, but for His.
Rabbi YY Jacobson
Don’t Hide, My Child
This is one of the most profound insights I’ve ever encountered.
Immediately after Adam and Chava violate the singular commandment Hashem gave them—not to eat from the Tree of Knowledge—what happens next? What is the first scene that follows?
“And Adam and his wife hid” (Bereishis 3:8). They retreat into the trees of the Garden, away from Hashem. Remarkably, Hashem begins to seek them out. He calls to Adam and says, “Ayeka—Where are you?" (ibid. v. 9).
Adam responds, “I heard Your voice in the garden, and I was afraid, so I hid” (ibid. v.10).
And Hashem replies, , “From the tree which I commanded you not to eat, you ate?” (ibid. v.11).
But here is the question. What should have been Hashem’s first question to Adam? Shouldn’t it have been, “Why?” Why did you eat from the tree? I told you not to; why did you disobey?
Yet that is not the first question. The first question is, “Where are you?” Why are you hiding from Me?
This, I believe, is the deeper tragedy of the sin of the Tree of Knowledge, and of so many of our own failings in life. The sin itself was serious, yes. But the greater tragedy was what followed: the shame, the concealment, the loss of relationship.
After eating from the tree, Adam and Chava came to a devastating conclusion: We can no longer face Hashem. He can no longer face us. And so they hid—from Him, and ultimately, from themselves.
They withdrew physically, emotionally, spiritually. That’s what truly damages the soul. That’s what breaks us.
But Hashem calls out: Where are you? Why are you hiding from Me? You are My child. I created you. I love you. I formed the entire world so that we could be in relationship with one another.
Yes, you made a mistake, but why hide? Come out. Let Me see you. Let us cry together. And then—when the tears have passed—we can dance together.
Rabbi Elchonon Jacobovitz
Crumbs of Love
Recently, I was on a layover flight from Tel Aviv to Dubai. Seated just in front of me was a secular Israeli young woman whose appearance was, at first glance, jarring—tattoos, body piercings, and an aura that seemed to reflect a world far removed from spiritual refinement.
But then, two hours into the flight, this same young woman turned around and addressed me with surprising sincerity and respect: “Kvod HaRav, excuse me: if I forgot to daven Mincha, is it still possible to pray?”
In that single moment, my entire perception shifted. Here was someone who, in the midst of a seemingly chaotic and indulgent world, was still making space for the Ribono Shel Olam, the Master of the Universe.
In Shir HaShirim (Song of Songs), the collective voice of Klal Yisrael calls out in longing: “Im timtze’u es dodi, mah tagidu lo? Shecholas ahavah ani—If you find my Beloved, what shall you tell Him? That I am lovesick” (Shir HaShirim 5:8). The Midrash explains: “Af al pi shecholah ani—ahuvah ani lo.” Even though I am spiritually ill—even though I am immersed in a world that distracts and distorts—I remain beloved to Him.
That phrase—Af al pi shecholah ani, cholat ahavah ani—has the power to reframe everything. Despite the struggle, despite the darkness, there remains a flicker of love, a yearning, a connection.
Let me share a story that illustrates this.
Yossele was a young, impoverished orphan who lived alone with his mother. One day at cheder, his Rebbe walked in and joyfully announced, “Kinderlach, I have a surprise for you—I brought cake in honor of the siyum we celebrated yesterday!”
The boys were ecstatic. Cake was a rare and cherished treat. As the Rebbe distributed slices, each child eagerly devoured his portion, except for Yossele. He sat quietly, carefully wrapping his piece in a napkin and slipping it into his pocket. He thought to himself, “My mother does everything for me. I must bring this cake home to her.”
But as the day wore on, the temptation grew. After an hour, he reached into his pocket, broke off a small piece, and tasted it. A little while later, the struggle repeated itself. One bite led to another. By the time the day ended, all that remained in his pocket were a few crumbs.
Still, he said to himself, “I must give her something.” He ran home, and as his mother greeted him, he looked into her eyes and burst into tears.
“Yossele, what’s wrong?” she asked gently.
Through sobs, he explained, “Mame, you don’t understand. The Rebbe gave out cake, and I wanted so badly to bring it to you. I tried—I really tried—but I couldn’t resist. I ate a little, then a little more, and now… all I have left is a crumb.”
His mother asked to see it. He pulled the napkin from his pocket and handed it to her. She opened it, looked at the crumb, and kissed it tenderly.
“Yossele,” she said, “this crumb means the world to me. It tells the story of how hard you tried. It shows me your struggle—and that even in the struggle, you still wanted to give something to me.”
How often do we feel we’ve failed? That we have nothing to offer the Ribono Shel Olam; nothing but crumbs? But Hashem sees it differently. He looks at the crumb and says, “This tells Me everything.”
That crumb says: Life is no piece of cake. But despite it all, you’re saving for Me what you can.
Cholas ahavah ani—I am lovesick. Despite everything, I still love. And in that love lies the entire story.


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