Rabbi Daniel Coren

The Soul in Eden

A few months following October 7^th, one of my close students, Yehuda, decided to visit Tel HaShomer, the rehabilitation center in Israel where soldiers who have suffered the most devastating injuries, often losing arms or legs, receive treatment. I encouraged him to go. “First off,” I told him, “you’ll receive a blessing from a soldier who has literally put his life on the line for the Jewish people. And second, you’ll have the opportunity to uplift them and to strengthen them emotionally and spiritually.”

Yehuda went without hesitation. He wasn’t afraid. He entered hospital rooms with courage and sincerity. He spoke openly to the wounded soldiers, expressing gratitude, asking for their blessings. And there, in that sacred place, he formed a bond with a young man named Eden.

As their friendship grew, Yehuda said to him, “You have to meet my teacher.” And so, one day, he FaceTimed me. When Eden’s face appeared on the screen, my heart filled with joy. There I was, looking at another precious Jewish soul. After a few minutes of conversation, I asked him gently, “Eden, would you be open to learning a little Torah each day—just two minutes?”

Amazingly, he agreed. We began learning Pirkei Avos, one short teaching each day. Over time, we expanded to the Talmudic tractates of Berachos and Shabbos. Meanwhile, Eden was also dating a young woman, and slowly but surely, he began observing Shabbos and studying the laws of Family Purity.

It all started with just one Mishnah a day.

As we continued learning, and he became more comfortable, Eden surprised me one day by saying, “I want to add something else.” “What would that be?” I asked. “Shemirat Einayim (guarding my eyes),” he replied.

I was nearly in tears. This was a young man with almost no formal Jewish background, and here he was, asking to learn about personal modesty and visual restraint, a concept that even many religious Jews find difficult to embrace. I quickly found a book on the subject, and we began learning together.

Eventually, I asked him, “Eden, I never asked—why this topic?” He looked at me and said, in Hebrew, “I want to come home and feel moved when I see my wife.” He explained: “If I’m always looking around at everything and everyone, that special moment of seeing her will lose its meaning.”

And I thought to myself, Ribbono Shel Olam, we grow up with Torah, mitzvos, teachings about spiritual discipline and restraint. We have all the sources and all the rules. But here is a Jew, unaffiliated and barely introduced to tradition, and from deep within his neshama, he understands that the truest connection he can have with his future wife will be built through this kind of inner purity. I told him, “Eden, you’ve inspired me.”

One of my favorite things to do in Israel is to take cab rides. You never know who you’ll meet. Sometimes it’s a man with a shaved head who doesn’t look outwardly Jewish at all. But after just a few moments of conversation, you realize he is, and sometimes, he becomes your teacher.

Not long ago, I was in Tel Aviv. I got into a cab, and within seconds, the driver said to me, “Rabbi, would you like to hear a Torah thought?” “Of course,” I answered. “I live with G-d every day,” he told me. “You know why? Because I know that my neshama is a piece of Hashem.”

I was stunned. This man, who didn’t look religious or observant, was reminding me of one of the deepest truths: when you know that your essence is part of something holy, you live differently.

Often, when we face spiritual or moral struggles, we forget who we truly are. But if we could remember, even for a moment, that we carry within us something sacred, temptation would lose its power.

Sometimes, it takes a wounded soldier or a cab driver to remind us of that truth.

Rabbi Avi Wiesenfeld

Pull the Plug

Korach’s rebellion is one of the most perplexing episodes in the Torah. What exactly was going on? Challenging the authority of Moshe Rabbeinu—the very man who led the Jewish people out of Egypt, who split the sea, who ascended Har Sinai to receive the Torah, and who provided them with food from heaven—it seems entirely irrational.

So how could Korach, a brilliant and respected individual—as Rashi notes, a Torah scholar of stature—fall into such an absurd rebellion?

The Midrash gives us the key: “His eyes misled him.” Korach allowed himself to be blinded by what he wanted to see. He ignored what he knew. Despite his intellect, despite his Torah knowledge, he gave in to ego, ambition, and jealousy.

To better understand this dynamic, consider the following parable.

There was once a highly regarded institution for individuals with cognitive disabilities. It was known for its unmatched success in treating and supporting people across a wide range of mental capacities. Experts from around the world were baffled. How did they manage to assess and treat each person with such accuracy?

A curious journalist decided to investigate. After persistent efforts, he secured a meeting with the institution’s lead specialist, the mind behind the operation. “What’s your secret?” he asked.

The man smiled. “When someone arrives, we fill a bathtub with water and hand them a spoon, a fork, and a cup. We ask them to empty the tub.”

The journalist nodded, intrigued. “Ah, I see. The one who uses the cup must be the most capable.”

“No,” the specialist replied. “The one who pulls out the plug is the most capable.”

The lesson is profound.

How often in life do we act like the person with the spoon—investing time, energy, and intellect into tasks or causes that simply don’t make sense—when the wiser path is right in front of us? How often do we let emotion override intellect, ego cloud truth, or ambition drown out humility?

Korach was a man of brilliance. But brilliance alone doesn’t guarantee clarity. When we allow our “eyes”—our desires, impulses, or emotions—to lead, we risk undermining even our most basic truths.

The message is timeless and deeply personal: Stay honest. Stay clear. Don’t let your gifts blind you.

Sometimes, just pull the plug.

Rabbi Shlomo Farhi

Damage Uncontrolled

There is a striking and deeply thought-provoking Pasuk in Parshat Korach that deserves our attention, especially when placed alongside another well-known moment in the Torah.

As the conflict with Korach escalates—when rebellion is erupting and chaos is unfolding—Hashem turns to Moshe with a chilling command: “Separate yourselves from this wicked assembly, and I will destroy them in an instant” (Bamidbar 16:21). G-d is prepared to wipe out the entire group. The rebellion, though originally directed against Moshe, had spiraled beyond him. It now questioned the Torah itself, its Divine origin and its authority.

And how does Moshe respond? He and Aharon fall on their faces in prayer and protest: “G-d, Master of all spirits, shall one man sin, and You become angry at the entire assembly?” (ibid. v. 22).

This plea is not only emotional; it’s theologically profound. Moshe is invoking G-d’s identity as the knower of all hearts, the One who can distinguish the guilty from the innocent. Why should the entire nation suffer because of one man’s mistake?

But what happens next is unexpected.

G-d responds yes, but not by agreeing to save the entire camp. Rather, He instructs Moshe to tell the people: “Withdraw from the dwellings of Korach, Datan, and Aviram.” A separation is demanded—not only spiritually, but physically. The nation is warned to distance themselves, and a strict ban is placed on any contact with Korach's belongings. And then, as we know, the earth opens its mouth and swallows Korach and his followers whole.

But it doesn't end there.

A plague suddenly begins to spread through the people. This wasn’t just about the leaders of the rebellion anymore. The damage had become contagious. So much so that Moshe tells Aharon to quickly take his incense pan and run—literally stand between the living and the dead—to stop the deadly plague.

Here, we see something haunting: although Moshe had protested, although he argued that “only one man sinned,” the consequences engulfed many more. The tragedy extended beyond the guilty.

And this brings us to an earlier, contrasting moment in the Torah.

When Hashem informed Avraham that He was going to destroy the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah, Avraham protested passionately. “Will You sweep away the righteous with the wicked? Far be it from You… Shall the Judge of all the earth not act justly?” (Bereishis 18:23-25). And G-d agrees. If Avraham can find 50 righteous people, He will spare the entire city. Then 45. Then 40. Then 30. Eventually, there aren’t even ten.

So why was Hashem responsive to Avraham’s plea, but not to Moshe’s? Why did Moshe’s powerful argument—“Shall one man sin and You punish all”—fall short?

Our Sages point to a fundamental truth about the nature of machloket.

It is not like other sins. It spreads like fire. Once ignited, it is nearly impossible to contain. Even if it began with one man, its consequences ripple uncontrollably. It becomes a force that burns through everything in its path, regardless of who lit the match or who happens to be in the way.

Imagine someone lighting a match in a dry forest. The fire doesn’t care who owns the trees or whose homes stand in its way. It consumes indiscriminately.

That is the danger of machloket. It may start with a single person’s grievance, but it quickly spirals into widespread destruction. And even the innocent can get caught in its path.

This isn't just theory—it’s history.

The Talmud tells us that in the generation of King Achav, the people worshipped idols, yet when they went to war, no one died. Why? Because there was peace among them (Yerushalmi Pe’ah 1:1). Unity—even among sinners—brought protection. On the other hand, when there is conflict, even among the righteous, blessing is withdrawn.

Rashi (Bereishis 11:19) famously comments on the Generation of the Tower of Bavel, saying: “Great is peace, for even when they acted against G-d, because they were united, He did not destroy them immediately.”

Peace sustains even the undeserving; division destroys even the worthy.

This truth plays out tragically in the life of one of the greatest Kabbalists in Jewish history, the Arizal (Rabbi Isaac Luria). The Arizal, despite his towering holiness and spiritual achievements, passed away at the young age of 38. He sensed beforehand that a heavenly decree had been issued against him. Yet he told his students: “As long as there is peace among you, I will live.”

For months, his students lived in harmony. But eventually, a dispute broke out, initially between two wives of the students. The husbands were drawn in, emotions flared, and the conflict spread into the circle of the Arizal’s disciples. That Friday night, after praying the Kabbalat Shabbat service in the fields of Tzfat, the Arizal returned deeply troubled. He told his students: “I saw the Angel of Destruction. I heard the decree. I will not survive this.” That Rosh Chodesh Av, he fell ill—and passed away.

Was the Arizal guilty of anything? Of course not. He pleaded with his students to maintain peace. But that is the tragic power of machloket. Once unleashed, it does not discriminate.

Even in the case of Sodom—wicked as they were—Avraham was able to intercede. But when it comes to a nation torn apart by internal division, the very fabric of the people unravels. There is no one to defend.

That is the warning the Torah is giving us.

We must learn to recognize the fire before it spreads. To sense when conflict is becoming toxic. To walk away, to seek peace, to guard unity—because the cost of machloket is never contained. And too often, the people who suffer the most are the ones who deserve it the least.

May we merit to live lives filled with peace, to be among those who bring people together and not tear them apart. And may we soon see the ultimate time of harmony, the days of Mashiach, speedily in our time.

Rabbi Dovid Goldwasser

The Song of Courage

It wasn’t so long ago that Jews were being taken, day by day, to Auschwitz, or Oświęcim, as the Germans called it. There, they were murdered—gassed, shot, buried alive. Unspeakable horrors. It’s difficult to even think about, let alone speak about.

And yet, as these horrors unfolded, the local Polish population often stood by. They watched as our brothers and sisters, Acheinu Bnei Yisrael, were marched in. They observed silently. Some joked. Some sang. And the trains kept coming.

Sometimes those trains, packed with the holiest neshamos, sat unmoved for hours, baking in the sun.

I’ve stood many times in the Umschlagplatz, the infamous site of deportation. The platform where the trains arrived and left, taking hundreds of thousands to their deaths.

But one time, just once, something extraordinary happened.

A young man named Rav Azriel Dovid stood on one of those trains. He knew he had minutes left to live before he would be marched to the gas chambers. But in those final moments, he began to sing. He composed a melody, a niggun, on the spot. His soul yearned to lift others, to offer strength, to give hope.

He sang, and others joined him. First in his train car. Then the next car. And the next. The song spread like fire—not just in voice, but in spirit. Hundreds began to sing.

Rav Azriel Dovid then turned to those around him and said: “This melody will be the hope of every Jew. Whoever risks their life to jump from this train and bring this song to the great Rebbe of Modzitz—I promise them half of my portion in the World to Come.”

Two young men jumped. One did not survive. The other made it.

He arrived—on the night of Yom Kippur—at the home of the Modzitzer Rebbe. He shared the entire story. He described how the melody spread across the train, how it resonated across Poland, Hungary, Vienna—everywhere Jews were suffering and dying. And then he said: “Rebbe, I was sent to sing the melody for you.”

And he sang:

“Ani Ma’amin.”

“I believe.”

The Ani Ma’amin, a melody that became world-famous. It spread across the Jewish world, not through telephone or radio, but by the fire of Jewish soul, passed from heart to heart, word to word, tear to tear.

The Rebbe stood before his congregation and declared: “Tonight, there will be no drasha. No words. We will only sing this melody.”

And they sang. All night long.

And to this very day, their hallowed voices are still ringing.

Rabbi Label Lam

Let’s Go

It’s always interesting to see the conceptual interplay between letters of the same word when they are anagrammed. Ratzon, desire (the root letters being reish, tzadi and nun)—“In the way a person wants (rotzeh) to go, G-d leads him” (Makkos 10b). And when a person has a strong enough desire, it creates a tzinor (same letters as above), a channel, a pipeline. And that pipeline needs protection (netzor; same letters). It is a caution to watch what you really want. “More than you guard anything, guard (netzor) your heart, for from it are the sources of life” (Mishlei 4:23). And the Vilna Gaon says that the word netzor reflects a very strong type of protecting.

And now that we understand that, narutz, let’s go. Let’s run.