Rabbi Yehuda Zev Klein

Standing Still for Others

This week, we read of Avraham Avinu’s extraordinary tefillah on behalf of the people of Sodom. The Torah states, “The people of Sodom were exceedingly wicked” (Bereishis 13:13). Yet Avraham was undeterred. He did not dismiss them as irredeemable or withdraw into self-righteous isolation. Instead, he prayed fervently and persistently for their salvation.

Chazal highlight the striking contrast between Noach and Avraham. Noach, despite his personal righteousness, did not pray for his generation. The Torah itself alludes to this deficiency. The floodwaters are called, “The waters of Noach.” Why should a global catastrophe bear his name? The Zohar explains that because Noach failed to daven for his people, the waters are attributed to him. His silence became part of the tragedy. But how did the Zohar know that Noach refrained from prayer?

I once heard a remarkable insight.

The Gemara (Berachos 26b) teaches that the word amidah (standing) refers to prayer. The central portion of our davening, Shemoneh Esreh, is itself called Amidah. Why is tefillah described as “standing”? Because when a person prays, especially when he prays on behalf of others, he temporarily halts his own spiritual ascent. He could have been learning Torah, growing in avodas Hashem, or pursuing his personal development. Instead, he pauses everything to intercede for another. In that moment, he becomes an omed, one who stands still.

This distinction sheds light on the difference between Avraham and Noach.

Regarding Avraham, the Torah says, “Avraham was still standing before Hashem.” (Bereishis 18:22). After the destruction of Sodom, it states that Avraham got up to stand at the place where he had previously stood before Hashem (ibid. 19:27). Avraham is repeatedly described as an omed, one who stands still, because he stopped his own personal growth to pray for others.

By contrast, Noach is described as such: “And Noach walked with G-d” (ibid. 6:9). He was a holech, one who moves, always progressing in his own spiritual journey. But a true leader must sometimes stop walking. His mission is not only to grow himself, but to stand still for the sake of others.

With this insight, we can also understand the Gemara (Berachos 54b) which says, “Whoever prolongs his prayer merits long life.” What is the connection between lengthy prayer and longevity?

Man, endowed with free will, is called a holech, a being in motion, capable of rising or falling. Angels, by contrast, are omdim, stationary beings who cannot change or ascend. When a person closes his Gemara or a mother pauses from her tasks to daven for others, they too become omdim. They suspend their own advancement to care for someone else. And so, middah k’neged middah, Heaven responds in kind. Hashem says: “If My child has stopped his spiritual clock for others, I will stop his biological clock for him.”

Thus, if someone was destined to live eighty years, but spent ten of those years immersed in heartfelt prayer, those years are not counted against him. His time spent as an omed becomes time added to his life. That is the deeper meaning of “Whoever prolongs his prayer merits long life.” The time devoted to prayer is time not deducted from life, but added to it.

This concept parallels the teaching that money spent on Shabbos, Yom Tov, or a child’s Torah education is not subtracted from one’s annual income decreed on Rosh Hashanah (Beitza 16a). Just as such spending is spiritually protected, so too is time spent in tefillah shielded from the limits of mortal years.

It is well known that the holy Chasam Sofer would daven a lengthy Shemoneh Esrei. Once, a Rosh Yeshivah davened alongside him and later remarked, “While waiting for you to finish, I learned two pages of Gemara.” The Chasam Sofer replied, “I am not worried that I’ve lost anything. The Gemara says, “Whoever prolongs his prayer merits long life.” My davening lengthens my life. I’ll have plenty of time to learn.”

The Chasam Sofer understood that leadership means sometimes halting one’s personal advancement for the sake of others. Avraham stood still; Noach walked forward. But in Hashem’s eyes, it is the one who stands still for others who truly moves the world forward, and who merits a longer life for having done so.

Rabbi Doniel Staum

Striving Through Struggle

In Parshas Vayeira, Hashem declares: “Shall I conceal from Avraham what I am about to do?” (Bereishis 18:17). Hashem has decided that the wicked cities of Sodom and Amorah must be destroyed. Yet He turns to Avraham Avinu and includes him in the Divine plan.

Rashi explains that these lands were destined to belong to Avraham, and so Hashem, as it were, consults him. But Avraham’s reaction is remarkable. Upon hearing of their impending doom, he immediately pleads for them. These were not allies. They represented everything he opposed, from cruelty to moral corruption to a society built on depravity. Yet Avraham Avinu intercedes, negotiating with Hashem for their survival: fifty righteous… forty-five… forty… thirty… twenty… ten. Finally, he stops. Many commentaries note that Avraham never imagined the number could be fewer than ten righteous souls.

Rav Yerucham Levovitz zt”l once said that Sodom was not destroyed because of the hundreds of thousands of wicked people who lived there, but because it lacked even ten good ones. That is a profound lesson in itself. But there’s a deeper question that demands our attention.

Why did Avraham plead so passionately for the people of Sodom, yet remain silent at the Bris Bein HaBesarim? In Parshas Lech Lecha, Hashem reveals to him that his descendants will be enslaved and afflicted for four hundred years. The future of Klal Yisrael—his own children—will be one of suffering and exile. Yet Avraham doesn’t utter a word of protest. He doesn’t beg, “Ribbono Shel Olam, please spare my descendants! Perhaps there will be tzaddikim among them!” But when it came to Sodom, he prayed endlessly for strangers. But when it came to his own children, he was silent. Why?

Rabbi Yecheskel Weinfeld, in his sefer Timely and Timeless, offers a beautiful and penetrating explanation. When Avraham saw Sodom, a society almost devoid of goodness, he felt compelled to beg for mercy. “They have little merit,” he reasoned, “but perhaps a few righteous people can influence the rest. Maybe there’s hope.” For such people, prayer was their only chance.

But when it came to Klal Yisrael, Avraham saw something very different. He saw a nation destined for greatness, chosen to carry Hashem’s mission to the world. And Avraham Avinu understood a fundamental truth: greatness is born only through struggle. There is no such thing as spiritual excellence without effort. No shortcuts. No instant holiness.

You can win the lottery overnight, but you cannot become a gaon overnight. To become great in Torah, in avodas Hashem, or in character takes work, persistence, and endurance through challenge. Avraham knew that the road to Eretz Yisrael must pass through Mitzrayim. The path to destiny must first go through difficulty. That is why he did not pray for the decree to be lifted. He knew that Hashem’s plan, though painful, was perfect.

I once received a letter from a close friend learning in Eretz Yisrael. He wrote that life there was beautiful but challenging. “It’s hard,” he admitted, “but Chazal say there are three things that are acquired only through suffering—Eretz Yisrael, Torah, and Olam Haba” (Berachos 5a). I guess if I’m trying to acquire all three at once, it makes sense that it’s difficult.”

What a powerful insight. Real growth never comes easily. In a world that glorifies instant results, effortless success, and viral moments of fame, the Torah reminds us that what truly lasts, what truly shapes the soul, must be earned through perseverance and faith.

Avraham Avinu teaches us that Hashem does not spare us from challenge, because it is precisely through challenge that we become who we are meant to be. The Bris Bein HaBesarim was not a curse; it was a covenant of destiny. To reach Eretz Yisrael, we must first pass through Mitzrayim. To reach spiritual greatness, we must first face and overcome our personal exiles.

That is the legacy of Avraham Avinu. He faced ten nisyonos, ten monumental tests, and emerged greater each time. He knew the truth that we must teach our children and remind ourselves: greatness requires struggle; faith requires endurance; and redemption follows only after we hold on through the darkness.

Rabbi Ari Neuwirth

The Salt That Couldn’t Share

This week we encounter one of the most dramatic and mysterious episodes in the Torah: the destruction of Sodom and the salvation of Lot and his family.

Two malachim arrive in Sodom with a dual mission: to destroy the city and to rescue Lot. They warn him that when they flee and the city is overturned, no one may look back. Yet Lot’s wife disobeys. She turns around and instantly becomes a pillar of salt.

The question, of course, is: why salt?

The Midrash explains that when the guests arrived, Lot’s wife went around to her neighbors asking for salt. But this wasn’t an innocent errand. In Sodom, hospitality was illegal. By asking for salt publicly, she was essentially broadcasting that her husband was hosting guests, a serious offense in that corrupt society. Therefore, measure for measure, she was punished by being turned into salt.

But this explanation leaves us with two difficulties.

First, how could a good homemaker not have salt at home? Salt is basic! What’s chicken soup without salt? What’s a steak, no matter how expensive, without that little sprinkle that brings it to life? Salt is essential. How could she not have it?

Second, if she truly lacked salt, why that specific punishment? If she’d been missing carrots, would she have become a monument of carrots? Clearly, there’s a deeper message here.

Rabbi Chaim Tzvi Senter offers a beautiful and penetrating insight.

Salt is an interesting substance. On its own, it tastes terrible and provides no nutrition. Yet it is indispensable. Salt enhances other flavors and elevates what’s around it. It doesn’t exist for itself; its entire purpose is to serve and bring out the best in others.

That, says Rabbi Senter, is the key.

The wife of Lot lived in a culture where the very idea of giving was anathema. Sodom was built on selfishness, on cruelty disguised as law. “What’s mine is mine,” they said, and they meant it. They refused to help the poor, to feed the hungry, or even to welcome a stranger.

Lot’s wife had internalized that mindset. She had no salt at home because salt symbolizes helping others. It doesn’t stand alone, as it exists to complement, to assist, to enhance. She wanted no part of that. Her life was about herself and her own comfort, her reputation, her possessions. She didn’t want to be salt.

Measure for measure, Hashem made her into exactly what she rejected. He turned her into salt, forever frozen in a state of giving that she detested.

For all eternity, she remains the ultimate symbol of midah k’neged midah: a monument of salt that cannot give., She became an eternal reminder that the refusal to share ultimately transforms a person into stone—motionless, lifeless, and forever alone.

Salt, the Torah teaches, is what makes life flavorful not just in our food, but in our character. The one who lives for others, who adds flavor to someone else’s life, becomes part of something eternal. The one who keeps it all to themselves becomes like Lot’s wife—a pillar, yes, but a pillar of salt.

Rabbi Doniel Osher Kleinman

A Life of Kiddush Hashem

One of the most exalted levels a Jew can reach is to be moser nefesh al Kiddush Hashem, to give up his life for the sanctification of Hashem’s Name. Throughout our history, Klal Yisrael has produced countless martyrs, holy kedoshim, who did just that.

From the Spanish Inquisition to the Crusades, from the massacres of Eastern Europe to the horrors of the Holocaust, generation after generation of Jews have stood firm, choosing death over denying their faith. Their names may be forgotten, but their sacrifice remains eternal.

Yet, there exists another, even higher level of Kiddush Hashem, the level of the Akeidah.

At the culmination of his ten great tests, Avraham Avinu faced his most incomprehensible challenge: the Akeidas Yitzchak. The letters from the word “Akeidah” forms the phrase “Al Kiddush Hashem.” Avraham reached his ultimate perfection of being G-d fearing because he was willing to offer his beloved son, purely al Kiddush Hashem.

But here’s something remarkable. We refer to this event as Akeidas Yitzchak, yet we call it the test of Avraham, not of Yitzchak. Why?

The answer reveals something profound about spiritual greatness. To die al Kiddush Hashem is an indescribably high level. But to live al Kiddush Hashem—to go on after the test, to endure, to rebuild, to keep serving Hashem with love and faith—that is an even higher level. To die for Hashem is heroic. And yet to live for Him every day, through struggle, pain, and persistence is no less profound.

Are we capable of reaching that level? Can we truly live al Kiddush Hashem?

The Rambam (Hilchos Yesodei HaTorah 5:10) gives us the blueprint:

“Anyone who refrains from sin or performs a mitzvah not for any external reason—not out of fear, not out of social pressure, not for honor or reward—but solely for the sake of the Creator, blessed be He, has sanctified the Name of Hashem. Just as Yosef HaTzaddik sanctified Hashem’s Name in secret when he resisted the advances of the wife of Potiphar.”

That, says the Rambam, is Kiddush Hashem.

Every day, Hashem gives us opportunities to reach this level by living lives of quiet, consistent holiness. Each time we resist temptation, act with integrity, speak with compassion, or choose restraint when no one is watching, we walk the path of Avraham Avinu and Yosef HaTzaddik.

To die al Kiddush Hashem transforms a moment. To live al Kiddush Hashem transforms a lifetime.

The next time you find yourself in a moment of choice—a glance, a comment, an impulse—remember this. You can look at something inappropriate, or you can turn away. No one else will know. There’s no applause, no fanfare, no honor. It’s just you and Hashem.

And if you choose to look away not because of fear, not for approval, not for pride, but simply because you say, “Hashem, I’m doing this for You—because I love You, because I fear You, because I care about Your will”—then you have achieved your own Akeidah.

You have lived al Kiddush Hashem. You have become a Kadosh.

And that moment becomes the greatest source of kedushah in your life.

Rabbi Eliyahu Maksumov

The Secret of Seven

Everything we do on Shabbos should bring us back to one central idea: this day is holy, set aside for the honor of Shabbos. Shabbos, of course, comes on the seventh day, the number that represents completion, holiness, and Divine perfection. And if you look closely, you’ll notice something remarkable: nearly everything on the Shabbos table—every dish, every item we use in honoring Shabbos—somehow circles back to the number seven.

Let me show you.

We begin with Kiddush, made on wine. In Hebrew, yayin is spelled yud–yud–nun. The numerical value is 70. Remove the zero, and what remains? Seven. Next comes fish in Hebrew, dag. Dalet equals 4, gimel equals 3. 4 + 3 = 7. Then we have meat, basar. Bet (2), shin (300), reish (200). Together, that’s 502. 5 + 0 + 2 = 7. How about baksh, the traditional slow-cooked Shabbos dish. Bet (2), chaf (20), shin (300). That’s 322. 3 + 2 + 2 = 7. We light Shabbos candles, nerot.

The word ner equals 250. 2 + 5 + 0 = 7. Then there’s kugel. Kuf (100), gimel (3), lamed (30).

Add them up: 133. 1 + 3 + 3 = 7. And of course, challah. Chet (8), lamed (30), hey (5). 8 + 30 + 5 = 43. 4 + 3 = 7.

You see the pattern? Everything on the Shabbos table carries within it a hint of seven, the holy rhythm of creation itself.