Rabbi Yehuda Zev Klein

A Glimmer of Light

In Parshas Vayeishev, we read of the moment when Yosef’s brothers sold him to a passing caravan of Arab merchants. The Pasuk notes an unusual detail: “And their camels were carrying spices, balm, and lotus.” Chazal point out that this was entirely atypical. Arab caravans generally transported foul-smelling kerosene and tar, and yet, at precisely this moment, they happened to be laden with fragrant spices.

Why the change?

The Midrash explains that this was orchestrated by Hashgachah Pratis, a deliberate kindness from Heaven, so that Yosef HaTzaddik would not suffer from the stench of the usual cargo. But the obvious question remains. Would Yosef truly have cared? Would a man being hauled away from his home, sold by his own brothers, and facing an unknown and frightening future really take comfort in a pleasant aroma?

If someone is being led to prison, does it matter whether he is taken in a limousine or in a rusted, foul-smelling bus with bars on the windows? In such despair, a person rarely notices the details of his transportation. Likewise, Yosef—torn from his father, thrown into a pit with snakes and scorpions, and sold into slavery—would hardly be comforted by the scent of spices.

So what is the Midrash teaching us?

Rav Chaim Shmuelevitz explains a profound psychological principle. When a person can perceive even the smallest touch of Divine kindness within suffering, that glimmer of light can lessen the darkness of the moment. Often, in times of crisis, an individual feels abandoned, thinking Hashem doesn’t see me, He doesn’t care, He has forgotten what I am going through. But if a person can notice even a single “silver lining,” one detail that reveals the presence of Hashem amid the pain, it can restore hope.

This was Yosef’s experience. He recognized that the unusual cargo was no coincidence; it was a quiet whisper from Hashem, a gentle assurance: I am still with you. Though he was on his way to an uncertain and terrifying future, that fragrance was a kiss from Heaven.

We saw something similar during Hurricane Sandy. Families returned to the ruins of their homes to find devastation. They had lost everything. Yet sometimes, beneath the rubble, someone might discover a single surviving item: a letter from decades earlier, a watch gifted by a kallah long ago. Does that item rebuild the home? No. The family is still displaced, still overwhelmed. But that object becomes a source of deep comfort, reminding them that not everything is lost, that their identity, their story, their connection to loved ones endures.

So too in life. When a person can identify the subtle good within their hardships, they draw strength from the realization that Hashem has not abandoned them. Even the smallest sign of His presence can provide courage to move forward.

With this in mind, consider the following remarkable story.

After the Holocaust, the Allied forces discovered massive collections of Jewish sefarim stolen by the Nazis, who had intended horrifically to create a museum for an extinct people. These sefarim were eventually brought to Washington, D.C., where a committee decided to distribute them to yeshivos across America.

Yeshivas Ner Yisroel in Baltimore received a large shipment. Rav Ruderman, the Rosh Yeshivah, insisted that the first person to open the box should be the mashgiach, Rav Dovid Kronglass, who had personally survived the horrors of Europe.

Rav Dovid approached the box with trembling hands and opened it. The very first sefer on top was Chochmah u’Mussar, written by his own rebbe, Rav Yerucham Levovitz of the Mir. Overcome with emotion, he opened the front cover—and froze. Inscribed inside was his own name: “Dovid Kronglass.”

From tens of thousands of rescued volumes, across continents, through war, chaos, destruction, and displacement, his personal sefer—lost years earlier in Europe—was the first to be placed in the first box delivered to his own yeshivah, waiting for him to open it.

It was unmistakably a message from Above: I am still with you. A Divine kiss, just as Yosef experienced in the caravan long ago.

May we all merit to see the Yad Hashem in our own lives, even in the smallest details, and draw strength, comfort, and hope from knowing He never leaves us.

Rabbi Dovid Kaplan

A Bright Chanukah

Every year, as Chanukah arrives, we witness a remarkable phenomenon. Even Jews who are not yet observant—Jews whose daily lives may be far removed from Torah—warmly and enthusiastically celebrate Chanukah.

Years ago, someone showed me an article written by Amnon Dankner, the editor of a major secular Israeli newspaper and a man who, by his own admission, had little sympathy for the religious community. Yet, on the eve of Chanukah, he published a striking and provocative column addressed directly to secular Israelis.

Dankner observed that nearly every Israeli, regardless of religiosity, lights a menorah, eats sufganiyot (which he jokingly called the “miracle food” because you eat one and it burns inside for eight days), and participates in the holiday atmosphere. But then he posed a challenge.

He wrote: Imagine the war of the Chashmonaim against the Yevanim was unfolding today.

On one side, the Greeks, representing entertainment, indulgence, moral laxity, and the celebration of the self. On the other, the Chashmonaim, standing for Torah, tefillah, interpersonal responsibility, self-discipline, devotion to Hashem, and spiritual integrity.

And Dankner asked his secular readers: If this war were happening now, whose side would you realistically be on?

Would you join the Chashmonaim, the very heroes whose victory you celebrate with your menorah and jelly donuts? Or would you align, consciously or unconsciously, with the culture whose values more closely mirror your lifestyle?

It was an honest, piercing question aimed at the heart of Jewish identity. When I first read the article, I thought: If I were an Israeli, I would be having a serious identity crisis right now. And, in truth, many do. Because at its core rests a deeper question:

Am I Israeli because of my Judaism, or Jewish because of my nationality? Am I a Jewish American or an American Jew? A Jewish Israeli or an Israeli Jew? The adjective is descriptive. The noun is essential. We are, first and foremost, Jews. And so a Jew celebrating Chanukah must ask: If I am rejoicing over a victory of values I do not actually live by, why am I celebrating?

But then a second, far more uncomfortable thought emerged, one that turns the question back on us. What about me? How much of my life truly reflects the values of the Chashmonaim? And how much, if I am being brutally honest, reflects the culture of the Greeks? What about the music we listen to? The styles we adopt? The entertainment we consume? The materialism we chase?

Would the Chashmonaim, whose courage and devotion we praise, be proud of our choices?

Or are we, often unknowingly, importing into our lives the very influences they fought against? Chanukah, then, is not merely a celebration; it is an invitation. A call to introspection. A moment to examine our lives with honesty and humility.

Yes, many of us are living beautifully: learning Daf Yomi, davening, giving tzedakah, volunteering. These are the victories of the Chashmonaim echoing in our lives today.

But alongside them, there may be elements, personal or national, that have seeped in from a world shaped by Greek ideals: superficiality, excess, ego, and the pursuit of pleasure over purpose.

This kind of self-examination is not easy. True introspection requires courage. It can be painful. It demands that we look directly at parts of ourselves we would rather avoid. But through that very discomfort, a person often discovers the energy, clarity, and resolve that lead to genuine growth.

And so we conclude with the traditional Jewish blessing for this season. Not only Freilichen Chanukah; that is more suited to Purim. Not just Chanukah Sameach, the modern Hebrew expression.

The authentic greeting of our people has always been: A lichtige Chanukah—a bright, illuminated, spiritually uplifting Chanukah. A Chanukah that lights our path, elevates our choices, and inspires us to grow.

Rabbi Shlomo Farhi

A Hairsbreadth

I want to share with you a chiddush that absolutely stunned me. The Pasuk tells us about Yosef: “Vehu na’ar—He was a youth.” Rashi immediately asks the obvious question: Why is he being called a na’ar, an immature lad, if he is already seventeen years old?

Rashi answers: Because Yosef was engaged in “ma’aseh na’arut,” youthful behavior. What exactly does that mean? Rashi specifies: “Hayah mesalsel b’sa’aro—He was curling his hair.”

Yosef HaTzaddik, the future viceroy of Egypt, the visionary dreamer, the man destined to sustain the entire world during famine was fidgeting with his hair like a teenager in front of a mirror. He was fixing it, arranging it, playing with the curls. And from the Torah’s perspective, this was unbecoming for someone on his spiritual level.

Rashi’s explanation always bothered me. The Torah is making a point that Yosef is acting immaturely, but the very next Pasuk tells us Yosef is receiving prophetic dreams. How do these two things coexist? Is Hashem really appearing to someone who’s sitting there fussing over his hairstyle? The image is almost comical. How do you go from a hair salon moment to nevuah?

This contradiction troubled me for years, until I saw an insight from Reb Simcha Bunim of Peshischa that reframed the entire issue.

Reb Simcha Bunim points to the laws of the Parah Adumah. The Torah states that the red heifer must be tamim—perfect, without blemish. Even the smallest physical defect invalidates it. But interestingly, hair is treated differently. A single black hair does not invalidate the Parah Adumah. Two black hairs, however, do.

Why this discrepancy?

Reb Simcha Bunim explains. When it comes to ordinary wholeness—completeness for the average person—Hashem does not demand absolute perfection. A person does their best; Hashem calls them righteous.

But regarding tzaddikim, Chazal teach: “Hakadosh Baruch Hu is meticulous with tzaddikim kechut ha’sa’arah, even to the width of a single hair” (Yevamos 121b). For the average Jew, one stray spiritual imperfection is not disqualifying. For a tzaddik striving for absolute purity, even a “hair,” the smallest detail, matters.

With this, Reb Simcha Bunim says something beautiful. Yosef was not curling his hair out of vanity. He was examining himself with relentless precision, striving for the level of a tzaddik whose perfection is measured “like a strand of hair.”

“Mesalsel b’sa’aro” is symbolic. He was scrutinizing the tiny “hairs,” the small subtleties of spiritual refinement. Yosef wasn’t being childish; he was aiming for the exacting spiritual standard appropriate to his destiny.

Our Sages teach that the Jewish future has two messianic figures:

Mashiach ben Yosef, who prepares the world for Mashiach and, Mashiach ben David, who completes the redemption. Why two? And why can Yosef not be the final redeemer?

My rebbe explained that the spiritual personality of Yosef is unrelatable to most Jews. Yosef embodies flawlessness, the tzaddik who never sins, the spiritual foundation of the world (Tzaddik Yesod Olam). He resists the wife of Potiphar under impossible temptation and maintains purity in exile. He rises without ever falling. But Yehuda? Yehuda represents the Jew who fails, acknowledges failure, and transforms through teshuvah.

Tamar confronts him, and he admits, “Tzadkah mimeni—She is right; I was wrong.” His greatness emerges from his courage to own his mistake. And that is why Mashiach ben David, not Yosef, completes the redemption. Because who can be redeemed by a figure of perfection if we ourselves are not perfect? Who among us can identify with never having erred, never having stumbled, never having given in to desire or weakness?

Mashiach ben Yosef begins the process. He inspires. He elevates the tzaddikim. But Mashiach ben David, descendant of Yehuda, descendant of one who fell and rose redeems the entire nation. He speaks the spiritual language of the struggling Jew, the imperfect Jew, the growing Jew. Yosef teaches us what it means to strive for perfection and to inspect the “hairs,” the tiniest refinements. Yehuda teaches us that greatness is not the absence of mistakes but the courage to admit them.

If Yosef embodies abstinence from sin to an extreme, if he represents flawless purity, then we understand on a deeper level what it means that he was “mesalsel b’sa’aro.” Yes, physically he might have ensured not a single hair was out of place; but spiritually, he was striving for the level where even one hair’s breadth—kechut ha’sa’arah—matters.

But if that is so, the question remains. If Yosef’s obsession was not vanity but spiritual aspiration, then why does the Torah call him “na’ar,” a young, immature boy?

For Yosef, the pursuit of perfection would indeed become his life’s mission. But sometimes, the right goal pursued at the wrong moment becomes the wrong goal entirely. Yosef, at seventeen, was still forming his identity. To demand perfection of himself at that age, and more critically, to expect it of others, was the hubris of youth.

Look at how he interacts with his brothers. He shares dreams of dominance which imply, rather straightforwardly, “I will rule over you.” And what does he expect? That they respond: “Oh, that’s wonderful, Yosef! We’re thrilled! Everyone in favor, say aye!”

Did he really imagine they would swallow that? Why not? Because vehu na’ar. In his chase for perfection, Yosef was still immature. He did not yet understand that this is not the conversation you have at seventeen. Maybe at seventy. Maybe as an elder, seasoned, respected leader. But not now.

And here lies the great danger of the perfectionist. Be a perfectionist for yourself if you wish, but the moment you demand your perfection from others, you burn everyone around you. The only reason some perfectionists’ homes are not military boot camps is because they married someone who brings joy into the home. But they often fail to recognize that gift. Yosef held his brothers to a standard they were not ready for, and that, the Torah tells us, was ma’aseh na’arut.

Yosef was trying to chart a path toward perfection for his brothers. That was noble. But expecting them to already be on that path—that was immature.

A parent asks a child, “Why didn’t you think this through?” Because he’s a child. It says so right in his job description. His job is to drive you crazy. A rebbe demands absolute silence for five hours. That’s not chinuch; that’s a pet rock.

A synagogue wants more people to come. Wonderful! But then they complain the newcomers aren’t on the same religious level. Phones ring, children make noise, someone sits in the wrong seat—and suddenly, the community that prayed for growth resents the very growth it asked for. I often ask people: If your grandfather had been told, “Don’t come to shul until you keep Shabbos perfectly,” Would you be here today?

So why deny others the journey you yourself were allowed to walk? Chart a path for them? Absolutely. Expect them to already be advanced on that path? That is ma’aseh na’arut.

Someone once told me, “Rabbi, but this man is older. He should know better.” No. Jewish maturity isn’t measured by chronological age. You may be 20, but born into a home steeped in Torah for 50 years. You’re not 20; you’re spiritually 70. Another person, by contrast, may be 60, but Jewishly, he is one year old. So who is truly the na’ar?

May Hashem bless us to chart a path toward spiritual perfection with patience, compassion and realism. And may we encourage others to grow at a pace that is healthy, gentle and respectful.