Rabbi Dovid Orlofsky

Ring Like Bells

The Gemara (Arachin 16a; Zevachim 88b) teaches that each of the Kohen Gadol’s garments atoned for a specific sin. The Bigdei Kehunah were not merely ceremonial; they carried spiritual meaning and symbolism. Each garment addressed a different moral failing, restoring balance between man and Hashem. Among them was the me’il, a robe of pure blue wool, woven as a seamless garment, and adorned along its hem with alternating golden bells and embroidered pomegranates. As the Kohen Gadol walked, the bells would sound, announcing his movement.

The Gemara explains that the me’il atoned for the sin of lashon hara. The symbolism is striking: let the garment that produces sound bring forgiveness for the sin that is committed through sound. Speech misused fractures relationships, undermines dignity, and corrodes communities. But how precisely does this garment serve as its corrective? What is the relationship between the sounding robe and destructive speech?

The Netziv and the Malbim develop an important insight. The me’il was not an ordinary garment. It was a robe worn by figures of distinction. Shmuel HaNavi wore a me’il, for example. A king likewise wore a me’il. It was a garment of stature and significance. The very fabric declared dignity.

There is a familiar observation: “Great people speak about ideas; average people speak about events; small people speak about other people.” While simplistic, it captures a painful truth. Those who feel secure in their own worth do not need to diminish others. When a person seeks to elevate himself by tearing someone else down, it reveals an inner poverty. If the only way one can feel significant is by humiliating another, it suggests a tragic misunderstanding of one’s own value.

The Torah’s response to lashon hara is not silence alone, but transformation. The true antidote to negative speech is positive speech. It is not merely refraining from harm, but actively speaking well of others. This is the message of the me’il. You are given a robe of importance because you are important. And woven into its hem are rimonim, pomegranates. Our tradition teaches that a pomegranate contains 613 seeds, corresponding to the 613 mitzvos. Whether literal or symbolic, the message is that the sound which emerges from you should be rooted in mitzvos. The bells ring only when they strike the pomegranates. If your speech flows from Torah, from kindness, from commitment to a mitzvah, then the “noise” you make in this world will be beautiful.

It is far more powerful to build than to destroy. Those who train themselves to speak kindly and highlight another’s virtue discover that words can reshape reality.

I was reminded of this through a story about my older brother, one of my personal heroes. He once attended a minyan where two men were conversing during Krias HaTorah. He politely asked them to stop, explaining that he could not hear the reading. They apologized, only to resume moments later. Again he asked and again they agreed. And again they began speaking.

At that point, rather than rebuking them harshly, he chose a different path. He said, “I am a Kohen. In the merit of your refraining from talking during the Torah reading, I bless you that this year you should merit abundant parnassah.” They immediately fell silent.

After the davening, one of them approached him and asked, somewhat defensively, “Do you think all I care about is money?” My brother responded, “No. I believe that a person like you would know how to use the parnassah that Hashem grants you for the benefit of Klal Yisrael.” The man walked away feeling dignified rather than shamed. He felt seen rather than scolded.

That is the power of lashon tov. When we treat others as inherently significant, they begin to live up to that vision. The me’il reminds us that we wear a garment of dignity and our words should ring like bells struck against mitzvos.

Let us atone for destructive speech not only by refraining from it, but by filling the world with words of blessing, encouragement and praise.

Rabbi Doniel Staum

Our Eternal Light

The Ohr HaChaim HaKadosh offers several explanations on the opening words of the Parsha, “Ve’atah Tetzaveh,” and then presents a profound homiletical interpretation. Quoting the Zohar, he explains that each of the first three exiles was redeemed in the merit of one of the Avos.

The exile of Egypt was redeemed in the merit of Avraham; the exile of Bavel in the merit of Yitzchak; and the exile of Greece in the merit of Yaakov. The fourth and final exile—the one in which we presently find ourselves—will be redeemed in the merit of Moshe Rabbeinu.

The Ohr HaChaim explains that this insight sheds light on the length of our current exile. Redemption through Moshe Rabbeinu means redemption in the merit of Torah. If Klal Yisrael therefore is not fully engaged in the study of Torah and mitzvos, if we are lax or negligent in our commitment, Moshe Rabbeinu does not “accompany” such a generation toward redemption. Torah demands seriousness and sacrifice, and without that, the geulah tarries.

He then reads the entire verse as an allusion to this idea. The word “tetzaveh” can mean to command, but it can also mean to accompany, as in “Ki malachav yetzaveh lach—Hashem will instruct His angels to accompany you” (Tehillim 91:11). It is also an expression of kingship. Thus “Ve’atah tetzaveh es Bnei Yisrael” can be understood to mean: “You, Moshe, will accompany and lead Klal Yisrael as their eternal guide and king.”

The verse continues, “Veyikchu eilecha shemen zayis zach.” The olive oil is an allusion to Torah, which is compared to oil. Just as oil fuels light and illuminates the darkness, so too Torah gives spiritual light to the world. The oil must be zach, pure, because Torah must be studied with purity of intention, lishmah, and come close to Hashem and not for honor, ego or dominance.

It must also be katit, crushed. The Gemara teaches, “Zos haTorah adam ki yamus ba’ohel—This is the Torah of man who will die in the tents of Torah” (Berachos 63a). Torah requires self-sacrifice and the willingness to exert oneself and give of oneself completely. Through that dedication, one merits “leha’alos ner tamid,” to raise a constant flame that illuminates the world. Torah studied and lived properly becomes an eternal light.

This message is deeply tied to Purim, one of the three days reflective of Kabbalas HaTorah. Shavuos marks the original giving of the Torah, Yom Kippur marks the receiving of the second Luchos, and Purim is the third moment. The Gemara (Shabbos 88a) teaches, “Kiymu vekiblu—The Jewish people reaccepted the Torah willingly and with love in the days of Achashverosh.”

At that time of Purim, Klal Yisrael faced annihilation, and their response was to rededicate themselves fully to Torah and be ready to give up their lives if necessary. It was a living fulfillment of “Zos haTorah adam ki yamus ba’ohel.” Yet even greater than dying for Torah is living for Torah. Purim celebrates that recommitment, that joyful acceptance born of love rather than coercion.

It is therefore no coincidence that shortly after the Purim story, Daryavesh, the son of Esther and Achashverosh according to Chazal, permitted the completion of the second Beit HaMikdash. Purim strengthened the path toward redemption. When Torah is reaccepted with passion and joy, geulah follows.

Purim is thus not only a celebration of physical salvation, but a celebration of Torah itself. “LaYehudim haysah orah vesimchah vesason vikar—And for the Jews, there was light, joy, elation and honor” (Esther 8:16). Chazal teach, “Orah zo Torah—'Light’ is a reference to Torah” (Megillah 16b). The first joy mentioned is the light of Torah. This refers not merely to learning Torah in the abstract, but living Torah, engaging with it, sacrificing for it, and allowing it to shape our character and define our identity.

It is for this reason that some Poskim emphasize learning Torah before the Purim seudah, if even a few moments matter. Purim is an intense day of joy, but its core is Kabbalas HaTorah. It is a celebration of what it means to be part of the eternal nation, and we are eternal because the Torah is eternal.

As we approach the reading of Zechiras Amalek, remembering Amalek, we recall that Amalek represents darkness and doubt, and therefore the way we erase Amalek is through the light of Torah.

May we merit to strengthen our commitment to Torah, and through that light, hasten the geulah sheleimah.

Rabbi YY Jacobson

The Slapped SS Officer

Weeks after October 7th, Israel confirmed the appointment of a new head of the Shin Bet: Major General David Zini.

David Zini is not only a decorated military leader, but the oldest of ten children, and the son of Rabbi Yosef and Penina Zini. He is a yeshiva graduate, a Torah-observant Jew, and the father of eleven children of his own. At a ceremony marking his son’s new role, Rabbi Yosef Zini shared a story that stunned the room.

“My mother and grandmother,” he began, “were the only survivors of their families from Auschwitz.”

One day in Auschwitz, an SS officer became enraged at a Jewish woman who was too weak to continue her forced labor. Helplessly, she collapsed in exhaustion. The officer’s screams could not revive her strength. So he unleashed his dog.

The animal tore at her flesh.

At that moment, Rabbi Zini’s grandmother stepped forward and slapped the officer twice across the face. Instantly, he drew his gun to shoot her, but the gun jammed. Enraged, he ordered that she receive ninety lashes. Her body turned purple from the beating and eventually she was returned to the barracks unconscious. For nine days she did not wake.

When she finally opened her eyes, the first words she uttered were: “It was worth it.”

After the war, she and her daughter—Rabbi Zini’s mother—were forced onto a 650-kilometer death march through snow to Innsbruck, Austria. Two thousand women began the march and only two hundred survived.

When American soldiers liberated them, they were so skeletal that the soldiers were frightened. They called for priests, who asked the women, “Are you aliens?” The women answered, “No. We are Jews.”

The priests summoned Jewish chaplains, own of which was Rabbi Zini’s father. When he saw what remained of European Jewry—living skeletons emerging from the ashes—he said to his fellow chaplains, “This is what remains of the people of Israel. Each of us will marry one of these women. We will rebuild our nation from the ashes.”

He married Rachel, a survivor of Auschwitz. Yosef Zini was their son.

In 1973, in the midst of the Yom Kippur War, with Jerusalem blanketed in snow and without electricity, his eldest son David was born together with his twin sister.

Rabbi Yosef Zini then said something unforgettable: “To be a Jew is to take a long breath, knowing that from every crisis we rise higher and higher.”

His mother used to say that the two most beautiful days of her life were the day she was liberated from Auschwitz and the day she saw her grandson David become a general in the Israel Defense Forces.

When that young woman slapped an SS officer, she did not imagine survival. She did not envision grandchildren, let alone a grandson leading Israel’s security services. She simply could not stand idly by while another Jewish woman was torn apart. And the result? Her grandson now stands at the helm of Israel’s domestic intelligence, tasked with ensuring that the enemies of the Jewish people will never again tear at our flesh without consequence.

This is not just politics. This is destiny. This is our eternal flame. It is our light that burns from a place beyond logic, beyond circumstance; a light rooted in the deepest essence of the Jewish soul, where the soul and G-d are bound together forever.

There is a place inside every Jew that no enemy can extinguish. It is infinite and it is fearless.

And it will forever continue rising higher and higher.

Rabbi Eliezer Zeytouneh

The Door to Direction

Years ago, there was a yeshivah I was teaching at where, Baruch Hashem, everything was going well. The talmidim connected, the administration appreciated the growth, and I was gradually being given greater responsibility within the structure of the school. It seemed stable and promising.

But there was one problem: I was not earning enough to live comfortably. So I approached the hanhalah and asked for a raise. They told me they would think about it. Four days later, they came back with their decision. They would give me the raise, but one thousand dollars less than what I had requested. In practical terms, that meant about one hundred dollars a month.

Objectively, one hundred dollars a month is not an astronomical sum, especially for a thriving institution. In my mind, it felt small, averaging out to be twenty-five dollars a week, or a few more dollars a day than I was currently making. For a rebbi who was invested, building relationships, and helping shape young lives, I felt offended. It was not about the money alone, but about what the decision represented.

I told them respectfully that I could not continue under those circumstances. If that additional amount could not be granted, I would unfortunately need to move on. At the time, to leave my job made no sense. From every logical perspective, it seemed like a risk. I was walking away from security over what appeared to be a relatively small gap.

But sometimes what makes no sense on paper is the doorway to something much larger.

Two years later, we opened our first elementary school, and from there, a high school followed. And then another institution. A vision unfolded that would never have materialized had I accepted that modest adjustment and remained where I was. If I had received that raise, I likely would have stayed comfortable. And comfortable can sometimes be the greatest obstacle to growth.

Looking back, I see that what felt like rejection was redirection. What felt like limitation was liberation. The thousand dollars that I did not receive became the catalyst for something far greater. At the time, I could not see the architecture. Only later did it become clear.

Sometimes, Hashem closes one small door not to diminish you, but to position you for something you could not yet imagine. What appears to be a setback may in truth be the first step toward your redemption.

Rabbi Meir Simcha Sperling

You Count

Just as HaKadosh Baruch Hu commanded that the Mishkan be built from gold, silver, and copper, each material distinct in value and appearance, so too every individual has a unique role within the Divine design. The gold was not interchangeable with the silver, nor the silver with the copper. Each contributed something essential. The presence of all three was necessary to complete the structure in which the Shechinah would dwell.

Imagine a magnificent puzzle spread across a large table. It is intricate, expansive, and breathtaking in its detail. Yet if even one piece is missing, the entire image is incomplete. Which piece is most important? The corner that frames the border? The central image that draws the eye? The bottom section that seems to hold the puzzle together? The question itself is flawed. Every piece is indispensable. Remove one, and the whole is compromised.

The same is true of an orchestra. The violin may carry the melody, but without the quiet steadiness of the bass, the harmony collapses. The percussion may seem secondary, yet without rhythm the music dissolves. Each instrument, however subtle, is essential to the symphony.

A Sefer Torah teaches the same lesson. Every letter must be present and intact. A missing yud, though small in form, invalidates the Torah no less than a missing larger letter. The value of a letter is not measured by its size or by its numerical value in gematria. Its worth lies in the fact that it is irreplaceable. Without it, the Torah is incomplete.

This is how we must see our children, and indeed every Jew. Each soul is a necessary element in the Divine composition. Sometimes we are tempted to focus only on the gifted, the affluent, the well-behaved, the outwardly successful. Yet the child who struggles, who challenges us, who does not fit neatly into expectations, carries a mission no less significant. He too is Hashem’s child. He too is a vital piece of the puzzle.

It is not enough merely to believe this in theory. We must know it with certainty. HaKadosh Baruch Hu does not create surplus souls. He does not design unnecessary pieces. Each person exists because the world requires what only that person can contribute.

Consider a minyan. You may have nine distinguished scholars prepared to daven, but without a tenth Jew, the minyan cannot be formed. Then a bar mitzvah boy enters, perhaps a child who is struggling, perhaps one who feels overlooked or misunderstood. In that moment, he completes the minyan. Without him, something essential was missing. With him, the Shechinah rests.

Whether one is gold, silver, or copper is irrelevant. What matters is that each material was commanded by Hashem and each was required for the Mishkan. Likewise, whether one’s talents shine brightly or appear modest, each neshama is woven into the greater tapestry of creation.

When we internalize this perspective, we begin to treat every individual with the dignity and reverence they deserve. For in the grand design of HaKadosh Baruch Hu, no piece is superfluous, and no soul is accidental.