Rabbi Binyomin Pruzansky

Gratitude and the Gateway to Heaven

I was leaving shul when I noticed a friend standing off to the side, wrapped in his tallis and tefillin, quietly crying as he recited Tehillim. I approached him and asked what was wrong, whereupon he told me that his child was in the hospital. When he had reached the words in Shemonah Esrei of “Refa’einu Hashem v’nerafeh—Heal us, Hashem, and we will be healed,”he broke down.

I said to him: “Yeshuas Hashem k’heref ayin—The salvation from Hashem can come in the blink of an eye. Pesach is approaching, a time of miracles. Everything can change in a moment.”

I then shared with him the following story.

A man once traveled to Eretz Yisrael. He was accustomed to bringing with him large sums of money to distribute discreetly to those in need. One day, walking through the narrow streets between Geula and Meah Shearim, he noticed two men standing near a dumpster. Curious, and somewhat unsettled, he approached to see what had caught their attention.

He looked inside.

To his shock, he saw a Yerushalmi woman standing inside the dumpster, rummaging through bags of garbage, searching for something to eat. There was nothing amusing about the scene. It was heartbreaking. The man immediately reached into his pocket and said gently, “Slicha… please, take this.” He handed her $200.

The woman looked up, stunned. She could hardly believe what she was seeing. Clutching the money, she began to cry out,“Borei Olam, todah rabah! Todah rabah! You didn’t forget me!”

The man stood there, deeply moved. And then, almost instinctively, he emptied his pockets and gave her thousands more, amounting to everything he had on him. She was overwhelmed with gratitude. He walked away, changed by the encounter, feeling that he had just participated in an act of extraordinary chesed.

I turned back to my friend. “Imagine that woman, standing in that dumpster, searching through refuse. And then, in an instant—meh’ashpos yarim evyon—Hashem lifted her from the lowest place and sent her salvation. But then she cried out, ‘Ribbono Shel Olam, how will You help me more?’

My friend listened quietly. “You’re right,” he said. “She thanked Hashem for the $200… and then she received so much more.”

That is the message.

If a person seeks yeshuah, one must daven, but also give thanks. Recognize the good that already exists. Say, “Thank You, Hashem, for what You have given me.” Gratitude opens the gates of Heaven and creates vessels to receive more.

And so we turn to Hashem, not only with requests, but with gratitude. “Todah, Borei Olam. Thank You for everything.” And in that merit, Hashem will shower us with continued blessing, give each of us exactly what we need, and bring yeshuos and nechamos.

Rabbi Warren Goldstein

When Miracles Change Your Life

Miracles are phenomena that capture the imagination, intrigue the mind, and stir the soul. But beyond fascination, we must ask: what are miracles? What do they mean? And do they still occur?

At first glance, these questions seem abstract; perhaps philosophical, even mystical. Yet, in truth, understanding miracles is not an intellectual luxury. It is a life-altering perspective. To uncover their meaning is to transform how we see the world, how we interpret our experiences, and how we live each day in a deeply practical and immediate sense.

This is, in fact, the most appropriate time of year to explore this idea. We stand in the season of Pesach. On the night of the Seder, as we recount the story of Yetzias Mitzrayim, what dominates the table is the world of miracles, from the Ten Plagues to the Splitting of the Sea. These are not peripheral details, but the centerpiece of the narrative.

This emphasis is not limited to the Seder night. Throughout the Torah, the Exodus is repeatedly described in terms of “otot u’moftim,” signs and wonders. Hashem Himself declares that He will harden Pharaoh’s heart in order to multiply these signs and reveal His power in a dramatic and unmistakable way.

This raises a fundamental question.

If the goal was simply liberation, then surely it could have been achieved in countless other ways. Why the prolonged process of the ten plagues and splitting of the sea? In fact, the Torah suggests that the redemption was actually delayed in order to allow these miracles to unfold. Pharaoh’s heart was hardened not to hasten the process, but to extend it. It begins to appear that the miracles were not merely a means to an end.

They were the end. That demands explanation.

We see this again in the Haggadah itself. In the concise summary of the Exodus, drawn from the verses recited by the farmer bringing his bikkurim (first fruits), a significant portion is devoted not to the fact of redemption, but to the manner of redemption: the great signs, the wonders, the miracles.

To understand why this is, we must turn to an unexpected place: Pirkei Avot.

This tractate is devoted almost entirely to bein adam la’atzmo—to personal growth, character development, and ethical refinement. It teaches us how to become better people, including what it means to acquire a friend, seek a teacher, judge others favorably, and refine our middot and actions.

And then, quite suddenly, in the fifth chapter, we encounter a series of Mishnayot that seem entirely out of place.

They speak about miracles. Ten miracles in Egypt, ten at the sea, ten in the Beit Hamikdash, and miracles embedded within creation itself. What are these Mishnayot doing in a book about self-development?

The answer is profound. Pirkei Avot is teaching us that miracles are not merely events to be analyzed, but experiences to transform us. The question is not: How did miracles happen? The question is: What do miracles do to a person? How does the awareness that miracles occurred, and continue to occur, reshape our consciousness? How does it influence our sense of responsibility, our humility, our faith, our resilience?

Miracles are not just about what happened. They are about who we become because of what happened.

When viewed this way, the entire narrative of Yetziat Mitzrayim, and the emphasis on its miracles, takes on new meaning. The purpose was not only to redeem a nation physically, but to transform a people spiritually. To instill within them, and within us, a way of seeing the world that recognizes the presence of the Divine not only in the extraordinary, but ultimately, in the everyday.

That is the enduring power of miracles.

There are three distinct ways in which miracles, and our awareness of the miracles of Yetziat Mitzrayim, can transform the way we live and the way we see the world.

The first is faith.

The foundational pillar of Jewish faith is rooted in the Exodus from Egypt. The Ramban explains this in his celebrated comments at the end of Parshat Bo, where Sefer Shemot reaches the culmination of the story of redemption. He writes that through Hashem’s intervention in history—through the Ten Plagues, the splitting of the sea, and the liberation of the slaves—we come to know several essential truths. First, that G-d exists. These were not private mystical experiences or philosophical speculations; they were public, historical events, witnessed by a nation and transmitted from generation to generation. Faith, in this sense, is grounded not only in abstract reasoning, but in the testimony of history.

Second, the Exodus teaches that G-d is the Creator of the world. After all, the miracles of Egypt shattered the laws of nature. The sea does not split, water does not turn to blood, and darkness does not descend with such force and precision. Human beings, for all our astonishing technological power, can only work within the laws of nature. We can harness them, manipulate them, and build extraordinary things through them, but we cannot overturn them. Only the One who authored those laws can suspend them. The G-d who breaks nature is the G-d who made nature.

Third, the Exodus reveals that G-d is not distant from human affairs. He knows, He cares, He remembers and He responds. He saw the suffering of His people, heard their cries, remembered His covenant with Avraham, Yitzchak, and Yaakov, and redeemed the oppressed. The story of Yetziat Mitzrayim is not only a revelation of Divine power, but of Divine justice, Divine concern, and Divine relationship.

This is why the first of the Aseret HaDibrot begins not with, “I am the Hashem your G-d who created heaven and earth,” but rather, “I am the Hashem your G-d who took you out of the land of Egypt.” The Exodus is the experiential foundation of emunah. It is the moment in which G-d announces Himself within history in a way that is undeniable and unforgettable.

But then the Ramban asks a deeper question. Why is it so important that we know this? Why does G-d require our faith and recognition?

His answer is profound. G-d does not need our acknowledgment. He is not diminished if we fail to recognize Him, nor enhanced by our praise. We need it. This, fundamentally, is the Ramban’s approach to mitzvot: they are not for G-d’s sake, but for ours. What kind of person can one be without a living awareness of G-d’s presence, power, justice, and care? What kind of life can one live without that orientation? Faith is not meant to remain in the realm of theology. It must become the atmosphere in which one lives.

That is precisely what Pirkei Avot does. It takes principles that might otherwise remain abstract and translates them into a way of living. Avot is not interested in faith as an academic exercise. It is interested in faith as a lived reality.

Faith moves us from philosophy into life. The miracles of Egypt were G-d’s declaration: I am here. I am the Creator of heaven and earth. I govern history. I care about justice. I hear the cry of the oppressed. And when a person truly lives with that awareness, every relationship, every mitzvah, and every moral choice is transformed.

That is the first gift of miracles: they give us a living faith.

The second is an awareness of our own power.

As the Mishnah teaches in Avot (3:18), “Beloved is the human being, for he was created in the image of G-d.” What does it mean to be created in the Divine image? It means that the human soul is endowed with something G-d-like. The Gemara (Berachos 10a) compares the relationship between G-d and the universe to the relationship between the soul and the body: just as G-d fills the world, the soul fills the body; just as G-d sees but cannot be seen, the soul too is unseen; just as G-d sustains the universe, the soul sustains the body. If G-d were to withdraw His sustaining presence, the universe would collapse. If the soul departs, the body decays.

Of course, the analogy is not absolute. God creates ex nihilo; the soul does not. The soul is placed into a body, into circumstances, into a family, into a history it did not choose. But within those constraints, the soul possesses extraordinary power. As Chazal teach: everything is in the hands of Heaven except the fear of Heaven (ibid.33b). That is to say, within the framework of what we cannot control, there remains a sacred domain that is profoundly ours: our moral choices, our character, our responses, our growth.

This lies at the very heart of Avot. The entire tractate is founded on an astonishingly optimistic view of the human being: a person can change. One can do teshuvah. One can refine action. One can transform character. One can overcome jealousy, desire, and the pursuit of honor. One can develop a good eye, a good heart, humility, generosity, discipline, and wisdom.

Why? Because the soul has real power.

When we contemplate miracles, we are not only contemplating the power of G-d over the physical universe. We are also reminded that within us there is a reflection—finite, human, but real—of Divine potency. The same G-d who split the sea created within us a soul capable of freedom, resilience, creativity, courage, and transformation. Miracles teach us not only to believe in G-d, but also to believe in the possibility of becoming more than we currently are.

That is the second gift of miracles: they awaken us to the dignity and power of the human soul.

The third is the way miracles change our vision of reality itself. To put it differently: what does the world look like when seen through the lens of miracles? It looks like a world in which the status quo is never absolute.

There is an extraordinary moment at the Sea of Reeds. The Jewish people stand trapped with the Egyptians behind them and the sea before them. G-d tells Moshe to stretch out his staff, and the sea splits. Then, after Bnei Yisrael cross, G-d tells Moshe again to stretch out his staff so that the waters return. Rav Mordechai Gifter asked: why was a second miracle necessary? Once the miracle of the split was withdrawn, should not the sea have simply reverted to its normal state?

From here he derived a breathtaking insight: there is no such thing as a “normal state.” The same Divine will required to split the sea is required to keep the sea as sea. The world is not self-sustaining. Existence itself is continuous Divine involvement. What we call “nature” is simply miracle rendered familiar.

This is why Chazal compare rain to techiyas hameisim, the resurrection of the dead (Taanis 2a). Rain seems ordinary because it happens regularly. But what could be more miraculous than the earth reviving itself, than life emerging again and again? We cease to notice miracles not because they are absent, but because they are constant.

And what follows from this is a radical truth: there is no final status quo. Everything is fluid because everything depends, at every moment, on the sustaining will of Hashem.

This insight has enormous implications for personal growth, which is why it belongs in Pirkei Avot. If there is no fixed status quo, then there is no room for complacency. “Do not trust yourself until the day of your death,” says the Mishnah in Avot. There is no room for judgmentalism. “Do not judge your fellow until you have reached his place.” There is no room for procrastination. “Do not say, ‘When I have free time, I will learn,’ for perhaps you will never have free time.” There is no room for arrogance, because tomorrow can overturn everything. But equally, there is no room for despair.

“Do not despair because of suffering.” Even if the sword rests upon one’s neck, Chazal say, a person must never withhold himself from prayer and hope (Berachos 10b). Why? Because there are no immutable rules. There is no locked and sealed reality. The sea split. History itself has been overturned again and again, and redemption can erupt in an instant.

That is one of the deepest lessons of Pesach: b’chipazon—suddenly. One moment they were slaves, and the next moment they were free. One moment they were engulfed in darkness, and the next moment they were redeemed. The world can change in a heartbeat.

And so, when the Gemara (Shabbos 31a) says that one of the questions a person will be asked in the Heavenly Court is, “Tzipisa li’yeshuah—Did you long for salvation?” it means something very concrete. Did you live with the awareness that change is possible? Did you believe that redemption can come suddenly? Did you see the world as open, dynamic, and held by G-d rather than frozen by circumstance?

Jewish history itself is testimony to this truth. It is a history of defying the supposed laws of history just as Yetziat Mitzrayim defied the laws of nature. Against every prediction, against every empire, against every logic of survival, the Jewish people endure, rebuild and renew. Miracles are not only ancient episodes. They are the grammar of our history.

And so, to look at life through the lens of miracles is to see three things.

First, faith: that G-d exists, creates, sees, knows, and cares. Second, human greatness: that the soul, created in His image, possesses the power to choose, grow and transform. Third, possibility: that there is no final status quo, that the world is open, that change is real, and that redemption can arrive in the blink of an eye.

If Pesach teaches us anything, it is that through the understanding of miracles, our faith deepens, our courage expands, and our entire lives become open to change for the better.

Rav Ovadia Yosef z”l

Freedom with Torah

When a person does not study Torah, they are enslaved to the whims of their yetzer hara. They have a desire for this and desire for that and they are slaves. If they want to free themselves, they are unable. But to someone who studies Torah, Hashem says, “I have created the yetzer hara, and create the Torah as an antidote” (Kiddushin 30b). Torah gives freedom of thought to a person. Anything which the Torah forbids, he doesn’t even think about. It is akin to a person seeing the palace of a king; he knows it is off limits and beyond his reach. The person who is devoted to Torah is the truly free individual. And Pesach is this time; the holiday of freedom.