Rabbi Yussie Zakutinsky

Don’t Tell Him

We are familiar with countless stories about the Baal Shem Tov that illuminate his deep understanding of the neshama. But there is one remarkable account that he himself related, not about his own greatness, but about another.

He once described a simple Jew, an unassuming individual, who performed a single mitzvah that generated such profound nachas, such Divine pleasure, that it reverberated throughout all the worlds. The joy, so to speak, experienced by the Ribbono Shel Olam was so immense that it shook the heavens, related the Baal Shem Tov.

The heavenly hosts, astonished, sought to understand the source of this extraordinary spiritual awakening. They traced it back to this simple Jew, but what exactly had he done? None could say.

At that point, Eliyahu HaNavi offered to descend and uncover the mystery. Disguised, he came to the man’s door and revealed himself. “You should know,” he said, “that the mitzvah you performed yesterday has shaken Shamayim. Its light continues to radiate, and all the malachim are basking in its glow. But no one knows what you did. Please, tell me.”

The man refused. Eliyahu persisted. “I will grant you blessings—whatever you wish. Just reveal the mitzvah.” But the Jew stood firm. “The mitzvah I performed,” he said, “was between me and the Ribbono Shel Olam. That is where it remains. It is not for others to know.”

The Baal Shem Tov concluded: That Jew was myself—in a previous life.

This story captures a profound truth about the neshama. Every mitzvah we perform builds and strengthens our relationship with Hashem. Yet beyond the visible and communal expressions of avodas Hashem lies a deeper yearning: the desire for an intimate and private connection with the Divine.

There is a powerful perspective embedded in this teaching.

A person may engage daily in many mitzvot; tefillah with a minyan, donning tefillin. These are essential, beautiful, and often public expressions of our avodas Hashem. But there is unique power in a different kind of mitzvah: one that is hidden, known only to you and Hashem.

From time to time—perhaps once a day or even once a week—choose to perform a mitzvah in complete secrecy. Consciously dedicate it as something shared exclusively between you and the Ribbono Shel Olam. Resolve not to speak of it, not to publicize it, not to seek recognition for it.

Over time, such acts cultivate a deeper, more penimiyus-like bond; a relationship not built on visibility, but on authenticity and intimacy.

In a world that often celebrates what is seen, there is something profoundly transformative about what remains hidden. Keep secrets with Hashem: mitzvos and good deeds done purely for Him.

Who knows, perhaps one day there will be a knock at your door. And when that happens, just remember: don’t tell him what you did.

Rabbi Eliezer Abish

Home to Hashem

Parshas Shemini continues directly from where Parshas Tzav concludes. For seven days, beginning on the 23rd of Adar, Moshe Rabbeinu erected the Mishkan each morning and dismantled it each evening, as commanded by Hashem. This process repeated itself daily, preparing the people for a moment of spiritual culmination.

Finally, on the eighth day, Rosh Chodesh Nisan, the inauguration of the Mishkan took place. Moshe called upon Aharon, his sons, and the elders of Israel, instructing Aharon to bring the korbanos that would formally initiate the avodah in the Mishkan. One can only begin to imagine the overwhelming joy of Klal Yisrael. After months of preparation, they would witness the Shechinah descend and dwell among them.

And yet, the Torah introduces this moment with the words: “Vayehi bayom hashmini—“And it was on the eighth day.”

Chazal (Megillah 10b) teach that the term “vayehi” signals an element of sorrow or difficulty. This raises a fundamental question: why would the Torah employ a term associated with distress at such a moment of unparalleled joy? This was not a tragedy; it was a spiritual apex.

The Sforno offers a profound insight. He explains that, in truth, the Mishkan represented a second-best reality.

Following the sin of the Golden Calf, the relationship between Hashem and Klal Yisrael was fundamentally altered. Initially, the Divine plan was far more elevated: every individual Jew was meant to become a dwelling place for the Shechinah. As the Pasuk states, “And they shall make for Me a sanctuary, and I will dwell among them” (Shemos 25:8). Not within it, but within them. Each person was meant to embody the sanctity of the Kodesh HaKodashim.

However, after the Chet HaEgel, that level was no longer attainable in its fullest form. Though Hashem accepted their teshuvah, the relationship was recalibrated. Instead of dwelling within each individual, the Shechinah would now reside in a centralized space, namely the Mishkan. Thus, even amidst the joy of inauguration, there was an undercurrent of loss. The word “vayehi” reflects this tension: a moment of greatness, yet not the ultimate ideal.

But notwithstanding, while the original vision may have been deferred; it was not erased. The capacity for each Jew to become a home for the Shechinah still exists. Every individual retains the potential to reach profound levels of holiness and closeness to Hashem. The Mishkan may stand externally, but the inner Mishkan remains within reach.

A man once visited Rebbetzin Kanievsky a”h before Shabbos and noticed her engaged in a lengthy phone call. For nearly fifteen minutes, she gently reassured the person on the other end: “Don’t worry… it won’t happen to you… everything will be okay.” After she hung up, the visitor, curious, asked what the conversation was about.

The Rebbetzin explained that a woman who suffered from frightening dreams would call her regularly, convinced that terrible things were about to happen. Each time, Rebbetzin Kanievsky would patiently calm her fears. “It helps her for a day or two,” she said. “Then she calls again, and I reassure her again.”

The visitor was astonished. Here was a woman, on Erev Shabbos, a time when every moment is precious, dedicating herself fully to easing the anxiety of another.

This is what it means to be a home for the Divine Presence. When a person transcends self and lives with sensitivity to another’s pain, they create space for Hashem within themselves. The path back to that original ideal, where the Divine dwells within each individual, is through acts of genuine care, empathy, and chesed.

The Mishkan may have been a concession, but the mission remains unchanged. Each of us has the ability to become holy and connected to Hashem. And perhaps, through how we treat one another, we can once again become a dwelling place for the Shechinah.

Rabbi Ephraim Epstein

Anger Now and Then

Three times in the Torah, we find that Moshe Rabbeinu becomes angry. This itself is astonishing. Moshe, the humblest of all people, reaches a point of anger. Our Parsha is one such instance.

What provoked this reaction?

On the very first day of the Mishkan’s inauguration, Rosh Chodesh Nisan, Aharon and his sons appeared, in Moshe’s eyes, to have erred in their service. A korban associated with the new month was not eaten, as expected, but instead burned. Moshe challenges them: “Why did you not eat the offering in the sacred place?”

Aharon responds that the korban of Rosh Chodesh was fundamentally different. It is not a one-time offering tied to the unique events of that day, but part of an ongoing, monthly service. And Aharon and his sons were onenim, in a state of acute mourning for Nadav and Avihu, who have just died tragically. Under such circumstances, it would be inappropriate for them to partake in a korban of such obligation.

The Torah concludes that “Moshe heard, and it was good in his eyes.” He immediately accepts Aharon’s reasoning.

But this episode invites deeper reflection. What lay beneath Moshe’s initial reaction? What was the root of this moment of anger?

When Hashem first appoints Moshe as leader in Book of Exodus, Moshe resists. For seven days, he argues that he is not worthy. Why? Because of his older brother, Aharon. Aharon had remained with the people through their suffering; Moshe had been absent. “He should be the leader,” Moshe insists. Hashem responds that Aharon will indeed play a central role, but Moshe will lead.

History unfolds. Moshe leads Klal Yisrael through the plagues, the Exodus, the splitting of the sea, and the revelation at Sinai. But then comes the episode of the Golden Calf; an event in which Aharon plays a complex and controversial role. One can imagine that, deep within, Moshe may have felt a quiet, unspoken tension: Perhaps my original hesitation was justified.

Months later, as the Mishkan is finally completed and dedicated, tragedy strikes again. Nadav and Avihu, Aharon’s sons, die in a moment of spiritual miscalculation. Once more, Aharon’s family stands at the center of a painful episode.

Perhaps, then, Moshe’s reaction in our Parsha is not solely about the immediate halachic question. Perhaps it is colored by something deeper, such as an accumulation of unresolved emotion, a lingering internal struggle dating back to the very beginning of his leadership.

And yet, what is most remarkable is not the moment of anger, but what follows.

Aharon responds with composure, dignity, and clarity. Moshe listens. And in a moment of profound humility, he concedes: “And it was good in his eyes.” He accepts the truth, even when it comes from another.

This episode offers a powerful lesson.

Often, our reactions are not only about the present moment. They are shaped by layers of past experience—by doubts, by memories, by unresolved feelings that quietly resurface. What appears to be anger about “now” may, in truth, be rooted in “then.”

The work, therefore, is twofold: To strive for self-awareness—recognizing what we are truly reacting to—and to cultivate the humility to step back, listen, and accept when we are wrong.

Moshe Rabbeinu models both. Even at the height of leadership, even in a moment of tension, he remains open to truth.

We must make decisions in life with the best clarity we can muster and guided by our understanding of Hashem’s will. And then we must learn to live with those decisions—not with regret, but with growth, reflection, and trust.

May we be blessed with the awareness to understand ourselves, the humility to learn from others, and the strength to transform our inner struggles into deeper avodas Hashem.

Rabbi Nachum Binder

Trash With Thousands

The week before Pesach, a friend of mine who works on 47th Street in Manhattan was cleaning his office. As is often the case, pre-Pesach cleaning extends beyond chametz; it becomes an opportunity to clear away the clutter that has accumulated over the year.

When he finished, he had two large garbage bags to dispose of. As he walked down the hallway toward the dumpster, he was suddenly confronted with a test. It was a moment requiring real vigilance in shemiras einayim. In that instant, with determination, he made a conscious decision: “I am not looking. I will keep my eyes down and continue walking.”

He carried on, discarded the first bag, and then turned to throw out the second. But it was unusually heavy, and building regulations prohibited disposing of such a large bag at once. He returned to his office, intending to split the contents into two smaller bags.

As he began sorting through the garbage, he came across an envelope. Inside: $1,000 in cash. Surprised, he continued. A few moments later, he found another envelope. Another $1,000.

He completed the task, disposed of the garbage, and paused to reflect. What seemed like a minor inconvenience—having to return and reopen the bag—had led to an unexpected discovery of $2,000. But more than that, he understood something else.

This was not merely chance. This was a shmeichel min haShamayim, a smile from Heaven.

It was as if the Ribbono Shel Olam was saying: “You faced a nisayon and you stood strong. I see your effort and value it.”

We often think in terms of grand tests and dramatic salvations. But in truth, our lives are filled with small, daily nisyonos, of quiet moments of choice that no one else sees. And it is precisely in those moments that our greatness is formed.

Each time a person overcomes, even something small, they affirm their relationship with Hashem. And whether or not we see immediate reward, we can be certain: Hashem sees and Hashem knows. And Hashem, so to speak, smiles.

Let us learn to value the small victories. Because in the eyes of Heaven, they are anything but small.

Rabbi Mordechai Finkelman

My Home

“My dear chassid,” said R’ Menachem Mendel of Kotzk, “I cannot simply remove the distracting thoughts that enter your mind during davening and learning. I am not a magician.

“However,” he continued, “I have a chassid who lives a few hours away. He possesses the secret of mastering the mind. Go to him.”

That very afternoon, the chassid set out. A few hours later, he arrived at the address his Rebbe had given him. He approached the door, pulled the rope to ring the bell—once, twice, repeatedly. But there was no response.

He circled the house and peered through the window. Inside, he saw a man seated at a table, deeply immersed in a sefer. The chassid knocked on the window. The man briefly turned, glanced at him, and returned to his learning.

He knocked again. No response.

Perplexed, the visitor thought, “Perhaps this is not the homeowner; perhaps just a guest who cannot open the door.” With no other option, he left, found lodging for the night, and returned later that evening.

This time, when he rang the bell, the very same man opened the door warmly with a welcoming smile.

But the chassid did not enter. “You were here earlier,” he said. “I knocked. I rang the bell. Why did you not open the door?”

At this, the man grew visibly upset. “You are the one who disturbed me?” he said. “I am a busy businessman. I take a single hour each day to come home and learn. During that time, I do not interrupt for anything, unless there is a true emergency. I saw you. You appeared well. There was no reason for me to stop.”

He continued. “This is my home. I open the door when I choose and to whom I choose. If you knock and no one answers, you leave.” Then, softening slightly in tone, he asked: “Now, what can I do for you?”

The chassid explained that his Rebbe had sent him, seeking guidance on how to rid his mind of intrusive thoughts during davening and learning. The man shook his head. “You need a tzaddik for that,” he said. “I am just a simple businessman trying to serve Hashem.”

The next day, the chassid returned to his Rebbe. The Kotzker Rebbe looked at him and immediately sensed his frustration.

“Tell me what happened,” he said. The chassid recounted the entire story. And when he reached the point where the man declared, “This is my home. I open the door when I want and for whom I want,” the Rebbe leaned forward.

“That,” he said, “is exactly why I sent you to him. That is your answer.”

“Your mind is your home. It is the most sacred part of your being—the Kodesh HaKodashim within your personal Mikdash. And HaKadosh Baruch Hu has given you doors. You have eyelids—to close your eyes. You have ears—to guard what you allow in. You have lips—to control what you say and consume. You have senses—each with boundaries. And with all of them, you have the power to say: “This is my home. I decide what enters.”

If you allow every thought to enter unchecked, you will struggle in your tefillah and in your Torah. But if you learn to guard your inner world—to open the door selectively and with intention—you will begin to experience clarity, purity, and presence.

The goal is not to eliminate thoughts entirely. The goal is to choose which ones you let inside. And when a person lives with that awareness—when he becomes the gatekeeper of his own inner Mikdash—then his tefillos become more focused, his learning more refined, and his connection to Hashem more real.

Guard the doors. It is your home.