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Shana Tova, Dead Rabbi?

Thursday, September 25, 2025 - 4:57 PM

A few hours before Rosh Hashanah, my phone buzzed. I opened it and read:

“Shana Tova, dead Rabbi.”

Death threads on the eve of one of the holiest days of the year?! From a friend—or who I thought was a friend—no less?

Don’t worry—I’m alive and well. At least I think I am. And I’m pretty sure my friend was a victim of autocorrect at its finest and wasn’t actually letting out his anger at me just hours before the Day of Judgment. He probably didn’t even notice!

But it got me thinking about what Rosh Hashanah really means, and I think maybe there is something to take note of in that odd little greeting.

In a sense, we’re all supposed to become a little “dead” on Rosh Hashanah. Every year G-d gives us a chance to hit reset, to let go of the old version of ourselves, and to step into the new year newly alive, reborn almost, with a clean slate. All the things that have been holding us back and dragging us down—the anger, grudges, jealousy, laziness, pettiness, and bad habits—those parts of us need to die so that the new version of ourselves can be born.

Much like a snake can’t grow without shedding its skin and a seed can’t sprout without disintegrating first, a person can’t truly begin a new year without saying goodbye to at least some of the old one. In Chassidic thought, this is called bittul—nulification. You have to nullify yourself in order to become a better person. Let go of your ego; let go of arrogance. Humble yourself, so that the real, holy, alive you can shine through unencumbered.

I was deeply inspired by how many people took new commitments upon themselves in our shul over Rosh Hashanah: to study Torah, to give charity, to come to shul more often … and so many others.

As we step into 5786, I encourage you to examine what in your life is ready to “die” so that something new and holy can be born. What grudges, fears, or bad habits are holding you back from living fully?

● Used to waking up at 8 a.m.? Wake up an hour earlier at 7 a.m. so you can come to shul and be part of a minyan.

● Used to working late on Fridays? Scrap that—come home early to light Shabbat candles before sunset.

● Mindlessly scrolling on your phone at night? Kill that habit and study Torah instead!

It appears my friend’s autocorrect was, in fact, a stroke of Divine inspiration, and “Shana Tova, dead Rabbi” really means: may this year bring the death of the parts of you that hold you back—and may the real you, the good, vibrant, holy, alive, core you, shine brighter than ever before.

So to my friend (and his mischievous iPhone): thank you for the blessing. And to all of you—my community, my friends, my family—may this year bring you life. Real life. A year where your soul is awake, your heart is open, and your joy is abundant.

Shana Tova—from your very much alive rabbi.

When the Mission Becomes a Family Affair

Thursday, September 18, 2025 - 3:51 PM

My oldest daughter just finished seminary and needed to decide what to do next. Some girls go to college, some travel, others begin their careers. My daughter wanted to work in a Chabad House.

At first, I thought it would be best for her to spread her wings and work at a Chabad center somewhere else in the world, far away from Manhattan. This would give her the opportunity to learn, grow, and explore life on her own. And there’s so much to absorb in any Chabad House: new skills, new perspectives, new ways of doing things.

But then I asked myself: why should she work in someone else’s Chabad House when my wife and I need so much help in ours? And truthfully, she can learn plenty right here. We run a relatively large operation, with a preschool, a shul, adult education classes, programming for young professionals, and Belev Echad for wounded IDF soldiers. There’s no shortage of things to do, and our office is always buzzing with activity.

My daughter was on board, and so she started working last week.

Watching her step into the mission that my wife and I have poured our hearts into is not only deeply moving - it is also so much fun.

Last year, I would call my daughter on my way to work in the morning and maybe catch her on a video call from seminary. But now, we walk side by side, having real, in-depth conversations on the way. Then, at the end of the day, we walk home together.

It feels surreal. We moved to the Upper East Side almost 20 years ago when my daughter was just a baby, so in a very real sense, she grew up inside this Chabad House.

Typically, we dream of our children becoming independent and carving out a path of their own. That itself is a blessing. But there’s an even deeper kind of joy when a child, out of all the options the world has to offer, decides that your mission is their mission too. Not because they have to or because it was expected, but because they want to.

It’s one thing to hand something down. It’s another thing entirely when the next generation picks it up with excitement and ownership. This is the nachas every Jewish parent longs for. We invest so much into building our homes, our families and our communities, and the greatest blessing is seeing a child say, “I want to be part of this too. I want to help carry it forward.”

That’s when you know you’ve built something eternal.

The Torah describes how all of Israel stood together before G-d, “... your heads, your tribes, your elders, your children.” The mission of Torah was never meant for one generation alone. It’s a chain, passed lovingly from parent to child, strengthened anew each time it passes over.

And what better message for Rosh Hashanah? On this day, when we stand before G-d and hear the piercing cry of the shofar, we do not stand alone. We stand as links in an eternal chain, carrying forth the mission of our parents and grandparents, and praying that our children will carry it forward too.

This year, may we all merit the greatest nachas of all: not just building lives of meaning, but seeing the next generation embrace that mission with us.

Wishing you a shana tova u’metuka—a year of joy, blessing, and endless nachas from our children.

Today, We Are All Charlie Kirk

Thursday, September 11, 2025 - 3:35 PM

America is reeling.

Today is one of the darkest days in our country’s history and we cannot ignore it.

A bullet has torn through the very soul of our nation, striking at democracy itself.

It wasn’t only Charlie who fell. We’re all bleeding, staggering under the weight of the pain and shock, forced to grapple with what happens when debate is replaced by bullets and ideas are met with blood rather than rebuttal.

We mourn for Charlie.
We mourn for his wife, left shattered without her husband.
We mourn for his two children, left fatherless in the most unimaginable way.
And yes—we mourn for ourselves, our country, our neighbors, coworkers and loved ones.

We’re standing at the edge of a terrifying abyss and we need to stop and ask ourselves some hard questions:

How did we get here?

How have we allowed hatred to consume us to the extent that disagreement becomes a death sentence?

What kind of culture have we built that values human life less than a political opinion?

These are not questions that can be answered in one day. This is a long, ongoing conversation that needs to happen. We need to come together—from all edges of the political spectrum—and figure out how to get back to a place where it’s OK to disagree, to debate, to argue, without resorting to violence. We cannot shrug this off and simply go on with our lives.

This is not something that can be resolved on the spot, but we’re all reeling and need something action-based that we can do right now.

Our sages teach us that even in the pitch dark of night, there is always a spark of light waiting to be revealed.

How can we start to chip away at the darkness currently enveloping our nation?

We can shoot “bullets” of our own—“bullets” of love and kindness. “Bullets” of compassion and understanding. “Bullets” of holiness and spirituality.

Every good deed, every prayer, every kind word, is like a flare shot back against the darkness. And as our Sages teach, it only takes a small amount of light to banish widespread darkness.

So today, in the face of this tragedy, let’s commit to fighting back in the only way that matters: Not with rage. Not with revenge. But with light.

Go out and do acts of kindness.
Light Shabbat candles.
Eat a kosher lunch.
Say a blessing over your food.
Put on tefillin.
Go to shul.

Do it for Charlie.
Do it for his wife and children.
Do it for America.

We can’t bring Charlie back, but we can work towards bringing back what we’ve lost.

If America is to heal, it will not be through hate.
It will be through each of us carrying Charlie’s memory as a torch, pushing back the darkness with acts of goodness and light.

A Bar Mitzvah in the Sky

Thursday, September 4, 2025 - 2:20 PM

My family and I spent some time in the south of France last week. It was a beautiful trip, but like every family vacation, the journey home was … let’s just say, less than peaceful.

While we were still at the gate, announcements kept coming over the loudspeaker: “We’re looking for volunteers to give up their seats and stay an extra day with compensation.” That’s how full the flight was.

So when all nine of us boarded a packed, overbooked plane, with our seats scattered across different rows, it was a total balagan.

I asked one lady if she could switch to a different seat 10 rows ahead - actually a better seat than the one she had - but she refused because she had already stowed her luggage.

Eventually, another woman agreed to switch as long as I helped her with her bag, which I gladly did. While we were still trying to sort ourselves out, the stewardess told me I was delaying takeoff and that the pilot would not move until I sat down!

So, we all settled into whatever seats we ended up with. For me, that was a middle seat.

Now here’s the thing: I hate the middle seat. I avoid it at all costs. In fact, I can confidently say I never sit in the middle seat. Ever. But my 7-year-old daughter happily grabbed the aisle, and on the other side sat a young man. That left me squeezed into the dreaded middle seat.

And apparently, that’s exactly where G-d wanted me to be.

I’m always fidgety and anxious on flights, so I quickly struck up a conversation with the young man next to me. “What do you do? Where do you live? What brought you to Nice?” He introduced himself as Max, an engineer at a tech company, who, believe it or not, lives very close to me in Manhattan.

Of course, my next question was: “Are you Jewish?”

“Yes,” he replied.

“Did you put on tefillin today?”

“No.”

“Would you like to?”

“Sure.”

I asked him when he last put on tefillin and he told me he didn’t think he ever had. That placed him in a whole different category—what’s called a karkafta, someone who has never donned tefillin - so this would be his bar mitzvah.

“As soon as we’re in the sky and the seatbelt sign is off, I’ll get my tefillin from my bag, we’ll put them on, and then I’ll leave you alone for the rest of the flight,” I told him.

And that’s exactly what we did.

At 30,000 feet in the air, I pulled my tefillin from the overhead compartment, and Max put them on for the very first time. How many people can say they celebrated their bar mitzvah in the sky, with a cabin full of passengers watching on in awe?

It was a holy, unforgettable moment of connection - two brothers in the sky, connected to G-d.

Max may have thought he was just humoring a rabbi on a plane, but in truth he created an eternal connection to his soul and to G-d.

And what did I take away from the encounter (other than the opportunity to assist a fellow Jew in doing a vital mitzvah)? G-d orchestrates every iota of our lives. Sometimes we understand why things happen and why we’re placed in certain situations, but most of the time we don’t.

Here, I was certain my middle seat was a lousy “gift” from G-d, but very quickly it became apparent that I was placed in exactly that seat on exactly that flight to do His bidding. And it reminded me that sometimes the seats we don’t want in life are exactly the ones G-d wants for us.

So next time you find yourself in an uncomfortable spot—whether in an airplane or in life - remember: G-d has a mission waiting for you - something you and only you can do - right there.

Shabbat Shalom!