One of the most iconic lines in all of Torah isn’t just something we read—it’s something we live. You’ll find it in Deuteronomy, and if you’re someone who prays traditionally, you’ll say it multiple times a day. It’s the opening line of the V’ahavta:

וְאָהַבְתָּ אֵת ה׳ אֱלֹהֶיךָ בְּכׇל לְבָבְךָ וּבְכׇל נַפְשְׁךָ וּבְכׇל מְאֹדֶךָ

“You shall love Adonai your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your meodecha.”

Heart? That’s easy to understand. Soul? Sure, that’s deep—but familiar. But meodecha? That’s where things get interesting.

The word meod in Hebrew usually means very—as in tov meod, “very good.” It’s typically an adverb, not a noun. But here, in one of the most theologically profound verses of Torah, meodecha is used as if it were a tangible thing. So what does it mean to love God with your very?

Rashi, the great medieval commentator, interprets meodecha to mean “with all your wealth.” That’s one lens—after all, when we give our financial resources, we’re giving something of ourselves. But I’d like to propose a different angle. What if meodecha means something even more personal, even more intimate?

What if meodecha means “your veryness”—the essence of who you are?

In this week’s Torah portion, we see this concept come to life. The Israelites are asked to contribute to the construction of the Mishkan, God’s dwelling place in the wilderness. But it isn’t just about money. The Torah repeatedly emphasizes that the gifts must come nadiv libo—voluntarily, from the heart.

Yes, there was gold. Yes, there was silver. But what set this act of giving apart was its sincerity. The Israelites were giving not out of obligation or social pressure—they were giving of themselves. In fact, they gave so much that Moses had to tell them to stop. Imagine that—a problem of over-generosity. Every nonprofit’s dream.

But here’s the key: it wasn’t about the amount they gave—it was about the spirit in which they gave it.

This week, I want to distinguish between two beautiful Jewish values: tzedakah and nedivut.

Tzedakah is charity—most often associated with financial giving. It’s a mitzvah, a moral obligation. But nedivut, which comes from the same root as nadiv libo, means generosity of the heart. And that’s where meodecha lives—not just in your bank account, but in your time, your energy, your love, and your attention.

Here’s the difference. If you’re walking down the street and someone asks for help, and you drop a dollar in their cup as you keep moving, that’s tzedakah. It’s a good thing—it’s even your responsibility. But if you stop, look them in the eye, ask their name, have a conversation, and make them feel seen—that’s nedivut. That’s giving from your veryness.

Several years ago, I led a group of teens on a Midnight Run in New York City. We loaded up vans with toiletries, food, clothing, and set out to distribute them to those experiencing homelessness. But before we left, I gave the teens one directive: Don’t just hand things out—talk. Listen. Be in relationship.

The next day, as we rushed through the city trying to make a museum reservation, I noticed a group of students lagging behind. I was frustrated—trying to wrangle fifty teens in Manhattan is no easy task. But when I doubled back, I found them deep in conversation with a man on the street.

“We didn’t have anything to give him,” they said. “We just wanted to make sure he felt like a normal human being.”

That’s meodecha. That’s generosity of spirit. That’s what it means to give from your veryness.

And truthfully, that’s the kind of giving that builds community. Not just with money—but with presence. With heart. With soul. And yes—with your very.

At the Jewish Center of the Hamptons, we’re working to cultivate a culture of volunteerism. We’re building a place where giving isn’t just about writing a check—it’s about showing up. Whether it’s preparing meals for Maureen’s Haven, volunteering with The Retreat, or simply lending your time and energy to help our community flourish, there are so many ways to give from your meodecha.

In Hebrew, the verb “to volunteer” is l’hitnadev—from the same root as nedivut. Embedded in our language is the idea that generosity and volunteering come from the same spiritual source: the heart.

So here’s your Shabbat challenge: Find a way to give that won’t show up on your tax return. Give from your essence. Give from your heart. Give from your veryness. Your meodecha.

And in doing so, you just might discover that the act of giving not only transforms someone else’s life—it transforms your own.

Here’s a question that might sound a little crazy: If God is the Creator of the universe—the Architect of stars, planets, oceans, and human beings—why would God ask us to build a home for God?

Seriously, think about it. If God can create the sun and moon, sky and sea, animals and humankind, why on earth would God entrust mere mortals—specifically, a ragtag bunch of Israelites fresh out of slavery—with the task of designing and constructing the Mishkan, God’s dwelling place?

Over the past few weeks in our Torah readings, we’ve been knee-deep in blueprints and fabric swatches—Torah portions filled with elaborate detail about the construction of the Mishkan. From Parashat Terumah to Vayakhel and now Pikudei, we’ve read line after line about golden clasps, acacia wood, woven curtains, and sacred vestments. If you’re wondering, “Why all the repetition? Why all this minutiae?”—you’re not alone.

On the surface, it seems like divine micromanagement. But beneath it lies a profound theological idea: God chooses not to design the divine dwelling alone. Instead, God makes space for us to become co-creators.

This concept echoes one of the more beautiful teachings in Jewish mysticism—Tzimtzum. Found in Lurianic Kabbalah, Tzimtzum refers to divine contraction. The idea is that at the moment of creation, God didn’t just radiate divine presence everywhere. Instead, God contracted—withdrew—in order to create space for something other than Godself to exist. God made room for us.

Rabbi Nachman of Breslov takes this further. He teaches that God created a ḥalal ha-panu’i, a “vacant space”—a tangible feeling of God’s absence that paradoxically allows us to sense God’s presence even more deeply. It’s in this sacred emptiness that we encounter freedom, creativity, and growth.

One of my teachers, Rabbi Eugene Borowitz (z”l), one of the most influential Jewish theologians of the 20th century, applied Tzimtzum not only to theology, but to leadership. In a groundbreaking 1976 essay titled Leadership and Tzimtzum, Dr. Borowitz argued that the Jewish model of leadership isn’t about inflating ego or dominating a room. Rather, it’s about making space—contracting oneself so that others can step in and lead.

He called it ethical leadership.

That idea has stuck with me. It informs how I try to lead within the rabbinate. One example: our amazing Director of Education, Margaret. She began as a teacher in our religious school, moved into engagement and education coordination, and now leads as Director of Education. And even though I love teaching and being in the classroom, I intentionally pull back from certain meetings and decisions—not out of disinterest, but because I want Margaret to lead fully. I believe her growth depends on my contraction. That’s Tzimtzum.

And this wasn’t just a theory for Dr. Borowitz—it’s how he lived.

During my student-rabbi days, I served at Temple Sinai in Stamford, Connecticut—where Dr. Borowitz happened to be a congregant. Giving sermons with a theological giant in the pews? Intimidating doesn’t begin to cover it.

One Saturday, I came early for his 8:00 a.m. Torah study and tried to quietly sit in the back. He looked at me and said, “Rabbi”—I wasn’t even ordained yet—“you can’t sit back there. Come sit next to me.” That was Tzimtzum—he made space for me not just to observe, but to belong, to lead, to grow.

And then there was my friend and classmate, Rabbi Evan Schultz, who was presenting on Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel’s theology of “radical amazement.” Mid-presentation, Dr. Borowitz interrupted: “Let’s stop here. Everyone, pair up and share a moment when you felt radical amazement.” Insightful? Sure. But afterward, Dr. Borowitz reflected and realized he had hijacked the moment.

The next week, he wheeled in a cart of coffee and pastries. A party in the classroom. And with complete sincerity, he said, “Evan, I want to apologize. I stepped in where I should have stepped back. Even I can get it wrong.”

That was Tzimtzum in action.

God’s decision to let us build the Mishkan wasn’t a flaw in the divine plan. It was the plan. Just as God contracted to make space for creation, we too are called to contract at times—to step back so others can step forward.

Your Shabbat challenge is this: Where in your life are you taking up too much space? In your workplace? In a relationship? At home? Try practicing Tzimtzum. Make a little less room for yourself—and watch how those around you begin to grow.

What could possibly bring 125 rabbis—across denominations, political views, and every corner of the American map—together in one room?

The answer, quite simply, is Zionism.

But before I get into that gathering, I need to mention another one.

Next week, the Central Conference of American Rabbis (CCAR)—the professional organization of Reform rabbis—will host its annual conference. I’ve been before. And to be candid, I won’t be going this time.

Not because the company is bad. Quite the opposite. It’s a reunion of sorts—familiar faces, old classmates. But the conversations there often feel fragmented, disjointed. We’re all supposed to be “on the same team,” and yet the disconnect—ideological, emotional, spiritual—is palpable. More often than not, we leave disagreeing on more than we ever agreed on to begin with.

Now compare that to what just happened in South Florida.

I found myself surrounded by rabbis from across the Jewish spectrum—Orthodox, Conservative, Reform, Renewal, non-denominational—all united in one shared purpose: to talk about Zionism. And not just to talk about it, but to engage with it, wrestle with it, and reclaim it.

The name of the gathering was Zionism: A New Conversation. But to be honest, it wasn’t a new conversation. It was a return to an ancient one. A reminder that this single word—Zionism—is a thread strong enough to hold together an entire people. I left that conference not only with new colleagues, but with a sense of camaraderie and shared mission I rarely experience in rabbinic circles.

Let me be clear about what I mean when I say Zionism.

Because I know—the word has become controversial. In some circles, even radioactive. And yes, there are people who proudly declare themselves anti-Zionist. I want to acknowledge that. But I also want to suggest that we may be talking past one another—using the same word to describe entirely different things.

When I speak about Zionism, I’m not speaking about government policies or political parties. I’m talking about Ahavat Yisrael—a deep and abiding love for Israel. A spiritual connection that has spanned 2,000 years. A longing, encoded in our DNA, to return to the land of our ancestors. A homeland where the Jewish people can thrive—culturally, spiritually, and religiously.

That’s what Zionism means to me.

In February 2023, I stood in Tel Aviv protesting judicial overreach. In November, I stood in the same square demanding the return of Israeli hostages taken by Hamas. Both moments were profoundly Zionist. Because loving Israel means holding it accountable. It means dreaming of what it can become—and never ceasing to fight for that dream.

Zionism is not a modern invention. The term may have been coined in 1890, but the concept is as old as our people. Open a siddur, and you’ll find line after line that reveals our longing for Zion:

“Gather us from the four corners of the earth.”
“Rebuild Jerusalem.”
“Shine a new light upon Zion.”

Even the Psalmist wrote, by the rivers of Babylon: “If I forget you, O Jerusalem, let my right hand wither…”

That’s Zionism—whether or not we called it that.

Zionism has been the thread—sometimes frayed, but never broken—that has held Klal Yisrael, the collective people of Israel, together throughout history. And it still can.

When we talk about building Jewish community, there are easy ways to start. Rainbow cookies and pickled herring come to mind. But if we’re serious about creating community that endures—across time zones, denominations, and generations—we need shared purpose. Zionism, I believe, is one of the most powerful shared purposes we have.

Some will disagree. That’s okay. Dialogue is essential. But I will never be ashamed to call myself a Zionist. I will never let the extremists—from Neturei Karta protesters to online trolls—define what that word means.

Zionism isn’t racism. It isn’t apartheid. And it isn’t colonialism. It’s the belief that the Jewish people have the right—and the responsibility—to live in and love the land of our ancestors.

This fall, the 39th World Zionist Congress will convene in Jerusalem. Think of it as the Jewish people’s parliament—founded by Theodor Herzl in 1897. And right now, elections are open. Your vote matters.

It costs $5 to vote. And that vote helps determine how $5 billion will be allocated across Israel over the next five years. That’s not hyperbole. That’s the budget the Congress oversees. And that funding affects everything—from support for progressive synagogues to the protection of democratic values.

In Israel, Orthodox synagogues receive government funding. Progressive ones do not. Non-Orthodox rabbis can’t legally perform weddings or funerals. That’s a problem. And your vote is one small but meaningful way to fix it.

I’m honored to be a delegate in the upcoming Congress. I’m running on the Vote Reform platform because its values align with my own. But whatever party you connect with—vote. Find the platform that reflects your vision for Israel. Or, if you trust me, vote for the platform I’m on. Either way, vote.

Zionism is not a dirty word. It is our shared heartbeat. It is the lifeblood of Jewish peoplehood. And it’s one of the core values we hold dear at the Jewish Center of the Hamptons.

Yes, I’ve been called terrible names on social media for saying that. I delete most of the comments before you see them. But still, they come: Nazi. Baby killer. Apartheid apologist. And worse.

And still, I stand tall.

Because I know what Zionism really is. I know what it means. And I believe, in my soul, that it has the power to bring our people together again.

So go vote.

And more than that: be proud. Be unapologetic. Be Zionist.

That, I promise you—I always will be.

How many of us have ever hugged our Uber driver?

I know—it’s not the most common question. But stay with me, because there’s a story behind it.

Just a few days ago, I was in Florida, traveling between Boca Raton and Miami Beach. It was a long ride—an hour and twenty minutes—and I did what I always do: tossed my luggage in the back of a red SUV, slid into the passenger seat, and greeted the driver.

His name was Robbie.

Almost instantly, our conversation took off. What started as small talk—how long he’s been driving Uber, what he does on the side, what his dreams are—quickly turned into something deeper. He asked about me, and though I don’t always do this, I told him I’m a rabbi. We talked about the conference I was attending, what I was learning, why I was there. The words came easily.

Somehow, we found ourselves in a real conversation—the kind where you lose track of time. So much so that Robbie missed an exit and ended up taking us through a rougher part of Miami. But even that detour had its own gift. It led us into a dialogue about poverty, about luck and circumstance, and how the lives we lead are often shaped by forces beyond our control.

By the time we neared my destination, I didn’t want the ride to end. Have you ever had that feeling—where you’re en route somewhere, but the journey itself feels more valuable than the place you’re going? That was this ride.

We pulled up, Robbie got out and handed me my suitcase. And in that moment, a simple “thank you” felt insufficient. So I did something I’ve never done before—I gave him a hug.

Before I left, Robbie told me something beautiful. He keeps a journal of the most meaningful conversations he has with passengers—and I made it into his book.

What made that ride unforgettable wasn’t just the conversation—it was the connection. It reminded me that deep relationships don’t just appear out of thin air. We have to be willing to let our guard down, to listen—really listen—to someone else’s story. When we do, something sacred can happen.

We form a bond. A human one.

And that leads me to what I believe relationships are really about. If I had to boil it down to just one idea, it would be this:

Relationships are about showing up.

That’s it. Showing up.

Robbie showed up for me—not just physically, by picking me up when I called an Uber—but emotionally. He was fully present. And those are the people we want around us—the ones who show up.

There’s a question I like to ask as a kind of litmus test for any relationship: If you found yourself in trouble, would this person show up for you?

If the answer is yes, that’s someone to hold onto.

This idea of showing up isn’t just about one-on-one connections. It’s the foundation of something bigger—community.

This week, we read the Torah portion Vayakhel. The word vayakhel means “he gathered”—as in, Moses gathered the people. But it’s more than just a headcount. Moses wasn’t simply collecting individuals; he was forming a kehila—a community.

A kehila isn’t just a group of people doing the same thing at the same time. It’s a web of relationships. It’s a network of people who show up for each other. That’s the heart of sacred community. That’s what we’re striving to build at the Jewish Center of the Hamptons.

You can join a gym or take a class and feel like you’re part of something. But when life gets hard—when you need someone to bring you soup, or hold your hand, or just sit with you in silence—the question is: Will those people show up?

Here, we do.

Here, we commit to being that kind of community—for each other, and for anyone who walks through our doors.

So try this: if you sense someone around you might be in need—even if they don’t say it out loud—offer a smile. A hug. A high five. A moment of your time. In whatever way you can, show up.

You never know whose journal you might end up in.

Let me begin with three parables. As you hear them, I think you’ll notice the connection between them.

Parable #1: The Blind Men and the Elephant

This first parable doesn’t come from Midrash—it actually originates in Indian tradition. It tells the story of six blind men, each touching a different part of an elephant.

• One man grabs the trunk and believes he’s holding a snake.
• Another touches the elephant’s ear and is convinced it’s a giant fan.
• A third wraps his arms around the leg and mistakes it for a tree trunk.

Each man interprets what he’s touching based on their immediate perspective, without realizing that what they’re holding is just one piece of a much bigger reality.

Parable #2: The Two Stone Cutters

The second parable is shorter.

Two stone cutters are working on the same project, chipping away at identical slabs of stone. A passerby asks the first, “What are you doing?”

The man shrugs and replies, “I’m cutting stone.”

Then the passerby asks the second stone cutter the same question. This worker replies, “I’m building a palace.”

Same task. Two perspectives. One man sees only the small, immediate moment. The other understands that his work is part of something far greater.

Parable #3: The Little Boy and the Rose Bush

The last story is a personal one.

When I was five years old, I noticed an ugly, twiggy bush in my yard during the winter. It looked dry and lifeless—nothing but a bunch of sticks. I thought it was ruining the yard, so I did what any determined five-year-old would do: I stomped on it, jumped up and down on it, and did everything I could to destroy it.

What I didn’t know was that the bush was actually a rose bush. If I had left it alone, it would have blossomed in the spring, filling the garden with beauty.

To this day, my mother still hasn’t forgiven me for it.

The Common Thread: Seeing the Whole Picture

Each of these parables teaches the same fundamental lesson: We often focus too closely on what’s right in front of us and fail to see the bigger picture.

• The blind men thought they understood the elephant, but they were only grasping tiny fragments of the whole.
• The first stonecutter saw only a mundane task, while the second saw a grand vision.
• As a child, I destroyed something beautiful because I couldn’t see what it would become.

This idea—that we must step back and see the full picture—is deeply woven into Jewish tradition, Torah study, and even the way we read Megillat Esther on Purim.

Unrolling the Megillah: A Tradition of Perspective

There is a fascinating Purim tradition—one that is rarely practiced today, but that carries deep significance.

Typically, when we read Megillat Esther, we do so by gradually unrolling the scroll, revealing one section at a time. But according to an old custom, the Megillah is supposed to be completely unrolled before reading, so that the entire story is visible at once.

Why? Because when you read Megillat Esther piece by piece, you might miss the bigger story.

At first, the events in Esther seem disconnected:

• A drunken king throws a party.
• Queen Vashti is banished.
• Esther, a Jewish girl, is taken to the palace.
• Haman rises to power and plots destruction.

None of these moments, by themselves, seem to suggest divine intervention. In fact, God’s name does not appear anywhere in the entire Megillah. If you look at any individual scene, God appears completely absent.

But when you zoom out—when you unroll the entire Megillah and look at it as a whole—you begin to see the hidden hand guiding the events. Esther’s rise to power, Mordechai’s position at the gate, the seemingly random sleepless night of the king—all of these “coincidences” fit together into a grander plan.

It’s only by looking at the entire story that we recognize the hidden presence of God.

The Lesson in Torah: Zooming Out on Jewish History

This concept isn’t just true for Purim—it applies to Jewish history as a whole.

If you focus on any single tragic moment in Jewish history, it may seem as though the Jewish people were on the brink of destruction. Look at the destruction of the First or Second Temple, the expulsions, the pogroms, the Holocaust—any one of these moments could lead someone to despair.

But zoom out, and you see a different story. You see a people who, despite exile, dispersion, and persecution, continued to survive, rebuild, and thrive.

In 1939, Jewish life in Europe seemed to be at its peak. In 1945, it seemed as though everything had been lost. But then in 1948, the State of Israel was born. A people that had been stateless for two thousand years returned home.

If you only looked at 1939-1945, you might think Jewish survival was impossible. But history isn’t meant to be viewed in isolated fragments. Step back, and you see the full arc of resilience, faith, and continuity.

The Financial Market and the Power of Patience

This lesson applies not just to Jewish history but to everyday life—including something as mundane as the stock market.

Anyone who checks their investments daily knows the feeling: one week, the market is up; the next, it plummets. If you focus only on the short-term, it’s easy to panic. But any good financial advisor will tell you: zoom out. Look at the long-term trajectory. The market has corrections, dips, and crashes, but over decades, it has continued to grow.

The same is true for life itself. There are bad days, bad months, even bad years—but if we step back, we often see that the broader arc leads toward progress and growth.

Conclusion: The Power of Perspective

Whether it’s in Torah, in history, or in your own life, the ability to see the full picture is invaluable.

• Don’t be like the blind men, mistaking a single part for the whole.
• Don’t be like the first stone cutter, failing to recognize the grandeur of what you’re building.
• And don’t destroy the rose bush before it has a chance to bloom.

Instead, unroll the Megillah. Step back. See the full story.

Because sometimes, the most important truths are only revealed when we take a moment to zoom out.

Anger is one of the most intense and potentially destructive emotions a person can experience. It can arise in an instant, clouding judgment, damaging relationships, and leading to regrettable actions. Jewish tradition warns against anger, comparing it to idolatry—a force that can take control of us, leading us astray from wisdom and self-discipline.

At the same time, we find moments in the Torah where anger is not only present but plays a pivotal role. One of the most striking examples is Moses breaking the Ten Commandments after seeing the Israelites worship the Golden Calf. His reaction is one of intense fury—he takes the very tablets inscribed by God and smashes them before the people.

Was this an uncontrolled outburst? Or was there a deeper purpose behind it?

Moses and the Power of Shock Value

The Torah describes how, after receiving the Tablets on Mount Sinai, Moses descends and finds the people reveling before the Golden Calf. This was not just a minor lapse in faith—it was a direct violation of the covenant they had just made with God. According to the Torah, idolatry was punishable by death. The people, in their reckless celebration, were unaware of the magnitude of their sin and the consequences they faced.

Moses’ dramatic act of smashing the tablets was not simply an expression of rage—it was a calculated move to shock the Israelites into realizing the gravity of what they had done. The Ten Commandments represented their sacred covenant with God. By shattering them, Moses was sending a clear and terrifying message: You have already broken this covenant. Look at what you’ve done. This is no small mistake—this is a matter of life and death.

This act of controlled, purposeful anger had an immediate effect. The revelry stopped. The people were forced to confront the reality of their actions. Had Moses merely rebuked them with words, would they have truly grasped the severity of their sin? Probably not. Sometimes, only a dramatic action can awaken people to the dangers they are bringing upon themselves.

The Difference Between Expressing Anger and Using It Strategically

This episode teaches a critical lesson about the difference between losing control to anger and using anger as a tool for correction. If Moses had acted out of personal frustration, God might have reprimanded him. But interestingly, God does not punish Moses for breaking the tablets.

Contrast this with another episode later in the Torah: the incident at the waters of Meribah. There, God instructs Moses to speak to a rock to bring forth water, but instead, Moses strikes it in anger. This time, his anger is not a calculated message, but an uncontrolled reaction, and for this, he is punished.

The message is clear: There is a time when expressing anger—if done for the right reasons and in a controlled manner—can serve a greater purpose. But when anger controls us, rather than the other way around, it becomes destructive.

Why Uncontrolled Anger Is So Dangerous

The danger of unchecked anger is that it clouds judgment and escalates conflict rather than resolving it. Consider how people often handle frustration in everyday life:

• A husband and wife argue, and rather than calmly addressing the issue, one lashes out, saying something hurtful. Instead of leading to resolution, the argument deepens.
• A customer calls a service line, frustrated over an issue. They let their anger take over, yelling at the representative. Does this lead to better service? Or does it make the agent less inclined to help?
• A parent gets frustrated with their child, yelling instead of guiding. Rather than learning a lesson, the child becomes defensive or afraid.

Jewish tradition teaches that anger is one of the most dangerous emotions precisely because it is so instinctive. When unchecked, it doesn’t solve problems—it often makes them worse. The Talmud goes so far as to compare anger to idolatry because, in those moments, the person allows their emotions to take control rather than acting with wisdom and restraint.

Anger and Parenting: A Lesson in Self-Control

The lesson of Moses also applies to how we discipline and guide others, especially children.

A wise parent does not constantly yell at their child. If they did, the child would eventually tune it out. But if a normally calm parent suddenly raises their voice, the child will take notice and understand that something serious is happening.

This is exactly what Moses did. He wasn’t prone to outbursts, so when he shattered the tablets, it had the necessary impact. If he had been someone who constantly raged, the people might have ignored him. But because this was an extraordinary act, it woke them up.

The same principle applies to effective leadership and parenting: When anger is the exception rather than the norm, it carries weight. When it becomes habitual, it loses its effectiveness.

Overcoming Anger: Practical Strategies

So how can we train ourselves to control anger rather than letting it control us? Jewish wisdom, along with modern psychology, offers several strategies:

1. Pause Before Reacting – The Talmud teaches that when you feel anger, you should stop and wait before responding. Often, just a few seconds of pause can prevent regretful words or actions.
2. Reframe the Situation – Instead of assuming the worst, consider alternative perspectives. What if the person who upset you didn’t intend harm? What if this moment of frustration isn’t as serious as it feels?
3. Use Humor – Laughter can be an incredibly effective way to defuse anger. If you can find a way to laugh at the situation, your frustration will often diminish.
4. Focus on Solutions, Not Blame – Instead of dwelling on what went wrong, shift your energy toward fixing the issue. What can you do right now to improve the situation?
5. Remember the Long-Term Goal – Ask yourself: Will this anger help me achieve what I truly want? In most cases, the answer is no.

Conclusion

The story of Moses breaking the tablets teaches us that anger, when used intentionally and strategically, can serve a purpose—but when it is uncontrolled, it leads to destruction.

Moses did not shatter the tablets in a blind rage. He did it to shock the people into realizing the danger of idolatry, a sin that carried the most severe consequences in the Torah. His act was meant to wake them up and steer them away from destruction.

This is a critical distinction: anger should never be a default reaction, but in rare cases, when used with wisdom and purpose, it can serve as a powerful corrective tool.

For the rest of us, in our daily lives, we must remember that anger rarely achieves what we think it will. It is not a sign of strength, but of loss of control. True wisdom lies in knowing when to hold back, when to guide with patience, and when—only in the most extreme cases—to use the power of shock to bring about change.

By striving to master our emotions rather than being mastered by them, we not only build better relationships but also become better, more disciplined, and more compassionate human beings.

Let me start with a bit of a parlor trick. I’m going to tell you what many of my colleagues often speak about when this parasha comes around—not because I’ve asked them, but because I know how they think.

When they look at this week’s parasha, I know exactly where their minds will go. They will see that Purim is approaching, and they will say, “Ah, it’s Shabbat Zachor—the time to remember Amalek.” And they will remind their communities of what Amalek did to us.

For those unfamiliar with the story, Amalek attacked the Israelites in the wilderness, striking from behind and preying upon the weak and vulnerable. In response, the Torah commands us: “Remember what Amalek did to you… do not forget.”

Many of my colleagues will use this moment to emphasize that Amalek is not just a figure of the past. They will argue that Amalek exists in every generation. After all, our tradition teaches that Amalek’s descendants lived in the time of King Saul, and later, in the time of Purim, as Haman himself was said to be a descendant of Amalek. They will take this logic a step further, pointing to modern enemies and declaring, “Look, here is the Amalek of today.”

This mindset is why we so often label those who wish us harm as Amalek, or Nazis, or some other embodiment of ultimate evil. But today, I want to challenge this way of thinking.

The Biases That Shape Our Thinking

The human mind is wired with cognitive biases that lead us to see patterns—even when they may not fully exist. Two in particular contribute to the way we approach Amalek:

Anchoring Bias

When something dominates our thoughts, we begin to interpret the world through that lens. When we read Parashat Zachor, Amalek is at the forefront of our minds, and suddenly, we start seeing Amalek everywhere.

Frequency Bias and the Baader-Meinhof Phenomenon

When we learn something new, we start noticing it everywhere. If you just learned a new word, you will suddenly hear it multiple times a day. Similarly, when we talk about Amalek, we begin to see Amalek in every enemy, every threat, every conflict.

This cognitive tendency is sometimes called the Baader-Meinhof Phenomenon—a name that originated from an unlikely source. In the 1990s, an online forum user observed that after first hearing about the German terrorist group known as the Baader-Meinhof Gang, they suddenly started encountering the name everywhere. Other forum members related to this experience, and the name stuck. The phenomenon has nothing to do with the Baader-Meinhof Gang itself; it simply describes the way our brains latch onto information and then seemingly “find” it everywhere.

This is why, year after year, rabbis declare that we are “living in a time of Amalek.” And, to be fair, Jewish history gives us plenty of reasons to believe this. There have always been new enemies who sought to destroy us. But this thinking is dangerous because it leads us to believe that history is repeating itself exactly—when, in reality, it is not.

History Doesn’t Repeat, It Rhymes

As Mark Twain put it, “History doesn’t repeat itself, but it rhymes.” Yes, there are patterns across time. But if we want to truly understand our world, we must zoom in and see the differences, not just the similarities.

Consider this: One of the greatest enemies of the Jewish people today is Hamas. I promise you that this Shabbat, there will be rabbis across the country who declare that Hamas is the modern embodiment of Amalek.

And yet, this framing is flawed. When we fight a war through the paradigm of Amalek, we are always one step behind—because we are fighting an old war rather than understanding the nuances of the present one.

Yes, Hamas seeks to destroy the Jewish people. Yes, they spread conspiracy theories about us. Yes, they target Jews specifically. But are they the same as Amalek? Or the Nazis?

Let’s consider the differences:

• The Nazis were the ruling state power of Germany; Hamas is a non-state terrorist organization.
• The Nazis acted on behalf of their government; Hamas acts as a proxy for Iran.
• The Nazis sought to systematically exterminate Jews in an industrialized genocide; Hamas wages asymmetrical warfare and uses human shields.

The distinctions matter. And when we ignore them, we fail to address the unique challenges of our time.

The Danger of Oversimplification

Using charged labels—like calling someone a Nazi, or a country an apartheid state—may feel emotionally satisfying, but it often distorts reality. The same is true when we overuse the term Amalek.

By painting all our enemies with the same brush, we fail to see them for who they truly are. And if we do not fully understand them, how can we ever hope to defeat them?

A Challenge for Us All

So here is my challenge to you: The next time you hear a leader use a sweeping historical analogy, take a step back. Ask yourself: Does this label truly fit? Or am I falling into a cognitive bias?

Because as Jews, our strength has always been in our ability to think critically. And if we want to overcome the threats we face today, we must see them as they truly are—not just as echoes of the past.

Not all of our enemies are Amalek. Not all of our enemies are Nazis. And the quicker we recognize that, the better equipped we will be to confront the real dangers of our time.

And that is how we truly remember Amalek.

What’s the number one fear among Americans? You might think it’s spiders—that’s definitely in the top 10. Or maybe death? Surprisingly, that only comes in at number two.

The number one fear? Public speaking.

Yes, more people fear getting up in front of an audience than they do facing their own mortality. Comedian Jerry Seinfeld even joked that at a funeral, most people would rather be in the casket than delivering the eulogy. That’s how powerful the fear of public speaking is.

And yet, public speaking is something so many people have to do. Whether it’s a presentation at work, a toast at a wedding, or even just speaking up in a meeting, we’re constantly faced with moments where we have to put ourselves out there. So why is it so terrifying?

At its core, the fear of public speaking isn’t just about standing on a stage—it’s about the fear of failure. The fear of messing up in front of others. The fear of looking foolish. The fear that we won’t be good enough.

As a rabbi, I can tell you that public speaking wasn’t something I naturally knew how to do. Rabbinical school teaches you how to write sermons—how to structure them, outline them, and edit drafts—but it doesn’t teach you how to deliverthem. I had to learn that on my own. And one of the best ways I learned? Watching stand-up comedians.

Now, comedians know a thing or two about failure. Every comic, no matter how successful, has bombed. In fact, they expect to bomb at some point. The best advice comedians give each other? “Bomb early and bomb often.”

This brings me to one of the most controversial, raunchy, over-the-top stand-up comedians of all time: Andrew Dice Clay. Love him or hate him, he did something fascinating. One night, he intentionally went on stage and bombed—flat delivery, no prepared jokes, just talking for an hour and a half. And then, he released an album of the performance, calling it The Day the Laughter Died.

And here’s the crazy thing: People actually enjoyed it.

Why? Because there’s something powerful about embracing failure. It’s real. It’s raw. It’s human. And, most importantly, it’s part of the process of becoming great.

 

The Art of Failing Forward

There’s a lesson here, not just for comedians, but for all of us: failure isn’t the end—it’s part of the process. In fact, the people who become the best at what they do are often the ones who have failed the biggest along the way.

We see this not just in comedy but in business, sports, and leadership.

Take, for example, a famous story from IBM in the 1960s. An employee made a massive mistake that cost the company $10 million—a fortune at the time. He walked into the CEO’s office, resignation letter in hand, fully expecting to be fired.

But the CEO stopped him and said, “Fire you? I just spent $10 million on your education!”

Think about that for a second. The CEO saw the mistake not as a disaster, but as an investment—a $10 million lesson that would make this employee better in the future.

That mindset—understanding that failure is not just something to avoid, but something to embrace and learn from—is what separates those who succeed from those who give up.

The reality is that failure is a requirement for success. Every single great leader, innovator, and trailblazer has failed.Not just once. Not just twice. But over and over again.

Why? Because failure builds resilience.

It forces us to reevaluate, adjust, and grow. It teaches us what doesn’t work so we can get closer to what does. And perhaps most importantly, it reminds us that we are human, that perfection is a myth, and that mistakes are not just acceptable—they are necessary.

 

Aaron, the High Priest, and the Power of Redemption

This idea isn’t just a modern concept—it’s deeply rooted in Jewish tradition.

Consider Aaron, the first High Priest of Israel. What qualified him for this role? You might say nepotism—he was Moses’ brother, after all. But that’s not the real reason.

Aaron was involved in one of the biggest screw-ups in Jewish history: the Golden Calf.

When the Israelites feared Moses was gone, they turned to Aaron. Instead of guiding them toward faith and patience, Aaron gave in to the pressure. He took their gold, melted it down, and helped create an idol—breaking at least one, if not multiple, of the Ten Commandments. This was a monumental failure, referenced throughout the Torah as Israel’s great sin.

And yet, Aaron is later appointed as the High Priest.

Why? Because his mistakes didn’t disqualify him—they prepared him.

Aaron understood failure. He understood what it meant to fall short. And that made him a better leader, one who could guide people not from a place of perfection, but from experience. He could relate to the struggles of the people because he himself had stumbled.

In Judaism, we have a saying from the Passover Haggadah:
“Matzchil b’gnut u’misayem b’shevach”—We begin with our disgrace and end with our praise.

This applies not just to the Exodus story, but to personal growth as well. It’s not about being perfect. It’s about recognizing our failures, learning from them, and using them as stepping stones toward something greater.

 

The Call to Take Risks

Wouldn’t it be nice if I just said, “Mistakes are okay, don’t worry about it”? But that’s not what I’m saying.

I’m saying: Make mistakes on purpose.

Take risks. Put yourself in uncomfortable situations. Try things you might fail at—because that’s the only way you’ll ever grow.

Andrew Dice Clay didn’t just bomb—he embraced bombing. He turned failure into an art form. He intentionally stood on stage and did the thing that most comedians fear the most. And in doing so, he became better.

The most successful people in the world aren’t the ones who played it safe. They’re the ones who failed, learned, and failed forward.

So here’s my challenge to you:

Go out there. Mess up. Make mistakes. Learn from them.

And most importantly—keep going.

Because your failures might just be the very thing that makes you great.

What is the best-kept Jewish secret to financial success? Many have speculated about the remarkable financial achievements of the Jewish people, often noting their disproportionate representation among the world’s wealthiest individuals. Consider this: Jews make up just 0.2% of the global population, yet they account for 20% of the world’s billionaires. Statistically, this is an anomaly—so what’s the key to Jewish financial success?

Many have attempted to answer this question, and numerous books have been written on the topic—mostly by non-Jews, as Jews themselves rarely disclose what they consider to be their true secret. But if there is one fundamental principle that underlies Jewish success, it is this: the cultural practice of giving.

The Counterintuitive Wealth-Building Principle: Giving Leads to More Wealth

At first glance, the idea that giving away wealth leads to greater financial success may seem paradoxical. However, Jewish tradition holds that the more one gives, the more one receives.

Consider another striking statistic: while Jews make up only 2-3% of the U.S. population, they contribute approximately 25% of all philanthropic donations in the country. This remarkable level of generosity is deeply embedded in Jewish culture and faith, and it is no coincidence that Jewish communities have thrived financially throughout history.

This principle is not a modern invention—it has been recognized for centuries. The Talmud (Tractate Shabbat 119a) records a discussion among the rabbis: Why are the Jews of the Land of Israel wealthy? The answer: Because they give so much to tzedakah (charity).

This teaching suggests that wealth is not simply a result of hard work or financial strategy; rather, it is directly connected to one’s willingness to give.

Tzedakah: More Than Charity, A Sacred Responsibility

Tzedakah is often translated as “charity,” but in Jewish thought, it is much more than that. It is not viewed as an optional act of kindness but as a moral and spiritual obligation. Giving is a foundational part of Jewish life, extending beyond money to include time, resources, and support for the community.

This is not just about feeling good; the Talmud makes it clear that giving leads to actual, tangible wealth. Unlike many financial advisors who advocate hoarding and strategic investing before giving, Jewish wisdom suggests the opposite: give first, and financial success will follow.

Even the great Jewish philosopher Maimonides (Rambam) emphasized this idea, stating:
“Anyone who gives tzedakah will never be poor, and anyone who gives will never lack resources.”
This perspective is radically different from conventional financial wisdom.

A Biblical Example: Giving in the Wilderness

This concept is beautifully illustrated in the Torah portion Parshat Terumah, which describes the first sacred act of communal giving by the Israelites.

Chronologically, this portion follows the sin of the Golden Calf, when the Israelites gave their gold to create an idol. That was an example of misguided generosity. However, in Parshat Terumah, the people contribute once again—this time to build the Mishkan (Tabernacle), the portable sanctuary for God’s presence.

Even in the harsh desert, where resources were scarce, the Israelites were asked to give. And despite their limited means, they did so wholeheartedly. The lesson? Even when it seems difficult, giving creates abundance.

Moses Montefiore: A Story of True Wealth

A well-known example of this philosophy in action is Sir Moses Montefiore, a 19th-century Jewish philanthropist and community leader in England. Montefiore was a man of great wealth and influence—he even served as the Sheriff of London. His contributions to Jewish communities extended across Europe and the Middle East, including funding the first neighborhood outside the Old City walls of Jerusalem.

One day, someone asked Montefiore:
“What are you worth?”

Montefiore responded with a figure that seemed surprisingly low. The questioner, knowing Montefiore had much more wealth, pressed him:
“Surely you are worth far more than that?”

Montefiore replied,
“You didn’t ask how much I have. You asked how much I am worth. And the only true measure of worth is how much one gives to others.”

In other words, we are only as wealthy as the amount we are willing to share.

The Kabbalistic Perspective: Keeping the Divine Flow Open

Jewish mysticism (Kabbalah) also reinforces this idea. The Zohar describes a spiritual concept called shefa, a divine flow of abundance that moves from God to humanity. However, if one hoards wealth, the flow is blocked. The way to keep shefa moving is to continuously pass it on—by giving to others.

This mystical understanding aligns perfectly with the Talmudic and Torah teachings on generosity: when we give freely, we open ourselves to receiving more.

Shifting to an Abundance Mindset

This perspective challenges conventional financial logic. Instead of focusing on accumulation, it emphasizes a trust in abundance—the belief that wealth flows to those who keep it in motion.

So here’s a challenge: this week, this month, take a moment to reflect on how much you have given. If you want to see true abundance in your life, consider giving more than you are accustomed to.

Of course, financial advisors would likely advise against this approach. But Jewish wisdom suggests otherwise. Giving is not just about charity—it is a time-tested key to success.

Ultimately, the Jewish secret to financial success isn’t about strategy, luck, or privilege. It’s about generosity.