There’s a beautiful Hebrew word I want to share with you—a word that doesn’t quite have a direct English translation but captures something profound and universal. The word is tachlis (תכלס). It’s used all the time in modern Israeli Hebrew, and while it may come off as a little rough around the edges, it’s not rude—it’s just very Israeli.

So what does tachlis mean?

The word originates from the Yiddish “toklas,” which means substance. In everyday conversation, if someone says “tachlis,” what they really mean is: get to the point. Don’t dance around the topic. Don’t give me the whole backstory. Just tell me what matters. Tell me what’s essential.

It’s a brilliant word, especially in a world full of noise, distractions, and surface-level conversation. Tachlis is about substance, not small talk. It’s about meaning, not fluff. And that’s why I love it.

But as powerful as that word is, there’s another one that takes us even deeper. It’s a Hebrew word that shares the same root: tachlit (תכלית). While tachlis asks us to cut to the chase, tachlit asks: What’s your ultimate purpose? What is it that you are meant to do in this life?

Tachlit is your calling, your life’s purpose, your vocation.

And that word vocation is rich with meaning. The sociologist Max Weber, who many of you may have encountered in college or grad school, described vocation as a divine calling—something higher, something sacred. Not just what you do for a paycheck, but what you were called to do with your life.

Many great thinkers and traditions have explored this idea. Let’s look at one of the most familiar: Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. You might remember that upside-down triangle from Psychology 101. At the base are your most basic needs—food, water, shelter. Once those are met, you move up toward love and belonging, then self-esteem. And at the very top? Maslow called it self-actualization: the fulfillment of your full potential. Becoming the person you were truly meant to be.

Maslow didn’t use the word calling, but that’s essentially what he was talking about. It’s about finding your true self and living that out fully in the world. And this idea isn’t limited to Western psychology. Let’s take a step outside and look at something from Japanese culture: the concept of ikigai.

You may have heard of it—perhaps from Rabbi Daniel Gropper when he spoke here one summer. Ikigai comes from two Japanese words: ikiru, meaning “to live,” and kai, meaning “worth” or “effect.” Together, ikigai means your reason for living—your life’s purpose. But it’s more than just an idea. It’s a framework that says your true calling lies at the intersection of four things: what you love, what you’re good at, what the world needs, and what you can be paid for. Where those four overlap, that’s your ikigai. That’s your tachlit. That’s your calling.

For me, being a rabbi is very much my ikigai. My vocation. My purpose. But it took me a long time to realize that. Or maybe I always had the calling—I just didn’t know who was calling, or that the call was meant for me.

Let me share a bit of that journey. I went to Clark University, a small liberal arts college in Worcester, Massachusetts. Why do people choose small liberal arts schools? Maybe because they’re searching. They haven’t found their calling yet, so they want to explore—philosophy, literature, science, history, art—and figure it out along the way.

That was me. I had no idea what I wanted to do. At different points, I thought maybe I’d be a photographer, or a historian, or an academic. One thing I was sure of? I didn’t want to be a rabbi. Everyone kept asking me, “Are you going to be a rabbi like your father?” And my answer, without hesitation, was always “No.” That was his thing. Not mine.

But here’s the funny thing. I have two brothers. No one was asking them that question. Just me. People were seeing something in me that I wasn’t ready to see in myself. And over time, something began to shift. “No” became “I don’t know.” “I don’t know” became “Maybe.” “Maybe” became “I think so.” And eventually, “I think so” became “Yes.” I had discovered my tachlit. My calling. My purpose.

Not everyone figures it out at 18. Or 28. Or even 58. I know people in their 40s, 50s, 60s, even 70s who say they still haven’t found their calling. But maybe that’s not quite true. Maybe it’s not that they haven’t found it—maybe they just haven’t recognized it yet. Sometimes your calling is right in front of you. You’re already doing it, but you haven’t labeled it or embraced it as your tachlit. Other times, it takes someone else to point it out to you.

That’s what happened to me. My calling didn’t come through a voice from the heavens. It came through the voices of other people—people who kept asking the same question, again and again, until I finally started listening.

There’s a powerful moment in this week’s parsha where God calls to Moses. The Torah begins: Vayikra el Moshe—“And He called to Moses.” What’s strange is that the next line says God spoke to him from the Tent of Meeting. Why include “called”? Isn’t that implied when God starts speaking?

No—because this isn’t just a conversation. This is a calling. It’s about more than just words. It’s about mission. And do you remember how Moses first reacted when God called to him back at the burning bush? He said, Mi anochi?—“Who am I?” Who am I to do this? Who am I to lead? Who am I to make a difference?

Even Moses—the greatest prophet we have—doubted whether he was worthy of the call. So if you’ve ever doubted yours, you’re in good company.

The truth is, sometimes we don’t hear the call because we’re afraid of it. Or we don’t think we deserve it. But that doesn’t make the call any less real. Your tachlit is still your tachlit, even if you’re not ready to accept it.

There’s a line in the movie Crazy Rich Asians that really sticks with me. The Chinese-American woman says to her boyfriend’s traditional Chinese mother, “Don’t you want your son to be happy?” And the mother replies, “You Americans think it’s all about happiness. For us, it’s about building something that lasts.”

That’s deep. In Chinese culture, the focus is on legacy—on endurance, on something that outlives you. And I think that resonates with Jewish tradition, too. For us, life isn’t just about happiness. It’s about meaning. It’s about tachlit. And often, it’s through struggle that we find it.

No one captured that better than Viktor Frankl, a Holocaust survivor and psychologist who wrote Man’s Search for Meaning. He famously said, “Anyone who has a why to live can bear almost any how.” That’s the power of purpose. That’s the strength that comes from knowing your tachlit. It won’t make your life easy, but it will make your life endurable. Purpose gives you resilience.

And here’s something else I’ve learned: your tachlit can change. What you’re meant to do at 25 might not be what you’re meant to do at 55. You might retire from one career and find your true calling in something else entirely. Life isn’t static. Neither is your purpose. But one thing remains true—we all need some kind of direction. Some sense of what we’re here for.

The Torah gives us a beautiful phrase for this idea: Lech lecha. It’s often translated as “Go forth,” but it can also mean “Go to yourself.” Go discover who you are. Go become who you were always meant to be.

Whether you call it tachlit, ikigai, vocation, self-actualization, or simply a calling, the goal is the same: to live with meaning. To say yes to the things that stir your soul. To follow the quiet (or loud) voice that keeps nudging you toward the life you were built to live.

Moshe found it.
I found it.
You can find it too.

Just listen—because sometimes the most important step is simply picking up the call.

As Passover approaches, many of us prepare for the familiar traditions of the Seder: the matzah, the wine, the storytelling, and of course—the Four Questions. But what if I told you that most people, including Google, get one of the most fundamental parts of the Seder wrong?

Let’s start with a seemingly simple question: Who asks the Four Questions at the Passover Seder? Ask Google, and it will confidently tell you: The youngest child. You might agree and feel sure about that answer. But as with so many aspects of Jewish tradition, the full picture is more nuanced. And understanding this detail unlocks a much deeper conversation—not just about Passover, but about freedom itself.

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So, Who Really Asks the Four Questions?

According to Jewish tradition, the youngest child at the Seder asks the Four Questions. But what if there is no child present? What then?

The Mishnah, one of Judaism’s earliest legal texts, addresses exactly that. In the traditional setting where a man leads the Seder, and if there are no children, the man’s wife asks the questions. Still no wife? Then the Seder leader must ask the questions himself. And in the case where there are two scholars—two talmidei chachamim—who know all the laws of Passover and could recite the answers in their sleep? They still ask each other the Four Questions.

But why?

If they already know all the answers, what’s the point? This is where the tradition reveals something deeper. Asking questions is not simply a ritual—it’s a form of freedom. Slaves cannot question authority. Slaves are told what to do, how to think, and when to act. Freedom means having the ability to ask “why?” And not just to ask, but to expect a thoughtful answer.

So even the most knowledgeable people ask the questions—not because they don’t know the answers, but because asking is an act of liberation.

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The Connection Between Passover and Free Speech

This brings us to a broader and vital topic: free speech. Passover is the holiday of liberation, of freedom. But in our society today, we need to ask: What does freedom really mean? And just as important—what are its limits?

I’m a rabbi. And not just any rabbi, but one who, like many of my colleagues, benefits from a tradition called freedom of the pulpit. It means that I have the right to speak my truth from the bimah, even if it makes some congregants uncomfortable. And I don’t take that freedom lightly.

But freedom of speech doesn’t mean freedom from accountability.

We all know that you can’t yell “fire” in a crowded theater when there is none. That’s not protected speech—it’s a danger to others. And yet, in the wider public discourse, we’ve stretched the boundaries of what free speech means. Sometimes too far.

Let’s take a controversial and complex example: Citizens United v. Federal Election Commission (2010). In this landmark Supreme Court case, the Court ruled that corporations and unions could spend unlimited money on political campaigns, equating money with speech.

But is spending millions on political influence truly what the Founding Fathers had in mind when they wrote the First Amendment? Personally, I think not. I’m not a constitutional lawyer, but I do believe the core intention of freedom of speech has been distorted—used as a shield rather than as a tool of genuine expression.

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Speech Has Limits—And Consequences

Let’s talk about what free speech is not.

Drawing a swastika on a synagogue or a sidewalk is not free speech. It’s vandalism. It’s intimidation. It’s a deliberate act of hate. Chanting at Jews to “go back to Poland” or “go back to Europe” is not a legitimate expression of opinion. It’s harassment and incitement.

This leads to a highly charged situation involving Mahmud Khalili, a recent protest organizer at Columbia University who has become a symbol, a supposed martyr, for free speech. Many claim that his right to protest is being suppressed. But let’s step back.

Freedom to protest is part of the First Amendment—but it must be peaceful and lawful. Public protests often require permits. On university campuses, they must be sanctioned by the administration. The protests in question, including Khalili’s actions, were not lawful. More importantly, they were not peaceful. Jewish students were harassed, blocked from classrooms, and in some cases, physically assaulted.

So while Khalili may be receiving widespread attention as a free speech champion, we must ask: Was his speech protected, or did it cross the line into something else? In my view, his actions do not represent the kind of speech our laws were designed to protect. His rights may have been violated in terms of due process—but the focus on free speech is misplaced. Freedom of speech is not freedom to harm.

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Freedom Is a Double-Edged Sword

As Americans, we revere the First Amendment. It’s the first for a reason. But we’ve turned it into something of a sacred cow, placing it on a pedestal without examining its actual meaning and scope. Few people can even name the other amendments, and yet we brandish the First Amendment in arguments about everything from social media bans to workplace terminations.

But speech has consequences. Always.

If someone is fired for something they said publicly, it may not be a violation of their free speech rights—it may simply be an example of accountability. Your employer doesn’t have to agree with or support what you say publicly, especially if it reflects poorly on the organization.

This is something we need to understand more deeply. Free speech isn’t carte blanche to say anything, anywhere, without consequences. Just like at the Seder table, where the goal is not just to ask any question, but to ask a meaningful one—the same applies to our public discourse. We must speak thoughtfully, responsibly, and truthfully.

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Passover’s Real Message: Ask Bold Questions

Which brings us back to Passover.

This holiday isn’t just about matzah or ancient miracles. It’s about our capacity to ask, to challenge, to seek truth and liberation in every generation.

At my Seder table, I encourage everyone—children and adults alike—to ask bold questions. Challenge me. Push back. Make the conversation real.

And among the Four Children of the Seder, my favorite has always been the wicked child. Yes, that’s right. Because at least the wicked child is engaged. At least he’s asking. He might be challenging authority, he might even be skeptical—but he’s participating in the conversation.

Asking is holy.

Even when we know the answers, we ask again. Because the act of asking is a declaration of freedom. The act of speaking truthfully, with care and courage, is a sacred responsibility.

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In Conclusion: Let’s Be Free—But Also Accountable

Passover is a time to remember our journey from slavery to freedom. And part of that freedom is the ability to question, to speak, to challenge, and to reflect. But just as we remember that we were once slaves, we must also remember what it means to be truly free.

True freedom is not doing whatever you want. True freedom is doing what is right.

So this year, as you gather around your Seder table, I invite you to:

• Ask better questions.

• Reflect on the limits and power of free speech.

• Speak your truth—but with accountability and empathy.

• Teach your children (and yourselves) that freedom is precious because it requires responsibility.

And most of all, remember this:

Not everything is free speech. But everything you say matters. Speak wisely. Speak freely. Speak kindly.