This Blog consists of Rabbi Eliezer Zalmanov's weekly column, as well as articles that appeared in various publications.
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Most of us think of joy as something that happens when life is going well. We enjoy good experiences and moments of celebration, and Judaism certainly encourages us to appreciate these blessings. Yet this week’s Torah portion invites us to look a little deeper and highlights the difference between pleasure and true joy. In discussing the holidays, the Torah repeatedly tells us to rejoice. At first glance, this seems straightforward. We gather with family and friends and celeb

This week’s Torah portion talks about the Levites carrying the Mishkan through the desert. At first glance, it feels pretty removed from modern life. Most of us are not thinking about desert travel or the family responsibilities of the tribe of Levi. But one of the beautiful things about Torah is that it is never only talking about the past. The stories happened thousands of years ago, yet somehow they continue speaking directly to the life we are living right now. We know th

Shavuot marks the day the Jewish people stood together at Mount Sinai and received the Torah. It is often described as the birth of Judaism or the moment a sacred teaching was given to a nation. Our sages point to something deeper. They speak about the difference between human wisdom and Torah, saying there is wisdom among all peoples, and it should be acknowledged, while Torah stands in a category of its own. Judaism has always valued human wisdom. Learning and asking questi

There’s something unusual about the way this week’s Torah portion, and the entire book of Numbers, begins. G-d tells Moses to count the Jewish people. On the surface, it sounds like a simple census. Every country counts its population once in a while. Governments want records and statistics. Usually, this kind of work is handed off to clerks and office workers. But that’s not how the Torah describes it. The census in the desert was carried out by Moses himself, together with

There’s a certain rhythm many of us live with today. Work, errands, bills, laundry, emails, carpools, shopping lists, and trying to answer texts we forgot about two days ago. We wake up already thinking about what we’re behind on, and by the end of the day we wonder where the hours went. Most people aren’t avoiding hard work. If anything, we’re overwhelmed by how much there is to do. Life moves fast, and it’s easy to slip into survival mode, just getting through the week. Thi

In this week’s Torah portion, we encounter a detail that’s easy to miss. A man who commits a serious offense, the blasphemer, is placed in custody while his case is clarified. A similar episode appears later with the man who gathered wood on Shabbat. In both cases, confinement is used, but only temporarily. It serves as a pause, allowing for clarity before justice is carried out. That detail raises a broader question. The Torah outlines consequences for wrongdoing, some quite

There’s a line in this week’s Torah portion that is quite practical: “Do not commit injustice in judgment, in measurement, in weight, or in volume… I am G-d your G-d, who took you out of Egypt.” At first glance, it sounds like a basic call for honesty in business. Don’t cheat people, don’t fudge the numbers, and always use a fair scale. But then comes the twist. The Torah ties this idea directly to the Exodus from Egypt, which was the defining moment of Jewish freedom. And ou

There’s a fascinating idea in the Midrash about King David. He asks G-d for something unusual: that when a person recites verses of Tehillim, Psalms, it should be considered as if they are learning the most complex, technical parts of Torah, like the laws of nega’im (spiritual afflictions, also known as “tzara’at”) and ohelot (ritual impurity from death). It’s a surprising comparison. Those topics are known for being full of technical details and strange contradictions. For e

The Shabbat before Passover is called Shabbat HaGadol, “the Great Shabbat.” On the surface, it marks a remarkable moment in the story of the Exodus. Just days before leaving Egypt, the Jewish people were commanded to take a lamb and prepare it for sacrifice. This wasn’t just a ritual act; it was a bold, public statement. The Egyptians worshipped the lamb, and here were the Jews openly declaring that they were about to offer it to G-d. What happened next was unexpected. The Eg

If you walk into a synagogue today, whether it is a packed High Holiday service or a quiet weekday morning, you will see something striking in its simplicity. People are praying. There are no sacrifices, no priests in special garments, and no elaborate rituals. Just words and just people. Our daily prayers in the morning, afternoon, and evening correspond to the offerings that once took place in the Temple. When a person opens a prayer book and begins to pray, they are steppi

When the Torah describes the building of the Mishkan, the portable sanctuary the Jewish people erected and carried in the desert, it uses an interesting phrase: the work had to be done with “melechet machshevet,” thoughtful and intentional craftsmanship. The sages later connected this idea to Shabbat. The kinds of creative work that were used to build the Mishkan became the types of actions we refrain from on Shabbat. From this discussion comes a fascinating legal idea in Jew

In this week’s Torah portion, we’re told again to keep Shabbat. Not as a nostalgic ritual or a cultural throwback, but as something holy and essential. The Torah uses strong language about refraining from melachah, creative work, and the rabbis go on to define that through 39 categories. Yet when the Talmud begins its discussion of Shabbat, it doesn’t start by listing those categories. Instead, it opens with what seems like a technical detail: carrying an object from one doma

Every year, just before Purim, we read about Amalek on what is known as “Shabbat Zachor.” On the surface, it sounds like ancient history: a nation that attacked us thousands of years ago. But the Torah doesn’t present it as a history lesson, it commands us to remember. In fact, Maimonides defines it as a positive mitzvah to constantly remember Amalek’s evil in order to awaken our opposition to it. The Alter Rebbe, founder of Chabad, goes even further and explains that this re

The Talmud tells a haunting story. After the destruction of the Second Temple, Rabbi Akiva and several other sages traveled up to Jerusalem. When they reached the Temple Mount, they saw a fox emerging from the place where the Holy of Holies once stood. The other sages began to cry, but Rabbi Akiva laughed. They turned to him in disbelief. “Akiva, why are you laughing?” And he answered, “Why are you crying?” Their tears were understandable. This wasn’t just a ruined building,

Most of us wake up and reach for our phones before we even get out of bed. Within seconds, the world is inside our heads. And from that moment on, we’re reacting, putting out fires, answering demands, and juggling responsibilities. What would happen if, before all that, we took five quiet minutes just to reset? To that end, the Torah says: “You shall serve the L-rd your G-d,” and also that we must serve G-d “with all your heart.” Maimonides explains that this “service” refers

Most people don’t struggle with the idea of being a good person. Treat people fairly, don’t lie, don’t steal, be decent, and so on. For many Jews today, that already feels like the core of Judaism. Belief in G-d and ritual observance, however, can feel secondary or merely symbolic. Ethics, on the other hand, feel real. The Torah anticipated this tension long before modern secular culture did. Our sages tell us that the Ten Commandments were originally given “in one utterance.

Let’s start with something very real. Every group has insiders and outsiders. Every family, synagogue, workplace, or circle of friends has people who are involved and people who are drifting. Some show up, know what’s going on, and feel at home. Others feel awkward, disconnected, or just tired. They might care, but not enough to participate. Or they might feel they don’t belong anymore. And the honest question is: Who do we actually care about? Who do we take responsibility f

Every year, as Passover approaches, Jews all over the world prepare to sit down at a Seder and tell a story we already know by heart. Slavery in Egypt. Ten plagues. Pharaoh. Freedom. We’ve heard it since childhood. So the obvious question is: why do we have to tell it again, out loud, at length, late into the night? This question comes straight out of this week’s Torah portion, where the Torah commands: “Remember this day when you left Egypt.” It sounds simple enough. But the

When we think about the Ten Plagues, it’s easy to file them away as ancient history; dramatic, supernatural events that happened to Pharaoh and the Egyptians thousands of years ago. Powerful stories, but far removed from modern life. Yet the Torah insists that these plagues were not only about Egypt. They were, in a very real way, about us. Most classic explanations say the plagues had two goals. One was to force Pharaoh to acknowledge G-d and let the Jewish people go free. T

There’s a strange scene at the beginning of the Jewish story of freedom. Moses is out in the middle of nowhere, tending sheep, when he notices a bush on fire. A thorny, scraggly bush in the desert. And the strangest part isn’t even the fire, it’s the fact that the bush doesn’t burn up. That’s where G-d speaks to Moses and gives him the mission that will change Jewish history. The rabbis ask the obvious question: Why there? Why not a beautiful tree, or a holy mountain, or a pl