This Blog consists of Rabbi Eliezer Zalmanov's weekly column, as well as articles that appeared in various publications.
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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

There’s a line in the opening verse of this week’s Torah portion that most people skim right past. It says, “Jacob lived in Egypt for seventeen years.” A medieval commentator, the Baal HaTurim, drops a bombshell. He says that “those were the best years of Jacob’s life.” Egypt wasn’t exactly a spiritual retreat. It was corrupt, materialistic, and pretty hostile to Jewish values. The Torah itself calls it the moral low point of the world. So how does someone like Jacob, whose w

When Jacob finally reunites with Joseph in Egypt, he says something puzzling: “Now I can die, after seeing your face, for you are still alive.” At first glance, this makes little sense. Jacob already knew Joseph was alive. He had heard that Joseph was not only living, but thriving, second-in-command to Pharaoh, running the most powerful economy in the ancient world. What changed when Jacob saw him in person? The answer lies in a deeper definition of what it means to be “alive

On the first night of Chanukah this year, Jews in Sydney, Australia, were attacked for a simple act: being Jewish in public. There was nothing provocative about it, no slogans, no confrontation, just Jews fulfilling a mitzvah and bringing light into the world by lighting the menorah. And yet, for those who wish to see Jewish light dimmed or hidden, even that was too much. Moments like these force a question upon us: what is the proper Jewish response when others try to exting

This week’s Torah portion tells the remarkable story of Joseph’s rise in Egypt. Joseph began as a powerless, displaced young man, sold by his brothers, dragged into a foreign land, and forced to start life from scratch. Yet somehow, this outsider became the most trusted and successful person in the home of Potiphar, one of Egypt’s top officials. What was Joseph’s secret? The Torah gives us a clue: Joseph never hid who he was. Even in a land overflowing with idols, he spoke op

If you’ve ever taken on something meaningful, like training for a marathon, starting a business, or being a more present parent, you know that commitment often comes with the fear of what you will lose by giving so much of yourself. Judaism understands this fear. And one of the clearest examples comes from the story of Jacob. After years away from home, after family tensions, and after preparing to face his estranged brother Esau, the Torah tells us something surprising. It s

This week, homes across America will look very familiar: relatives crowded around a table, kids sneaking bites before the meal officially begins, a turkey that took longer than planned, and at least one heartfelt toast that dissolves into laughter. Thanksgiving is America’s national holiday of gratitude, a day the entire country pauses and collectively says, “Look at all we have.” Thanksgiving may be American, but gratitude is Jewish at its core. Long before gratitude became

We tend to think adulthood begins when society finally trusts us with something big: voting, driving, paying taxes, joining the military, and so on. Different cultures pick different milestones: 16, 18, 21. It’s all about when you're old enough to do things. Judaism flips the script. At thirteen, long before society considers someone fully mature, Jewish tradition says: You’re responsible. Not for taxes or mortgages, but for your values, for your decisions, for who you choose

There’s something about the afternoon that everyone can relate to. It’s when the coffee wears off, the to-do list is still long, and the day hasn’t gone quite as planned. It’s not morning optimism or evening peace, it’s that messy, middle stretch where life really happens. In Jewish tradition, that “middle of the day” has its own prayer: Mincha, the afternoon prayer. The Torah tells us that Isaac “went out to meditate in the field toward evening,” and our sages explain that t

Abraham, the first Jew, is sitting outside his tent recovering from his circumcision when G-d Himself appears to him. He experiences a private, divine revelation; an extraordinary moment in history. But suddenly, Abraham notices three strangers walking nearby, and without hesitation, he turns away from his encounter with G-d to go greet them, offer them food, water, and rest. The Talmud draws a surprising conclusion from this story: “Welcoming guests is greater than receiving

There’s a fascinating part of this week’s Torah portion that, at first glance, might sound strange and maybe even unfair. G-d tells Abraham that his descendants will be strangers in a foreign land, enslaved and mistreated for hundreds of years. But then He adds, “Afterward they will leave with great wealth.” Now, imagine you’re one of those descendants, a slave in Egypt. You’ve suffered for generations. You’re told that freedom is coming soon, but first you have to wait a lit

We’ve all been there. Your basement starts leaking during a storm. You rush to move boxes, grab towels, set up a fan, doing whatever you can to keep the water out. It’s stressful, but you’re focused: protect the house, protect the family. Then you notice your neighbor’s basement light is still on, and water is pouring into his place too. You hesitate; you’ve got your own mess to deal with. But deep down, you know that you can’t just worry about your own home when the guy next

There are few sights more powerful than a homecoming. Parents finally holding their children after years of captivity. Families who refused to give up hope, even when the world seemed dark. These moments have brought us all to tears—and to our feet. After everything we’ve been through, seeing even one person come home feels like a miracle. But we also know deep down that this isn’t the end of the story. There are still families mourning, still hearts that need healing, and st