One of the offerings that we bring is the Thanksgiving Offering. When we read about it we see that we are required to bring a huge amount of food. It has to be eaten in one night. This forces us to share it with others. Making it a community affair.

This week we begin the discussion of the korbanot, the offerings that were brought first in the Tabernacle and later in the Beit HaMikdash. One of these is the korban todah, the thanksgiving offering, sometimes associated with the peace offering. It was brought when a person had something special for which to thank God—such as surviving a dangerous journey, especially a journey by sea. In fact, the same basic situations that later required the blessing of HaGomel are derived from this idea of thanksgiving.

There are two especially striking things about this offering.

First is the sheer amount of food involved. A whole animal—a goat, sheep, or bull—together with forty loaves of bread. That is a tremendous amount of food. And on top of that, it all had to be eaten that very night; nothing could be left over until the next day.

Now, most people could not possibly eat that much by themselves, even with their immediate family helping out. The Torah is teaching us something very important: when something good happens to you, you are meant to share that joy with others. The thanksgiving offering forces a person to invite friends, neighbors, and community members to join in. Gratitude is not meant to remain private. It becomes communal. When God does something good for us, we celebrate not only alone, but together with others. In that sense, it is very much like making a large kiddush after a simchah, where everyone joins in the joy and gratitude.

The second fascinating point is the teaching of the Gemara that in the days of Mashiach, all korbanot will cease—except for the thanksgiving offering. Why? Because no matter how elevated the world becomes, we will always need to express gratitude to God. Gratitude never goes out of date.

And if we stop to think about it, there is always much for which to be grateful. Even in difficult times, we still have blessings. Consider how much human life has changed. When I was growing up in the 1950s, if someone lived to age sixty, people would say he had lived a good, long life. Today, people regularly live into their eighties and beyond. We recently honored someone at a dinner who was close to one hundred years old, and that is no longer such a rarity. We should recognize the blessings God has given us through advances in medicine, technology, and so many other areas of life.

The message of the korban todah is simple but profound: never take blessings for granted. When something good happens, acknowledge it, thank God for it, and share that gratitude with others. A life of Torah is not only about asking God for what we need; it is also about recognizing what we already have and being truly grateful.

Something to think about.

The Torah lays down specific laws about the offerings we bring to the Tabernacle. They have to be legally ours is one of them. We are not feeding God. God looks at our intent when bridging the offering.

As we begin the book of Vayikra, the book of Leviticus, we enter a new stage in the Torah.

Up until now, in the book of Exodus, we were busy building the Tabernacle. Now, in Vayikra, we begin putting it to use. This book is largely about the Temple service and the korbanot — the offerings.

One of the most important things to understand is that the Torah introduces a major change in the way sacrifices were understood in the ancient world.

In many ancient cultures, sacrifices were made because the gods supposedly needed food. People believed the gods depended on humans to feed them.

If you read the Epic of Gilgamesh, which contains the ancient Mesopotamian flood story, the gods decide to destroy humanity because there are simply too many people and they are too noisy. There’s no moral dimension to the flood the way there is in the Torah. And at the end of the story, after the flood destroys humanity, the gods realize they made a mistake — they say, in effect, “We’re idiots. We just destroyed our own food supply.”

The Torah takes a completely different approach.

Nowhere in the Bible does it say that God eats the sacrifices. Instead, the Torah says God “smells the pleasing aroma.” That phrase isn’t about food. It’s about intent. God is looking at the heart and the intention of the person bringing the offering.

This is a major innovation.

Another innovation is that the offering must be legally yours. You cannot steal someone else’s animal and offer it to God. The korban must belong to you legitimately. In the ancient world this was not obvious at all, but the Torah insists on ethical ownership.

And the attitude of the person bringing the offering matters.

If it is a sin offering, a person must come with true contrition.
If it is a thanksgiving offering, the person should come with joy and gratitude.

The thanksgiving offering is especially interesting. It involves a whole animal, and it must be consumed that night. Now realistically, a person and even their immediate family cannot eat an entire animal in one evening. So what do you have to do?

You invite your neighbors and friends.

In other words, the offering becomes a community event. Your gratitude becomes something shared with others.

So one of the purposes of the korbanot is not just ritual. It’s about building community and recognizing that we depend on one another and ultimately on God.

We’re also approaching the month of Nissan, whose symbol is the lamb. Why the lamb?

Because the lamb is an animal that cannot defend itself. In the same way, we are reminded that ultimately we cannot defend ourselves without God.

We do our best, we make our efforts, but in the final analysis we recognize that everything is in God’s hands.

And that is one of the central messages as we begin the book of Vayikra.

Just a few thoughts for the start of the book of Leviticus — something to think about.

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This Shabbat is Parshat HaHodesh. We are getting ready for Passover. The first commandment that the Jewish nation received as a nation was to set the new month. This was to teach us that we will be a free people for the purpose of bringing holiness to the world.

This week we read Parashat HaChodesh, as we begin preparing ourselves for Pesach. The first mitzvah we received as a nation was the commandment to declare the new month. At first glance, that seems strange. Of all the mitzvot God could have given us, why begin with this one?

The answer is that a free people set their own time. Slaves do not own watches. They live according to the demands of their masters. God was preparing us for freedom, and the first step in becoming free was giving us control over time itself. By commanding us to sanctify the new month, God was telling us that we were no longer merely reacting to history—we were now meant to help shape it.

This also helps explain why, throughout the Torah, God repeatedly reminds us: “I am the Lord your God who took you out of Egypt.” We hear it at the beginning of the Ten Commandments, and in many other places as well. Why does the Torah emphasize the Exodus so often?

Because God did not take us out of Egypt simply because He had nothing better to do, or only because we were suffering. There were many enslaved peoples in the ancient world. Slavery, sadly, was the norm for most of human history until relatively recent times. God took us out of Egypt for a purpose: so that we would become a nation that shows the world what a godly society looks like.

That is why the mitzvah of Rosh Chodesh comes first. Freedom is not just release from bondage; it is being given a mission. We are redeemed in order to live by God’s will, to sanctify time, and to build a society based on holiness, justice, and moral responsibility.

This idea is also reflected in the Haggadah. In many ways, the Haggadah is a crash course in Jewish history. It teaches us where we came from, what happened to us, and why our story matters. Interestingly, Moshe’s name is almost entirely absent from the Haggadah. He is only mentioned in passing. The focus is not on Moses, but on what God did. The message is that God is not only the Creator of the universe—He is also the God of history, guiding nations and shaping destiny.

Parashat HaChodesh, read before the month of Nisan, reminds us that redemption is near. Pesach is coming, and we must get ourselves ready—not only physically, but spiritually—to receive freedom properly.

And that freedom is not only freedom from slavery. It is also freedom from idolatry. When the Torah speaks about idolatry, it is not talking only about bowing to statues. In Egypt, Pharaoh himself was considered a god. The Exodus, therefore, is also an anti-tyrannical statement. We do not worship human beings. We do not bow to rulers. We bow only to God.

That same idea appears again later in the story of Purim, when Mordechai refuses to bow to Haman. As Jews, we worship God alone. Even in the Jewish monarchy, the king was never a god and never the ultimate religious authority. The prophets could rebuke the king and walk away, because the king himself was subject to God’s law. He could not claim divinity, and he could not serve as a priest, because that role belonged to a different tribe.

So all of this is wrapped up in Parashat HaChodesh and in our preparation for Pesach. Freedom means more than leaving Egypt. It means entering history as God’s people, living by God’s time, and refusing to bow to any power but Him.

Something to think about for Shabbat.

While building the Tabernacle we are required to keep Shabbat. The idea is that just as the Tabernacle is to bring God’s presence to the world so does Shabbat.

Shabbat Also Brings God’s Presence

This week’s parashah, Vayakhel, opens with an interesting command. The Jewish people are in the middle of building the Mishkan, the Tabernacle—the very place meant to bring God’s presence into the world.

Yet before the construction begins, the Torah pauses and commands the people to keep Shabbat.

At first glance this seems strange.
If the purpose of the Mishkan is to bring God’s presence into the world, why interrupt the discussion with the laws of Shabbat?

The simple answer is that Shabbat supersedes the building of the Mishkan. Even this sacred project must stop for Shabbat. But that explanation alone misses a deeper point.

Shabbat itself brings God’s presence into the world.

In Hebrew, the days of the week do not even have independent names. We say:

• First day
• Second day
• Third day
• Fourth day
• Fifth day
• Sixth day

All of them point toward one destination: Shabbat. The entire week is a preparation for that day.

But Shabbat is not important because it is convenient or rational. In fact, the ancient Greeks and Romans mocked the Jews for resting every seventh day. They thought Jews were lazy because we refused to work.

Yet the Torah insists on it—not only for the individual, but for the entire community. Servants must rest, workers must rest, everyone must rest. Shabbat proclaims that life is not only about labor and production. There is something higher.

When we keep Shabbat, we make a public statement:
God is present in the world, and our lives are organized around that truth.

There is a famous story from Washington Heights. A man opened a bakery that was kosher—except it stayed open on Shabbat. The local rabbis told him they could not give him kosher certification unless he closed on Shabbat.

He replied, “I don’t care. I’ll make more money being open seven days a week.”

But business was poor because the Jewish community would not shop there. Eventually he tried an experiment: he closed on Shabbat and obtained kosher certification.

Suddenly his business flourished.

He later said, “I was an idiot. I worked seven days a week and barely made money. Now I work six days, have a day off, and earn more than before.”

As Rashi comments, without Shabbat a person might work constantly and lose balance in life.

Shabbat reminds us that we are not just workers—we are human beings, part of a family, a community, and a relationship with God.

So the Torah pauses the construction of the Mishkan to teach a profound lesson:

Building a sanctuary brings God’s presence into the world.
But keeping Shabbat does the same thing.

Every week, when we stop working, gather with family and community, and honor Shabbat, we ourselves become the place where God’s presence rests.

Something to think about.

Moses was the greatest of leaders. What skills did he possess that leaders can learn from?

Leadership Lessons from the End of Sefer Shemot

This week we read the final parshiot of the Book of Shemot (Exodus), Vayakhel–Pekudei. From these portions we can learn several important lessons about leadership, especially from Moshe Rabbeinu, who was truly a leader par excellence.

First, a leader leads from the front.
A true leader puts himself out there and sets the example. In the Western military tradition, the officer says “Follow me.” He leads the soldiers forward. We see this in the American army, the IDF, and many other militaries. Leadership means stepping forward and showing the way.

Second, a leader inspires people to do extraordinary things.
Moshe was able to inspire ordinary people to accomplish remarkable achievements — building the Mishkan, the Tabernacle. Real leadership elevates followers so they rise above what they thought they were capable of doing.

Third, leadership requires transparency, especially with public funds.
In this week’s parsha Moshe carefully accounts for all the donations used to build the Mishkan. Public money must be handled openly and honestly.

History shows us that when leaders tolerate corruption — or claim they “didn’t know about it” — it damages society. A leader is responsible for ensuring integrity.

There is a story from New York after Rudy Giuliani was elected mayor. Someone jokingly mentioned kickbacks. A member of his campaign replied, “You don’t even joke about that with Giuliani. If he finds out, you better hope the police find out before he does.” That attitude shows how seriously leadership must treat corruption.

Fourth, a leader takes responsibility for the people he leads.
After the sin of the Golden Calf, God tells Moshe that He will destroy the people and start again from Moshe. Moshe refuses and says, “If You destroy them, erase me from Your book.”
Moshe accepts responsibility because he is the leader.

Finally, a true leader understands that he is not the ruler of the people but their servant.

There is a famous story from the Constitutional Convention in the United States. The delegates wondered: what do we call a former president? How should he be treated after leaving office?

Benjamin Franklin answered:
A president is a servant of the people while in office. When he leaves office, he becomes one of the people again. In that sense, he has been promoted — he is no longer the servant but one of those being served.

That idea captures the Torah’s concept of leadership.

A leader leads, inspires, maintains integrity, takes responsibility, and understands that leadership ultimately means serving the people.

Something to think about.

There is a concept that we bring holiness to the world through our actions. That the Temple will be rebuilt through acts of loving kindness.

Parashat Vayakhel

In this week’s parsha, Parashat Vayakhel, we read about the donations and work that went into building the Mishkan, the Tabernacle. The parsha begins with the words “Vayakhel Moshe”—Moses gathered together the entire people of Israel.

That opening is very significant. The building of the Mishkan was not done by a small elite group. It was not the project of a few leaders or specialists. Every Jew had a share in it. Everyone contributed something—gold, silver, copper, fabrics, skills, or labor. The Mishkan was built by the entire community.

This reflects a very important concept in Judaism: there are two ways a place can become holy.

One way is from above—when God Himself declares a place holy.

The other way is from below—when human beings make a place holy through their actions.

Think about a synagogue. A building is just bricks, wood, and stone. It could be used for anything. But when Jews pray there, learn Torah there, and perform acts of kindness there, we transform the building into a holy place.

There is a famous story about the Arizal (Rabbi Isaac Luria). He once said that Rachel might not actually be buried in what we call Kever Rachel. His students were shocked and asked why he did not reveal the “true” burial place.

The Arizal answered:
“So many Jews have gone there and poured out their hearts in prayer that it has become as if she is buried there. Their prayers have made the place holy.”

In other words, the holiness was created by the people who prayed there.

Interestingly, some of the most important biblical locations are unknown to us. We do not know exactly where Mount Sinai is. We do not know where Moses is buried. That may be deliberate. The Torah is teaching us that holiness does not come from geography alone. Holiness comes from what people do.

There is a story about a famous Israeli tour guide. One day he was taking a group from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem when the bus broke down in the Ayalon Valley. He knew if the passengers stayed near the bus they would all start giving the driver advice and the repair would never get done.

So he gathered everyone around a large rock and announced dramatically:

“Do you know what this rock is? This is the rock upon which Joshua stood when he stopped the sun!”

Then he began telling the entire story from the Book of Joshua. Of course, he had completely made it up. But it kept everyone occupied for about an hour, and by then the bus driver had fixed the bus.

A few years later the guide passed the same spot again and noticed Jews standing there praying.

He asked them, “What are you doing here?”

They answered, “Don’t you know? This is the rock where Joshua stood when he stopped the sun!”

At that moment he realized something remarkable:
even though the story began as an invention, the prayers of the people had actually made the place holy.

That is the message of our parsha.

The Mishkan was holy not only because God commanded it, but because the entire people invested themselves in building it.

And this idea also connects to discussions about the Third Temple. Many teachers, including those in the Chabad tradition, emphasize that the rebuilding of the Temple will not come primarily through politics or military power. It will come through our actions—through acts of kindness, unity, and love between Jews.

Just as the Mishkan was built by the entire people, the ultimate redemption will come when we elevate the world through what we do.

Holiness is not just something that descends from heaven.

Holiness is something we create.

Something to think about.

Moses was transparent in his accounting of the funds for the Tabernacle. This is a lesson to us that we should be careful with public funds.

Vayakhel–Pekudei

Transparency and Public Trust

This week we read the double portion Vayakhel–Pekudei, which concludes the Book of Exodus. The Torah describes the final construction of the Mishkan, the Tabernacle, and lists in detail all the materials that were donated and used.

One thing stands out: Moshe gives a full public accounting of the donations.
The Torah carefully records how much gold, silver, and copper were collected and exactly how they were used.

Why is this necessary?

Moshe Rabbeinu was the greatest leader we ever had. Yet he still understood an important principle: this was not his money—it was public money. And when you are dealing with public funds, you must be completely transparent.

Our sages explain that Moshe even took precautions so that he would not even appear to be taking anything. He made sure he had no pockets or hidden places where people might suspect he was hiding money. Everything was done openly so that no accusation could ever arise.

This teaches a major ethical lesson.

Many people who mishandle money are not necessarily bad people. Sometimes someone running an organization or charity runs into financial trouble and thinks, “I’ll just borrow a little from the fund and pay it back.” But one thing leads to another, and before long the money is gone.

That is why the Torah insists on absolute accountability when it comes to communal funds.

And this principle applies everywhere—governments, charities, organizations. When public money disappears, it is worse than stealing from an individual. These funds were given for a specific purpose, and misusing them is a betrayal of public trust.

There’s a famous story about President Harry S. Truman that illustrates this idea.
A newspaper columnist once criticized Truman’s daughter Margaret’s piano playing. Truman wrote an angry letter defending his daughter. But when he mailed the letter, he paid for the stamp himself. He refused to use the presidential franking privilege because, he said, this was not official government business—it was a private letter from a father, not from the President.

He would not even use a five-cent stamp of public money for a private matter.

That’s the lesson Moshe is teaching us.

If it’s your own money, that’s one thing. But when it is public money entrusted to you, you must handle it with the highest level of integrity and transparency.

That’s why the Torah records the accounting of the Mishkan—to teach us that leadership requires honesty not only in reality, but even in appearance.

Something to think about.

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The Torah stresses the importance of Shabbat simply by pointing out that Shabbat observance supersedes the building of the Tabernacle.

Parashat Ki Tisa: The Centrality of Shabbat

Now for a quick devar Torah.

In this week’s parsha, Parashat Ki Tisa, a lot is happening. We have the instructions for the Mishkan, the Tabernacle, and of course the dramatic episode of the Golden Calf. But there is an important point that is sometimes overlooked.

The Torah tells us that Shabbat takes precedence even over building the Mishkan.

Think about that for a moment. The Mishkan was the place where the Divine Presence would dwell among the Jewish people. Building it was one of the holiest national projects imaginable. Yet the Torah makes it clear: even that sacred work stops for Shabbat.

The message is powerful. If building the Tabernacle must stop for Shabbat, it shows us just how central Shabbat is to Jewish life.

There’s a famous saying often attributed to Ahad Ha’am:
“More than the Jews have kept Shabbat, Shabbat has kept the Jews.”

Shabbat has been the glue that has held the Jewish people together throughout history. It is not only a day when we stop working. It is a day when families and communities gather together—around the table, in synagogue, with friends and neighbors—to remember what life is really about.

And we know that Shabbat observance goes back thousands of years. One of the ancient Greek historians wrote about a strange group of people in the East who refused to work one day every week and who ate unusual food. He never mentions the Jews by name—but it’s obvious who he meant.

Even in our prayers on Friday night we see this idea. In Kabbalat Shabbat we sing Mizmor Shir L’Yom HaShabbat—“A Psalm, a Song for the Day of Shabbat.” Interestingly, after the title, the psalm never again mentions Shabbat.

It almost makes you wonder—did King David forget what he was writing about?

But the message is actually very deep. Sometimes we get so caught up in the details of preparing for Shabbat—are the lights set correctly, is the hot water ready, did we prepare everything in advance—that we can forget what Shabbat is really about.

Shabbat is the culmination of the entire week. It is the spiritual high point toward which the whole week leads.

Even the Hebrew names for the days of the week reflect this. They are simply numbered:
first day, second day, third day, fourth day, fifth day, sixth day.

But the seventh day has a real name: Shabbat.

The Torah is telling us something very important. Everything in the week builds toward this day.

And that is why even the construction of the Mishkan—something incredibly holy—must stop when Shabbat arrives.

So as we go into Shabbat tonight, it’s something worth remembering:
Shabbat is not just a pause in our work.

It is the center of Jewish life.

Moses takes responsibility for the sin of the Golden Calf. Why? Because he is the leader and he realized that if he had been a better leader it would not have happened.

Leadership Means Responsibility (Ki Tisa)

This week’s parsha, Ki Tisa, contains the tragic episode of the Golden Calf. While Moses is on Mount Sinai, the people panic and build the calf. When Moses returns, God tells him that the nation deserves destruction.

But Moses refuses.

He says to God:
“If You destroy them, erase me from Your book.” (Exodus 32:32)

This is an extraordinary statement. Moses had nothing to do with the sin of the Golden Calf. He wasn’t even present. Yet he takes responsibility for the people.

Why?

Because that is what leadership means.

A true leader does not say, “It wasn’t my fault.” A true leader says, “I am responsible.”

We see this idea throughout history. After the 1973 Yom Kippur War, the Agranat Commission investigated the failures that allowed the surprise attack. The commission largely cleared Prime Minister Golda Meir of direct blame, stating that based on the intelligence she had at the time she acted properly.

Yet she resigned anyway.

Why? Because she was the leader. And leadership means responsibility.

The same idea appears in the famous sign on President Harry Truman’s desk:
“The Buck Stops Here.”

A leader cannot pass the blame.

The Torah is teaching us something fundamental: freedom and responsibility go together. When we have authority, we must accept accountability.

This applies not only to national leaders but to all of us.

• A parent is responsible for the behavior of their children.
• A community leader is responsible for the conduct of the group.
• Even in a synagogue, if something goes wrong, the rabbi or the gabbai is called — not everyone else.

Because leadership means responsibility.

Moses understood this better than anyone. Even though the sin was not his, he stood before God and said: If they fall, I fall with them.

That is the Torah’s model of leadership — not power, but responsibility.

And it reminds us that whenever we take on a role of leadership, even in small ways, we must be careful how we lead — because responsibility comes with the position.

Something to think about.

We are commanded to give a half shekel for the upkeep of the Tabernacle. The idea is that we are not complete without others. That we are a community.

The Half Shekel and the Power of Community

In this week’s parashah, Parashat Ki Tisa, we encounter the commandment of the half-shekel. Every Jew had to give machatzit ha-shekel, half a shekel, toward the upkeep of the Mishkan.

What is striking is that everyone gives the same amount.

The Torah explicitly says the rich may not give more and the poor may not give less. Every Jew gives exactly half a shekel. This teaches a profound principle: before God, every Jew is equal. Economic status, social position, or even what a person thinks is his spiritual level—none of that changes his fundamental value. Every Jew counts the same.

But there is another lesson.

Why a half shekel and not a full shekel?

The message is that no Jew is complete alone. Each of us is only half. We become whole only when we join together with the rest of the community.

This reflects a basic idea of Judaism. Holiness is not achieved by withdrawing from society. In some religions, the holy person lives alone in a monastery or on a mountaintop. Judaism takes the opposite approach. Holiness is built within a community.

For example, we cannot say Kaddish without a minyan. Major prayers require ten Jews together. Even in moments of grief, when someone sits shivah, the community comes to support them. Judaism insists that religious life is fundamentally communal.

Even in the mystical realm we see this. Jewish mysticism did not develop in isolation. In the 16th century, the great center of Kabbalah was Safed in northern Israel, one of the largest Jewish communities of the time. The chief rabbi there was Joseph Karo, author of the Shulchan Aruch and also a great kabbalist. Mysticism flourished not in isolation, but in the midst of a vibrant community.

This idea also appears in the story of Esther before the events of Purim. Before she approached the king to stop Haman, she asked the entire Jewish people to fast for three days. She was the one risking her life, but she needed to know that the community stood behind her.

The same principle applies in the modern world.

Think of an aircraft carrier. Perhaps a hundred pilots fly the planes, but there are thousands of sailors supporting them. Without the mechanics, engineers, cooks, radar operators, and supply crews, the pilots could not fly a single mission.

The same was true in war. During the World War II, only a small percentage of soldiers actually saw combat. The majority were in logistics, transportation, and support roles that made the fighting possible.

Even Ulysses S. Grant, before becoming the great Union commander in the Civil War, first distinguished himself during the Mexican–American War by managing logistics—making sure the army had what it needed to fight.

The lesson is exactly what the half-shekel teaches.

No one stands alone.
No one succeeds alone.
Every achievement depends on the support of the community.

Each of us is only half a shekel.
Together, we become whole.

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