The month of Nisan we celebrate our freedom. We declare that we are in control of our destiny so long as we follow God’s commandments. That we determine our destiny, not the stars or anything else such as that.

This month of Nisan is unique. One of the reasons we do not say Tachanun is because Nisan is the month of redemption, the month of Pesach, the time when the Jewish people became free. In a very real sense, this is the beginning of the Jewish national year. Tishrei may mark the creation of the world and the creation of man, but Nisan marks the birth of the Jewish people as a nation.

That is why the first mitzvah given to the Jewish people as a people was the commandment to declare the new month: “Ha-chodesh ha-zeh lachem rosh chodashim” — “This month shall be for you the first of the months.” A free people must control its own calendar. A slave lives on the schedule of his master. A free person sets his own time.

But freedom is not acquired in a moment. You cannot take a nation of slaves and simply announce that they are free. They have to learn it, feel it, and live it.

That helps explain the remarkable command before the Exodus: the Jews were told to take a lamb, keep it before their homes for several days, slaughter it publicly, eat it, and place its blood on their doorposts. According to many authorities, the lamb was associated with Egyptian worship. In effect, the Jewish people were making a public declaration to their former masters: your gods have no power over us. We are no longer afraid. We are no longer slaves.

For the Egyptians, this was a humiliation. For the Jews, it was a test of courage. It was the first act of national self-respect. Before they could leave Egypt physically, they had to leave Egypt spiritually. They had to stop thinking like slaves.

So first comes Rosh Chodesh Nisan: the freedom to define time. Then comes Pesach: the freedom to shape destiny. In the ancient world, people believed their lives were ruled by the stars, by fate, by the whims of the gods. The Torah teaches otherwise. Israel is not bound by zodiac or destiny. We are called to live in covenant with God, and within that covenant we are responsible for our choices.

That is the key point: freedom does not mean license. Freedom means responsibility. The Torah is not a burden placed on a slave; it is the constitution given to a free people. On Rosh Chodesh Nisan and throughout this month, we are reminded that true freedom is not doing whatever we want. True freedom is living with purpose, dignity, and responsibility before God.

Something to think about.

We call the 1st of Tishri the “Jewish New Year”. This is wrong. The 1st of Tishri is when man was created. It is the beginning of the world. The Jewish New Year is the 1st of Nisan, when the Jews became a nation.

Rosh Chodesh Nisan: The Real Jewish New Year

There is a very common mistake people make: they call Rosh Hashanah the Jewish New Year in the absolute sense. But that is not really correct.

Why? Because Tishrei is the seventh month of the Jewish calendar. Nobody would place the beginning of a year in the seventh month. We would never say that July 1 is New Year’s Day on the secular calendar. So what is going on?

The Torah itself tells us the answer. In Parashat Bo, when the Jewish people receive their first mitzvah as a nation, God says: “This month shall be for you the first of the months”—referring to Nisan. In other words, Rosh Chodesh Nisan is literally the first month of the Jewish year.

The Gemara in Rosh Hashanah explains that Judaism actually has more than one “new year,” depending on what is being counted. Rosh Hashanah in Tishrei marks the new year for the world, the anniversary of creation—or more precisely, the creation of man. That is why we count the years from there. From the Torah’s point of view, the world reaches its purpose with the creation of human beings, because man is the one charged with giving meaning to creation.

But Nisan marks something different. It is the national new year of the Jewish people. It is the beginning of our redemption, the month in which we were taken out of slavery and began to become a nation.

That itself teaches a profound lesson. The first mitzvah given to the Jewish people is the mitzvah of sanctifying time. Why? Because a slave does not control time; a free person does. A slave lives according to the schedule of his master. A free people must be able to define, sanctify, and elevate time.

So Rosh Hashanah asks: Why was the world created?
And Rosh Chodesh Nisan asks: Now that the world exists, what are you going to do with it?

We were not redeemed from Egypt simply because God wanted to free an oppressed nation. There were many oppressed peoples in the world. We were redeemed for a purpose: to become a people that brings God into the world through Torah and mitzvot, and to show what it means for a nation to live by God’s laws.

That idea is reflected even in modern Hebrew. Many people use the word dati for “religious,” but that word itself is borrowed. Increasingly, some prefer to say Torani—not merely “religious,” but defined by Torah. Torah is not just about private ritual; it is about how a Jew lives, and even how a Jewish nation should conduct itself.

So when we celebrate Rosh Chodesh Nisan, we should remember what it really means. This is the month of redemption, the birth of the Jewish people, and in the Torah’s own language, the first month of the year.

Rosh Hashanah commemorates the creation of the world.
Nisan commemorates the creation of our mission.

That is something worth thinking about.

The Torah says that when a leader sin. It assumes that the leader will make a mistake. It is the nature of the position. He then has to bring a sin offering to atone for his mistake.

This week’s parsha discusses the various offerings that were brought in the Mishkan and later in the Beit HaMikdash. Among them is the korban brought for an unintentional sin. For the average person, the Torah speaks in the language of “if” he sins. But when it comes to a leader, the Torah changes its language. It says, “when a leader sins” — not if, but when.

That is a remarkable insight into leadership. The Torah is telling us that leaders will make mistakes. Not because they are bad people, but because leadership requires action, judgment, and constant decision-making. A leader cannot sit on the sidelines. He has to decide, he has to act, and once you act, sometimes you get it wrong.

You can see this even in modern times. Look at presidents before and after they leave office — the job ages them. Leadership is not a nine-to-five position. It is 24 hours a day, seven days a week. Problems do not wait for business hours, and neither can a leader.

Perhaps that also helps explain an interesting detail about the sons of Yaakov. Yosef, though one of the younger brothers, died relatively young compared to the others — at 110. Binyamin outlived him. Yosef was the viceroy of Egypt, carrying enormous responsibility, dealing with crisis after crisis, famine, politics, and family turmoil. Leadership has weight. Responsibility has a cost.

The Gemara mentions four people who died only because of the decree that came through the serpent: Binyamin ben Yaakov, Amram avi Moshe, Yishai avi David, and Kilav ben David. What is striking is that these figures are known to us בעיקר because of who they were related to, not because they stood at the center of great public action. Binyamin, for example, is important, but in Chumash he is mostly acted upon rather than acting.

The message may be this: it is easier to avoid sin if you do very little. If you never take risks, never lead, never decide, never step forward, you can avoid many mistakes. But that is not leadership. Leadership means responsibility, initiative, and action. And once a person acts, mistakes become inevitable.

That is why the Torah says “when the leader sins.” It assumes that the burden of leadership will sometimes produce error. But the greatness of a Jewish leader is not that he never fails. It is that he takes responsibility, admits the mistake, and brings the korban.

Even David and Shlomo, great kings of Israel, stumbled. Greatness in Torah is not perfection. Greatness is accountability.

That is something worth thinking about:
The person who does nothing may avoid mistakes, but he also avoids greatness.
The leader, by contrast, may stumble — but he is the one who moves history forward.

Moses was the humblest of men. This might sound strange but if you asked him, he would have said that he did what had to be done. That he just happened to be in place at the time.

A Quick Devar Torah on Parshat Vayikra

This week we begin the book of Vayikra, the book of Leviticus. The very name of the parshah already teaches us an important lesson. One of the first words in the parshah is “Vayikra” — “And He called.” But in the Torah scroll, the final letter, the aleph, is written small.

Why the small aleph?

One classic understanding is that this reflects Moshe Rabbeinu’s humility. At this point, Moshe is at the height of leadership. He took the Jewish people out of Egypt, led them through the splitting of the sea, brought them to Mount Sinai, received the Torah, and now stands at the inauguration of the Mishkan, the Tabernacle, where God speaks to him. If anyone could feel important, it would be Moshe.

And yet, Moshe remains the humblest of men.

That is the message of the small aleph: true greatness does not come with arrogance. A great leader does not see himself as the center of everything. He understands that he is there to do a job, to serve a mission, and to help his people.

That is why humility is such an essential trait in leadership. A leader must know that he is not permanent. He must prepare the next generation. Moshe trains Yehoshua to succeed him, because he understands that leadership is not about holding on to power forever; it is about making sure the mission continues after you are gone.

We see this again later with King David, who prepares Shlomo to take the throne. A true leader builds continuity. He knows that legacy is not what he says about himself, but what he leaves behind in those who come after him.

There is a famous story about a king who wanted something to remind him, both in times of joy and in times of sorrow, that life is always changing. He was given a ring engraved with the words: “This too shall pass.” That idea captures an important Torah truth. Good times do not last forever, and difficult times do not last forever either. Humility comes from remembering that we are here to serve God and do what must be done in the moment.

So how could Moshe be both strong and humble? After all, he confronted Pharaoh, spoke to God, and defended the Jewish people after the sin of the Golden Calf. The answer is that humility does not mean weakness. It does not mean thinking less of yourself. It means not thinking that your accomplishments make you inherently special. Moshe acted because the situation demanded it. He did what had to be done.

That is often what truly great people say. Veterans, heroes, and people of real courage often insist they did nothing extraordinary. They simply did what was necessary. That is real humility.

And that is the lesson of the small aleph in Vayikra:
A leader must be strong enough to act, wise enough to prepare the next generation, and humble enough to know that he is not the story — he is only serving a higher purpose.

Something to think about.

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.