What the Akeidah Demands of Us

When God tells Avraham that He plans to destroy Sodom, Avraham protests. He challenges God, “Shall the Judge of all the earth not deal justly?”

When God commands Avraham to sacrifice his beloved son Yitzchak, Avraham says nothing. Why? Did Avraham care more about the people of Sodom than his own son? Did he learn his lesson from Sodom and decide not to challenge God again? One Chassidic Rebbe even suggests that God never speaks directly to Avraham again after the Akeidah precisely because Avraham failed to protest.

Akeidat Yitzchak, the Binding of Isaac, leaves us searching for answers. It happened, but what do we learn from it? Are we supposed to be willing to listen to God no matter what He tells us? Even to sacrifice our own children?

The Danish Christian philosopher Søren Kierkegaard, in his seminal work Fear and Trembling (1843), offers one explanation. In his view, Avraham's actions were morally wrong yet meritorious because of his absolute subservience to God. Kierkegaard calls this “the teleological suspension of the ethical.” Avraham pushes ethical considerations aside for the purpose of serving God.

Along these lines, Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik sees the key lesson of the Akeidah as obedience. The Rav writes in Abraham's Journey:
 

“The basic idea of the Akedah is nurtured by the service awareness. Man is a servant of God. He belongs completely to God - body and soul… Hence, God from time to time calls upon man to return to Him whatever is His. He demands that man give not a part but the whole of himself…”

Rabbi Yehuda Amital suggests a very different lesson. God's ultimate message to Avraham was not about unquestioning obedience, but about the paramount importance of preserving life and human dignity. By refraining from sacrificing Yitzchak, Avraham learns that serving God must never come at the cost of sacrificing a human being.

Rabbi Shimon Gershon Rosenberg (Shagar) looks at things from Avraham's perspective. The primary challenge of the Akeidah was that it was impossible for him to know what God really wanted him to do.

I have always felt that Avraham knew from the beginning that he would not actually have to sacrifice Yitzchak. After all, he tells the lads accompanying him, “We will go worship God and then return to you.” When he said these words, he meant them wholeheartedly.

My namesake, Rabbi Elimelech of Lizhensk, expressed a similar idea. He writes:
 

“It seems we should explain that in truth Avraham and Yitzhak knew that God did not intend that he be slaughtered. And Avraham, whose attribute was ‘kindness’ went with confidence that the two of them would return.”

According to Rebbe Elimelech, the test was whether Avraham could summon the same passion for God as if he was really going to sacrifice his son, even though he knew it would not actually happen.

So which interpretation is correct? Obedience? The sanctity of life? Uncertainty? Faith? Religious passion?

The fact that there are so many interpretations is part of the lesson itself. Religious life is complicated and doesn't always provide simple answers.

When all is said and done, however, what does the Akeidah demand from us?

Rabbi Meir Simcha of Dvinsk, in his Meshech Chochmah, notes that after Avraham replaces Yitzchak with the ram, the angel calls out again and delivers two blessings: “Your descendants shall inherit the gate of their enemies” and “All the nations of the earth shall be blessed through your descendants.” (Bereishit 22:16–18)

These verses promise two very different things. Strength and conquest on one hand, blessing and kindness on the other. How do they belong together?

The Meshech Chochmah notes that conquest and victory can be cruel. Cruelty, he writes, is a corrupted trait, like a disease that clings to a person. The Talmud (Shabbat 105b) goes so far as to say that someone who smashes a vessel in anger is like an idol worshipper. Even cruelty that serves justice brings no blessing in its wake.

Avraham, however, was the great exception. He was prepared to do the most severe thing a father could do, but purely to fulfill the will of God. Since his actions were based only on the divine command, they did not negatively affect his character. As Rabbanit Shani Taragin put it, “The man who raised the knife remained the man who ran to greet strangers in the heat of the day.”

That is why the two seemingly disparate blessings are joined together. Avraham's children will have the strength to take their enemies' gates, when necessary, but that severity must remain a vehicle for a commanded task. It must never become who we are.

We live in a world in which our Judaism can make us unpopular. Sometimes, we must take strong action against our enemies. Such behavior can take its toll on our compassion. We must remain within the limits of God's command without allowing those difficult circumstances to change our character.

The Akeidah is incomprehensible. We can study it, struggle with it, and offer different interpretations without ever fully resolving its difficulties. That complexity is part of religious life.

We live a life of commandedness. God demands of us things that are not always easy or comfortable. But obedience to God must never distract us from our ultimate mission: to be a light unto the nations and a source of blessing for all.

Avraham was commanded to raise the knife. He was also commanded to put it down. The challenge is to know when God demands strength, when He demands restraint, and to never lose our humanity in the process.

Who to Vote For...

Rabbi Yitzchak Yosef, the former Sephardi Chief Rabbi of Israel, had a simple message for his followers: Don't vote for Itamar Ben Gvir.

Rabbi Yosef said voting for the Otzma Yehudit party in the October 27 Israeli election is forbidden because Ben Gvir has ascended the Temple Mount and called for removing restrictions on Jewish prayer there. He wrote, “All of the great sages across generations, without exception, forbade this to the utmost extent.” He added that those who encourage ascending the Mount also run afoul of the prohibition, and therefore “it is forbidden according to Jewish law to support this party.”

Some rabbis are very explicit in instructing adherents who to vote for. Many emphasize the importance of voting while urging Jews to use Torah and Israel as values to guide their decisions. These days, I feel Jews need to support candidates who support our community and avoid candidates who refuse to distance themselves from those who are against us – even if they otherwise seem friendly to our priorities. We no longer have the luxury of “friends” who refuse to condemn our opponents.

Voting shouldn't only be about whom we oppose. It should also be about what we aspire to achieve. We need to view voting as holy. Politics is messy and divisive. Our approach to voting should come from a place of deep responsibility and mission.

Rabbi Moshe Alpert, an ultra-Orthodox rabbi who served several Jewish communities in Jerusalem during the Mandate, described in his diary his experience of voting in the first Israeli Knesset elections in 1949.

“At 5:35 am, we woke up…After we drank coffee, we put on Shabbat clothing in honor of this great and holy day…After 2000 or more years of exile…we have not merited to see a day like this, that we are holding elections in a Jewish state. Shehechiyanu…

 

We went to the voting station near Chabashim Street with our identity cards in hand. With great and mighty joy, we walked the short way there, and the entire way I walked as if it were Simchat Torah, circling with a Torah scroll, because I was holding the identity card of our new Jewish state in my hand. My happiness and joy knew no bounds!...

 

With a shaking hand, moved with holiness, I took one ballot marked ‘B’ for the Religious Union party and placed it inside the envelope I had received…Then the holiest moment of my life arrived. The moment that neither my father nor my grandfather had the privilege to experience in their lifetimes. Only I, in my time, in my lifetime, did I merit to experience such a holy and pure moment as this... What joy for me and my portion! At 6:28 am, we returned home and went to pray. What a great holiday!”

The holiest moment of his life was casting his vote in the State of Israel.

We may not treat Election Day as a holiday. At the same time, we should view voting as a sacred opportunity to make the world align just a little bit more with our values.

Last week, I attended a dinner with a group of Orthodox rabbis from around the New York area. There were rabbis from well-known shuls in Manhattan, Westchester, New Jersey, Great Neck, and the Five Towns. The purpose of the dinner was to discuss how to strengthen Zionism and love of Israel within the broader Jewish community. The guest speaker was Matti Friedman, a well-known author. While this was a very Zionist group, it was surprising how many of the rabbis around the table have children who made aliyah and are living in Israel. (I am proud to be one of them!)

One of the rabbis asked Matti who his daughter should vote for in her first Israeli elections. He answered, “Vote for a candidate who has an aspiring vision for making Israel the best it can be.” He didn't prescribe a specific candidate. He described a worldview we should bring to our voting – whether in Israel or here in the US.

We need to aspire. We should vote for individuals we feel will make our community, our society, our country, and our world better.

We learn about aspiration from Avraham Avinu.

As time goes by, Avraham begins to wonder how exactly God's blessings will continue forward if he doesn't have any offspring. God's response includes the promise of children along with the charge to look to the stars. “Go outside, look up to the heavens and count the stars…Koh yihyeh zar’ekha, so shall be your descendants” (Bereishit 15:5).

The promise seems purely quantitative: You will be many. Rabbi Daniel Feldman, however, notes that the stars carry a deeper message. Koh yihyeh zar’ekha is a charge to think bigger, strive bigger, and aspire bigger.

Like the billions of stars, the Jews are a diverse people with a multiplicity of talents, strengths, and, especially, opinions. We're messy, and that's OK.

God tells Avraham to count the stars, which is impossible. Yet Avraham starts counting anyway. Jews need that kind of audacity. Stars are beyond our grasp; they invite us to look up. Jews are not confined by the limitations of the present moment.

Koh yihyeh zar’ekha. God is giving us a mission to be “diverse and united, audacious and anchored, timeless and transcendent.”

There will always be winners and losers on Election Day. There will always be candidates we support and candidates we oppose. But our vote should represent more than what we're against. It should express what we believe in and what we hope to build.

We don't vote only to defeat what we fear. We vote to advance what we aspire to become.

That's the message of the stars. Don't just look around at the world as it is. Look up and imagine what it can be and then cast your vote to help make it happen.

Don't Let the Ravens Win!

The Nobel Peace Prize is supposed to celebrate those who make the world a better place. This year's selection has many wondering whether the world has lost its moral compass.

The 2026 prize was awarded to Navi Pillay, a South African jurist who chaired a United Nations commission that accused Israel of genocide in Gaza. The award comes amid a relentless campaign of hostility toward Israel and Jews, in which the atrocities of October 7 are minimized while Israel is increasingly portrayed as the world's greatest villain.

Has the whole world turned against us? How are we supposed to respond?

Natan Sharansky addressed the controversy in a powerful Tablet article entitled “Is the Whole World Wrong?” Sharansky recalls an 1892 essay by Ahad Ha'am about the blood libel, the accusation that Jews murdered Christian children for religious purposes. How could so many people believe something so obviously false? Ahad Ha'am's answer was simple. Widespread agreement doesn't establish truth. Entire societies can embrace terrible falsehoods. Sharansky knows this from personal experience. As a Soviet prisoner of conscience, he learned that truth isn't determined by the number of people repeating a lie or the power of the institutions promoting it.

Sharansky writes our response must be to stand firm in what we know to be true.

How do we keep our confidence and optimism when there is so much negativity all around us? The answer may be found in two birds.

After the flood, Noah faced a world that had been destroyed. The rain had stopped, but water still covered the earth. Noah needed to determine whether it was safe to leave the Ark and begin again. First, he sent out a raven. The raven flew back and forth but provided no useful information. Next, Noah sent out a dove. It found no resting place and returned to the Ark. Seven days later, Noah sent it out again. This time, it returned with a freshly plucked olive leaf. After another seven days, the dove went out and did not return. Dry land had emerged, and life could begin again.

Why two different birds?

The Talmud (Sanhedrin 108b) describes the raven as suspicious and argumentative. When Noah sent it from the Ark, the raven accused both God and Noah of hating it. Only two ravens had survived the flood, and now Noah was endangering the entire species by sending one away! The raven saw danger, hostility, and betrayal everywhere. The dove had a very different perspective and behaved differently. It went out, searched, returned when necessary, and eventually brought back evidence of new life.

The raven and dove represent two ways of looking at the world. The raven sees darkness. The dove searches for light. The raven is consumed by suspicion. The dove gets the job done. The raven sees a world beyond repair. The dove finds an olive leaf. There is a place for the raven's severity and judgment. Evil must be confronted. We need strength and discipline, but those qualities cannot become our entire worldview. If all we see is darkness, we may never notice that the waters have begun to recede.

There are plenty of ravens in the world today. Voices that see nothing positive in Israel and refuse to acknowledge the extraordinary achievements of the Jewish people. There's another danger from so many ravens. We can become so preoccupied with the ravens that we begin to sound like them. We can become so focused on those who hate us that we forget to celebrate all we have. We can become so preoccupied with fighting antisemitism that we neglect to teach the beauty of Judaism. We need to confront lies and defend ourselves, but Jewish identity cannot be built exclusively around those who oppose us.

We need to be more like the dove. The dove doesn't pretend the flood never happened. It doesn't ignore the destruction. It flies over the same devastated world as the raven, but it keeps searching and, eventually, it finds an olive leaf.

The Midrash (Bereishit Rabbah 33:6) presents one view that the dove’s olive leaf came from the Land of Israel, which, according to that view, was spared the full devastation of the flood. Israel is the source of our strength, optimism, and hope. Despite all the hate, there are countless olive leaves to be found today in Israel and amongst the Jewish people. None of this erases the pain or resolves the difficult questions, but negativity is not the whole story.

After the dove failed to return, Noah remained in the Ark until God commanded him, "Tzei min hateivah - Go out from the Ark" (8:16). He seemed reluctant to leave. Why did Noah need to be explicitly told to leave? Perhaps after witnessing so much destruction, the safety of the Ark was more appealing than the uncertainty outside. The flood had ended, but beginning again was frightening. We can understand that feeling. It is tempting to retreat into our own Ark, surrounded by people who think like us, convinced that the world outside is too hostile. Judaism, though, has never been about remaining in the Ark.

The raven reminds us of what we're up against; the dove reminds us of what we're living for. Natan Sharansky reminds us that we don't need the world's approval; we just need to be confident in who we are.

The ravens may be louder. They may dominate the headlines, the protests, and even the Nobel Peace Prize, but they don't get the last word. The dove returned with an olive leaf. The dove found dry land. The dove showed Noah that there was a future beyond the flood. We will confront the hatred, but we will not be consumed by it. We will defend Israel, but we will also celebrate it. We will fight antisemitism, but we will devote even more energy to building a vibrant Jewish future.

The ravens make the noise. The doves make the future.

In the end, the doves win.

In the Beginning God Created Zionism and Anti-Zionism

It seems like the Torah begins exactly where it should.

“Bereishit bara Elokim et ha-shamayim v’et ha-aretz – In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.” (Bereishit 1:1)

Where else would you begin the story?

Yet Rashi, in his very first comment on the Torah, notes that there is something at the beginning more fundamental than creation. Why does the Torah begin with creation at all? The Torah is a book of commandments. Shouldn't it begin with the first mitzvah given to the Jewish people, the command to establish the Jewish calendar in Parashat Bo?

Rashi explains that the Torah begins with creation because a time will come when the nations of the world will accuse the Jewish people, “You are thieves! You stole the Land of Israel!” The Jewish people will respond that the entire world belongs to God. He created it. He gave the land to whomever He chose, and He chose to give it to us.

Pretty prescient, no?

The Torah begins with the creation of the entire world because it anticipates a dispute over one small piece of it, the Land of Israel. From the onset, we know that a major challenge Jews will face will be between those who can live with the Jews and those who reject them. In the very first verse of the Torah, we encounter both Zionism and anti-Zionism.

Our connection to Israel is not an appendix to Judaism; it is an essential element of the Jewish story itself. Rabbi Dr. Yaacov Herzog, the distinguished Israeli diplomat, regarded Rashi's opening teaching as especially powerful in explaining Israel's place among the nations. The Jewish claim to Israel is not merely a matter of security, politics, or historical attachment. It is rooted in the Torah's understanding of Jewish destiny. There is no Judaism without Zion, Israel.

Today, Zionism has become one of the most frequently used – and misunderstood – words in public discourse. There are religious Zionists and secular Zionists, political Zionists, cultural Zionists, and labor Zionists. Some emphasize the fulfillment of biblical promises. Others emphasize Jewish self-determination, refuge from persecution, or the revival of Hebrew language and culture. Zionists don't all agree on theology, politics, or what Israel should look like. Zionists do agree that the Jewish people have the right to national self-determination in their ancestral homeland.

Zionism does not require supporting every decision of the Israeli government. It does not mean ignoring the rights or suffering of others. Israelis themselves argue about these matters every day. That's part of living in a democracy. As the saying goes, two Jews, three opinions. In Israel, it's probably closer to five.

Zionism means recognizing that the Jews are not merely a religious community. We are a people with a history, a homeland, and a right to determine our own future. Denying this means denying the very essence of Judaism. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks warned that anti-Zionism has become a new expression of antisemitism. Criticizing Israel is not inherently antisemitic, but singling out the Jewish state as uniquely illegitimate, or insisting that Jews alone have no right to national sovereignty, is anti-Jewish plain and simple.

The irony of our current moment is that even people who are deeply critical of Israel can be attacked for not being sufficiently anti-Israel. At an October 7 “coexistence event” this week, anti-Zionist protesters denounced Zohran Mamdani, despite his explicit anti-Jewish anti-Zionism, for participating in a gathering associated with coexistence. Apparently, for some, even Mamdani is a Zionist.

We cannot allow those who hate Israel to define what Zionism means. Nor can we spend all our energy responding to their accusations. Zionism must be more than a response to our enemies or what we stand against. Zionism must be about what we stand for, the ideals we believe in, and the future we aspire to build.

Theodor Herzl famously declared, "Im tirtzu, ein zo aggadah - If you will it, it is no dream." Herzl understood that Jewish national renewal required more than remembering the past or hoping for a better future. Zionism requires action. That remains true today. We have to want it. We have to will it into existence.

We need to live Zionism by making Israel part of our Jewish identity, visiting, learning its history, and strengthening our connections with the people who live there.

We need to defend Zionism by standing up to antisemitism, challenging lies, and refusing to allow intimidation to silence Jewish pride.

We need to build up Zionism by supporting the people and institutions who stand with Israel. At the same time, we must cut ourselves off from the haters and those who refuse to condemn them.

Bereishit anticipates that the Jewish connection to Israel will be challenged. Rashi doesn't promise that the world will accept our claim, but he reminds us why we believe in it. We may not convince everyone. We certainly won't convince those who refuse to listen. But we don't need their permission to embrace our history, our heritage, or our future.

The Torah begins by defending our right to the Land of Israel. The rest of the Torah teaches us how to become a people worthy of that land.

Im tirtzu, ein zo aggadah. If we will it, it is no dream. Live it. Defend it. Build it.

Between the Clouds and the Cockpit

Sometimes you only realize the miracle when you imagine the alternative.

On Wednesday, flydubai Flight FZ1073 was traveling from Dubai to Tel Aviv with 174 passengers aboard when the copilot attacked and seriously wounded Captain Smit Machchhar, and the plane went into a terrifying dive. Despite his wounds, Machchhar managed to unlock the cockpit door.

Israeli passengers Yaniv Hayun, Tzvika Manes, and Asaf Rajuan rushed in and subdued the attacker. Hayun, a plumber with no flight training, grabbed the controls and pulled the plane out of its dive, knowledge he picked up from watching Mayday, a television show about air disasters. Two off-duty pilots happened to be aboard and were able to take over and safely land the damaged plane in Saudi Arabia. Dr. Shota Musayev, an Israeli dentist, treated the badly wounded captain.

It is an almost unbelievable chain of events. In fact, it’s miraculous.

Amit Segal put it powerfully. Imagine the world in which Captain Machchhar did not manage to open that cockpit door. Imagine Hayun, Manes, and Rajuan arriving a few seconds later. Imagine the plumber had never watched that television show. Imagine there weren't two other pilots aboard. In that world, instead of celebrating Sukkot, families would be mourning 174 people, including 27 children. Segal writes, “Thankfully, we woke up in the other world.” The attacker failed, the festival goes on, and ordinary people displayed extraordinary courage.

Miraculous divine protection or human effort?

The Talmud records two opinions as to what the Torah means when it says that God caused the Jewish people to dwell in sukkot when we left Egypt. Rabbi Eliezer says these were the Ananei HaKavod, the miraculous Clouds of Glory that surrounded and protected us. Rabbi Akiva says Sukkot mamash, they were actual booths the Jews built themselves.

Our Sukkot experience – and our lives - needs both.

There are moments when we look back and recognize the Ananei HaKavod. We were protected, and things lined up in ways we could never have arranged ourselves. The right person was in the right place. The door opened at exactly the right moment.

There are sometimes situations of Sukkot Mamash, when human beings take action to build the sukkah. Captain Machchhar had to summon the last of his strength to open the door. Three passengers had to run toward danger rather than away from it. A plumber had to grab the controls. A dentist had to become an emergency medic. Two pilots had to step forward and land the plane.

Was it a miracle or was it human courage?

Yes.

That is the Jewish understanding of how miracles often work. Hashem protects us, and we still have to build the sukkah. We pray for the Ananei HaKavod, and then ordinary people have to do extraordinary things.

We are approaching the end of Sukkot and Simchat Torah, when the entire long holiday season reaches its climax with something surprisingly simple: Joy. Not another sermon. (OK, maybe one more) Not another fast or another confession. We dance.

Tzvi Freeman notes that, in a certain sense, Simchat Torah should be viewed as significantly as Kol Nidrei or Neilah. Those are moments when everyone knows to be reverent. The masses flock to shul, and there is a palpable sense of kedushah, holiness. Judaism asks us to take joy just as seriously. On Simchat Torah, we use some of the same melodies as the High Holidays. A tune that a few weeks ago accompanied the solemnity of Rosh Hashanah or Yom Kippur suddenly accompanies dancing.

We aren’t mocking the sacred melody. We’re elevating the dancing. We are saying that Jewish joy can be sacred. It is an especially important message now. We have learned over these last years that we cannot wait for life to become easy before we celebrate being Jewish. If Jewish joy depends on everything going right, we may be waiting a very long time.

Judaism is lived in good times and challenging times. We dance when life feels secure, and sometimes we dance precisely because it doesn't. This week, 174 people were supposed to land at Ben Gurion Airport. For a terrifying stretch of time, that outcome was anything but certain. Yet they landed safely. They said Baruch Hashem and sang Od Yoteir Tov, celebrating the fact that God blesses us with better and better. A festival that might have been transformed into a time of national mourning remained Zman Simchateinu, the season of our joy.

Soon the holidays will end. We will finish the Torah and immediately begin again. Our sukkahs will come down, but what they represent should remain with us. Look for the Ananei HaKavod, the moments of protection and providence we don't always see. Simultaneously, be ready to build sukkot mamash. When something needs to be done, step forward. Grab the controls. Do whatever we can with whatever skills Hashem has given us.

And then keep dancing. Because we have the Torah. Because we are still here.

Jewish life isn't only something to defend; it is something to celebrate.

There were many ways that flydubai flight could have ended. Thank God, we woke up in this world, the one in which the door opened, ordinary people did extraordinary things, 174 people came home, and the festival remained Zman Simchateinu.

Between the clouds and the cockpit, there was a miracle. Sometimes the proper response to a miracle is simply to dance.

We Can Learn a Lot from An Etrog

Everyone has their favorite.

Some people are very particular and open up all the boxes in pursuit of the perfect etrog. They are willing to pay exorbitant prices in their quest for fulfilling the mitzvah the best way they feel they can.

Other people just grab and go.

The word “etrog” never appears in the Torah. In describing the arba minim, the four species, the term “pri eitz hadar” is used. This means a beautiful fruit. The oral tradition teaches that this fruit is the etrog, citron, and not some other citrus like a lemon or orange. The word “hadar” is also connected to the word “hiddur,” which means beautiful. In addition, it has a connection to the Hebrew word for pursue or seek. Choosing an etrog can become a pursuit of perfection.

Pursuing perfection is more than how an etrog looks.

One Erev Sukkot, Reb Aryeh Levin entered Rubenstein’s Judaica store in Jerusalem to purchase an etrog. He picked up the first box he saw, peeked inside, closed it up, paid, and went on his way. A young boy who had watched this ran after the rabbi and caught up with him at the #11 bus stop. He asked why the rabbi hadn’t checked the etrog for a longer time like everyone else does, examining every nook and bump? Reb Aryeh answered:

“There are two mitzvot that require Hiddur. Etrog, which is called “pri eitz hadar,” and showing respect to elders, commanded with the words, “v’hadarta pnei zakein.”  For these two, you must go above and beyond. I am now running to the nursing home to bring dentures for an old man there whose teeth have completely deteriorated. He needs to eat dinner like a normal human being, and if I don’t make it in time he will once again be forced to eat bread dipped in milk. This hiddur mitzvah is even more important than spending time choosing a nice etrog.”

What we look for in an etrog is an important part of the mitzvah. That quest for perfection should motivate us to be and do better in other areas of our religious and personal lives.

Rabbi Shalom Eisen was a renowned expert in examining etrogim. In Meah Shearim, it is quite common for people to select an etrog and then take it to a rabbi to examine and issue an opinion if it is kosher or mehudar, extra special. One year, a kollel student brought him a magnificent etrog. Rav Eisen examined it carefully and said, “This esrog is not for you.”

The young man was stunned. “Is something wrong with it?”
Rav Eisen asked, “What do you do?”
“I learn in kollel.”
“How much is your monthly stipend?”
The young man told him.
“And how much does this etrog cost?”
The answer was nearly 70% of his monthly stipend.
Rav Eisen nodded. “Just as I thought. The etrog is mehudar but buy a less expensive one. With the money you save, buy something nice for your wife for yom tov.”

The most beautiful mitzvot are those that require us to give of ourselves for another.

Sometimes, one can have a beautiful etrog without even having one at all.

Rabbi Mordechai of Neshchiz saved his pennies all year around to have enough money to buy a beautiful etrog. One year, on his way to buy his etrog, he encountered a man who was weeping bitterly. His inquiry revealed that this man had made his meager living as a porter, hauling things by horse and wagon. That day his horse had died, and he was now without a means of livelihood.

Reb Mordechai promptly gave the man the entire of sum of money he had saved throughout the year so he might buy another horse. The man rushed off overjoyed, and Rabbi Mordechai turned his eyes to heaven and said, “Dear God, all other Jews will fulfill the mitzvah of the four species with an etrog, but I will do so with a horse.”

We have plenty of opportunities to perform extraordinary mitzvot that may seem pretty plain but are truly uplifting and inspiring.

I like to say that the most beautiful etrog is one blemished from being passed around for others to use. So please be sure to offer your lulav and etrog to family, friends, coworkers, or neighbors who don’t have their own or don’t generally fulfill the mitzvah altogether.

It is easy to get lost in the pursuit of beauty – even for a mitzvah. Especially on Sukkot, there are lots of “things” we use, and we want them to be attractive. The etrog provides a perfect opportunity to internalize that the most beautiful mitzvot are those that uplift others.

Becoming Who We Really Are

Kol Nidrei is the most famous service in Judaism.

Jews who rarely attend synagogue make every effort to be there. There’s electricity in the air. The Torah scrolls are removed, and then the chazzan begins that haunting melody.

Kol Nidrei, however, isn’t found in the Talmud. Rambam doesn’t mention it. Kol Nidrei, literally “all my vows,” is a legal formula to release us from promises we made but cannot keep, and a controversial one at that. Authorities questioned whether the formula works altogether. Over the generations, attempts to correct the language of Kol Nidrei ran into opposition from the cantors. They refused any edits since the proposed revisions did not fit with the traditional melody. The words may not be accurate, but the tune abides.

While we have evidence that Kol Nidrei has been recited for well over a thousand years, some of the Geonim opposed its recitation entirely. Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch went so far as to eliminate Kol Nidrei from his synagogue in 1839. It lasted one year. The following Yom Kippur, he restored it.

You don't mess with Kol Nidrei.

Eventually, the Aruch HaShulchan wrote that Kol Nidrei had essentially become a tefillah, a prayer like other prayers. It might work to annul vows; it might not work. It’s a prayer, and we say it.

Why do we feel so connected to Kol Nidrei?

Kol Nidrei expresses what Yom Kippur is all about. We want to be released. Not released from our responsibilities or promises that we can keep. Released from the mistakes and baggage that have accumulated over the past year. Released from the things we have done that don't reflect who we really are.

We usually translate teshuva as repentance, but the word literally means return. What are we returning to? We try to return to God. We attempt to return our relationships to a better place. We are also returning to ourselves.

The Torah describes Yom Kippur as “achat ba-shanah - once a year.” Once a year, the Kohen Gadol entered the Kodesh HaKodashim, the Holy of Holies. No one else could enter that space, and even the Kohen Gadol could enter only on Yom Kippur.

The Lubavitcher Rebbe explained that our Yom Kippur experience parallels that of the Kohen Gadol. Each of us has an inner Kodesh HaKodashim, a place deep within the soul that remains pure and connected to Hashem. Most of the year, it can be difficult to access. Once a year, on Yom Kippur, we are given special access to the deepest part of ourselves. Once a year, we can be who we really want to be.

The Rambam famously discusses a man who is obligated by Jewish law to give his wife a get but refuses. The court can pressure him until he says, “Rotzeh ani - I want to.” Is this truly his own free will after being forced? The Rambam explains that deep down, a Jew wants to do the right thing. There are other impulses that get in the way. Sometimes our true will is buried beneath anger, ego, or stubbornness, but these external factors don't create a new will.

Rotzeh ani. This is what I really want. This is who I really am.

Rabbi Baruch Oberlander relates that a Jew once confided to the Lubavitcher Rebbe that he felt like a hypocrite going to shul on Yom Kippur when he didn't attend during the rest of the year. The Rebbe turned the question around. The most natural place for a Jew on Yom Kippur is in shul. “You're not a hypocrite when you go to shul on Yom Kippur,” he told him. “You're a hypocrite, perhaps, when you don't go to shul the rest of the year!”

Which version is the real you? The person standing in shul on Yom Kippur asking Hashem for forgiveness or the person who sometimes acts in ways that contradict everything he believes? Yom Kippur says: Don't underestimate the person standing in shul.

That may be why Kol Nidrei has such a hold on the Jewish communal consciousness. We may not know what the words mean. Even if we read the translation, we may not understand the laws of vows. Reciting Kol Nidrei may not even technically work! But we hear the melody, take in the experience, and understand what it feels like to want to start again.

Kol Nidrei gives voice to the deepest desire of Yom Kippur: Release me from what I have allowed myself to become. Let me get past the promises I didn't keep and the mistakes I made. Let me get back to the person I know I can be.

Achat ba-shanah. Once a year, we have an opportunity to go lifnai v'lifnim, more deeply inside ourselves and our souls. We encounter the person we really are and the person we still want to become. Rotzeh ani. This is who I really want to be.

On Yom Kippur, we meet the most genuine version of ourselves. The rest of the year is our chance to become that person.