Rabbi Mendy's Blog

Why is it that the harder we try to do the right thing, the more difficult life sometimes seems to become? We work hard, make sacrifices, and try to live with purpose and integrity, yet instead of finding calm waters, we find ourselves caught in another storm. The bills keep coming, the responsibilities keep growing, and just when we think we've caught our breath, another wave comes crashing down. We begin to wonder: how much more can I take? Why am I constantly struggling just to keep my head above water? And perhaps the most troubling question of all: Where is Hashem in all of this? If G-d loves us and wants us to succeed, why does He allow the waters of life to threaten to drown us?

If we are created in G-d’s image, endowed with a Divine soul and the capacity for greatness, why do we seem so destined to fail? If the very first people Adam and Eve, created by G-d Himself, couldn’t get it right, what hope is there for the rest of us? As we begin this new year, filled with resolutions, positive intentions, and promises to become better people, are we simply setting ourselves up for disappointment? Why bother trying if failure seems inevitable?

The answer lies in this week’s Torah portion, the first of the whole Torah, Bereshit. There we learn about the creation of Adam and Chava, the very first human beings. Placed in the Garden of Eden, surrounded by unimaginable blessings, they were given just one commandment to observe. And almost immediately, they failed! Yet perhaps the most remarkable part of the story isn’t Adam and Chava’s failure, but G-d’s response. Yes, there were consequences. Yes, life would become more challenging, and the Garden of Eden would no longer be their home. But G-d did not abandon them. In fact, the Torah tells us, “And G-d made for Adam and his wife garments of skin, and He clothed them.” Even after they defied His explicit command, G-d personally cared for them, clothing them with dignity and compassion. He then sent them into the world, not to abandon them, but to entrust them with the responsibility of building a future. The same G-d who knew they would stumble still believed they could fulfill their Divine mission. Their mistakes did not diminish His belief in their potential because G-d’s faith in humanity was never dependent on humanity’s perfection. It was unyielding, unwavering, and unconditional.

Think about that for a moment. Before creating Adam, G-d knew exactly what humanity would look like. He knew there would be selfishness, jealousy, dishonesty, and terrible suffering. He knew we would repeatedly fall short of the extraordinary potential He placed within us. Yet He created us anyway! Not because He was unaware of our weaknesses, but because He believed in our strengths. The Torah tells us that man was created B’tzelem Elokim, in the image of G-d. That Divine image isn’t erased when we make a mistake. It isn’t diminished when we fall short. It remains an inseparable part of who we are, a constant reminder that our capacity for goodness, holiness, and greatness is infinitely greater than any failure.

And therein lies one of Bereishis's most empowering lessons. We often measure ourselves by our accomplishments, our successes, and unfortunately, our failures. We commit to grow Jewishly, strengthen our relationships, and become more generous, more patient, and more connected to G-d. But when we stumble, as inevitably we sometimes will, we begin questioning whether we are truly capable of change. G-d sees things differently. He doesn’t define us by yesterday’s mistakes but by tomorrow’s possibilities. His faith in us doesn’t fluctuate with our performance. Every morning that G-d returns our soul, He is declaring once again that He believes in us, that our mission remains unfinished, and that today holds opportunities for greatness that yesterday did not.

As we embark on this new year and begin the Torah once again, let’s learn to see ourselves and each other through G-d’s eyes. Don’t abandon your resolutions because you’ve stumbled. Don’t give up on a relationship because you’ve been disappointed. Don’t underestimate your ability to make a difference because the challenges seem overwhelming. Take one meaningful step forward. Commit to one more mitzvah, one more act of kindness, one more opportunity to bring light into someone else’s life. And when you fall, get up and try again. After all, if G-d continues to believe in humanity despite thousands of years of mistakes, surely we can find the courage to believe in ourselves and in one another. G-d never gives up on us; now we have to start living up to our full potential.

The answer begins in the final parsha of the Torah we will read this Sunday, Vezos Habracha. It is the last day of Moshe’s life. He knows he will not enter the Promised Land. He knows the Jewish people will face enormous challenges ahead. Yet Moshe does not leave them in despair. He blesses them. He praises them. He reminds them who they are and sends them forward with confidence. Why? Because Moshe knew that Hashem was with them. He knew that despite the obstacles, despite the enemies, despite everything they would encounter, the Jewish people would inherit the Land of Israel and fulfill their destiny. Jewish joy has never meant pretending that life is easy. It means knowing that our story is bigger than the difficult chapter we may be living through.

I learned that lesson from my grandfather Reb Beryl Dubrowski, who passed away this week at the remarkable age of 96. His early life gave him every reason not to be joyful. He lost his father as a small child and was raised by his maternal grandfather. During the Holocaust, he was exiled to a small village in Kazakhstan. As a teenager, he escaped the Soviet Union and worked with the underground to help other Jews escape as well, but his grandfather was caught while escaping, and he was killed in captivity. Later, he met his wife, my Bubby, in France and married; with little family left after the war, he built his own but struggled to support them, taking on jobs like peddler, exterminator, and textile cutter, until he took over a fledgling Matzah bakery in Brooklyn and found his calling. Then in his seventies, he battled aggressive colon cancer and beat it. Despite his many challenges, anyone who knew my grandfather knew his passion for Jewish life and his incredible joy; nothing made him happier than dancing with the Torah. Simchas Torah and celebrating the completion of a new Torah were among the great highlights of his life. He danced through the pain because, as he told me, “I am so blessed; I never imagined I would have the family and the life G-d has given me.”

My grandfather taught me that joy is a choice; not born of ignorance or delusion, but of faith and gratitude. He knew life's pain intimately, but he also knew how to count his blessings. He lived to 96 and was blessed to raise seven children, 45 grandchildren, hundreds of great-grandchildren, and even a great-great-grandchild. He understood something that perhaps we need to remember more than ever this Simchas Torah: our enemies do not get to determine whether we celebrate being Jewish. Hatred does not get to steal our joy. Tragedy does not get the final word. We dance because we are still here. We dance because the Torah is ours. We dance because Hashem is with us. And we dance because we are writing the Jewish story every single day.

So this Simchas Torah, I ask you to join us. Come dance. Sing. Celebrate the Torah and celebrate being Jewish. Bring your children and your grandchildren. Bring your friends. Let us remember those we have lost not only with tears, but by living the Jewish life they cherished with even greater passion. Let’s come together as one community and finish this holiday season strong, with our heads held high, our arms around one another, and the Torah in our hands. And then, strengthened by that joy, let’s launch ourselves into a wonderfully blessed year; a year in which we do not merely survive, but proudly and joyfully fulfill our destiny of bringing peace and harmony to G-d’s world with the coming Moshiach speedily, amen! 

It feels harder than ever to bring people together. We live in a world that constantly reminds us of what the other person has that we don’t, what they believe that we don’t, and what separates “us” from “them.” We are divided by opinions, backgrounds, politics, religious observance, and countless labels. Sometimes even within the Jewish community, we can focus so much on our differences that we forget how much we share. So how do we overcome this? How do we create real unity without pretending that we are all the same?

The answer lies in the beauty of Sukkot, which we begin celebrating tonight. One of the holiday's central mitzvot is taking the Four Kinds: the etrog, lulav, hadassim, and aravot. Our sages explain that each represents a different kind of Jew, with different strengths, different levels of knowledge and observance, and different ways of connecting to G-d. Judaism doesn’t ask the etrog to become a lulav or the lulav to become an etrog. We bring them together precisely because they are different. Unity doesn’t mean uniformity. It means recognizing that each of us has something unique to contribute, and that we are stronger when we stand together.

Of course, that is easier said than done. It can be difficult to look past another person’s differences, their choices, or the things about them we may not understand, and instead see the beauty they possess and the positive quality they bring. The Sukkah itself carries the answer to this challenge and helps us move forward. The Sukkah doesn’t ask who you are before allowing you inside. Its walls surround everyone equally: the scholar and the beginner, the deeply observant and the Jew just beginning to explore, the young and the old. By bringing us all under one roof, the sukkah helps us move beyond the differences that can distract us and reminds us to see the spark, the goodness, and the value in every Jew. Perhaps that is the secret to bringing people together: build a structure of love that embraces everyone equally.

That is exactly what we are building with our new Chabad Chai Center. I think of it as our year-round sukkah, a hub for Jewish life where every Jew, every person, is warmly welcomed and loved exactly as they are. A place where Judaism thrives because we share it joyfully. A place where children, teens, young professionals, families, and seniors can each learn and grow at their own pace. We don’t have to be the same. We need a place that brings us together, reminds us we belong to one another, and empowers each of us to take another step forward.

This Sukkot, I invite you to help us build that sukkah together. Our goal is to bring our new Chabad Chai Center, our new home and hub for Jewish life, to reality this December, and every one of YOU can have a part in making that happen. Whatever your ability, whatever your level of participation, there is room for you in this sukkah. Join us, participate however you can, and help us build a Jewish home that will unite our community for generations to come. Visit  www.chabadchaicenter.com/FUTURE and build your future. Many people. One community. One sukkah. One Jewish future.

As we begin a new year, many of us may look at the challenges facing the Jewish people and feel overwhelmed. Israel is under enormous pressure. Jew-hatred continues to rear its ugly head, and our communities everywhere are confronting uncertainty and fear. Perhaps a voice inside you says, "This is too much." Let me retreat into my own cocoon. Let me worry about my family, my work, my life, and leave the big problems to somebody else, or for some other time. Not me. Not now. Then Who?

The answer lies in this week's Torah portion, Haazinu. The Torah shares Moshe's final song to the Jewish people, delivered on the very day he would leave this world. After forty years of leading them, teaching them, fighting for them, and believing in them, what message did he want ringing in their ears after he was gone? Take responsibility. Your future is in your hands. Your choices matter. Remain faithful to who you are, live by the values of Torah, and you will endure. Abandon them, forget who you are, and the consequences will follow.

Moshe understood something profoundly human: when things go wrong, our instinct is often to look for someone to blame. The government. The leadership. The community. Shrink from responsibility and blame the other guy. But blame may explain our frustration; it rarely builds our future. Moshe's final message was that the Jewish people survive when Jews stop pointing fingers and start asking a different question: What can I do? Jewish history was never written by people waiting for somebody else to solve the problem. We wrote it by standing up and accepting responsibility.

That message could hardly be more relevant today. The Jewish people and our homeland, Israel, face serious challenges, and it is easy to feel that they are too large for any one of us to affect. But Moshe teaches us that our people's future is built through millions of individual choices. One more Jew standing proudly. One more mezuzah. One more Shabbat candle. One more child receiving a Jewish education. One more act of support for Israel. One more person showing up for their community instead of standing on the sidelines. We may not control every challenge confronting us, but we absolutely control how we respond.

So as we begin this new year, let's retire the words "not me" and "not now." The Jewish response must be: If not me, who? If not now, when? Choose one concrete action that strengthens your Judaism, your community, or our brothers and sisters in Israel—and do it. Don't wait for someone else to carry the Jewish future. Moshe's final song reminds us that the future has always depended on ordinary Jews deciding to take extraordinary responsibility. This year, let's answer the call: Me. And now.

 

We live in an age of endless choices. Every decision seems to come with hundreds of options: where to live, what school to choose, what career to pursue, what to buy, where to vacation, how to spend our time, and even what values to embrace. We are surrounded by more opportunity than any generation before us, yet many people have never felt more overwhelmed. The sheer number of possibilities can leave us paralyzed, constantly wondering if we are making the right decision for ourselves and our families. With so many voices competing for our attention, how do we know which direction to take?

The answer lies in this week's Torah portion Eikev, which offers an answer that is as profound as it is simple. Moshe asks the Jewish people, "And now, Israel, what does the Lord your G-d ask of you? Only to revere the Lord your G-d, to walk in all His ways, to love Him, and to serve the Lord your G-d with all your heart and with all your soul." At first glance, it sounds almost too simple. Is that really all G-d asks? Yet perhaps Moshe is teaching us that before we ask what college to attend, what investment to make, or what opportunity to pursue, we should first ask a far more important question: What does G-d want from me right now?

When that question becomes the lens through which we see our lives, everything else begins to fall into place. Instead of being driven by fear of missing out, social pressure, or the endless pursuit of more, we begin making decisions based on purpose. The goal is no longer simply to choose between good and better, but to discover which path allows us to best fulfill the mission G-d has entrusted to us. That shift transforms life from a series of disconnected decisions into a meaningful journey guided by a clear destination.

Revering and loving G-d are not abstract ideas reserved for the synagogue. They become practical tools for everyday living. Every conversation, business decision, family choice, and personal ambition becomes an opportunity to ask, "Will this bring me closer to the person G-d wants me to become?" The remarkable truth is that the more we make G-d the center of our lives, the less confusing life becomes. We may not always know the future, but we can know the next right step.

Perhaps that is the challenge of Eikev. Rather than allowing the noise of the world to dictate our priorities, let us begin each day with one simple question: What does G-d ask of me today? If we can build our lives around that question, our choices will become clearer, our families stronger, and our lives more purposeful. In a world overflowing with options, the greatest freedom comes not from having endless choices, but from having one unwavering focus: to live each day in a way that brings us closer to G-d and fulfills the unique mission He has given each of us to bring G-d closer to our world. 

Many of us know what it feels like to be the minority. It is not just a statistic; it is an experience. We live in a world where Jewish identity can sometimes feel lonely, where we carry the weight of representing our people in schools, workplaces, and communities. Today, with rising antisemitism and relentless scrutiny of Israel and the Jewish people, it is natural to wonder: Why did G-d choose it this way? If He entrusted us with such an important mission to bring His light into the world, why not make us a little larger? Why not give us the comfort and security that comes with overwhelming numbers?

The answer lies in this week's Torah portion, Va'Eschanan, with perfect clarity. "It is not because you are more numerous than all the peoples that Hashem desired you and chose you, for you are the fewest of all the peoples." Our smallness is not a flaw in G-d's plan; it is part of the plan itself. Hashem deliberately chose a nation that could never confuse its survival with its own strength. Every generation of Jewish history reminds us that demographics, military power, political influence, or economic might cannot explain our existence. We are here because Hashem wants us here.

History is filled with civilizations that believed their greatness rested in their armies, wealth, technology, or sheer size. Egypt, Assyria, Babylon, Greece, Rome; the list goes on. Each empire was convinced that its power was permanent, yet each eventually crumbled into the pages of history. The Jewish people, by contrast, have outlived them all. Not because we were stronger, but because we were never meant to rely on our own strength alone. Our very existence is a living testimony that "not by might, nor by power, but by My spirit," says Hashem. Our survival has always pointed beyond ourselves to the One who protects us.

Perhaps this is one of the greatest gifts we offer the world. By remaining a small nation, we become a constant reminder that true security does not come from numbers or power. We model a different way of living—one built on faith, trust, and an awareness that every blessing ultimately comes from G-d. That does not mean we neglect our responsibilities or fail to defend ourselves. Judaism has never taught passivity. We work, we build, we protect, and we prepare. But beneath every effort lies the unwavering recognition that success is granted by Hashem alone. Our smallness keeps us humble enough never to forget that truth.

This week, let us embrace what makes us different instead of fearing it. Rather than asking why we are so few, let us ask whether we are fulfilling the purpose for which we were chosen. Every mitzvah, every act of kindness, every moment of courage proclaims that our confidence does not rest in numbers but in Hashem's promise. If we carry ourselves with that faith, then we do more than strengthen ourselves; we become the example the world so desperately needs: a people who have learned that the greatest source of security is not the size of our nation, but the greatness of our faith in G-d, and only through that faith will our world realize healing and harmony for all.

There are moments when being Jewish can feel overwhelming. Judaism is not a hobby, a weekend activity, or simply a set of traditions we pull out for the holidays. It is meant to shape every aspect of our lives—how we eat, how we speak, how we conduct business, how we raise our children, how we spend our time, and even how we think. Today, when Jews face rising animosity, relentless criticism, and the emotional weight of watching Israel and the Jewish people endure challenge after challenge, many are quietly asking themselves: Is it worth it? Why carry the responsibility of living differently when it often seems to invite misunderstanding and opposition?

The answer lies in this week's Torah portion, Devarim, which begins the fifth Book of the Torah. Moses stands before the Jewish people in the final weeks of his life. He has led them for forty years, performed miracles, fought battles, and taught them the Torah. Yet his greatest gift may not have been any of those accomplishments. His greatest gift may have been his final address. Devarim is more than a review of history or a repetition of the commandments. It is Moses explaining the "why." He reminds the people not only what G-d asks of them, but why their mission matters. Before they enter the Land of Israel without him, he wants them to understand that Judaism is not merely a collection of obligations; it is a calling that gives purpose to every moment of life.

That question of "why" is one we all need to answer for ourselves. Rules alone rarely inspire commitment. A person can follow habits for only so long before asking whether they still matter. Moses understood that if the Jewish people were going to survive centuries of exile, persecution, and uncertainty, they would need more than laws. They would need conviction. They would need to know that every mitzvah, every act of kindness, every Shabbat candle, every prayer, and every moment of Jewish living is part of a Divine mission to bring holiness into an often-chaotic world. When we know the reason behind what we do, the burden becomes a privilege.

That is why Devarim is always read before Tisha B'Av, when we reflect on the destruction of the Temple and so many painful chapters of Jewish history. It reminds us that while our circumstances may change, our purpose never does. As Moses pleads with the Jewish people, "Know this day and take it to your heart that the L-rd is G-d... there is none else." Faith was never meant to remain in the mind alone. It must travel to the heart, where it shapes our choices, our courage, and our identity. We are not Jewish because life is easy. We are Jewish because G-d entrusted us with an eternal mission to model a meaningful life for the world. Every generation has faced its own headwinds, yet every generation has also produced men and women who chose to embrace their identity with pride rather than retreat from it, and now it's our turn.

This week, let us ask ourselves not only what we do as Jews, but why we do it. Study a little more. Perform one more mitzvah. Have one meaningful conversation with your children or grandchildren about what it means to be part of this remarkable people. When we reconnect with the "why," the "what" becomes infinitely more powerful. 

This week, Moses' voice still echoes through the words of Devarim, reminding us that our Jewish identity is not a burden to carry but a legacy to live, and one that is more necessary today than ever before to bring the world together in harmony with the coming of Moshiach speedily, amen!