לחם חן — Lechem Chein

My wife just went back to work after maternity leave. We’re adjusting again — new rhythms, less space between things. I’ve been noticing how quickly things are felt these days. When the margin is this thin, things just land harder. A sharp word or something just slightly off doesn’t just pass. It stays. It ferments. ⸻ Tazria opens right in that space. After a woman gives birth, the Torah doesn’t move straight to celebration. It moves into tumah — a period of waiting, of separation, a slow process before returning. In the wake of a shift like that, closeness doesn’t work the same way. You can’t just smooth something over and move on. What might have passed unnoticed in other times now needs to be held a little more carefully. ⸻ Straight from there, the Torah moves into tzaraas . Something appears on the skin. The instinct is to define it immediately — to name it, to fix it, to push it away. But the Torah doesn’t rush. The person is brought to the kohein . He sees it, and then, often, h...

Pesach is over. The dishes are put away. The house goes back to normal. The “festival of freedom” is already starting to feel like a memory, and the routines of the year begin to settle back in. But I’m still thinking about my own Yetzias Mitzrayim . What I’m trying to leave behind, and where I’m trying to move toward. Because the truth is, even when the external Egypt is gone, the internal ones—the habits, the patterns, the ways we check out—have a way of quietly returning. And then I see a line from tomorrow's Hayom Yom ( 24 Nissan ): לא טוב האבן מיר אלע We all have something that isn’t good. Even in the Beis Hamikdash, the Korban La’Azazel—the goat sent away—was part of the avodah.  That means the parts of us that aren’t aligned aren’t outside the system. They are part of the work itself. They aren’t outside the avodah. They are the avodah. Not everything is meant to be brought close. Some things are recognized, named, and sent away. Mir aleh.  All of us. -- That lands diff...

The Seder moves in a very clear order. Step by step. קדש, ורחץ, כרפס… A steady movement forward. But in the middle of it, we pause and name the plagues. Moments that don’t feel steady at all. Moments where something breaks. ----- I put together two short reflection pieces for this year. One follows the fifteen steps of the Seder, noticing how we move forward, one step at a time. The other sits with the ten plagues, the moments that disrupt, shift, and force something to change. You can use them on your own, or as conversation starters with family or friends. ----- They’re not meant to replace the Seder or any of the Torah shared around the table. Just something to sit alongside it, or to come back to later, when things are quieter. Download both reflections click here (print double-sided).

I had to be in New York on Monday night for a wedding. The original plan was simple, a quick trip in and out. Then my sister had a baby boy, with the bris set for Thursday, and I decided to stay instead of going back and forth. Only after looking at the calendar did I realize it would also overlap with my Zaidy’s yartzeit (7 Nissan). I hadn’t planned to be there for it, to be with family, to visit his kever. But I was. It brought me back to exactly one year ago , when I made two back to back trips to New York, first for this same sister’s wedding, and then again for Zaidy’s yartzeit. That contrast stayed with me as I thought about this week’s parsha. Parshas Tzav opens with a quiet instruction: אֵשׁ תָּמִיד תּוּקַד עַל הַמִּזְבֵּחַ לֹא תִכְבֶּה A fire shall always be burning on the Mizbeach. It may not go out. Last year felt like fire. This year feels like coals. A year ago, my life felt like something was opening. There was a kind of inner fire, a sense of movement, something I could ...

In our weekly team meetings we sometimes talk about something called the pickup rate. When a client calls, do you answer, or let it go to voicemail? Of course sometimes you’re already on another call. Sometimes you’re in the middle of something that can’t be interrupted. Still, the idea is simple: if a client chooses to call instead of sending an email, they probably felt the moment mattered. Calling back later isn’t the same as answering the call. That thought followed me into this week’s parsha. ⸻ The Torah opens Sefer Vayikra with a call. But the call only makes sense if we remember where the Torah left off. At the end of last week’s parsha, the Mishkan is finally finished. Every beam is in place. The vessels are set. The cloud descends and the Presence fills the space. Moshe is standing outside. He doesn’t enter. Only then does the Torah say: וַיִּקְרָא אֶל־מֹשֶׁה “And He called to Moshe.” Even Moshe Rabbeinu doesn’t walk in until he is invited. And what is he called in for? To beg...

There are moments I’ve been seeking out lately: a car ride where the music stays off, or those rare minutes of complete stillness when the world finally stops asking things of me. In those deliberate silences, the room seems to exhale. In that stillness, I start to notice how much dust I’ve actually been carrying through my day. After the labor of the week—the mental weight of work projects, the physical exhaustion of a house full of young children, the quiet grind of survival mode—I realize I don’t always show up as a whole person. Without that silence, I show up as a collection of reactions: impatience, the edge in my voice, the version of me that hasn’t quite put the day down yet. So I’ve started asking myself a simple question before I turn the key or open the door. Which version of me is about to speak? The man crushed by the labor? Or the man who remembers his Name? The Torah places that exact pause in a surprising place this week. ⸻ When the Mishkan was built, the Kiyor, the bas...

Earlier this week I shared a longer reflection for Purim about shame, masks, and the tools we sometimes lean on to steady ourselves. Writing something like that always leaves a quiet moment afterward. Teachers feel it after a class. Speakers after a talk. Writers after they publish something that mattered to them. Not the question of whether people read it, but something subtler: did anything actually move? Did something shift for someone? That question isn’t so different from something Moshe asks in this week’s parsha, Ki Tisa. After the chaos of the Golden Calf and the breaking of the Luchos, Moshe turns to Hashem and says:  הַרְאֵנִי נָא אֶת כְּבוֹדֶךָ  “Show me Your glory.” Moshe isn’t asking to see something physical. He is asking to understand what he is part of — how Hashem leads the world through moments like this. After everything that has just happened, he wants to see the meaning of the moment clearly. Hashem answers him with surprising tenderness. The request itse...

Part of an ongoing reflection this year on presence, sobriety, voice, and the tools we use along the way. ⸻ On shame and exposure  Someone posted recently: “Thinking of starting a support group for those suffering from AI shame. We all use it for meal planning, business development, tech support and therapy. But often get stuck saying so out loud.” It made me smile. And then it made me pause. Support groups don’t usually form when something is rare. They form when something is common but uncomfortable, when enough people are quietly doing the same thing and quietly wondering if they’re the only one. That’s when shame becomes communal. I use it too. Sometimes quietly. Sometimes more openly. I’ve written before about using tools to help find my voice again — about how even Moshe Rabbeinu turns to the tool of song at the end of his leadership. And yes, this article was written with the help of AI as well. Does that make it less real? The stories are mine. The questions are mine. The...

There’s a moment that happens every so often when a man walks into an unfamiliar shul on the right day of the week. The gabbai approaches quietly with a stack of aliyah cards and asks, almost casually, “Kohen, Levi, or Yisrael?” The answer never changes, no matter how much you’ve grown, no matter what kind of week you’ve had, no matter how much responsibility you’re carrying. For me it has always been simple. Yisrael. Clear. Fixed. Uncomplicated. And yet earlier in the Torah, before Sinai, before the mitzvos are given, we are told something that widens the frame entirely: וְאַתֶּם תִּהְיוּ לִי מַמְלֶכֶת כֹּהֲנִים “You shall be to Me a kingdom of Kohanim.” Not a tribe, not a narrow lineage, but men, women, and children — an entire people called into priesthood. Identity came before instruction, before garments, before roles were assigned. Parshas Tetzaveh does not restate that calling so much as it shows how it begins to take shape, and it begins not with fabric or gold threads, but wit...

Exactly a year ago, Erev Shabbos Parshas Terumah, I shared my first public writing . I had no idea where it was going. I wasn’t trying to start a blog or build anything ongoing. I just knew I needed to get it out of my system. Until then, most of my processing stayed private — journals, long drives, thoughts that felt safer inside my own head. A few months before that, I had started unpacking my story in therapy for the first time. I thought I understood what I was carrying. I had categories. Language. Explanations. What I didn’t realize was that even my understanding of myself was still happening from inside the fog of my own defenses. I was trying to find myself while still hiding. There was a quiet friction in me. A restlessness I couldn’t name. I tried to manage it. Improve around it. Stay productive through it. I didn’t yet know how to shape it into something luminous. It felt like holding a solid block of gold and having no idea where to strike. The cycle needed to be broken. I n...

This past Sunday, something quiet but meaningful happened in our home. My son’s class had a Haschalas Gemara event. His first Masechta begins with something small and seemingly simple: Eilu Metziot — the second perek of Bava Metzia, the laws of lost objects. You find something on the street. If it has identifying signs, you return it. If it doesn’t, you may keep it. Either way, the Torah assumes you are paying attention, that you don’t just walk past what lands in front of you. And it happened in the week of Parshas Mishpatim. Mishpatim comes immediately after Matan Torah. Not more thunder. Not more revelation. It begins with laws. Servants. Injury. Guardianship. Moral and social responsibility. With the quiet work of figuring out what Torah looks like once inspiration fades and life resumes. That placement matters. Mishpatim is not a break from Sinai. It is what Sinai becomes when it enters daily life. Lost items appear there too, briefly. If you encounter your enemy’s ox or donkey w...

This week’s parsha isn’t named after the Ten Commandments. It’s named after what happens right before them. Before revelation. Before the laws. Before Sinai. Something interrupts the flow. Moshe is drowning.  Not in the sea like the Egyptians last week, but in responsibility. From morning until night, people line up in front of him.  Every question, every dispute, every decision goes through him.  Not because he wants control, and not because he doesn’t trust anyone else, but because when you’re in survival mode, you don’t step back and plan.   You keep things moving. You deal with whatever is right in front of you.  You carry what needs to be carried. Survival shrinks your field of vision.  That doesn’t make you wrong. It just makes you busy. And Yisro is the one who sees it. “This isn’t good,” he tells Moshe.  “You can’t do this alone. You’re too deep in it to see what’s happening.” It matters who Yisro is. He’s an outsider, not caught up in the urge...

Yud Shvat reminds us of a quiet but demanding idea. It marks a moment, three-quarters of a century ago, when the leadership of Chabad passed to the Lubavitcher Rebbe, bringing renewed focus to a simple but challenging question: where does G-d show up in real life? The teaching most associated with that moment, Basi LeGani, isn’t about spiritual escape or transcendence. It’s about G-d choosing to dwell within ordinary human experience. Not after fear is resolved, but inside it. Not once we’re elevated or ready, but right in the middle of our process. Reading Parshas Beshalach through that lens sharpens everything. There was a shorter road out of Egypt. The Torah tells us G-d deliberately avoided it. Not because He didn’t know the way, but because He knew the people taking it. If fear showed up too soon, turning back would be easy. So the path became longer, less familiar, and harder to reverse. A road shaped not just by geography, but by human psychology. That doesn’t read as punishment...

This morning, what feels like a few hours ago, I stood at my son’s Bris. A covenant made in the body. Before understanding. Before consent. Before readiness. Something that shapes you before you’ve had a chance to overthink it. There is no negotiation at a Bris. No waiting until things feel settled. Identity is marked first, and only later does a person grow into what that mark means. Holding that moment, Parshas Bo reads differently. Parshas Bo is most often remembered for its drama. The plagues intensify. Egypt collapses. Freedom finally comes into view. But if you slow down and read carefully, something quieter and more surprising is happening beneath the surface. Before the Jewish people leave Egypt, before Pharaoh is finished, before the sea splits, God gives us a mitzvah. Time. Not just linear, but in rhythmic cycles. “This month shall be for you the head of months.” Kiddush HaChodesh is the first mitzvah given to the Jewish people as a nation. Not after freedom. Not once things ...

I haven’t baked sourdough in a few weeks. Not because I didn’t want to— I did. You see, the thing is, last night our family welcomed a new baby boy. And when you’re that close to a birth, you don’t always know when you’ll need to drop everything and head out.  I noticed I needed to stay available, ready to respond, ready to disappear from whatever I was in the middle of. Sourdough doesn’t really work that way. Once you start, it asks you to stay. Sure, there are small and large breaks along the way, but overall it needs routine and consistency. And you can’t be stressed or rushing it. The dough feels that and won’t come out the same. So for now, I haven’t begun. The starter was pre-fed and set to hibernate for a while. The tools are where they should be. The oven is ready. But the dough remains unmixed. Instead, we’ve been pulling loaves out of the freezer. It’s a particular kind of pause. Not hesitation. Not avoidance. Just choosing not to begin something I can’t stay with. Parsha...

Compared to how explosive Pasuk Alef of Chumash Bereishis opens, Chumash Shemos opens rather quietly. No Pharaoh. No suffering. No miracles. We’ll get there in a minute. For now, it’s just a simple list. וְאֵלֶּה שְׁמוֹת בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל These are the names of the children of Israel. Before the Torah tells us what happens to the people, it reminds us who they are. Because exile doesn’t begin with chains. It begins when people stop being known. When names disappear, people become numbers. And history has shown us how quickly millions of numbers can be erased. In Torah, a name isn’t just what you’re called. It carries dignity. It insists that before a person becomes labor, function, or survival, they are seen. Even more than that, the Hebrew letters of a name are understood as carriers of life force. The world itself is created with the letters of the Alef Beis. They are not random. Their combinations matter. Their numbers matter. Meaning is built into them. That is why the book of Exod...

It’s December 31st morning, and the calendar feels louder than usual. Not because something major changes at midnight, but because we as a society have decided that it matters. It is the last day of the secular year. Charidy campaigns are everywhere, offering one more tax-deductible donation, and that familiar inner voice says, “go on… one last sweet treat before the diet starts tomorrow.” Vayechi opens the same way, standing at the edge of an ending. Yaakov is nearing his final moments, but the Torah never says he died. It says: וַיְחִי — and he lived. He is still alive in the moment. His days are drawing near, so he calls Yosef close. Not to say goodbye, but to say what still needs to be said. The Gemara even says it: “יעקב אבינו לא מת” — Yaakov never truly died (Taanis 5b). Not because his body remained, but because his life kept moving through the people who carried it. If his children are still living what he stood for, then so is he. Vayechi is not an ending. It i...