Parshas Bamidbar: Each Banner, Each Bread
What begins as a census becomes a story of legacy. From banners in the desert to bread on the table, this is about remembering where we come from, and shaping where we’re going.
Parshas Bamidbar opens with a census, a divine count of every soul. Each איש על־דגלו, every person by their banner, by name, by tribe, in their rightful place.
The Torah then commands a separate count of the firstborn sons, not just a logistical detail, but something more intimate. It wasn’t just about numbers. It was personal. It was about memory, mission, and being seen.
That idea of being counted with love got me thinking about legacy, about the line I come from. My grandfather, Rabbi Mordechai Leib (Mottel) Chein, and my father, his firstborn son. And me, not the firstborn son, but the first son, picking up pieces of that story and finding my own way into it.
My Zaidy wasn’t just a printer. He was a builder, of Seforim, of community, of family. With his hands, he shaped generations: printing the Rebbe’s words line by line, and raising a beautiful family, each child grounded in Torah, Chassidus, and quiet strength. His work at Empire Press wasn’t just technical, it was personal, sacred, and full of heart. A labor of love both on the page and at home.
In the earlier years, when the Rebbe’s corrections came in late on a Thursday, my grandfather and his team would stay up all night so Likutei Sichos could be ready before Shabbos. When the Rebbe requested Kesser Shem Tov to be printed within just a few weeks, they dropped everything and made it happen. It wasn’t easy. Machines broke. Lead ran out. There were burns and union strikes. But they kept going. Because it mattered.
Eventually, my father (his firstborn son) joined him in the work and later took over the business. Together, they printed Seforim that shaped minds and souls.
In Bamidbar, every name counts. Every role has meaning. And in the pressroom, every letter did too. Each slug of lead held a piece of Torah. A vessel for something greater.
And now, in my own life, through writing, baking, learning, I try to hold on to that same energy. That’s what Lechem Chein is about. Not just bread that fills, but bread that holds something more. Words that nourish. Small actions that carry weight.
This past Sunday morning, while I was Davening at the Ohel, getting ready to visit my Zaidy Chein’s Kever next. My mom texted me about my blog:
"Cute that you chose ‘Lechem’ (even though it’s connected to sourdough) but it’s also Zaidy Chein’s initials 🙂 ."
And it hit me. Not just because I hadn’t noticed it before. But because when you line up the initials of his name, (מ׳ (מרדכי), ל׳ (ליב), ח׳ (חן, you get מֶלַח. Salt.
And in sourdough, salt is the only other ingredient besides flour and water. It gives flavor, structure, and integrity to the dough. Without it, bread is flat and weak. It made me think: my Zaidy was the מֶלַח, quiet, strong, preserving. Holding things together behind the scenes. The backbone of so many Seforim. The flavor behind the words. And the quiet strength that held a family together, too.
Lechem Chein - לחם חן - is just a reshuffling of the same letters.
The לֶחֶם that carries his מֶלַח.
The חֵן that flows from his legacy
Afterward, I ended up going to visit my Bubby and Zaidy Gelernters Kevarim too. It wasn’t planned, just felt right in the moment. A day of visiting the past, with Eli, my firstborn son, there beside me. In order to show up more fully for the future, for him and for all my kids who carry the next piece of the story. It reminded me that we don’t just inherit names or family businesses. We inherit missions. Things worth carrying. Sometimes we remember them through words. Sometimes through sourdough.
The census in the desert wasn’t for logistics. It was about dignity. It was Hashem saying, "You belong. I see you. You’re not just one of many."
Today, Empire Press continues, but the work has shifted. Now it’s mostly Benchers and Invitations. Moments of joy. They used to typeset pieces of Chassidus that shaped minds; now they print the pieces of paper that bring people together. It’s still holy work, taking “We should meet by Simchas” and turning it into something tangible.
And Benchers? They’re about gratitude. About pausing to thank Hashem. It may look different today, but the heart is still there.
And tomorrow, 4 Sivan, is my parents’ 36th wedding anniversary.
Double Chai. Life².
It’s also the 35th Yartzeit of my great-grandfather, Reb Chaim Dovber (Berke) Chein, who I was named after.
There’s a strength I trace back to him, a way of showing up for what matters, even when I had to learn how to love it for myself.
The truth is, not every part of this legacy came easy to me. I didn’t grow up loving Davening or Divrei Torah. Shabbos didn’t always feel soft or joyful. But that’s what I’m trying to reclaim. Slowly. Gently. With my hands. With intention. A different kind of connection, one that takes time to rise. One I can call my own.
From Reb Mottel’s printed Torah to my father’s pages of Simchas.
From Reb Berke’s Menorah onions to my rising sourdough (caramelized onion flavor this week).
From names in the desert to finding my name in the story.
Of finding my light. Of keeping the flame lit.
This week, I’ve been thinking about what I’ve inherited, and what I want to pass on.
This work didn’t start with me. But it’s part of my story now, too.
Good Shabbos,
Berke Chein
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