If You See Something, Say Something (Even If You’re Just a Herring on the Subway of Life)
If You See Something, Say Something (Even If You’re Just a Herring on the Subway of Life)
We just read in Pirkei Avos this past Shabbos,
בְּמָקוֹם שֶׁאֵין אֲנָשִׁים
(Avos 2:5)
And like the old Yiddish saying goes:
במקום שאין איש — איז אַ הערינג אױך אַ פיש.
And me?
Berke?
Like whoever brought that delicious homemade jalapeño herring to the Kiddush this past Shabbos.
Not here because anybody asked me.
Just here because maybe something needs to be said.
(Green herring, not red. Though of course… a red herring would say that.)
I’m posting this on a Monday,
not as a reflection on the week that passed, but as a light for the week ahead.
A lot of people read the day’s Hayom Yom after Shacharis, but sometimes it’s about the night before.
Like the Hayom Yom on the first day of Pesach. It describes the Seder plate.
something that was already prepared. Already used.
It’s not just an insight. It’s a quiet reminder:
some things are meant to be read in advance.
Not so we don’t feel bad about what we missed, but so we’re better prepared for what’s coming.
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Not just a report. A reaction.
Twelve leaders are chosen to scout the land, trusted people, not provocateurs.
They see what they see. They report what they report.
And everything changes.
But here’s what’s easy to miss:
This mission didn’t start with Hashem. It didn’t even start with Moshe.
It started with the people, asking Moshe if they could send men ahead to scout the land.
Just to be practical. Just to be sure.
A moment of spiritual anxiety dressed as caution.
Moshe brings the idea to Hashem.
And Hashem says:
“שלח לך” — Send for yourself.
If this is what you want… go ahead. He gives them room to choose.
To walk it out for themselves. To learn from their own mistakes.
But that choice came with a risk, of leaders on a power trip.
They weren’t asked for opinions. They were asked for facts.
What they gave back was their own fear.
And the people listen. They believe them. They cry. They panic.
And they choose fear, even with Hashem still in their camp.
No protest. No pushback.
Just quiet agreement with the loudest voices in the room.
And just like that, they lose their future.
Not because of what the spies said, but because of how deeply the people absorbed it.
How fast they gave up on everything they knew to be true.
Even after the miracles. Even after hearing Hashem’s voice.
They were ready to believe the land was impossible,
but not that Hashem would carry them through it.
So Hashem lets them have what they chose.
A whole generation sentenced to die in the desert.
Not out of anger, but out of clarity.
Because if you don’t believe in the future, you can’t live to build it.
But He doesn’t abandon them. This wasn’t lightning bolts and goodbye.
He stays with His children.
Every cloud. Every well. Every day of Manna.
Still given. Still taking care of them.
But not one step closer to the promised land. No second chance on this one.
They’ll be loved. Carried. Fed. But they won’t be the ones to cross.
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That same silence still happens.
Not always in the desert.
Sometimes in a school meeting. Sometimes in a boardroom.
Sometimes in a family conversation,
or a leadership circle that’s forgotten how to hear anyone but itself.
Some people have positions of leadership,
not because they actually care, not because they’re qualified,
but because they happened to be there when the door opened.
It fell into their lap.
Which reminds me of the old joke:
Customer: “Which Hashgocha is this restaurant under?”
Owner: “Hashgocha Protis — my own personal supervision.”
People speak from genuine concern, and they’re told they’re being negative.
People raise honest questions, and they’re dismissed as troublemakers.
Or they share a few points, and the ones that matter most are quietly ignored,
while the lighter, safer ones are dissected politely as proof that “we’re open to feedback.”
It feels like they’re saying:
“If it really mattered, someone more important would’ve brought it up.”
“If it really mattered, I would’ve thought of it myself.”
“You don’t have the right last name to be involved in this kind of conversation.”
“I don’t want to hurt myself by going down that path.”
That’s not healthy. That’s not leadership.
So the people who do speak, the real adults in the room, the ones without a title,
but with a conscience that won’t stay quiet, are left wondering:
Maybe I’m too sensitive.
Maybe I’m out of line.
Maybe I should just stay quiet next time.
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We’re not just talking about fear.
We’re talking about the kind that dresses up.
The Hayom Yom for 23 Sivan (Thursday) tells a story.
The Rebbe Maharash once told his son, the Rebbe Rashab,
that the Yetzer Hara is called an “animal soul”
not because it’s wild,
but because it’s clever (like a fox).
It doesn’t always pull you down.
Sometimes it just holds you still.
It says:
“Don’t make a scene.”
“Better to stay safe.”
“You’re being responsible.”
And if that doesn’t work, it puts on a gartel.
It whispers:
“Why daven with your heart, when you can just learn another maamar?”
“Why cry to Hashem, when you can just write a reflection about it instead?”
“Why wrestle with your doubts, your fears, when you can chant Yechi loud enough to silence them?”
It doesn’t tempt you to sin.
It invites you to stay comfortable.
To look holy — while doing the wrong Avoda.
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That right there is the biggest danger of all:
Not open rebellion. Just quiet retreat.
Staying in motion. Doing “right” things.
But not showing up with your soul.
Like having a doctor’s appointment at 3pm,
and showing up 5 minutes early, but at the wrong building.
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But not all the leaders… not everybody was doomed.
Calev and Yehoshua didn’t stay quiet.
They didn’t overpower anyone. They just didn’t vanish.
They saw the same giants. The same terrain. The same risk.
And they still believed in Hashem.
That’s what courage looks like. Not volume. Not anger.
Just not disappearing.
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This parsha isn’t just about fear of the unknown.
It’s about fear of believing. Fear of trusting.
Fear of showing up in front of Hashem, without excuses or armor.
That’s Avoda.
That’s what the yetzer hara is scared of.
⸻
You don’t need a mic to be the adult in the room.
You don’t need a title to be the one who keeps things honest.
You just need to be awake. To not let fear take the wheel.
To recognize when the loudest voice isn’t the truest one.
And most of all,
To remember that Hashem still speaks.
To you.
Not always in words.
Not in thunder or fire.
But in what interrupts your day. In what stirs your heart.
In every email you get, every phone call you receive, every person you meet.
In what you have the potential to notice, quietly, that no one else does.
That’s real Hashgocha Protis.
Not a punchline. Not a slogan.
A living, breathing, personal conversation.
You Daven to Him.
You show up.
And you trust,
He’s talking back.
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And as we get closer to Gimmel Tammuz,
I’ve been thinking about something else too.
The Hayom Yom for today, 20 Sivan, reminds us:
“The first yechidus is in accordance with the essence-character of the chassid. The Rebbe prescribes an order of Avoda appropriate to the nature of the chassid’s essence-character.”
The Rebbe didn’t want to become the answer to every question.
He wanted to help people discover their own.
He helped you find the clarity already inside you,
in full alignment with who Hashem created you to be.
Sometimes someone would write the Rebbe a long, emotional letter, and the Rebbe would just circle one word in the entire thing.
A word they already wrote.
That was the answer. It was already deep inside them.
He wasn’t trying to replace your relationship with Hashem.
He was trying to return you to it.
But somehow, in some circles, even the most Chassidish ones, that gets confused.
Like the yetzer hara wearing a bendel.
Some people started davening only to the Rebbe, thanking the Rebbe, asking the Rebbe, forgetting the Hashem part altogether. As if the Rebbe is the whole story.
The proper Nusach is:
“With Hashem’s help, and the Rebbe’s Brachos.”
But sometimes it sounds more like:
“With the Rebbe’s help… and that’s it.”
Let’s not forget Who this whole thing is actually about.
You don’t need to “earn” a miracle.
I saw a video recently while coming out of the Ohel — of the Rebbe giving out dollars.
Someone walking by, an Israeli businessman, as he was finishing the short conversation, mentioned:
“Just so you know, I come from a family of Chassidim.”
And the Rebbe gently smiled and said:
“You don’t need to bribe me.”
The Rebbe’s not a shortcut to Hashem.
He’s a mirror, reflecting you back to yourself.
And reminding you what it sounds like when Hashem is still speaking.
To you.
About you.
Through you.
Because He is.
And He’s waiting
for you to speak back.
Hashgocha.
Protis.