Post 50: The Corners We Leave, the Holiness We Keep
Every year, Chabad communities worldwide take on a Chalukas HaShas for Yud Tes Kislev.
There’s something beautiful about it.
Not everyone finishes all of Shas alone, but together we can hold the whole thing.
A Siyum woven from sixty-three quiet yeses.
This past Shabbos at the Farbrengen for Tes Kislev, we also spoke about preparing for Yud Tes Kislev, the idea of personal Hachlotas and also about doing things together.
About how much stronger growth feels when it lifts the whole community, not only the individual.
I’ve never been interested in joining a Chaluka before, but this year inspired me to try something small.
Looking at the signup spreadsheet after Shabbos, I knew Mishnayos felt easier for me than Gemara, so I chose Maseches Peah and added my name to the list.
I kept thinking about what else might speak to me, so I googled for a quick summary of the short masechtos of Gemara and Mishnayos that were still available.
Gemara Temurah stood out in a quiet way, so I added my name for that one too.
For a moment an old instinct showed up.
A little voice said maybe I should remove my first choice now that I picked something “bigger,” maybe I wouldn’t “find time” for both.
Right away I caught myself.
I realized I was getting to live the idea of Temurah in real time.
It talks about animals for Karbanos.
Once something is made holy, you can’t undo it or substitute it.
You only add holiness on top of what was already there.
So I’m keeping both, and now I’m actually excited to learn more about Temurah this year.
—
As I was jotting down my thoughts on all of that, I noticed this happens to be my 50th post on Lechem Chein.
The line in Pirkei Avos crossed my mind: “בן חמישים לעצה,” “At fifty, one offers counsel.”
I’m nowhere near that age, but the spirit of it resonated.
Not advice in any official sense, just a bit of insight I found myself wanting to share.
Starting with Peah also left me with another thought.
Peah teaches us to leave the corner for others and to leave whatever was forgotten in the field.
It turns a private harvest into a shared field.
It makes sure no one is left out, even if they didn’t plow or plant or cut a single stalk themselves.
That feels true here too.
A Chalukas HaShas can look like a project only for those who take Masechtos and finish them.
But the community playing field is wider than that.
There’s space for the people who feel inspired to take a tractate, and there’s also space for the people who don’t.
There’s space for the men and women who learn differently, and for those who lift their community through smaller, quieter corners.
Those corners matter.
They look like opening your home and sharing a meal with someone who needs company.
Sharing a Torah thought you found meaningful.
Showing up to a class or farbrengen, whether or not you think you have anything to give, because presence itself carries people.
Learning or davening a little with someone else in mind.
Taking part in a chesed project.
Opening your heart to make space for another person.
Reaching out so someone else knows there’s a place for them too.
In every communal project, there are always corners waiting quietly for someone to pick them up.
Sometimes the holiest contributions are the ones that look small.
Sometimes the field needs someone to harvest, and sometimes it needs the same person to leave space.
If you find yourself in a shul or a circle or a community where something good is still unclaimed, feel free to take it.
Don’t wait for someone to ask you.
And if you’re helping hold one of those spaces, invite someone else in to help you carry it.
Sometimes people want to join but are nervous or unsure how to ask.
—
Temurah reminds us not to undo what’s already holy.
Peah teaches us to leave room for someone else.
Together they shape a simple kind of giving,
adding where we can, opening where we can.
And here is the quiet truth beneath all of it.
When you step into any of those moments, cooking for someone, showing up, learning with someone in mind, opening a corner, you may feel like you’re the one giving.
But you’re also receiving.
Belonging, connection, softness, holiness.
Community doesn’t rise only because of what we offer.
It rises because of who we become in the offering.
A quiet reminder that the Torah we choose has a way of choosing us back.
And when we choose it together, the field grows in ways none of us could grow alone.
There’s something beautiful about it.
Not everyone finishes all of Shas alone, but together we can hold the whole thing.
A Siyum woven from sixty-three quiet yeses.
This past Shabbos at the Farbrengen for Tes Kislev, we also spoke about preparing for Yud Tes Kislev, the idea of personal Hachlotas and also about doing things together.
About how much stronger growth feels when it lifts the whole community, not only the individual.
I’ve never been interested in joining a Chaluka before, but this year inspired me to try something small.
Looking at the signup spreadsheet after Shabbos, I knew Mishnayos felt easier for me than Gemara, so I chose Maseches Peah and added my name to the list.
I kept thinking about what else might speak to me, so I googled for a quick summary of the short masechtos of Gemara and Mishnayos that were still available.
Gemara Temurah stood out in a quiet way, so I added my name for that one too.
For a moment an old instinct showed up.
A little voice said maybe I should remove my first choice now that I picked something “bigger,” maybe I wouldn’t “find time” for both.
Right away I caught myself.
I realized I was getting to live the idea of Temurah in real time.
It talks about animals for Karbanos.
Once something is made holy, you can’t undo it or substitute it.
You only add holiness on top of what was already there.
So I’m keeping both, and now I’m actually excited to learn more about Temurah this year.
—
As I was jotting down my thoughts on all of that, I noticed this happens to be my 50th post on Lechem Chein.
The line in Pirkei Avos crossed my mind: “בן חמישים לעצה,” “At fifty, one offers counsel.”
I’m nowhere near that age, but the spirit of it resonated.
Not advice in any official sense, just a bit of insight I found myself wanting to share.
Starting with Peah also left me with another thought.
Peah teaches us to leave the corner for others and to leave whatever was forgotten in the field.
It turns a private harvest into a shared field.
It makes sure no one is left out, even if they didn’t plow or plant or cut a single stalk themselves.
That feels true here too.
A Chalukas HaShas can look like a project only for those who take Masechtos and finish them.
But the community playing field is wider than that.
There’s space for the people who feel inspired to take a tractate, and there’s also space for the people who don’t.
There’s space for the men and women who learn differently, and for those who lift their community through smaller, quieter corners.
Those corners matter.
They look like opening your home and sharing a meal with someone who needs company.
Sharing a Torah thought you found meaningful.
Showing up to a class or farbrengen, whether or not you think you have anything to give, because presence itself carries people.
Learning or davening a little with someone else in mind.
Taking part in a chesed project.
Opening your heart to make space for another person.
Reaching out so someone else knows there’s a place for them too.
In every communal project, there are always corners waiting quietly for someone to pick them up.
Sometimes the holiest contributions are the ones that look small.
Sometimes the field needs someone to harvest, and sometimes it needs the same person to leave space.
If you find yourself in a shul or a circle or a community where something good is still unclaimed, feel free to take it.
Don’t wait for someone to ask you.
And if you’re helping hold one of those spaces, invite someone else in to help you carry it.
Sometimes people want to join but are nervous or unsure how to ask.
—
Temurah reminds us not to undo what’s already holy.
Peah teaches us to leave room for someone else.
Together they shape a simple kind of giving,
adding where we can, opening where we can.
And here is the quiet truth beneath all of it.
When you step into any of those moments, cooking for someone, showing up, learning with someone in mind, opening a corner, you may feel like you’re the one giving.
But you’re also receiving.
Belonging, connection, softness, holiness.
Community doesn’t rise only because of what we offer.
It rises because of who we become in the offering.
A quiet reminder that the Torah we choose has a way of choosing us back.
And when we choose it together, the field grows in ways none of us could grow alone.
