Parshas Pinchas: The Light Isn't Mine
Sunday night I attended a farbrengen in honor of Yud-Beis and Yud-Gimmel Tammuz, celebrating the Frierdiker Rebbe's release from prison.
Over the past few years, this farbrengen group has gravitated toward a different style. Instead of inviting one or two people to headline the evening—which can feel more like a lecture—someone introduces a theme and then we simply go around the table. Each person has a chance to share whatever that topic stirs in them. Stories. Questions. Struggles. Reflections. Every so often we pause for a niggun, and then someone else picks up the thread.
I don't know if that's exactly what farbrengens looked like in the shtetls of old, but I'd like to imagine they felt something like this.
As the conversation made its way around the table, something beautiful happened. The same question somehow met each person in a different place. No one was trying to convince anyone else to think the same way. No one was trying to fix anybody. We simply offered one another our own lived experience, and somehow everyone walked away with something uniquely their own.
I kept thinking about that.
The next day at work, someone jokingly asked me how they were supposed to find “another Berke” while I’ll be out for a small summer vacation.
I laughed. “They’ve been trying to clone me for ten years.”
It was just a joke. But, like a lot of jokes, it lingered. It opened up a bigger question: What if you could clone the best manager, the best teacher, or the best parent? Wouldn't that solve a lot of problems?
The world doesn’t need a room full of Berkes.
Hashem answers Moshe's prayer directly. He tells him to take Yehoshua:
It reminds me of something I heard from Rabbi YY Jacobson. He described how a ray of light has no independent existence; it is entirely a channel for the sun itself.
I’d heard those words before, but I don’t think I’d really heard them.
The next day, while learning Tanya with a friend, we paused—as we often do—to talk about life. Somewhere in that conversation, the idea suddenly became personal.
If I hear back, wonderful.
If I don’t, that doesn’t mean nothing happened.
Over the past few years, this farbrengen group has gravitated toward a different style. Instead of inviting one or two people to headline the evening—which can feel more like a lecture—someone introduces a theme and then we simply go around the table. Each person has a chance to share whatever that topic stirs in them. Stories. Questions. Struggles. Reflections. Every so often we pause for a niggun, and then someone else picks up the thread.
I don't know if that's exactly what farbrengens looked like in the shtetls of old, but I'd like to imagine they felt something like this.
Since we were gathering to celebrate the Frierdiker Rebbe's release, I suggested we spend some time exploring a simple question: What does freedom actually mean?
After that, though, the floor wasn't mine anymore. That's when the farbrengen really began.
As the conversation made its way around the table, something beautiful happened. The same question somehow met each person in a different place. No one was trying to convince anyone else to think the same way. No one was trying to fix anybody. We simply offered one another our own lived experience, and somehow everyone walked away with something uniquely their own.
I kept thinking about that.
The next day at work, someone jokingly asked me how they were supposed to find “another Berke” while I’ll be out for a small summer vacation.
I laughed. “They’ve been trying to clone me for ten years.”
It was just a joke. But, like a lot of jokes, it lingered. It opened up a bigger question: What if you could clone the best manager, the best teacher, or the best parent? Wouldn't that solve a lot of problems?
The more I thought about it, the more I realized I wouldn’t actually want that. Another me wouldn’t just inherit my strengths. He’d inherit my blind spots, my assumptions, my bad habits, and all the places I’m still growing. You don’t get someone’s gifts without getting the whole person.
The communist regime that imprisoned the Frierdiker Rebbe wasn't simply trying to silence him. It was trying to produce uniform, predictable citizens. Chassidus insists on the exact opposite: that every soul has a unique mission that cannot be outsourced to someone else.
The world doesn’t need a room full of Berkes.
Or a room full of copies of any one person.
It needs each and every one of us.
That thought stayed with me as I sat with this week’s parsha.
When Hashem tells Moshe that his leadership is coming to an end, Moshe doesn’t ask for another Moshe. He turns to Hashem with a remarkable request:
אֱלֹקֵי הָרוּחֹת לְכָל־בָּשָׂר
“May the G-d of the spirits of all flesh appoint a man over the congregation.”
That thought stayed with me as I sat with this week’s parsha.
When Hashem tells Moshe that his leadership is coming to an end, Moshe doesn’t ask for another Moshe. He turns to Hashem with a remarkable request:
אֱלֹקֵי הָרוּחֹת לְכָל־בָּשָׂר
“May the G-d of the spirits of all flesh appoint a man over the congregation.”
(Bamidbar 27:16)
Rashi explains that Moshe invoked this specific Name because Hashem knows that no two minds are alike. “Master of the Universe,” Moshe prays, “You know that every person has a different spirit. Appoint a leader who can bear with each individual according to his own disposition.”
That request says everything about Moshe.
The greatest leader our people ever had wasn’t looking for a copy of himself. He knew copies were never the point. He wasn’t asking, “Who can lead the way I did?” He was asking, “Who can meet people where they are?”
Rashi explains that Moshe invoked this specific Name because Hashem knows that no two minds are alike. “Master of the Universe,” Moshe prays, “You know that every person has a different spirit. Appoint a leader who can bear with each individual according to his own disposition.”
That request says everything about Moshe.
The greatest leader our people ever had wasn’t looking for a copy of himself. He knew copies were never the point. He wasn’t asking, “Who can lead the way I did?” He was asking, “Who can meet people where they are?”
Hashem answers Moshe's prayer directly. He tells him to take Yehoshua:
אִישׁ אֲשֶׁר־רוּחַ בּוֹ
“A man in whom there is spirit.”
“A man in whom there is spirit.”
(Bamidbar 27:18)
Rashi notices those words too. “Exactly as you requested,” he explains. Yehoshua is someone who can deal with each individual according to his spirit.
Rashi notices those words too. “Exactly as you requested,” he explains. Yehoshua is someone who can deal with each individual according to his spirit.
Only then does Hashem tell Moshe to place his hands upon him and invest him with some of his own hod—his majesty. Yehoshua already possessed the qualities Moshe had prayed for. But leadership isn't only about who you are internally. Sometimes the people also need to see that what you carry has been received from those who came before you.
Notice the wording. Rashi points to the word מֵהוֹדְךָ—"some of your majesty"—and from there cites the Gemara's famous image:
"The face of Moshe was like the face of the sun; the face of Yehoshua was like the face of the moon."
The sun is a magnificent, blinding source of light. The moon has no light of its own. It faithfully reflects the sun's light, but in a way that human beings can actually walk by.
It reminds me of something I heard from Rabbi YY Jacobson. He described how a ray of light has no independent existence; it is entirely a channel for the sun itself.
Hashem is the source of the light. Torah is His light.
We don't have to manufacture it or own it. We simply have the blessed opportunity to become channels for it.
I’d heard those words before, but I don’t think I’d really heard them.
The next day, while learning Tanya with a friend, we paused—as we often do—to talk about life. Somewhere in that conversation, the idea suddenly became personal.
I already know whatever light I’m fortunate enough to carry isn’t mine. The harder avodah is believing that the outcome isn’t mine either. Knowing something belongs to Hashem isn’t always the same as living like it does.
For a long time now I’ve noticed a quiet habit in myself. Whether I’m trying to become a better father, write something meaningful, help someone at work, or simply grow in my own avodah, I catch myself reaching for evidence that something is changing. Did it help? Did it matter? Am I actually becoming who I hope I’m becoming?
I don’t think that’s only about validation. If my life is meant to be a channel, then my parenting, my writing, and my work are just the different ways that light flows into the world. But when I obsess over trying to track results, I think it’s my ego quietly trying to claim ownership of where that light lands.
I want that light to illuminate my own life first—to make me a better husband, father, friend, and Jew—and then to pass it forward as faithfully as I can.
Before it ever reaches someone else, it has to become true in my own life. Where it goes after that isn’t mine anymore. That part belongs to Hashem.
A few months ago, in Parshas Ki Tisa, I wrote about how we rarely get to see the full impact of our work while we're still inside the story. Looking back, I think this is the next layer of that same avodah.
If I don’t, that doesn’t mean nothing happened.
A lot of the people who altered the course of my life have no idea they did. I’ve gone back to some of my own “Moshes” to give thanks, but not all of them. Many shone, I absorbed their light, and they moved on without ever knowing.
Once they handed it over, it wasn’t theirs anymore either.
That’s what it means to be the moon. Whatever wisdom we’ve received isn’t ours to hoard or get credit for. It’s ours to carry faithfully, to soften with our own unique humanity, and then to pass forward.
That’s exactly what happened around that farbrengen table. Nobody was trying to produce copies of themselves. Each person simply offered something genuine they had received, letting it reflect through the unique lens of their own life.
The same conversation landed differently with every person around the table. Once the words left our mouths, they weren’t ours anymore. And that wasn’t a flaw in the evening. It was the beauty of it.
Once they handed it over, it wasn’t theirs anymore either.
That’s what it means to be the moon. Whatever wisdom we’ve received isn’t ours to hoard or get credit for. It’s ours to carry faithfully, to soften with our own unique humanity, and then to pass forward.
That’s exactly what happened around that farbrengen table. Nobody was trying to produce copies of themselves. Each person simply offered something genuine they had received, letting it reflect through the unique lens of their own life.
The same conversation landed differently with every person around the table. Once the words left our mouths, they weren’t ours anymore. And that wasn’t a flaw in the evening. It was the beauty of it.
Maybe that's Yehoshua's gift. The Jewish people didn't need another Moshe.
They had needed the first Moshe—the leader who could confront Pharaoh, split the sea, receive the Torah, and shepherd a generation through the wilderness.
But the generation preparing to enter Eretz Yisrael needed a different kind of leader. Yehoshua receives from Moshe deeply enough that he can faithfully become himself—a leader who knows how to meet people exactly where they are.
That’s the kind of leadership I find myself aspiring to: the courage to receive something bigger than myself, integrate it, and then hand it over while leaving enough room for the next person to become fully themselves.
Real freedom isn’t becoming totally independent. And it certainly isn’t becoming someone else.
Real freedom is becoming the unique channel only you can be—receiving the light, letting it illuminate your own life, and passing it forward faithfully.
And then, trusting Hashem with everything that comes afterward.
Because eventually…
it isn’t yours anymore.
Good Shabbos,
Berke
Real freedom is becoming the unique channel only you can be—receiving the light, letting it illuminate your own life, and passing it forward faithfully.
And then, trusting Hashem with everything that comes afterward.
Because eventually…
it isn’t yours anymore.
Good Shabbos,
Berke