A haunting question from Rabbi Yerucham Levovitz. 

And one chilling answer about why people cling to destructive habits—even when faced with the truth.

The teachings of the Chofetz Chaim reveal how the more we attach ourselves to emes and kedusha, the easier it becomes to break free and hold on to what truly lasts forever.

Naso - The Dybbuk

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Dedicated by Reuven & Pnina Roberts (Far Rockaway, NY) as a zechus for a shidduch for Shoshana bas Fereshta Flora

Parshas Naso 5786

This Wednesday, י״ח סיון, marks the yahrtzeit of the legendary Mirrer Mashgiach, Rav Yerucham Levovitz זי״ע, one of the great builders of Torah and masters of mussar. Through his penetrating clarity, deep understanding of the human condition, and unwavering demand for אמת, Rav Yerucham shaped generations of talmidim and helped define the talmidim of the Mir Yeshiva and our greatest leaders until today.

The following remarkable story, adapted from Rav Yerucham: The Light of the Torah World (Judaica Press), pp. 86–87, offers not only a glimpse into an extraordinary episode involving himself, the Chafetz Chaim, and Rav Elchanan Wasserman, but more importantly, an even greater insight into human nature itself. It’s a story from 100 years ago, but the message is something we can all identify with.

THE DYBBUK

During the years that Rav Yerucham studied in the Kollel Kodshim in Radin, an unusual episode took place that became widely discussed throughout Lithuanian Jewish communities.

A villager from near Eishishok came to Radin with his fourteen-year-old daughter, claiming that she had become possessed by a dybbuk. He told Rav Elchanan Wasserman that after drinking a cup of water, she began collapsing, and an unfamiliar voice would speak from within her.

According to those present, the voice claimed to be the soul of a Jewish girl who had left Yiddishkeit and had caused the deaths of two Jewish children. After her death, the Heavenly Court had sentenced her to wander through a gilgul neshamos.

The Chafetz Chaim instructed several members of the kollel, including Rav Elchanan Wasserman, Rav Eliyahu Dushnitzer, and Rav Yerucham, to investigate the matter. They questioned the spirit, and it said that if the Chafetz Chaim himself would command it to leave, it would obey. It also requested that two members of the kollel recite Kaddish for it for seven days.

Rav Yerucham later recalled one exchange. He asked how Chazal could say that even wicked people standing at the entrance to Gehinnom refuse to repent. He expected a deep mystical answer, but the response was simple: people become so attached to their wrongdoing that they cannot separate from it, even when faced with the truth.

Eventually, Rav Elchanan continued dealing with the matter until the spirit left the girl. Afterwards, the Chafetz Chaim gathered a minyan in the kollel, joined them for davening, and arranged for mishnayos and Kaddish to be said as requested.

Years later, Rav Yerucham reflected on the entire episode. What astonished him most was not the supernatural experience itself, but the reaction afterward. He had assumed that witnessing something so extraordinary, a revelation connected to the Olam Ha’emes, would ignite tremendous spiritual growth within the yeshiva. He expected greater passion in tefillah and stronger dedication in learning. Yet, in the end, life in the yeshiva largely continued unchanged.

A MESSAGE FOR US

What does that have to do with us?

It reminds us that yes, we can see the emes. But the more attached we are to our aveiros, the more steeped we become in our habits and routines, the harder it is to break away.

We want to. We see the truth. We recognize what needs to change. Yet there is something so powerful, a magnetic force that locks us in place like a massive boulder. We simply cannot push it off.

That is the frightening message of the dybbuk.

But what is the point of the story? What is the message for us?

After all, we are looking for chizuk. We do not want to walk away feeling that there is no way out. So what do we do?

The truth is, there is no simple answer.

Back in Radin, back in Kelm, back when this entire episode unfolded, they struggled with the very same question. They wanted to grow. They wanted to change. The yeshivah witnessed the entire event, yet life continued. Learning continued. There was no overnight revolution.

So what can we do a hundred years later?

I do not have an answer. But I think we do have a perspective, from the Chafetz Chaim himself.

THEY ARE "TO HIM"

The pasuk in this weeks parshah in the middle of hilchos gezeila, right before the parsha of sotah relates (Bamidbar 5:10):

“איש את קדשיו לו יהיו ואשר יתן לכהן לו יהיה”

On a simple level, the pasuk means that a man’s holy gifts shall be his, and what a man gives to a Kohen belongs to the Kohen. You keep yours, and whatever you give to the Kohen belongs to him. That is the straightforward reading of the pasuk.

The Chafetz Chaim, however, reveals something astounding. He writes that every person, from all of his efforts, all of his work, all of his investments and accomplishments, ultimately takes nothing with him. A person may earn money, support a family, and build a livelihood, but none of that is what ultimately accompanies him into the World of Truth.

What does remain? The Chafetz Chaim answers: Only those matters of holiness that a person personally fulfilled while alive. Only the Torah, mitzvos, and maasim tovim that he performed. “המה יהיו לו לנצח.” Those remain his forever. Those endure for eternity.

This, says the Chafetz Chaim, is the deeper meaning of איש את קדשיו לו יהיו. Not merely that his sacred gifts belong to him, but that those acts of kedushah become his eternal possessions. They remain his forever. They accompany him eternally. They are his true friends and companions.

The pasuk then continues, “ואשר יתן לכהן לו יהיה.” What does that mean?

The simple pshat is that what you give to the Kohen belongs to the Kohen. But the Chafetz Chaim says something deeper. It belongs to you as well. When I give to the Kohen, to tzedakah, or for a holy purpose, I am not losing. I am investing. I am securing the only possession that can never be taken away.

And perhaps that is the connection to the dybbuk story.

Yes, it can be frightening. We wonder how, in our generation, with all the distractions, tumah, confusion, and noise, a person can remain focused. There are a million reasons to become distracted, discouraged, and meya’esh.

But never forget:

“איש את קדשיו לו יהיו.”

Never forget what really belongs to you. Never forget what you are taking with you. Never forget what will remain in your backpack forever and accompany you into the next world.

It is not the fun, the entertainment, the extra taanug, or the indulgences. All of that disappears. What remains are the mitzvos, the Torah, and the maasim tovim.

And perhaps that is what Rav Yerucham was teaching us.

Those standing at the entrance of Gehinnom struggle to repent not because they cannot see the truth. They see it. The problem is that they have become so steeped and attached to sheker.

The answer is not merely seeing the truth. The answer is living with the truth.

The more we ingrain these values into ourselves and truly live them, the less attached we become to shtusim, fleeting pleasures, and temporary pursuits. And the more attached we become to emes, to Torah, to mitzvos, and to maasim tovim.

The more we live with “איש את קדשיו לו יהיו,” the easier it becomes to remain on the side of truth.

The more plugged into emes we become, the less powerful the pull of sheker becomes. Perhaps that is exactly what the dybbuk was teaching Rav Yerucham. The tragedy is not that people fail to see the truth. The tragedy is becoming so accustomed to falsehood that even when the truth stands before them, they struggle to embrace it.

Our task is the opposite. To become so attached to Torah, so accustomed to mitzvos, so invested in kedushah, that emes becomes our default setting and our natural home.

May the teachings of Rav Yerucham and the timeless words of the Chafetz Chaim continue to illuminate our path, reminding us what truly matters, what truly lasts, and what truly belongs to us. And may that clarity inspire us to live lives of purpose, greatness, and eternal significance, until the coming of Mashiach Tzidkeinu במהרה בימינו אמן. •

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Dedicated by Chesky and Miriam Frankel (Toms River, NJ)

Parshas Bamidbar 5786

In a noisy world, with endless distractions and a yetzer hara operating in turbo mode on a global campaign to make this world as unholy as possible, preparing properly for Shavuos can feel like a challenge. With Shavuos approaching, we may wonder how to truly maximize this Yom Tov, the very foundation of our heritage.

The first day of Shavuos, ו׳ סיון, marks the yahrzeit of the holy Rabbi Israel Baal Shem Tov. I would like to tap into the light and radiance of the Baal Shem Tov and hope that even over 250 years later, his teachings can still uplift us and provide direction.

The “Toldos,” Rabbi Yaakov Yosef of Polonne, author of the sefer Toldos Yaakov Yosef, one of the earliest Chassidic seforim ever printed, was once standing together with the Rabbi Israel Baal Shem Tov, both deeply immersed in Torah thought.

The Baal Shem Tov explained that everything a person encounters carries a message from Shamayim. Even things that seem random or insignificant are orchestrated by Hashem and are meant to teach us something.

Suddenly, while they were speaking, a non-Jewish worker looked through the window and asked if anything needed fixing. The Baal Shem Tov replied that everything seemed fine. But the worker insisted, saying, “If you look carefully enough, you’ll always find something that needs repair.”

The Baal Shem Tov immediately turned to Reb Yaakov Yosef and said, “You see? We just received a message from the Ribbono shel Olam. A person should never think he is complete. If we search honestly, we can always find something within ourselves that needs improvement.”

Reb Yaakov Yosef struggled with this and thought, “Could Hashem really send such a message through a simple non-Jewish laborer?” The Baal Shem Tov responded sharply, “You can believe it. You just don’t want to.”

Later that day, Reb Yaakov Yosef was outside when a wagon carrying hay passed by. A few heavy bales fell off, and the driver asked him for help loading them back. Reb Yaakov Yosef apologized and said they were too heavy for him. The driver answered, “You can. You just don’t want to.”

At that moment Reb Yaakov Yosef understood. The same exact words he had heard from the Baal Shem Tov were now coming from a simple wagon driver. He realized that Hashem can send messages in the most unexpected ways, even through people and moments we might overlook.

FIRE, WATER, AND DESERT

On the first passuk of the parshah, the opening of Sefer Bamidbar, the Medrash relates:

וידבר ה׳ אל משה במדבר סיני (במדבר א, א), למה במדבר סיני, מכאן שנו חכמים בשלשה דברים נתנה התורה, באש, ובמים, ובמדבר.

There are many explanations given for these three elements through which the Torah was given: fire, water, and the desert.

I once heard a beautiful pshat from Rav Nachum Binder shlita:

Eish is the battle of persecution and external attack: war, destruction, tragedies like the Holocaust or October 7th. These are the extreme tests, when the world is hostile and aflame against us. It can feel overwhelming, but the more Torah we have, the more fuel we are given to overcome. Torah sustains us; it is what allows us to endure. אין לנו שיור רק התורה הזאת.

Mayim corresponds to the nisayon of kedushah, the pull of desire and distraction that can pull a person away from Hashem. When one falls or succumbs, the yetzer hara whispers, “You don’t belong here; you are impure. You don’t belong learning Hashem’s Torah. Go back to where you belong.”

Midbar, the last and arguably most challenging nisayon, is the nisayon of uncertainty and anxiety: the relentless sfeikos, the question marks of life, parnassah, shalom bayis, children, refuah, shidduchim. Not knowing what’s next, how things will unfold, or when challenges will end. That is the constant midbar.

LEARNING TO HEAR THROUGH THE NOISE

Expounding on the third element, the midbar: How do we truly contend with the nisayon of the midbar? How do we remain upbeat and confident, happy and reassured that all is for the best and that everything will ultimately be good?

How do we stay positive when we ourselves are not so sure? When our minds are exploding with sfeikos? When people are relying on us? When we carry responsibilities beyond ourselves? When we want to accomplish, grow, and thrive, yet sometimes feel so weighed down and overwhelmed?

We do not have the Baal Shem here with us either, but I think perhaps he would say: the answer is not far. Stop looking. Stop running. Stop endlessly seeking.

Just stay still. Eradicate the noise. Take the cues from Above. Sense the divinity within that which appears random and mundane. Listen intentionally to the quiet, not to the noise.

And when we do not want to believe in that, when it sounds too simple, too easy, too ordinary, too plain, the Baal Shem would likely tell you:

“You can believe it. You just don’t want to.”

And as the Shelah Hakadosh writes:

ומי שזוכה למעלת התבודדות ומהרהר בכל יום בתשובה זוכה לקדושה יתירה ויכול לבוא לידי רוח הקודש.

One who merits the level of hisbodedus and reflects daily in teshuvah merits an added measure of holiness and can come to attain Ruach HaKodesh.

How can this be? What is so great about hisbodedus and reflection? How can a person merit the level of Ruach HaKodesh?

The answer is that the more deeply we reflect, the closer we come to quiet and focus. We begin canceling out the outer noises and forces constantly pulling at us. We stop living at the mercy of the chaos around us and begin focusing inward.

And as we move inward, we draw closer to the core. The core of a Yid is the neshamah tehorah, the Divine breath within us, the tzelem Elokim, the image of Hashem embedded in every person.

If we truly attach ourselves to that core, to such purity and such truth, then why are we surprised by the possibility of Ruach HaKodesh?

Even the secular world sensed this truth, as Marcus Aurelius writes in Meditations:

“People try to get away from it all, to the country, to the beach, to the mountains. You always wish that you could too. Which is idiotic: you can get away from it anytime you like... by going within.”

THE QUIET PATH BACK TO TORAH

As we approach Shavuos, deep down, each of us wants to connect and become elevated, some more consciously than others. We want to reaccept the Torah and once again proclaim נעשה ונשמע. We want to show Hashem that we truly feel: ומה יפה ירושתנו, how beautiful is our inheritance, how fortunate is our portion.

But often we feel overwhelmed. There is simply too much noise. The journey, our personal Lechteich through the deserts of life, can feel overwhelming. The Satan piles on distractions and obstacles, and before we blink, the opportunity passes us by.

So perhaps, for a moment, allow yourself to indulge in quiet. Think. Reflect. Give thanks. Take in all that’s around you. Allow yourself to become perceptive and vulnerable to the Divine signs and cues, the moments of hashgachah surrounding you, quietly guiding and lifting you. Revealing answers and clarity to those questions and anxieties that seem to be mental boulders.

And when you feel yourself thinking, “Come on. Is this really what I need? Is it really this simple?” counter that question with the Baal Shem’s response:

“You can believe it. You just don’t want to.”

Because, maybe the answer was never farther away. Maybe it was waiting beneath the noise all along. •

What could make someone destroy a stamp… every single time he hand-delivered a letter himself?

Bhar-Bechukosai: The Poverty Hidden Behind Wealth

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Dedicated by Yoni Spivak & Family (Jackson, NJ) in honor of Lechteich and the harbatzas Torah that they do

Parshas Behar-Bechukosai 5786

Cash in the bank. Security. Gold bars stacked away.

Want it? No one can blame you. But have you ever stopped to ask yourself what exactly is so enticing about it? What makes it feel so desirable? Is it only the comfort? The freedom? Or is it something deeper, the feeling that you have finally transcended the state of needing? The state of depending?

And if so, have you ever thought about who you no longer need? What happens to shemoneh esrei when a person feels fully secure? What happens to barech aleinu when parnasah no longer feels urgent? Do the words flatten? Do they lose their desperation, their dependency, their life?

What happens to the yamim noraim when a person slowly begins feeling self-sufficient? When security replaces vulnerability? When Hashem moves from the front lines of daily life into the background?

The beginning of Parshas Behar focuses on the mitzvos of shemittah and yovel, including the laws of ancestral land ownership in Eretz Yisrael and the eventual return of land to its original family.

The Torah established this system because the land ultimately belongs to Hashem, and each family’s portion was meant to remain permanently tied to its ancestral inheritance, preventing permanent loss due to temporary hardship and preserving the original tribal structure of klal Yisrael.

The Torah states:

כי־ימוך אחיך ומכר מאחזתו ובא גאלו הקרב אליו וגאל את ממכר אחיו ואיש כי לא יהיה־לו גאל והשיגה ידו ומצא כדי גאלתו וחשב את־שני ממכרו והשיב את־העדף לאיש אשר מכר־לו ושב לאחזתו ואם לא־מצאה ידו די השיב לו והיה ממכרו ביד הקנה אתו עד שנת היובל ויצא ביבל ושב לאחזתו.

Essentially, the Torah is teaching that if a person became impoverished and was forced to sell his ancestral land, a close relative, known as a גואל, could redeem it on his behalf. If no relative redeemed it, but the seller later acquired the means himself, he could calculate the remaining value until yovel and buy back the field. If he still could not afford to redeem it, the land would remain with the buyer only until the yovel year, when it would automatically return to its original family inheritance.

WHEN THERE IS "NO REDEEMER"

The Netziv asks that when the Torah outlines the protocol of a man redeeming the land himself, we encounter a redundancy. The Torah describes him as: “ואיש כי לא יהיה לו גאל והשיגה ידו – If a person has no redeemer, but he attains enough means…”

Seemingly, the first half of the pasuk is unnecessary. What difference does it make whether he has a redeemer or not? The central point is simply that he eventually acquired the means to redeem the field. It would suffice for the Torah to say והשיגה ידו – he has the means, Why then does the Torah first emphasize that ואיש כי לא יהיה לו גאל – he had “no redeemer”?

The Netziv explains that the Torah is teaching a deep yesod in bitachon. The “לא יהיה לו גאל” is not a side detail. It is specifically the reason he is “והשיגה ידו.” The person who feels he has no one else to rely on, no fallback, no human redeemer, is the one who ultimately turns fully toward Hashem, the ultimate Goel. And davka through that dependence, through that trust and reliance on Hashem alone, “והשיגה ידו,” he is given the ability and the means to redeem what was lost. But the one who places his trust entirely in people and in his own support system ultimately removes Hashem from the picture. The Torah is revealing that sometimes the greatest source of salvation is precisely when a person realizes that his only true redeemer is Hashem Himself.

The message of the beginning of Behar ties in perfectly with the beginning of Bechukosai:

The Divrei Yisrael of Modzhitz in his sefer Divrei Yisrael reveals a yesod that touches one of the deepest struggles people carry. Parnasah is one of the areas where a person most easily begins believing כוחי ועוצם ידי. My connections. My talent. My intelligence. My hustle. My effort. And the more successful a person becomes, the easier it is to subtly move Hashem further out of the picture.

But the Modzhitzer says the exact opposite is true.

When a person recognizes that his parnasah is not ultimately produced by his own hands, but is a decree from Heaven, the gates of shefa open wider.

This is what the Torah means when it says: אם בחקתי תלכו.

The word בחקתי literally means “My decrees,” but the Gemara in Beitzah 16a teaches that the word חק also refers to parnasah, a person’s allotted sustenance. Accordingly, the pasuk of אם בחקתי תלכו is teaching that when a person lives with the awareness that his livelihood is decreed by Hashem, then “ונתתי גשמיכם בעתם ונתנה הארץ יבולה ועץ השדה יתן פריו – I will provide your rains in their proper time, the land will give its produce, and the trees of the field will give their fruit.”

The abundance flows specifically through that recognition. But when a person believes that everything comes solely through the work of his own hands, he confines himself to the limits of his own ability instead of attaching himself to the limitless source of brachah itself.

THE TORAH'S DEFINITION OF BRACHAH

In the same vein, Rav Shimshon Pincus adds something remarkable. The Torah promises prosperity and abundance specifically through crops, rain, and cattle. But why not simply promise gold and silver?

He answers: because money can make a person feel self-sufficient. Crops force dependency. Rain forces tefillah. Livestock forces awareness. A farmer constantly lifts his eyes upward. Will there be rain? Will the field grow? Will the animals survive? Even after success comes, he still needs siyatta d’Shmaya for people to buy. His life remains connected to Hashem.

Gold and silver can create the illusion of security. Money in the bank. Assets stacked away. The feeling of “I’m set.” But that feeling itself can become the danger. A person can slowly begin living as though he no longer needs Hashem in the picture.

Hashem therefore defines brachah differently than we do.

Brachah is not when a person becomes so financially secure that he stops depending on Hashem. It is the exact opposite. True brachah is abundance together with dependence. Success together with tefillah. Wealth together with awareness. To live with plenty, yet still have your eyes turned upward.

Because when Hashem is removed from the picture, a person can possess all the silver and gold in the world and still be empty. But when a person lives with kirvas Elokim, even the struggle itself becomes connected to brachah.

TRUE SECURITY

The lesson we learn is that a Yid is never alone. We all experience moments of “לא יהיה לו גאל,” moments where we feel stranded, uncertain, with no idea where to turn or what to do. But the Netziv reveals that hidden inside those very moments is one of the greatest messages of chizzuk in the entire parshah.

When a person does not run from those feelings, but instead allows them to draw him closer to the Ribbono Shel Olam, something remarkable happens. The vulnerability itself becomes the opening for redemption. Then we become “והשיגה ידו.” Hashem assists us. Not only does it elevate a person spiritually, it ultimately brings brachah into his physical life as well.

And while people may look at cash in the bank, gold bars, and endless reserves as the definition of security, the Torah teaches otherwise. That is not real security. Real security is living with a relationship with Hashem so real that a person still turns to Him, still speaks to Him, still begs the King.

That is why the Torah describes brachah through rain, crops, and cattle, not silver and gold. Because true brachah is not a life that removes dependence on Hashem. True brachah is a life where even abundance keeps a person connected to Hakadosh Baruch Hu. •

Sources: R’ Meilech Biderman, Lechteich 2024

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Dedicated by Avi Kagan & Family (Pomona, NY)

Parshas Emor 5786

This week’s parshah brings us into the inyan d’yoma, the mitzvah of Sefiras HaOmer. We all know the well-known line: don’t just count the days, make the days count. But Rav Moshe Sternbuch points out a deeper dimension within this avodah: It’s not only about making the days count. It’s about the very act of counting itself.

As we move from Pesach toward kabbalas haTorah, we count each day, one by one. Not just to track time, but to highlight it. To say: this day mattered. Counting is not just a record of the past. It is a way of building.

When a person counts, he becomes aware. He notices. He marks moments, decisions, small victories that would otherwise slip by unnoticed. Sefirah trains us to live with that awareness. Every day is counted because every day carries weight. Every moment has value.

As we approach kabbalas haTorah, we don’t just arrive. We come in counting. And through that, we ingrain within ourselves a deeper sensitivity to time, to growth, and to life itself. Because when a person counts, life takes on a deeper level of meaning. We are reminded of the seconds, the opportunities, that are now part of the past, and will never come back. הזמן קצר והמלאכה מרובה,–the time is short and the work is great.

Like a child using an abacus, feeling each bead as it moves, connected to the count in a real, tangible way, so too us, we use Sefiras HaOmer to feel our days. To give each day presence. To not let time pass unnoticed.

Through Sefirah, we develop a sensitivity to time. We begin to live with more presence, more attention, more meaning. And as we move toward kabbalas haTorah, we come in as people who have learned how to count, how to value, how to live each day with purpose.

A FEW SECONDS THAT CHANGED EVERYTHING

There’s an organization in Eretz Yisrael called Arachim, dedicated to reaching and inspiring those who have drifted or were never exposed. At one of their seminars, led by Rabbi Shimshon Pincus zt”l, there was one man who stood out. Rav Shimshon and the staff noticed he was completely unmoved. Nothing was getting through. He wasn’t listening, he wasn’t interested, he had already decided it wasn’t for him.

He stayed for the food, for the amenities, but inside, there was no connection at all.

Rav Shimshon approached him and asked for one thing. Not to learn, not to change, not to commit. Just to count. “Tonight, say: today is fourteen days of the Omer. Tomorrow, fifteen. The next night, sixteen.” A few simple words. A few seconds.

The man agreed.

And then something happened.

Not a speech. Not a dramatic moment. Just a shift. Quiet, almost unnoticed. But real. From that small act of counting, something inside him began to open. A point of connection. A moment where he was no longer completely closed.

And from there, everything started to move.

The other rabbanim were puzzled. What happened here? How could something so small make any difference?

Rav Shimshon explained. You don’t understand a Yid. You don’t understand a neshamah. Even for a few seconds, without a berachah, without Hashem’s name, without anything external, when a person does something Eloki, the neshamah reacts. It wakes up. It feels the kedushah. And once that nekudah is touched, even for a moment, it has the koach to open everything that comes after.

Concluded Rabbi Shimshon Pincus: when this Yid said, “tonight is fourteen,” in those few seconds his neshamah was connecting to something greater, to its source, to its Creator. That moment carried an effect we can’t fully grasp. And you could already see it, right there in front of your eyes.

It’s not magic. It’s the metziyus of a neshamah.

Even a few seconds of something Eloki has weight. Each one has the power to awaken, to uplift, to reconnect. A single moment can link a person back to his Creator. It can connect him with eternity.

That’s sefirah, that’s what we are counting.

HIGHS & LOWS

ויאמר ה׳ אל משה אמר אל הכהנים בני אהרן ואמרת אלהם לנפש לא יטמא בעמיו.

Hashem said to Moses: Speak to the priests, the sons of Aaron, and say to them: None shall defile himself for any dead person among his kin. (Vayikra 21:1)

All the mefarshim address the apparent redundancy of “emor” – “say to the Kohanim” and “v’amarta” – “and say to them.” Rashi quotes the Gemara in Yevamos 114a, which explains: להזהיר גדולים על הקטנים — To caution the adults regarding the minors. Meaning, although minors are generally not obligated in mitzvos until they are 13, in this case, even they are included in becoming contaminated from a human corpse.

The Noam Elimelech, Reb Meilich MiLezhinsk, takes this a step further by applying this to the human condition.

He asserts that it is incumbent upon every Jew that while experiencing the highs — whether it be the daily highs of learning, praying, performing mitzvos or acts of kindness, such high periods as Shabbos or Yom Tov, or the personal moments of fulfillment and happiness — to harness and capitalize on those times for the lows. Inevitably, we all experience lows. The idea is to let the abundance of the highs spill over, uplift, and exalt us even when we’re not in those times or moments of high. Even when we’re feeling lowly, disconnected, just cruising on autopilot.

When the Torah says אמר ואמרת, which the Gemara explains as להזהיר גדולים על הקטנים, it’s not only a halachic directive, it’s a blueprint for avodah. There are moments of gadlus, what the sefarim hakedoshim call מוחין דגדלות, when a person is open, aware, connected, when things feel alive and real. And there are moments of katnus, מוחין דקטנות, when that clarity fades, when a person feels distant, smaller.

Sefirah comes to train us in this exact space.

BUILDING THROUGH THE SMALL MOMENTS

We count davka in the small moments. Not only when we feel inspired, but even when it’s just “today is fourteen.” A few seconds. A simple count. Because those small nekudos are not small at all. They are the “גדולים” that are מאיר into the “קטנים.”

Each count becomes something to hold onto. So that when a person finds himself in a place of katnus, he’s not empty. He carries with him counted days, moments of connection, points of emes that remind him who he is.

Because those are the moments that carry us.

When a person counts, even for a few seconds, he is building. He is placing something real into his storehouse. So that when he finds himself in a place of katnus, he is not empty. He has something to draw from. A reminder of who he is. A reminder of his connection.

Then we begin to live differently.

When we have moments of gadlus, we don’t pass through them. We absorb them. We let them shape us. And when we hit the lows, we’re not just waiting for them to end. We move through them with steadiness, with direction, knowing that even now, every small act, every count, every nekudah is adding, is building.

Sefirah teaches us that nothing is wasted. Even when we feel uninspired, like that fellow at the seminar, we remind ourselves who we are, what we carry, and how much more we are capable of. Sometimes it takes just one moment of chizzuk, one honest count, to shift everything.

Every moment can be counted. Every moment can connect. And every moment carries the power to touch eternity. •