לחם חן — Lechem Chein

Cheshvan always feels a little grey. Gloomy skies. Jackets coming out of storage. Coming off the highs of Tishrei. A long stretch without Yom Tov. A month where we sit with ourselves, sometimes in the heaviness of our own thoughts. Kislev is different. Kislev begins with a door opening. On this day, Rosh Chodesh Kislev, the Rebbe walked out to the Chassidim again after his heart attack. Could it have happened the day before? Could it have been the last flicker of Cheshvan? It could have. But it wasn’t. It had to be today — the first day of the month of light. The message is clear. Healing doesn’t show up while we’re still deep in the darkness. It appears once we’re ready to take the first small step toward the light. From the Rebbe stepping out of his room to the menorah that will soon glow in our homes, Kislev teaches one thing above all: Light isn’t something you wait for. Light is something you add. מוסיף והולך Increase, and keep increasing. As Kislev begins, I’m asking myself one s...

There’s a moment early in Parshas Toldos that’s been sitting with me. Rivka feels something moving inside her, but it pulls in opposite directions. Chazal say that when she passed a house of idol worship, one baby stirred, and when she passed a house of learning, the other stirred. Two children. Two awakenings. Two different responses to the world. Something in that helped name something inside me. I also have different movements within myself. Different parts wake up in different rooms. I’ve known that for a while, but Toldos gave me a clearer language for it. The blessings later in the parsha sharpen this even more. Yitzchak sees the side of Eisav that comes alive in his presence—the hunter, the provider, the loyal son. Rivka sees another side of him as well, along with a danger she senses earlier than anyone else. She also sees a depth in Yaakov that Yitzchak doesn’t see right away. These aren’t contradictions. Each child reveals a different truth depending on who’s standing with th...

When Sarah passed away, the miracles of her tent left with her, the Shabbos candles that stayed lit from week to week, the challah that never went stale, and the cloud of Hashem’s presence that hovered above. Later in the parsha, when Rivka enters the tent, those blessings return. Bread, light, and presence come alive again. Those miracles weren’t random. They were the life that rose from within her, steady and warm and generous, shaping the home in ways only presence can. That is the spirit of Chayei Sarah, life that keeps living. Her name change itself tells the story. Sarai ended with a Yud, small and self-contained. Sarah ends with a Hey, open and expansive, a blessing meant to flow outward, her reach stretching far beyond her own time and space. Every Jewish woman, in her own quiet way, carries that spark forward, creating warmth, presence, and light in the spaces around her. Whether she is consciously trying or not, her influence lingers. I see it in my wife. Not only in the cand...

Avraham sat at the doorway of his tent in the heat of the day. When he saw three travelers approaching, he ran to greet them. The first thing he offered wasn’t advice or money. It was bread. "וְאֶקְחָה פַת־לֶחֶם וְסַעֲדוּ לִבְּכֶם " “And I will fetch a morsel of bread, and you shall strengthen your hearts.” (בראשית י״ח : ה׳) Rashi says that throughout Tanach, bread is called the food of the heart. Because bread doesn’t only nourish the body; it reminds the heart how to keep going. Avraham saw the guests and ran to greet them, but it was Sarah who baked the bread. He welcomed them in; she made the welcome real. She took flour and water and turned them into something alive,  something that could feed another soul. That’s what holiness looks like when it’s real: not just fire on the outside, but life that rises from within.   Lot’s wife looked back toward the fire that consumed everything she knew — her home, her city, her past — and she turned into a pillar of salt. Chaz...

Last week in Noach, we learned that Hashem scattered humanity, not to punish but to save them .  The rainbow and the languages were reminders: we aren’t meant to all look the same.  Every color matters. Every voice has a place. This week, in Lech Lecha, the lesson goes a step further.  Hashem tells Avram: “ Lech Lecha ” — go for yourself. Step outside what feels familiar. You weren’t made to be a drab shade of grey on a dusty old TV. You were made to be full color, broadcasting a Godly signal into the world. Avram is called to trust Hashem’s direction and walk into the unknown.  Sourdough is much the same: instead of the quick, predictable yeast packet, you enter the slower, uncertain world of wild fermentation.  You don’t control it; you listen to it.  You walk with it. When Avram entered Egypt, he hid his wife Sarai in a box.  The Midrash says that when the guards opened it, her light shone so strongly it lit up the whole land. That’s the point: if y...

I put up a post yesterday right before Shabbos.  Shared it directly with a couple of people, otherwise just let it exist. Shabbos is supposed to be a day of rest.  Instead I felt a kind of dis-ease.  I felt like the raven Noach sent out, circling without rest and never landing. At first I thought it was just life, the usual noise of the week catching up once the noisy toys are turned off.  Only later, once the kids were asleep, did I realize it was me. The post had come from ego, wanting to prove something. But I’m not writing to prove anything.  I’m not working on myself to prove anything. I’m working on myself to work on myself.  The journey is just as important, maybe more so, than the destination. So I let it go.  A couple hours after Shabbos I took it down. Thank you ego, for reminding me I’m still flawed, still learning, still human.  Thank God for the healing and connection I’ve found, which keep showing me I don’t have to stay stuck. It fe...

On Sunday morning, I opened WhatsApp and saw a picture on a friend’s status: three of his kids, playing with Magna-Tiles.  The caption read: “working together to build “The Best Tower In The World”!”. It struck me as perfect for Parshas Noach.  After all, this is the week we read about towers too. After the Flood, when the world was washed clean and silent, Noach sent out a dove. It came back with a small olive leaf in its beak. That leaf didn’t save humanity. It didn’t feed his family. But it was the sign: it’s safe again, you can walk the world soon. A single, fragile branch spoke more than a looming tower ever could. Noach had so many lessons he could have learned from: the dove carrying hope, the rainbow painting the sky, the chance to plant something nourishing and start fresh. But he was carrying so much unrecognized pain inside.  Dude was 600 years old. Just spent a hundred or so years building an ark while people laughed at him. A year sealed inside with the anima...

We just packed away the sukkah walls. The last crumbs of honey cake are brushed off the counter. Three straight weeks of Yomim Tovim — Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Sukkos, Simchas Torah — are behind us. Now comes the long stretch. Kids heading back to school. Work schedules settling in. No holidays for months. Life resumes its weekday rhythm. But we don’t just go “back” to life as it was. The Torah begins again. With Bereishis. In honor of this blog’s name, Lechem (לחם), let me introduce a “cousin” from the middle of the parsha: Lemech (למך). In English, their names look like they could sit right next to each other at a family meal. In Hebrew, though, the letters don’t quite match. But hey, every family has that relative who doesn’t quite seem like the rest, right? The difference is, bread rises warm and nourishing. Cousin Lemech’s story… it’s got a lot more meat on its bones. Chazal tell us that Lemech was blind. When he went out to hunt, his son Tuval-Cain would guide him, pointing out...

Download printable version (PDF) Simchas Torah Reflections Dancing With Torah Where We Are 🌟 Opening Reflection On Simchas Torah, we don’t begin with the scroll open. We begin with it wrapped. Pressed to our chest. Carried in circles of joy. We dance first. Then we read. Joy comes before words. Naaseh before Nishma.

Originally published on crownheights.info — Simchas Torah: We Dance With Torah, Not With Bottles By Berke Chein On Simchas Torah we hold the Torah closed. We don’t start by reading. We don’t start with words. We start by dancing. By carrying it close. By circling together with joy. That picture says something. If the Torah is closed, we shouldn’t need to start with all the bottles open. We certainly shouldn’t need them all empty before Hakafos begin. The simcha of Yom Tov doesn’t come from what is in the glass. It comes from the Torah in our arms. From the circles we make. From the joy we bring with our own voices and feet. Does that mean nobody should drink? No. Kiddush is Kiddush. A Lchaim has its place. Have one or two, celebrate. But keep it mindful. Keep it measured. Never force it on someone else. Some choose not to drink at all for whatever reason. Respect that. This Yom Tov, be careful for each other: • Do not pour for anyone underage. • Do not pressure a friend. • If you se...

This Shabbos is Chol HaMoed Sukkos. We’ll sit in our sukkahs, eat our meals beneath a sky of bamboo and stars, and let the Shabbos Queen rest inside a hut that was never built to last. But the last parsha of the Torah won’t join us this Shabbos. V’Zos HaBracha waits to be read on Simchas Torah next Wednesday. It is the only parsha that never has its own Shabbos. In Chutz La’Aretz, Simchas Torah can never fall on Shabbos.  In Israel, where Shemini Atzeres and Simchas Torah are the same day, it can fall on Shabbos — yet the reading still belongs to Yom Tov, not the weekly cycle. That unsettled rhythm matches the parsha itself. These are Moshe’s last words: blessings for every tribe, a song for Hashem, then his climb up Har Nevo.  He sees the Land but never enters it. He dies outside, and his grave is hidden.  The Midrash says if you looked from the valley it seemed above, and from the mountain it seemed below. Always shifting. Just out of reach. Moshe doesn’t settle in the ...

Moshe doesn’t end his leadership with a to-do list. He doesn’t give a closing speech or one last halachic detail. He sings. הַאֲזִינוּ הַשָּׁמַיִם וַאֲדַבֵּרָה “Give ear, O heavens, and I will speak…” (Devarim 32:1) That’s what he leaves us with. A song. One that’s sharp and structured, but still a song. Because he knows people forget speeches. But melodies stick. — A few days after Rosh Hashana, I heard a song while out shopping, and I started humming it too. Not on purpose. Not loudly. Just walking around the house and there it was: Ochila LaKel… Esh’alah mimenu ma’aneh lashon… “I hope for God… I ask Him for an answer of the tongue.” It’s not one of the big dramatic tefillos of the season. Not Kol Nidrei or Unesaneh Tokef. But it’s the one that’s stayed with me the longest this year. I think it’s because it names something I’ve been working on for a while now: finding my voice again. I didn’t set out to make it a kavannah. It just landed in my bones the first time I heard it played. ...

Took the family to Kapparos. We said the prayers. I swung the chickens. Just the annual tradition, same old same old. But is it really? Is anything ever really? On the way home, I got my answer. Every day matters. Every act of Teshuva matters. Every Kappara matters. The car in the next lane shared a whisper: I see you. You swung your ROOSTA. Keep your process in Ascent mode. —— Wishing you all an easy fast and a גוט געבענטשט יאהר -Berke

The parsha is called Vayelech. Moshe went.  Not a journey, not a long walk. Just stepping up to the podium to face the people. It’s also Shabbos Shuva, the Shabbos of return: a reminder that sometimes we move forward by turning back. So we’re going to retrace Moshe’s steps in reverse, like an out-and-back hike where the return shows you what you missed on the way out. This parsha may be the shortest in the Torah, just thirty pesukim. But in those few lines lies a piercing moment. At the very end, Moshe tells the people: “After my death, you will surely become corrupt.” But Rashi notes:  “that they did not falter in Yehoshua’s lifetime. From here we learn: a student is like a continuation of the teacher. As long as Yehoshua lived, it was as if Moshe himself was still alive.” It is almost as if Moshe slips in a wink. On the surface, he warns of collapse. But between the lines, he is hinting: “If you hold onto Yehoshua, you are still holding onto me.” So how did that actuall...

‎אַתֶּם נִצָּבִים הַיּוֹם כֻּלְּכֶם לִפְנֵי ה׳ אֱלֹקֵיכֶם We are all standing here today, a few days before Rosh Hashanah. Not just the leaders, not just the righteous. Every one of us. Even the woodchopper, even the water-carrier. Even me. The Torah warns of a person who hears the covenant with God and still says inside: “I will have peace, even if I follow my illusions.” It calls him “ לְמַעַן סְפוֹת הָרָוֶה אֶת־הַצְּמֵאָה ”: adding the drunk to the thirsty, stacking unintentional sins onto intentional ones.  I know that illusion. I lived it. Chasing comfort in the cup, telling myself I was fine, while really only adding absence on top of absence. The parsha doesn’t hide the devastation. It says that future generations and even strangers will look at the land, see the plagues and desolation, and ask: “Why did this happen? Why did God pour out such fury?” The answer is that the covenant was forsaken, the people turned away, and the curses written in the Torah came to life. And t...

Teshuvah didn’t start for me in Elul. It started months earlier, the first time I realized I couldn’t exist while I was drinking. Quietly, slowly, without ever calling it that. It began with a quiet goodbye to alcohol. An old friend. A false comfort.  A shield I no longer wanted to carry. ⸻ I grew up Chabad, in Crown Heights. Born into it, steeped in it, fluent in it.  The kind of frum where mikvah was a weekly (or daily) fact, not a metaphor.  Where tefillin before bar mitzvah wasn’t strange, and farbrengens were considered wholesome. It wasn’t extreme. It was just how things were. Until I wasn’t sure who I was anymore. I looked the part: davening, learning, mivtzoim sometimes. Wearing the hat, jacket and smile.  I sat at farbrengens and soaked in words I didn’t know how to live. I meant it some of the time. But underneath, I was disappearing. I started drinking around fourteen, away from home in camp and school.  But the pain inside started many years before t...

Ki Savo reads like a map. “ When you come into the land…” Arrival isn’t the end of the journey; it’s the beginning of uncovering what really matters. It starts with Bikkurim . A farmer brings his first fruits, hands them to the Kohen, and says: I didn’t make this happen on my own. I was given land, and here is the fruit that grew in it . Then comes Maaser. The Torah commands that the Levi, the stranger, the orphan, and the widow all be provided for. Gratitude isn’t complete until it overflows into giving and responsibility. Only then do we hear the blessings and curses.  The honest talk about choice and consequence, about what happens when we walk our path or turn away. And the Parsha closes with miracles.  Reminders of God’s care in the wilderness: food that didn’t fail, clothes that didn’t wear out. Proof that we were carried, and still are.

Originally published on crownheights.info —- A call to stop excusing underage drinking in our schools and homes. By Berke Chein I’m not a rabbi or a mental health professional. I’m a father, a husband, a Lubavitcher who grew up in “the system” of farbrengens, yeshivas, and the rhythms of our life. I’ve drawn from its beauty, and I’ve also felt where it hurts. I don’t write with all the answers. I write because staying silent only means the next generation inherits the same problem. I know, because it was my life too for a very long time. Farbrengens are one of our greatest strengths. Around a table of niggunim, divrei Chassidus, and real words, generations have found inspiration and connection. A l’chaim, at its best, is meant to deepen joy, soften hearts, and open us to each other and to Hashem. But too often, without anyone meaning harm, something else creeps in. Cups are poured and refilled. Boys start to believe that drinking is part of belonging. The scene is familiar: a lively fa...

Ki Seitzei is a parsha full of struggle. It opens heavy: the captive woman taken in war, the unloved wife, the rebellious son who eats and drinks himself into a future the Torah calls unsaveable.  Torah doesn’t skip the mess of human life. It names it, desire unchecked, love that falters, children gone astray. Then the tone shifts. Instead of only telling us about broken families, the parsha turns to ordinary moments:  a lost object lying on the road, a donkey collapsed under its load, a mother bird you send on vacation before taking her young, a guardrail built so no one falls.  Small mitzvos of compassion and responsibility, tucked right in the middle of the chaos. But the parsha circles back for another round.  The next section cuts even deeper: betrayal, coercion, divorce, the breakdown of intimacy and trust in their most painful forms.  Torah doesn’t look away. It names these too. And once again, compassion returns. Pay your workers on time. Return a poor m...

This has been one of those weeks. The kind where I feel like I’m just trying to hold it all together. One person, one pair of hands, only so many hours in the day. Then Torah comes and reminds me not to worry. I’m not on my own in this. Inside me is a whole workforce, each able to do its part. This week the Parsha opens with: ‎שפטים ושטרים תתן לך בכל שעריך “Appoint judges and officers for yourself in all your gates.” The Midrash teaches that these “gates” are not only the gates of a city, but the gates of the body: our eyes, ears, and mouth. Chassidus adds that each of us is an olam katan , a small world. Just as a nation needs judges, officers, priests, courts, kings, prophets, and safe havens, so too does the soul. That means I need to keep all these voices active and supervised, not just once but all the time. The Judge helps me catch myself before reacting harshly. The Officer teaches me to pause and hold to my word. The Sanhedrin humbles me to ask for help instead of pretending I ...