Rabbi's Blog

This week, the world lost a giant with the passing of Rabbi Sholom Lipskar, founder and leader of the iconic Shul of Bal Harbour, Florida. I won’t do justice to his life in this brief column, but I will do my best in this limited space.

I was 18 when I went to study in Yeshiva in Miami. During that year, my friend Yirmi Berkowitz and I began a Friday afternoon routine. We would take a taxi from South Beach to Bal Harbour and visit Jewish business people along Harding Ave. sharing a mitzvah, a thought, and warm Shabbat wishes.

On our first Friday, we felt it was only right to seek the blessing of the community’s rabbi. Rabbi Lipskar stopped what he was doing, welcomed us warmly to his office then gave us a tour of the stunning Shul, and offered guidance, practical tips, and encouragement before we began our mission.

After that encounter, something clicked. “I want to be a rabbi like Rabbi Lipskar.” Although I knew I wasn’t nearly as talented, I was deeply inspired to apply his approach, his boldness, clarity and sense of purpose, in ways that were true to who I am, wherever and whatever I will be doing.

Like many Chabad centers, his Shul began humbly in a storefront, with him standing on the corner looking for that proverbial tenth man. Today, it spans an entire block of Collins Ave. He also founded the Aleph Institute, serving the largely-overlooked Jewish population in prisons and the military across the USA.

He would often say “The entirety of Jewish organizations are reaching 20 percent of the Jewish community. What are we doing to make a dent in the other 80 percent?” His innovative outreach was not driven by pressure, but by empowerment and conviction. He looked far beyond the easy and familiar, broadening the scope of what a Chabad rabbi and rebbetzin could accomplish. His approach was visionary, elegant, principled and purposeful. Above all, he conveyed a constant sense of urgency, a drive to make every moment count in service of the Rebbe. That urgency inspired me then and continues to guide me now.

When I was working at Chabad HQ, a colleague and I were in Florida and hoped to meet with him. He told us he would see us as soon as he finished his day’s work. Our meeting began just before midnight. That moment stayed with me. He was entirely devoted to his mission and still made time, meaningful and unrushed, for others and their causes. He was fully present.

Over the years, I had the privilege of consulting with him on various occasions. His wisdom was always shared generously, with clarity and sensitivity.  Though he built monumental institutions, he never lost sight of the individual. His teachings and personal example moved thousands to embrace their Jewish identity more fully, uplifted by the power of their soul.

Rabbi Lipskar was learned, articulate, broad-minded, and relentless in his dedication until his final day. He lived with purpose and an unquenchable appetite to do even more. More than anyone, I believe he shaped my generation’s understanding of how to carry yourself as a Shliach, a full-time ambassador of the Rebbe. So much of the language and methodology with which we reach out to fellow Jews today finds its roots in his example.

It was no surprise that when we founded our Chabad in Bellaire, we named it The Shul of Bellaire, modeled after the simple but brilliant concept of The Shul.

May his family be comforted as they carry forward the monumental work he began. His legacy lives on in the community he built and in the countless hearts he inspired.

Did someone once point out a flaw of yours and you didn’t exactly smile and say, “Thank you so much for that”? Or have you ever criticized someone and found they weren’t very receptive to you?

If we ever feel the need to bring someone’s negative trait or behavior to their attention, there’s an absolute prerequisite. We must first look inward and ask ourselves, where is this coming from? Do I truly love this person unconditionally and is that love what’s motivating me to help them? Or is it possible that my focus on their flaw is actually rooted in a personal bias or some discomfort I feel toward them? Am I, on some level, ‘enjoying’ the opportunity to highlight their weakness?

This week we learn that only a Kohen, a priest, could formally declare someone afflicted with ‘leprosy’ as ‘impure’. This declaration resulted in them being temporarily distanced from the community.

Why only a Kohen? Because they were also tasked with blessing the people with loving kindness. If someone needed to be distanced from the community, it could only come from someone whose role was grounded in care, compassion and unconditional love. That way, we could trust that the act of distancing was not motivated by judgment or resentment, but by deep love and concern for the others rehabilitation.

If you want your words to be heard and truly make a difference, make sure they come from a heart full of love. When someone knows they are loved, they can take in even the hardest truths.

We are creatures of habit. Most of us find comfort in our routines, in our schedules, or in the way we approach our careers or family life. But as comforting as they are, habits can also become limiting. The issue is that even when we know change is necessary, we often strongly resist it.

I once heard from a business guru: “The best way to go out of business is to stay in your comfort zone.” We need to be ready to recreate ourselves if we want to stay successful. This is true in every area of life.

In many families, there are time-honored traditions, observed for generations. We continue them because that’s how we grew up and because they feel good. “I sat next to my grandfather at Kol Nidrei, and now my son fills that seat.” Or, “At our family Seder table, we make our Charoset using my grandmother’s exact recipe, we love it.”

We’re often very good at honoring the sacred traditions of our past, and that is wonderful. But how do we react when it becomes necessary to consider a change? It might be in response to a critical moment in the Jewish world, in our community, or even an ancient practice that is completely new to us personally. “Rabbi, I’ve never heard of that before...”

Are we open-minded and flexible enough to make space for something new?

That, I believe, is the true test of whether our Jewishness is active and exciting. A Judaism that is alive will always challenge us to grow, psychologically, emotionally, and spiritually.

I take inspiration from my father, whose Yartzeit we observe this week, for being firmly rooted in tradition and honoring his routine observances, like showing up every morning to Synagogue like clockwork and the list goes on. Yet, as difficult as it was, he was also ready to change a habit when it became necessary to do so for his family, his health, or for Judaism.

I’m also in awe of the many local friends, men and women, who have embraced Jewish observances as adults, that were once foreign to them and have now become a meaningful part of their lives. That’s truly inspiring!

When we help someone in need, it’s not just about what we give, it’s about how we give. Judaism teaches that providing for the needy must be done with sensitivity, ensuring that the recipient’s dignity remains intact. A kind act that embarrasses or diminishes another person is incomplete.

This idea is beautifully illustrated in the Torah’s description of the sacrifices brought to the Temple. A wealthy person would offer a large animal, while a poor person would bring a small bird. Interestingly, the Torah instructs that when the bird is placed on the altar, its feathers should remain, even though burning feathers produce an unpleasant odor.

Why permit something that creates a foul smell, when sacrifices are meant to be a “pleasing aroma” before God?

Because without its feathers, the bird would look even smaller and more meager. By keeping them on, the poor person’s offering appears more substantial, preserving their dignity.

This Wednesday, Jews around the world will mark the birthdate of the Lubavitcher Rebbe. In the weeks leading up to Passover, the Rebbe would constantly remind us to prioritize ensuring that every Jew has what they need to celebrate the holiday with comfort and dignity.

Let’s heed his call and make sure that those around us have what they need, not just materially, but emotionally as well. Whether it’s helping someone with Passover essentials or extending a warm invitation to a Seder, let’s give in a way that uplifts them.

By bringing joy to those in need, we enhance our own joy and that is the true “pleasing aroma” before God.

"Rabbi, I’m not religious, so I don’t really feel at home in the synagogue." – Words many a Jew has said to their rabbi.

When G-d commanded the Jewish people to build a Sanctuary, it wasn’t just meant to be a dwelling place for Him, it was meant to be a spiritual meeting point between G-d and His people.

But Moses, the insightful leader that he was, had a concern.

The people had just committed the grave sin of worshiping the golden calf. Yes, they were now seeking atonement, but would they truly feel at home in this sacred space? Could they believe that G-d’s house was also their house?

Though the community had given generously - more than enough materials to complete the project - Moses wanted to ensure that no one felt more connected to this space than another. That no one could say, I gave more of my talents or resources, so I belong more. And that no one, not even those who had given little or nothing, would feel like an outsider.

That’s why he ensured that the Sanctuary, in all its details, was identified with him as the leader, because Moses belonged to every Jew, so now the Sanctuary would belong to every Jew without exception.

And the message remains just as true today. A synagogue is not just a building, it’s a home. No matter your background, level of knowledge or observance, you belong here. The doors of The Shul are always open, for prayer, connection, growth and community. And we can’t wait to welcome you.

I once heard Senator Joe Lieberman share in a speech here in Houston that the morning after he lost the election, his wife Hadassah reminded him: “Don’t worry, Joe. In this house, you’ll always be vice president.”

We all know the truth: in every Jewish family, the woman is the boss!

But it’s not just in the home. Throughout our history, Jewish women have played central roles at the most pivotal moments for our people...

A few examples are: Yocheved and Miriam in Egypt; Queen Esther in the Purim story; Rebbetzin Chaya Mushka; and the list goes on.

Today, I want to focus on another extraordinary moment: the building of the very first synagogue, the Mishkan, the portable Sanctuary in the desert. When Moses called on the people to contribute materials for this sacred project, it was the women who stood out:

1. They gave more than anyone. Their response was so overwhelming that Moses actually had to stop the campaign. There was too much generosity!
2. They gave with joy and enthusiasm. Not out of obligation or pressure, but with open hearts and alacrity, they led by example in how to invest yourself heart and soul and give with genuine excitement.
3. They gave their most cherished possessions. Their jewelry and valuables, freely offered, were most beloved by G-d.

A longtime friend of mine from Detroit once said: “Everyone says you should give until it hurts. But I’ve learned you should give until it feels good.”

At the time of building the Mishkan, it was the women who set the standard. They gave until it felt good and inspired the entire community of men to do the same.

May we all follow their lead and step up even before we’re called upon!

Mordechai was the leader of the Jewish people when they were under the threat of Haman. When did Mordechai know that salvation was near?

When he met three Jewish children on their way home from school. With pure conviction, they expressed their unwavering faith in G-d and their belief that He controls every detail of the world. In that moment, Mordechai understood: as long as our children are strong in their Jewish values, not only at school but also at home, the Jewish people are untouchable.

Today, the same is true. When we invest in inspiring and educating our youth to be proud of their Jewish identity, we can be certain that redemption is close at hand.

Start by celebrating today with your family. Wishing you and your family a joyful, light-filled Purim!

Have you ever realized that there’s someone you see all the time, whether at the gym, the coffee shop, or in Shul every Shabbat, but you don’t really notice them until one day they’re not there?

Their presence was so consistent that they blended into the background until their absence suddenly makes you aware of how much they were a part of your routine. We find ourselves thinking about them more now that they are missing than when they were present.

This week’s Torah reading, Tetzaveh, presents a striking example of this idea. For the only time since Moses was introduced in the Torah, his name is completely absent from the text. Week after week, Moses is the central figure in our story, always mentioned by name. Then suddenly, in Tetzaveh alone, he is missing.

But is he really gone?

The truth is, Moshe’s absence is not a disappearance at all. The Parsha still speaks about him. His role and presence remain. The only thing missing is his name. This teaches us that a person’s true presence is not defined by how often their name is mentioned but by the lasting imprint they leave behind.

This idea becomes even more powerful when we consider that Tetzaveh is always read around the 7th of Adar, the Yahrzeit of Moses, which happens to be today. When a righteous person leaves this world, their physical presence may no longer be here, but their true essence becomes even more accessible. Their teachings, their influence, and their spirit remain, not just in memory, but in the way they continue to actively shape our lives.

Just like the person we only truly notice when they are absent, Moshe and the "Moshe" of our own time, are more present than ever before. Their impact, no longer confined to a physical form, is now everywhere, waiting for us to recognize it.

This week, we were blessed to formally welcome our new son into the Jewish people at his Bris. Esty and I are deeply grateful to all the family and friends who joined us for this momentous event, each of you helped turn it into a truly beautiful and joyous occasion.

CLICK FOR SOME PICTURES   (Thank you Joe Center.)

We chose to name him Moshe Chaim, in honor of both of our fathers, extraordinary individuals. Here is one way in which they stood out:

• Rabbi Moshe Zaklikofsky, my father, embodied a life of unwavering and consistent devotion to Torah, Judaism, and his family. He lived every day with equanimity and total commitment, never swayed by circumstances. Whether it was his best day or his hardest, you wouldn’t know - because he showed up to life with the same steadfast values and the same smile for everyone he encountered.
• Rabbi Chaim Gurevitch, Esty’s father, radiated a zest for life. He was upbeat, wore his emotions on his sleeve, and gave selflessly with a generous spirit. Before our wedding, he told me he wasn’t just gaining a son-in-law but a son - words that truly reflected his warm and open heart. His name, Chaim (which means “life” in the plural), was fitting for the boundless energy and love he shared with everyone around him.

Our son’s name represents a fusion of these two incredible role models - different in personality, yet deeply appreciative of each other. We pray that Moshe Chaim carries forward their legacy of commitment, joy, and generosity of spirit.

**

As we study the Holy Temple, we learn that at its innermost and holiest chamber stood the Ark, upon which the Cherubs spread their wings. These cherubs had the faces of babies. But why the baby face?

Rashi explains that they represented the boundless and essential love that God has for the Jewish people, a love so pure, reflected only in that of a parent for their newborn child. While a parent continues to love their child as they grow and mature, that love can become shaped by their child’s achievements, personality, or other attributes. But a parent’s love for their baby is different, pure and unconditional.

ith the blessing of Moshe Chaim, we are reminded of G-d’s infinite love for each of (us) His children - not dependent on how observant or Jewishly accomplished they are. It is a love that is never compromised, never diminished.

Now, it is on us to reciprocate that love.

When we received the Torah at Mount Sinai, we entered into a relationship with God, a marriage of sorts. In this divine union, God pledged to take care of all our needs, nurture and guide us, and we committed to uphold His Torah and live by its values.

A marriage is not only about shared experiences at home as a family or acts of love. It is a profound bond that remains intact whether together or apart. We may be away on a business trip, out with friends, or engaged in personal pursuits, yet a spouse still remains part of who we are, it is all-encompassing.

Likewise, our connection to Judaism is not limited to the synagogue, praying at the Western Wall, or attending a Shabbat or holiday dinner. It is woven into every moment of our lives, the way we eat, conduct business, and interact with the world. Even in the most ordinary moments, we approach them with the awareness of our identity and faith.

This might be expressed through wearing a kippah, a Star of David necklace, visiting Jewish sites on vacation, or that feeling of kinship that moves us to approach another Jew in an unfamiliar place, creating unexpected yet meaningful moments of Jewish conviviality.

At Sinai, God empowered us to be His ambassadors in the world. As we proclaim in our holiday prayers, "And You empowered us to be carriers of Your great and awesome name." This role is not confined to holy spaces but accompanies us everywhere, whether in a restaurant, an airport, or any corner of the world.

Let us embrace this all-encompassing divine mission with pride and joy.

As one would expect from a rabbi, I often find myself encouraging fellow Jews to come to Shul, wrap Tefillin, post a Mezuzah, or eat a kosher meal. But every now and then, someone will hesitate and tell me, "I appreciate the offer, Rabbi, but that’s just not me. It would feel hypocritical."

The reasoning goes: If I don’t live a fully observant Jewish life, then doing one Mitzvah is meaningless, it doesn’t reflect who I really am.

But the truth is that every single mitzvah, even if done just once with no intention to repeat it, has tremendous value. Here’s why:

1. A Mitzvah creates an eternal bond with G-d. The impact of that connection can never be undone. You may do one single mitzvah, but its effect is infinite.

2. Success breeds success, and a Mitzvah whets your appetite for yet another Mitzvah. This isn’t just an idea, it’s a tried and tested fact of life.

3. History has often been shaped by a single deed that changed the course of someone’s life, a community, or even the world. We may not always see the immediate effect of what we do, but a mitzvah carries the potential to create ripples far beyond what we imagine.

This Shabbat marks the 75th anniversary of the Rebbe assuming leadership of the Chabad movement. One of his powerful teachings was this: A Jew doing a Mitzvah is never a hypocrite. On the contrary, if anything a Jew is a hypocrite only when he is not doing a mitzvah. Because when a Jew does a Mitzvah, no matter how long it’s been since his last, he is expressing his truest self. He is actualizing his real identity.

So please don’t hesitate. Do that mitzvah. You’ll be reconnecting with who you truly are at the core and simultaneously making the rabbis day!

Agam Berger, released this week from the hell of Gaza after 482 days, taught me something profound.

There is a difference between leaving slavery and attaining freedom. We may be free from oppression, but what are we free for? Freedom isn't just about escaping bondage; it must define something greater. We are free, but now what?

When the Jewish people left Egypt, they were no longer slaves, but were they truly free? Only at Mount Sinai, when we received the Torah and embraced God as our master, was our freedom solidified forever. From that moment on, no human force could ever truly own us again.

A living testament to this truth is Agam. Her captors stripped her of everything, her family, her community, her dignity, but they could not touch her soul. In the depths of captivity, she didn’t just turn down the Quran she was offered, she also refused to eat bread on Passover, refused non-kosher meat and in so doing she refused to let terror define her. In a place designed to break a person, she stood unbroken. Even in darkness, she clung to the light of her faith, proving that no captor, no evil, can claim a Jewish soul.

Agam joins the ranks of the giants in Jewish history, those who, in the face of unimaginable darkness, stood unwavering in their commitment to God and Judaism. Her story is a testament to the indomitable Jewish spirit, the unbreakable bond between a Jew and their faith.

Agam’s story challenges us to think: Being Jewish is not just about what we aren’t, it’s about what we are. It’s not just avoiding other religions, but actively embracing our identity and living with purpose. How can I strengthen my connection to Jewish learning and observance? How can I express my Jewishness with joy and conviction, not just in a time of crisis but in everyday life?

Are you an Augmenter or a Reducer?

Let me explain.

When we are on the receiving end of someone’s kindness - whether they’ve hosted us for a meal, given us a thoughtful gift, or gone out of their way to offer assistance - there are two ways we can react.

One response is to walk away deeply impressed by their generosity, speaking about how kind, gracious, and giving they are to extend themselves in such a way. The other response, however, is to downplay their efforts. We tell ourselves - and perhaps even others - that the person didn’t really go out of their way. “They were eating anyway,” we might say, or “They had extras they didn’t need,” or even, “They probably had an ulterior motive.” In doing so, we reduce the significance of their kindness, making us feel less indebted to them.

In the book of Ezekiel (this week’s Haftorah), we read about the Babylonian king Nebuchadnezzar laying siege to Tyre. Although this was part of God’s plan, Nebuchadnezzar’s motives were entirely self-serving, driven by his own strategic ambitions to conquer the region. Yet, despite his motivations, Nebuchadnezzar was rewarded by God for carrying out what He needed to be done.

This teaches us a powerful lesson: we should strive to avoid being ‘reducers’, those who diminish the kindness of others. Instead, we should aim to be ‘augmenters’, acknowledging and giving credit to anyone we benefit from, even if they don’t fully deserve it.

By choosing to magnify the good in others, we not only express gratitude but also train ourselves to think more positively about people and their actions, cultivating generosity and goodwill in our own hearts.