Parsha in 2

When the Bikkurim, the first fruits, were brought to the Beis Hamikdash, they were placed in a basket, which according to the Rambam was not just an accessory but part of the mitzvah itself, and therefore the Kohen would even keep the simple baskets of branches and reeds, though not those of gold or silver. Spiritually, this teaches that just as the finest fruits were presented in a plain basket, so too the Jewish soul—lofty and holy in its source—must descend into the physical body, where its natural connection to Hashem is concealed. Yet it is precisely through this descent and through performing physical mitzvos and simple acts of goodness and kindness that the deepest bond with Hashem is revealed. The basket symbolizes that the greatest spiritual heights are fully realized only when expressed in simple, tangible actions, which enhance and complete the mitzvah in the most beautiful way.

לקו״ש כט-א

The Torah forbids kelayim—mixing different kinds—because Hashem created each with its own unique purpose and identity. When animals or produce are mixed, their essence is destroyed, but with garments like wool and linen, each material remains distinct, which is why it can be permitted for a mitzvah. On a deeper level, every kind represents spiritual forces above, such as chesed (kindness) and gevurah (strength). If these opposing powers are forced together without a higher purpose, they cancel and destroy one another; but when united in service of Hashem, their differences are not erased but elevated, working in harmony toward one goal. In our physical world, however, each kind resists compromise, so attempts at unity either lead to destruction, like crossbreeding animals or mixing produce, or result in coexistence without peace, like wool and linen in a garment. True peace, therefore, is not about weakening individuality but about each person, with their full strengths and qualities, coming together for a higher purpose—to serve Hashem.

לקו״ש כט-א

The Medrash compares a field, which produces grain necessary for life, to the Written Torah and mitzvos that sustain the world through action, while an orchard, which is for pleasure, represents the Oral Torah—delving into Hashem’s wisdom and innovating within it. Although all nations have laws and judges, what makes the Jewish people unique is that their judges not only enforce laws but also uncover the depths of Torah, connecting to Hashem’s wisdom itself. This duality is reflected in Na’aseh v’Nishma: first doing what Hashem commands (the “field”), and then learning for the sake of grasping His wisdom (the “orchard”). By remaining humble and simple like a child, we merit to access Hashem’s deepest pleasure—the depths of Torah. In Elul, the shofar embodies this: it inspires both awe and the beautification of our deeds, while its simple cry, like the Baal Shem Tov’s parable of a child calling to his father, reaches directly to Hashem, Who alone recognizes and responds to our voice.

לקו״ש כט-א

The Rambam teaches that the Beis HaMikdash was built on levels—each section higher than the next—until reaching the Kodesh and the Kodesh HaKodashim, where no steps were needed, for there the Jew is united with Hashem beyond all levels. Unlike the Mishkan, it was made of stone and stood on holy ground, to show that the purpose of the Beis HaMikdash was to bring holiness into even the lowest elements of creation. Each of us has a Beis HaMikdash within: we must constantly climb higher in our service of Hashem, never satisfied with where we are, while also remembering that at our core lies the Kodesh HaKodashim, the eternal spark of the Jew, always one with Hashem. By connecting to this inner point and growing step by step, we can transform ourselves and the world into a true dwelling place for Him.

לקו״ש כט-ב

The Rambam teaches that the mitzvah of mezuzah is not only about placing it on the doorpost, but about the lasting impact it has on us. Each time we pass it, the mezuzah reminds us of Hashem’s oneness, our love for Him, and pulls us away from life’s distractions. While tefillin and tzitzit inspire mainly when we are wearing them in moments of holiness, the mezuzah works constantly—especially as we leave home and enter the noisy, distracting world—serving as a silent guardian that keeps our connection to Hashem alive wherever we go.

לקו״ש כט-ב

The Rambam teaches that when an inadvertent killer flees to a city of refuge, we must provide for all his needs — even sending his teacher with him — because for those who have acquired Torah and even those still seeking it, Torah is their life. A seeker, though not yet a scholar, has the desire and potential to grow, and our Sages promise that if he toils, he will succeed. Just as a teacher follows his student into exile to nurture that potential, so too God, our Teacher, remains with us even when we falter, protecting us from spiritual harm and guiding us toward becoming true people of Torah.

לקו״ש כט-ב

Shabbos Chazon, explained by Reb Levi Yitzchok of Berdichev, is when each person is shown a vision of the future Third Beis HaMikdash—not through the image of a house, but through a tailor-made garment. A house represents a general connection to Hashem, where a person may serve Him in specific areas, but not with their whole being. A garment, however, fits perfectly and reflects the person entirely—just like someone who gives themselves over completely to Hashem, allowing every part of their life to express His will. On this Shabbos, we are given a glimpse of that ultimate, all-encompassing service and the power to begin living it.

לקו״ש כט שבת חזון

Although the entire Beit HaMikdash (Holy Temple) was built of stone, there was one unique room for the Kohen Gadol (High Priest) that was made of wood, called the Lishkat HaEtz — the Chamber of Wood. Wood symbolizes life and longevity, just as the righteous Kohanim Gedolim in earlier generations, particularly in the time of Shimon HaTzaddik, would serve many years. However, after Shimon HaTzaddik, when many Kohanim Gedolim were no longer as upright, the chamber became known as the Lishkat Parhedrin — “the Chamber of the Changing Ones” — because many of them would die within a year and needed to be replaced. This brings up a question: if there were still righteous Kohanim Gedolim afterward who lived long lives, why were they also associated with this same chamber of constant change?

The answer lies in the powerful desire that even unworthy Kohanim had to connect with Hashem in the Kodesh HaKodashim. Despite knowing that many before them had died within a year, they were still willing to pay money for the position — driven by a deep longing to enter the holiest place. This intense yearning also inspired righteous Kohanim to take on the role, not for prestige but for the spiritual elevation it offered. On a deeper level, Lishkat Parhedrin reflects the essence of the Kohen Gadol on Yom Kippur. His entry into the Kodesh HaKodashim is the ultimate moment of teshuvah — not a gradual climb in holiness like a typical tzaddik, but a leap into an entirely new state of being. Each year, he becomes a new person, transformed through teshuvah, making even a long-serving Kohen Gadol like a “new” Kohen every Yom Kippur.

לקו״ש כח

When the Torah describes the division of the Land of Israel, it speaks of three elements: a portion based on logic and effort, a lottery which symbolizes divine grace, and inheritance. These reflect three levels of our relationship with Hashem: what we earn through our actions, what we receive as a gift from above, and what we possess by essence—because we are truly part of Him.

This deeper level is why the Rambam quotes the verse, “If a man dies and has no son,” emphasizing that inheritance only applies when there is no son—because a real heir is not just someone who follows, but someone who is the one who came before. This parallels the three stages of our history: before Matan Torah, our connection to Hashem was based on our own merits; at Matan Torah, Hashem chose us unconditionally; and in the future, we will experience the full truth—that we are one with Hashem at our core. The Rambam ends with inheritance to remind us that our bond with Hashem is not just about what we do, or even what He gives—it’s about who we are.

לקו״ש כח-א

In this week’s Parsha, Zimri publicly challenged Moshe by bringing a Midianite woman and asking, “Is she permitted? And if not, who allowed you to marry Tzipporah?” At first glance, the comparison seems absurd — Moshe married Tzipporah before the Torah was given, while Zimri’s actions happened after, under the full framework of halachah. But Zimri twisted the facts, claiming that since Moshe was a Kohen, he too should be forbidden to marry a convert.

The truth is, Moshe had married Tzipporah before becoming a Kohen, and according to the Oral Torah, that’s completely permitted. But Moshe didn’t answer. Why? Because Zimri wasn’t seeking truth — he was just justifying his behavior. And sometimes, the right response to a dishonest question is silence.

The lesson is powerful: When someone — or even our own yetzer hara — brings clever arguments that aren’t sincere, we don’t engage in debate. We “pull it into the Beis Midrash” — respond with action, learning, and connection to something higher. This was the path of the Frierdiker Rebbe, whose redemption on Yud-Beis Tammuz we celebrate — standing strong with mesirus nefesh, not through anger or argument, but with unwavering faith, compassion, and clarity.

לקו״ש י״ח -ג