How quickly do we judge—our children, our students, our neighbors—without ever truly standing in their place? In this morning’s class on Parashat Mishpatim, we explored the Torah’s demand that cuts against our instincts: אַל תָּדִין אֶת חֲבֵרְךָ עַד שֶׁתַּגִּיעַ לִמְקוֹמוֹ—don’t judge another until you reach his place. But what if we can never really get there? Drawing on Pirkei Avot, the story of Ḥannah and Eli HaKohen, and the Torah’s repeated warning not to oppress the ger, this class challenges the easy assumptions we make when we look only at the outside and ignore the unseen storm within.

The Torah does not deny struggle—it redefines how we respond to it. “Because you were strangers in Egypt” is not a license to toughen others up; it is a command to soften. Through powerful stories and Chazal’s piercing insights, this class confronts a dangerous trap: turning our own suffering into a measuring stick for others. If you’ve ever thought, “I had it harder—so why can’t they handle this?” this shiur asks you to pause, rethink, and transform your past pain into empathy rather than judgment. This is not a feel-good message—it’s a demanding one. And it may change how you look at the people closest to you.

Parashat Mishpatim opens with a surprise. The Torah’s first case of civil law is not murder or assault, but a thief who cannot repay what he stole — an eved Ivri, placed by Beit Din not into a cell, but into a Jewish home. In a country where nearly two million people sit behind bars and recidivism remains stubbornly high, the Torah offers a radically different model of justice. Instead of warehousing criminals, Mishpatim asks a far more demanding question: what does it take to actually repair a broken human being?

In this mornings class, we contrast the modern prison system — built around deterrence and incapacitation — with the Torah’s deeply counterintuitive approach to rehabilitation. Drawing on Chazal, Ramban, and a penetrating insight from Rav Frand, we explore how dignity, responsibility, emotional attachment, and even carefully measured pain are used not to crush the sinner, but to awaken conscience and restore sensitivity. Mishpatim becomes a laboratory for moral repair, challenging us to rethink punishment, ownership, and what it truly means to take something that belongs to another person.

Parashat Mishpatim is where the Torah moves from revelation to responsibility. After the thunder of Sinai, the Torah turns to contracts, damages, accountability, and justice — not as social convenience, but as spiritual necessity. According to the Zohar, these laws are the mechanisms through which balance is restored in the world, and through which souls repair what was left unfinished. Mishpatim is not only about how people live together; it is about why souls sometimes must return again.

This morning’s class weaves the Zohar’s teachings on gilgul neshamot together with a powerful true story from the world of Telz and London, as told by Rabbi Hanoch Teller. It is a story of misunderstandings carried for decades, of grievances left unresolved, and of how Heaven orchestrates encounters so that accounts can finally be closed. The message is both sobering and hopeful: what we fail to repair may follow us — but what we choose to repair now can change everything.

Judaism cannot be lived from a distance. It is not a religion of spectators, summaries, or spiritual drive-bys. In this morning’s Breakfast and a Class on Parashat Yitro, we explored why Torah only truly takes root when it is lived immersively—through consistency, community, and presence. Drawing on a powerful teaching of the Kotzker Rebbe, we reframed the warning at Har Sinai—“do not touch the edge of the mountain”—as a challenge to avoid superficial engagement and instead climb fully, wholeheartedly, into avodat HaShem.

The class weaves together classical sources, a vivid Hasidic story about Rav Simcha Bunim of Peshischa, and a living contemporary example: a group of women who have been learning Torah together every morning for six straight years, culminating in a recent siyum. At its heart, this episode is about the courage to show up daily, the role of simcha in sustaining spiritual growth, and the quiet power of being “all in.” Not touching the edge—but climbing the mountain.

Kayin Returns to Sinai: Yitro and the Long Road to Techiyat HaMetim is not a historical class—it is an exploration of why revelation itself had to wait. Why does the parashah of Matan Torah bear the name of Yitro? What does reincarnation, brotherhood, gratitude, and resurrection have to do with standing at Sinai? Drawing on Chazal, the Arizal, the Zera Shimshon, and classic mefarshim, this class traces the long spiritual journey from the first murder in history to the moment Torah could finally descend.

Through Yitro’s arrival, the repair of Kayin and Hevel begins, emunah finds its final home after the splitting of the sea, and techiyat ha-metim emerges not only as an end-of-days belief, but as a way a Jew is meant to live every morning. This is a class about hearing and moving, healing old fractures, and living with gratitude for life returned. Join us for a thoughtful, source-based journey that reframes Sinai—and our own lives—through the lens of repair, humility, and resurrection.

Why does the parashah of Matan Torah begin not with thunder and lightning, but with Yitro — a non-Jew, an outsider, a man who looks at Moshe Rabbeinu and says, “You’re doing this wrong”? Drawing on the Ohr HaChaim and insights highlighted by Rabbi Frand, this class reframes a foundational assumption: the Jewish people were not chosen for brilliance, and Torah is not acquired by raw intelligence. Yitro’s advice before Sinai teaches that wisdom exists everywhere, but Torah is given as an act of Divine love — and it belongs to those willing to work for it.

From Moshe’s forty days without food or water, to Rashi’s sharp critique in Parashat Devarim, to the quiet heroism of boys who stay in shul before and after tefillah pushing themselves to learn, and women waking early each morning to study together on the phone, this shiur explores what truly creates Torah greatness. Not genius, but effort. Not talent, but shvitz. In a world of comfort and convenience, Yitro comes before Sinai to remind us: Torah is not inherited by the smartest in the room — it is earned by those who show up, struggle explains, and refuse to walk away.

Why is the parashah of Matan Torah named after Yitro — a convert, a former priest of idolatry, a man who crossed a desert because he heard something? In this class, we explore what Yitro truly heard: not only the miracle of Keri‘at Yam Suf, but also the chilling appearance of Amalek immediately afterward. We confront a sharp question from the Gemara — that converts are not accepted when the Jewish people are “on top” — and discover that Yitro’s geirut was forged not in triumph alone, but in the willingness to join a people who are loved by HaShem and hated by Amalek at the same time.

From Pharaoh’s palace to the Black Sea in 1942, this shiur traces the unbroken line of antisemitism through history — from Amalek in the desert to the tragedy of the Struma — and asks what it means to hear HaShem’s message in a world of both miracles and massacres. Yitro teaches us that faith is not built by wonders alone, but by choosing to listen, to move, and to live among people who refuse to be cooled by hatred. The question this class leaves us with is deeply personal: in the face of history’s cold splash, are we Amalek-Jews or Yitro-Jews?

What’s With Yitro and Elokim?

In this morning’s class we looked at a small nuance in the opening pesukim of Parashat Yitro that changes the whole way we see Yitro, Amalek, and even our own lives. Why does the Torah say that Yitro heard “all that Elokim did for Moshe and for Israel,” but then in the very same pasuk switch to “for HaShem took Israel out of Egypt”? Why are Yitro’s korbanot described as “to Elokim,” when almost everywhere else in the Torah korbanot are tied to Shem Havaya? From there we traced Yitro’s journey: how he sees midah keneged midah at Yam Suf, how he understands the frightening precision of din in Moshe’s life, and how, as a gilgul of Kayin who once said “ein din ve’ein dayan,” he comes back into the world specifically to fix that mistake by declaring “atah yadati” and helping Moshe build a system of justice “lifnei haElokim.”

We then asked: if Yitro is so moved by Divine justice, why is the war with Amalek the final piece that pushes him to convert? The answer takes us into the tension between a world where HaShem can drown Egypt in a moment, and a world where Amalek still walks around attacking the weak and “cooling off” emunah. We spoke about Rabbi Akiva’s mashal of wheat and bread, the unfinished world that needs human partners, and the quiet places where Shekhinah rests — at a simple table “lifnei haElokim,” where people choose justice, chesed, and responsibility. The class closes with three very practical “Yitro moves” for the week: learning to see din in our own lives, accepting that HaShem’s expectations of us change as we grow, and stepping up as partners in a world that He deliberately left unfinished.

What happens when Torah has no room? When the chairs are gone, the tables are filled, and the beit midrash is reduced to a corner, a stairwell, or a crowded room? This morning's breakfast and a class was born out of such a moment. Following yesterday morning when a Bar Mitzvah celebration displaced the usual learning space, men and boys gathered wherever they could—standing shoulder to shoulder, sitting in stairwells, Gemarot balanced on knees, learning without comfort or convenience. And in that moment, the question became unavoidable: what does it really mean to support Torah?

In Parashat Beshalach, the Torah describes bitter water that could not be drunk—until Moshe is shown an eitz, a piece of wood, and casts it into the water. Chazal teach that mayim is Torah. The Chatam Sofer explains that Torah can exist, and yet feel bitter, when it is not upheld, supported, and entered into by those around it. Drawing on the teachings of the Chatam Sofer, Rabbi Asher Weiss, and lived experiences—from a crowded synagogue to clandestine Torah learning under Soviet oppression—this class explores a demanding truth: Torah cannot survive on learning alone. It needs people willing to make space for it, even when there is none.

In Parashat Beshalach, Am Yisrael receives the Ma’an—daily sustenance from Heaven that could not be stored, hoarded, or controlled. Each morning required fresh faith. The Ma’an was not only food; it was a discipline. It trained a generation to live one day at a time, to trust that the same Hashem who provided today would provide again tomorrow. In a world obsessed with planning, stockpiling, and securing the future, the Torah introduces a radically different model of parnassah—one built on trust rather than anxiety.

In this morning’s breakfast and a class, we explore the Ma’an as a timeless lesson in bitachon, and how it shapes our relationship to work, worry, and Shabbat. Woven into the discussion is a personal reflection inspired by my father, whose yahrzeit falls this week, and who constantly reminded us not to live burdened by tomorrow’s fears. The Ma’an teaches us that faith is not theoretical—it is lived daily, quietly, and faithfully. Not by knowing what will be, but by trusting Who is taking care of us now.

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If you’d like, I can tighten it further for Apple Podcasts length, or soften it slightly for a broader audience—without diluting the message.