This Shabbos, we read Parshat Lech Lecha. Hashem speaks to Avram, commanding him, “Go from your land, from your birthplace and from your father’s house to the land which I will show you.” There, He says, he will be made into a great nation. Avram and his wife, Sarai, accompanied by his nephew Lot, journey to the land of Canaan.

A famine forces him to depart for Egypt, where Sarai is taken to Pharaoh’s palace; Avram escapes death by presenting her as his sister. A plague prevents the king from touching her and eventually he sends the couple away with loads of gifts.

Back in the land of Canaan, Lot separates from Avram and settles in the evil city of Sodom, where he falls captive during war. Avram wins over the kings and redeems him. Hashem makes a covenant with Avram, in which He tells him about the future exile and promises him the Land of Israel.

Still childless, Avram marries a maidservant, Hagar. Hagar conceives, becomes insolent toward her mistress, and then flees. An angel convinces her to return. Ishmael is born. Hashem changes Avram’s name to Avraham  and Sarai’s to Sarah, and promises that a son will be born to them. Avraham is commanded to circumcise himself and his descendants. Avraham immediately complies.

The sages provide us with two possible timelines for when the Great Flood took place. According to Rabbi Eliezer, the rain began to fall on the 17th day of this month, in the 600th year of Noah’s life.  The Talmud explains that this was the natural time for rain to fall, but the sheer volume of the deluge and the fact that hot springs rose from the earth as well were supernatural. The Talmud concludes that the Jewish sages (as opposed to the wise men of the gentiles) sided with the tradition of Rabbi Eliezer.

After more than a year aboard the ark, Noah and the animals exited the ark on the 27th of Cheshvan.

It was after Abraham rescued his nephew that the King of Sodom thanked Abraham for liberating the other prisoners of war—the king’s soldiers and citizens—at the same time. The king offers Abraham the spoils of war and asks only to have his men back. Ten li hanefesh, he says. “Give me the people and take the possessions for yourself.”

Twenty-five years ago, I heard a powerful and passionate call by the Rebbe of blessed memory. It was Simchat Torah. He had appealed for charity to be given in the same heightened spirit.  Later, he explained his call to have been one of ten li hanefesh, which, literally, means “give me the soul.” It was a special moment, and what he was demanding of his followers was a genuine outpouring of soul, a sincere act of pure faith, beyond reason or issues of affordability. The Rebbe had called for a total, unconditional commitment.

The call, “Give me the soul,” still reverberates. And it applies to everything we do. We are all composites of body and soul. But more often than not, our physical selves get all the attention while our spiritual side is neglected. How many times do we hear Jews, especially young Jews, complaining that Judaism lacks spirituality; that their synagogues and temples are devoid of any real feeling or atmosphere of sanctity? And then we bemoan them trekking off to the Himalayas to find purpose, depth, and all the things we never gave them.

And G‑d calls out, Give me the soul! Give me back what is mine. Put some spirit back into Judaism. Enough with the Mickey Mouse routines and rituals, the song-and-dance gimmicks. Get beyond the external and the plastic. Give me some soul!

Let us heed the call, Ten li hanefesh— “Give me the soul.” Let us move beyond superficial Judaism to something deeper, more profound and more real, which will touch our own souls and inspire our children.

Cheshvan is the second month of the Jewish calendar counting from Rosh Hashanah. Cheshvan is the only month that does not have any holidays or special mitzvot. We are taught that it is “reserved” for the time of Moshiach, who will inaugurate the Third Temple in the month of Cheshvan.

Each morning at dawn, the Germans would lead us out of the camp for a day of hard labor that ended only at nightfall. Each pair of workers was given a huge saw and expected to cut its quota of logs. Because of the horrendous conditions in the camp and the starvation rations on which we were supposed to subsist, most of us could barely stand on our feet. But we sawed away, knowing that our lives depended upon it; anyone collapsing on the job or failing to meet his daily quota was killed on the spot, G‑d forbid.

One day, as I pulled and pushed the heavy saw with my partner, I was approached by a young woman from our work detail. The pallor of her face showed her to be in an extremely weak physical state. "Rebbe," she whispered to me, "do you have a knife?"

I immediately understood her intention and felt the great responsibility that rested upon me. "My daughter," I begged, concentrating all the love and conviction in my heart in the effort to dissuade her from her intended deed. "Do not take your own life. I know that your life is now a living hell, from which death seems a blessed release. But we must never lose hope. With G‑d's help, we will survive this ordeal and see better days."

But the woman seemed oblivious to my words. "A knife," she repeated. "I must have a knife. Now. Before it is too late."

At that moment, one of the German guards noticed our whispered conversation and approached us. "What did she say to you?" he demanded of me.

We both froze. Conversing during work was a grave transgression. Many camp inmates had been shot on the spot for far lesser crimes.

The woman was first to recover. "I asked him for a knife," she said. To my horror, she then addressed her request to the guard: "Give me a knife!"

The German, too, guessed her intention, and a devilish smile flickered on his lips. Doubtless he had seen the bodies of those who, out of desperation, threw themselves during the night on the electrified fence that surrounded the camp; but this would be a novel sight for him. Still smiling, he reached into his pocket and handed her a small knife.

Taking the knife, she hurried back to her workstation and bent over a small bundle of rags that she had placed on a log. Quickly unraveling the bundle, she took out a tiny infant. Before our astonished eyes, she swiftly and skillfully circumcised the week-old boy.

"Blessed are You, G‑d our G‑d, King of the Universe," she recited in a clear voice, "Who has sanctified us with His commandments and commanded us to enter him into the covenant of Abraham our Father."

Cradling the child in her arms, she soothed his cries. Then, she addressed the heavens: "Master of the Universe! Eight days ago, you gave me a child. I know that neither I nor he will long survive in this accursed place. But now, when you take him back, you will receive him as a complete Jew."

"Your knife," she said, handing the holy object back to the German. "Thank you”.