This week, we read two Torah portions: Matot and Masei. Moshe conveys the laws governing the annulment of vows to the heads of the tribes. War is waged against Midian, and the Torah gives a detailed account of the war spoils and how they were allocated.

The tribes of Reuven and Gad ask for the lands east of the Jordan as their portion, these being prime pastureland for their cattle. Moshe is initially angered by the request, but subsequently agrees on the condition that they first join, and lead the conquest in Israel.

The forty-two journeys and encampments of Israel are listed. The boundaries of the Promised Land are given, and cities of refuge are designated as havens for inadvertent murderers.

On Wednesday, we begin the month of Av. 

Av, literally means “father.” It is customary to add the name “Menachem,” which means “comforter” or “consoler”—so Menachem Av.

In this month, both Temples were destroyed and many other tragedies occurred. Yet our Father in heaven is there to comfort and console us.

Av includes a “low point” on the Jewish calendar—the Ninth of Av, the day of the sin of the spies, and the destruction of both the First and Second Temples in Jerusalem. But it also incorporates a “high point”: the 15th of Av, a day designated for finding one’s predestined soulmate, and one of the happiest days on the Jewish calendar.

A fellow was boasting about what a good citizen he was and what a refined, disciplined lifestyle he led. "I don't smoke, I don't drink, I don't gamble, I don't cheat on my wife, I am early to bed and early to rise, and I work hard all day and attend religious services faithfully." Very impressive, right? Then he added, "I've been like this for the last five years, but just you wait until they let me out of this place!"

Although prisons were not really part of the Jewish judicial system, there were occasions when individuals would have their freedom of movement curtailed. One such example was the City of Refuge. If a person was guilty of manslaughter (i.e., unintentional murder) the perpetrator would flee to one of the specially designated Cities of Refuge throughout Biblical Israel where he was given safe haven from the wrath of a would-be avenging relative of the victim.

The Torah tells us that his term of exile would end with the death of the Kohen Gadol, the High Priest. The Talmud tells of an interesting practice that developed. The mother of the Kohen Gadol at the time would make a point of bringing gifts of food to those exiled so that they should not pray for the early demise of her son, to which their own freedom was linked.

Now this is very strange. Here is a man who, though not a murderer, is not entirely innocent of any negligence either. The rabbis teach that G‑d does not allow misfortune to befall the righteous. If this person caused a loss of life, we can safely assume that he is less than righteous. Opposite him stands the High Priest of Israel, noble, aristocratic and, arguably, the holiest Jew alive. Of the entire nation, he alone had the awesome responsibility and privilege of entering the inner sanctum of the Holy Temple, the "Holy of Holies," on the holy day of Yom Kippur. Do we really have reason to fear that the prayers of this morally tainted prisoner will have such a negative effect on the revered and exalted High Priest, to the extent that the Kohen Gadol may die? And his poor mother has to go and shlep food parcels to distant cities to soften up the prisoner so he should go easy in his prayers so that her holy son may live? Does this make sense?

But such is the power of prayer—the prayer of any individual, noble or ordinary, righteous or even sinful. 

Of course, there are no guarantees. Otherwise, I suppose, Shuls around the world would be overflowing daily. But we do believe fervently in the power of prayer. And though, ideally, we pray in Hebrew and with a congregation, the most important ingredient for our prayers to be successful is sincerity. "G‑d wants the heart," we are taught. The language and the setting are secondary to the genuineness of our prayers. Nothing can be more genuine than a tear shed in prayer.

The Gemara teaches us that the Temples were destroyed due to the sin of baseless hatred. To counter that, it is obvious that the way to rebuild the third Temple and bring Moshiach is by having “baseless” love. This means loving every Jew no matter if you know them, appreciate them or value them. Just love them simply because they are your Jewish brother or sister. 

In the summer of 1990, I broke my right arm while playing with friends. It was more or less inconsequential to the people around me, but to 6-year-old me, it was devastating. I couldn’t swim with my cast, I couldn’t play ball with my friends—my summer was virtually ruined.

One Sunday, my parents took me to visit the Rebbe—Rabbi Menachem M. Schneerson, of righteous memory. The Rebbe would greet visitors (who often waited in line for hours) with a few words of blessing, handing them a dollar bill to be given to charity, because, as the Rebbe explained, “when two Jews meet, it should benefit a third.”

I walked by with my arm in its cast, expecting the same dollar and blessing that thousands of others received that day. But the Rebbe looked at me as though I was the only person in the world, the only person who mattered. The Rebbe handed me a second dollar and blessed me with a refuah shleimah, a speedy recovery.

This was the summer of 1990. The Gulf War was about to begin, and the safety of the people in Israel was on everyone’s mind, especially the Rebbe, to whom the world turned for blessings and advice. Communism was crumbling, and an enormous wave of immigration from behind the Iron Curtain was beginning. The Rebbe was sending emissaries to the countries of the Eastern Bloc to create what is now the network of Chabad-Lubavitch institutions that continues to be the premier resource for Jews throughout the region. Hundreds of thousands if not millions of Jews looked to the Rebbe for guidance.

And the Rebbe looked at a little 6-year-old girl and realized that to her, what mattered was not geopolitics or regime change or refugee rehabilitation. What mattered to her was her broken arm. And at that moment, that was all that mattered to the Rebbe as well.

It has been 32 years since that encounter. Today, I am privileged to direct Chabad of Hewlett with my husband, Rabbi Nochem Tenenboim. From its beginnings in our living room and then in a small storefront, our community has grown exponentially. But the Rebbe’s care for the individual, which he demonstrated to me that summer day, continues to be the guiding force behind our philosophy.

Yes, it’s wonderful to coordinate large-scale community events, it’s breathtaking to greet the growing crowds at the door during the High Holidays, and we’re excited for the opening of the new and expanded community center.

But what matters most is the elderly woman alone at home who needs someone to call her and make sure she’s OK. What matters is the young mother who could use some home-cooked meals as she recovers from bringing new life into the world. What matters is the small child who needs words of encouragement that one day, it will all be better.

It’s easy to get caught up in the big-picture events that are happening today; after all, we’re living in a time that our grandchildren will read about in history books. War, disease and economic uncertainty seem to make everything else pale in comparison. But we can’t let that happen. Even as we work towards making the entire world a better, healthier, more peaceful place, we must never lose sight of the individual.

The Rebbe never did.

Rivkie Tenenboim