Whose Torah Is It Anyway?
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what we’re doing here.
Some Torahs you write down. Some you sing. And some you only hear when the world is quiet enough to listen.
Dearest chevra,
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what we’re doing here.
These teachings from Reb Shlomo—these Torahs, stories, melodies, and sparks—they don’t belong to me. They never did. And I’m not writing a book. That’s not the plan. I’m just trying to get these words down while we still can.
But someone might write it. Maybe not now, maybe not soon. Maybe it’s meant for someone else, someone younger, someone not even born yet. But if they go looking, I want them to find something real. I want there to be a record.
That’s why this Substack exists.
I hope you’ll go back through the archives. Read the early posts. There are things in there that haven’t been shared in a long time, some maybe never before. If you know of Torahs that haven’t been published, or if you’re sitting on recordings or notes, please be in touch.
And if something feels off—tell me. I’d rather hear your honest critique than assume I’m doing it right. This isn’t about ego. It’s about doing right by the light we’ve been given.
Like Reb Shlomo said: “My Torah belongs to the whole world.” That means anyone can carry it forward—Shlomo Katz, Neshamale, me, you, your children.
And maybe, just maybe, we’ll get to learn it all again, together, with the Meshiach.
With love and open hands,
SAJ
P.S. Thinking of unsubscribing? Totally cool. Just do me one last chesed—send it to a friend first. Maybe they’re weird enough to get hooked.
You know, sweetest friends, sometimes the Master of the world sends down a teaching and it lands on a mountaintop. And sometimes it lands in a gutter. But if your heart is broken enough, and open enough, you’ll find it. You might be washing dishes. You might be walking through an airport. And suddenly—bam!—you’ll hear something that sounds like it was waiting for you since before you were born.
That’s what these Torahs are. They’re little pieces of forever, disguised as old cassette tapes, forgotten stories, and holy mistakes. Don’t try to understand it all. Just sing it. Just cry a little. That’s already fixing the world.—Reb Shlomo (kind of)