BH Rabban Gamliel II Partner Prayer Trek

🔥 “Lengthening the Breath of the Nostrils” (LeHa’arikh Af)

In Hebrew, the phrase “LeHa’arikh Af” (להאריך אף) literally means to extend the breath of the nose—but in biblical and mystical language, it is much more than that.

📖 Biblical Roots

• In the Torah, the “nose” (af) is often a metaphor for anger or divine judgment (e.g., “God’s nostrils flared with anger”).

• To “lengthen the nostrils” means to delay anger, to show patience, mercy, and restraint—a trait attributed to God Himself:

“Erech Apayim” – “slow to anger” (Exodus 34:6)

So when the Kabbalists say that Rabban Gamliel had the ability to lengthen the nostrils, they are saying something astonishing:

➡️ Through his spiritual purity and deep prayer, he became a vessel through which divine patience flowed into the world.

✨ The Kabbalistic Perspective

In Sha’arei Orah (The Gates of Light), a foundational Kabbalistic text by Rabbi Joseph Gikatilla, each divine Sefirah (emanation) channels a unique divine quality into the world. “Lengthening the nostrils” is connected with the Fourth Sefirah – Chesed (Lovingkindness) or sometimes Tiferet (Harmony/Compassion) depending on context.

What does this mean?

• Rabban Gamliel didn’t just pray to God.

He aligned himself so deeply with God’s own nature—particularly God’s patience and mercy—that he became a living channel for that force.

• His holiness wasn’t passive; it shielded others. Through his presence and prayer, he protected his generation from divine judgment, misfortune, and spiritual decline.

Exclusive EB partner prayer trek!!!!

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Peace In The Heart of The Storm

In the zechut of Sharone and Ezra. May HaShem help them have complete emuna and success in all their endevors with shalom.

Shalom is more than a word. It is more than the absence of war, more than quietude, more than a polite greeting. In the sacred language of Torah, shalom is wholeness, unity, and the vibrational signature of the Divine when the world is in alignment with its source. It is the deep breath after chaos, the healing after division, the integration after shattering.

Kabbalistically, shalom is the inner light of tikkun. The Zohar and writings of the Arizal reveal that creation emerged from divine light attempting to enter vessels. These vessels shattered—a cosmic breaking known as Shevirat HaKelim. This primordial fracture gave rise to a world of conflict, separation, and concealment. Tikkun, the process of spiritual repair, is the labor of drawing light back into vessels in a balanced, rectified way. That rectification is shalom.

In the sefirotic structure, Tiferet is often associated with shalom. Tiferet is beauty, harmony, and the unification of opposites—it harmonizes Chesed (lovingkindness) and Gevurah (discipline). When we live in Tiferet, we live in shalom: balancing our boundaries with our generosity, our rigor with our compassion. The Meor Einayim teaches that true unity is not uniformity, but the weaving together of contrast into a higher synthesis. Shalom is when diversity sings in tune.

The Baal Shem Tov expands this vision in the realm of the individual. He teaches that a person must make peace within themselves before they can bring peace to others. This means recognizing all parts of oneself—the holy and the struggling, the faithful and the fearful—and drawing them into compassionate relationship. It is precisely the act of embracing one’s own contradictions that makes space for the divine name to dwell. Just as God is One, we too are called to be one within ourselves.

This idea is echoed in the writings of Rabbeinu Yonah, who speaks of peace as a spiritual condition that arises when one ceases to flee from responsibility or to attack others out of insecurity. . When we cease fighting reality, we begin to live from a place of alignment, which is shalom.

But how do we attain this? Is shalom only for tzaddikim? Only for mystics?

The answer, blessedly, is no. Shalom is accessible. It begins in the small, faithful acts. Saying Modeh Ani upon waking, with gratitude. Speaking gently, even when you could be sharp. Taking ten conscious breaths before responding. Turning off the noise to listen to your own soul.

The Sefer Yesod Mora veSod HaTorah teaches that wisdom begins when we treat our own body, words, and actions with reverence. Peace begins not when everything is fixed, but when we regard life as holy even in its brokenness. The soul then finds its home in the body; the Divine name rests between our words.

And in the communal sense, shalom is the mitzvah of mitzvot. The Midrash says, "Great is peace, for all the commandments were given for the sake of peace." In halacha, we are even permitted to bend truth slightly to preserve shalom between people. This is not moral compromise—it is spiritual prioritization. Peace is not avoidance of conflict, but its gentle resolution in the light of love.

Yes, it is possible—though deeply paradoxical—to have shalom even in the midst of war. But we must understand shalom not merely as the absence of violence, but as a presence: a spiritual state, a rootedness in divine purpose, and a clarity of soul that does not depend on external calm. In Kabbalistic thought, shalom is not the negation of conflict but its transformation. The Zohar teaches that peace emerges from the tension of opposites—light and dark, mercy and judgment, right and left. The world is built on this dynamic balance. Tiferet, the sefirah of harmony, does not erase differences; it weaves them into something higher. In this sense, shalom can exist even when swords are drawn, if the heart holds purpose, faith, and the longing for wholeness.

Since October 7, 2023, Israel has been in a state of war—a rupture that touches every soul in the Land and in the diaspora. There is grief, fear, and righteous anger. And yet within this, many Israelis have reported an unprecedented unity, a return to prayer, a rekindling of soul-to-soul connection. This too is shalom: the quiet strength beneath the storm, the decision to hold each other rather than fall apart.

Kabbalah teaches that shalom is the final redemption. The name Yisrael, which contains the word "El" (God), also includes the word "sar" (struggle). To be a Jew is to wrestle—but never just for the sake of wrestling. We wrestle toward shalom. We limp, but we walk forward. We weep, but we build.

The blessing of the Kohanim ends with: "May God lift His face to you and give you shalom." Rashi, the sages, and the mystical texts interpret this to mean: "May your whole self be seen and loved, and may you dwell in wholeness."

When we bless someone with shalom, we are not just wishing them a peaceful day. We are invoking a current of divine light that integrates their soul, their body, their relationships, and their destiny. Shalom is not escape. It is full presence, tender strength, and the soft music of being aligned with the One who said, "Let there be light."

So may we become vessels for shalom. In our breath. In our choices. In our trembling prayers and daily walks. For as the sages say, the name of God is shalom, and every act of peace is a revelation of the Divine in this world.

In our choices. In our trembling prayers and daily walks. For as the sages say, the name of HaShem is shalom, and every act of peace is a revelation of the Divine in this world.

In the merit of the study of this book - the book of the Zohar - the Jewish People will leave the Exile in a merciful manner. (parashat Naso, 124b)

Studying Kabbalah is a huge source of merit that can bring all sorts of salvation to a person’s life.

If you want to sponsor to have me study in-depth Kabbalah from the Arizal or the Rashash in your merit and receive its blessings, especially for sustenance, children and health ❤️

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When the Limp Is the Blessing

In the zechut of Sharone and Ezra. May HaShem help them have complete emuna and success in all their endevors with shalom.

Jacob’s limp is not a footnote in his story—it is the hinge upon which his transformation turns. When he wrestles the mysterious figure at the riverbank, the Torah tells us that he is struck on the thigh and left limping as the sun rises. And it is precisely then, in the aftermath of struggle, that he is renamed Yisrael. This sequence is not incidental. The limp is the scar of becoming.

The name “Yisrael” is bestowed with a blessing: “for you have wrestled with God and with men and prevailed.” But what does it mean to prevail when you leave wounded? The Torah’s answer is: to prevail is not to emerge unscathed, but to emerge altered, awake, aligned with something higher. The limp is not a sign of defeat—it is the embodied reminder that something divine passed through. A man can be renamed only when he has walked through fire and emerged, not intact, but transformed.

In the Hebrew, the name “Yaakov” contains the root eikev, meaning heel. Jacob was named for his grasping at the heel of Esau—symbolic of one who seeks blessing from the bottom, through strategy, through survival. But Yisrael, the new name, contains within it Li Rosh—“I have a head”—signaling elevation, sovereignty, and spiritual clarity. Yet to reach the crown, one must first pass through the wound. The hip, struck by the angel, is close to the body's center of balance and fertility. This is not just a physical injury; it is symbolic of a shift in identity, a re-centering of the soul.

Kabbalistic teachings explain that Jacob’s limp marked the beginning of a transformation not only for him but for his descendants. The injury to the thigh alludes to future vulnerability, the exile of the Shechinah, the concealment of divine presence. But the very fact that Jacob continues to walk—even limping—is the essence of Israel: a people who struggle, suffer, and persist. The limp does not negate the blessing; it is the blessing.

In Chassidic thought, brokenness is not a weakness to be eradicated but a vessel to be sanctified. The Baal Shem Tov and Reb Nachman taught that it is through the cracks in the soul that light enters. The limp is thus a sacred fracture, one that opens Jacob to prayer, humility, and a new relationship with God. He no longer grasps at blessings by stealth; he now receives them face-to-face, by wrestling with truth and refusing to let go.

This shift is not merely personal. Jacob becomes Yisrael not when he defeats the angel, but when he demands meaning from the wound. “I will not let you go unless you bless me”—he asks for a name, for recognition, for a new path. And it is granted. From this moment forward, the people of Israel carry not only the name, but the memory of the limp. We are not defined by our perfection, but by our persistence. We do not ascend in straight lines, but in spirals of wrestling and return.

The limp is Jacob’s enduring inheritance to his children. It teaches us to walk with reverence, with awareness of our fragility and our strength. To be Yisrael is not to be unbroken, but to be faithful in our limping. To keep walking toward the light even when dawn feels far off. To remember that holiness often begins in the very place where we think we have fallen.

In the merit of the study of this book - the book of the Zohar - the Jewish People will leave the Exile in a merciful manner. (parashat Naso, 124b) Studying Kabbalah is a huge source of merit that can bring all sorts of salvation to a person’s life. If you want to sponsor to have me study in-depth Kabbalah from the Arizal or the Rashash in your merit and receive its blessings, especially for sustenance, children and health ❤️ https://www.emunabuilders.com/product-page/kabbalah-1-hour-study