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When Rav Chaim Shmulevitz was a young man, he once visited his uncle, Rav Avraham Yoffen. One evening in the beis medrash, he asked a simple question: “Who is the best student in the yeshivah?”
Rav Yoffen began pointing out different talmidim. One had the sharpest mind. Another had incredible recall. A third excelled in depth, while a fourth had remarkable breadth.
“So which one is the best?” Rav Chaim pressed. “The best?” his uncle smiled. “None of them.” Confused, Rav Chaim waited as his uncle pointed to a quiet bochur sitting in the back.
“Do you see him? He is the best. He is the greatest mevakeish—the one who wants the most. He burns with a desire for Torah and growth. He would sit there all night if I let him. The one who truly wants, that is the greatest student.”
That young man, we are told, was none other than Yaakov Yisrael Kanievsky, the Steipler Gaon zt’l.
This idea is captured in the opening of Parshas Tzav: “Esh tamid tukad al hamizbe’ach, lo tichbeh”—a constant fire shall burn on the altar; it shall not be extinguished. The Torah of the olah is the Torah of elevation, of a fire that never goes out.
The fire is not only about what we do, it is about what burns inside us.
The great tzaddik Rebbe Shlomo of Karlin zy’a lived this idea. He taught that even when one is not actively learning, the inner fire must remain. Like a flame that constantly reaches upward, a Jew is meant to carry a quiet, steady yearning—to grow, to connect, to rise. And yet, that flame is anchored. It is held by the wick, grounded in reality, in consistency, in the day-to-day. True growth is not a burst that fades, but a fire that lasts “all night until morning.”
However, there are moments in life when that fire is tested.
The Bobover Rebbe zy’a, Rebbe Shlomo Halberstam, rebuilt an entire world after the devastation of the Holocaust. His Sedarim on Pesach night were legendary, filled with song, joy, and a deep sense of dignity and renewal.
But in the final year of his life, everything was different. Weak and confined to a wheelchair, unable to eat or drink, he could no longer perform the mitzvos of the Seder. His family gathered around him, heartbroken. The contrast to years past was overwhelming. Some began to cry.
The Rebbe looked up and said softly:
“My dear children, it’s true—I cannot make Kiddush. I cannot drink the four cups or eat the matzah. But I thank Hashem for giving me another year to experience the freedom of Yetziyas Mitzrayim. Teiyereh Yidden, sweet friends and family, let us begin the Seder.”
In that moment, the fire was still burning.
Not the fire of perfect performance, but the fire of desire. Of gratitude. Of connection.
Rav Soloveitchik zt’l describes the Seder not as an intellectual exercise, but as an experience, a night of encounter. A moment where a person meets Hashem, perhaps for the first time.
Pesach is not just about the details—the preparations, the plans, even the mitzvos themselves. It is about something deeper. It is about the fire.
It is about remembering that beneath everything, this night is a rendezvous—a meeting between us and Hashem. A chance to rediscover who we are, where we come from, and what it means to be free. We relive the journey from constriction to redemption, from darkness to light. And in doing so, we reignite something within ourselves.
This year, not everything may feel perfect. There are challenges, distractions, and even heaviness. There is war at home. There is running for a miklat and red alerts at all times of the day and night. It is far from perfect.
But the message of the esh tamid remains:
The greatest thing is not perfection. It is not even accomplishment. It is being a mevakeish.
It is the quiet, steady fire of someone who wants—who longs—to grow, to connect, to come closer. So wherever we find ourselves, and whatever our Seder looks like, we can hold onto that fire. We can thank Hashem for another opportunity to begin again.
And with that, we can say:
Teiyereh Yidden—let us begin the Seder.
Gut Shabbos and Chag Kasher V'Sameach,
Rabbi Nachbar
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