Built For Greatness

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What do you see when you look in the mirror? Not what others think—what do you actually see?

That question hit the room immediately.

Over Pesach, I recorded a lecture by Rabbi Shlomo Landau, Director of Mentorship at Olami, for TorahAnytime. It wasn’t something I planned to highlight, but sitting in the Jewish Heritage Center's makeshift shul at the Princeton Marriott at Forrestal, it was obvious this needed to be shared—not because it was polished, but because it was well beyond any standard d’var Torah.

It began with a real conversation: a young woman came in convinced her life wasn’t going anywhere—no success, no direction, no future. She saw herself as average at best, maybe less. There was no argument, just a simple response: what you’re seeing isn’t what I see. Where she saw failure, there was someone with real ability and a future waiting to be built.

The focus turned to the room with a simple question: when we look in the mirror, what do we see—someone fine, someone okay, or someone truly great? It wasn’t a passing thought; it stayed with everyone there.

A moment from Pesukei D’zimrah stood out—something said thousands of times, but suddenly heard differently. We describe Hashem’s greatness in terms of power, strength, and control—but the highest expression is the ability to give strength to others, to make someone else greater.

That idea didn’t stop there.

It reached a major conference of Israeli school leaders, reshaping how success in education was being discussed—not just teaching, but ensuring that every student leaves stronger. From there, it reached the Ministry of Education, where those words ended up on desks at the highest levels. If you don’t define your mission, you can’t accomplish it.

Attention then turned to a group almost no one notices—the volunteers who maintain Hatzalah ambulances. The ones cleaning, stocking, and fueling in the middle of the night so others can respond without hesitation. No recognition. No spotlight. The message was clear: this is greatness. Because when seconds matter—sometimes 30 to 60 seconds can mean the difference between life and death—you make that response possible. You make everyone else’s greatness possible.

The next day, their internal system message changed. Every submission came back with the same reminder: if you want to be great, make others great.

You could feel it in the room—not excitement, but focus.

The conversation then moved to a deeper question: if you had one chance to speak to someone who has never experienced Judaism, what would you say? The answer—tell them who they are. Not just a body, but a neshamah, a piece of Hashem.

Dovid HaMelech, looking up at the vast night sky, came to mind, asking the question every person eventually asks: do I even matter?

The answer is yes. A person carries something greater than all of it.

That became real through a story. A woman taken hostage from Kibbutz Re’im, deep in Gaza, confronted the question of identity—not Israeli, not a label, but a Jew. In that moment, everything shifted.

There was also the story of a man who had walked away from being Jewish, convinced it was behind him—until years later, at a Seder, he was handed a Haggadah, his own—the one he himself had given away. In that moment, it was clear: you don’t walk away from who you are.

It came down to something simple.

At the Seder, the question went around the table: what are you thankful for? The answers came—family, children, yeshivah, life. And then a simple answer:

Thank You, Hashem, that I am a Jew.

By this point, the message had widened.

Yes, we are capable of greatness as individuals. But we are part of something larger—klal Yisrael. That collective greatness goes beyond what any one person can achieve alone. Even among highly successful individuals, when asked what they are most proud of, the answer often comes back the same: being part of klal Yisrael.

The talk ended with a story that said it all: a quiet shul preparing to celebrate a new Sefer Torah, yet no one was there—empty and waiting. Then, at the moment of doubt, people began to walk in, one by one, not coordinated or planned, simply showing up—because no Jew stands alone.

We are built for greatness—not only in what we become, but in what we bring out of each other. The only question is whether we choose to live that way.

By Shabsie Saphirstein