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One of the enduring challenges in communal life is not a dug michayeh lack of vision, but a lack of clarity. We often agree on ideals while remaining uncertain about responsibilities. Nowhere is this more visible than in the experience of shluchim sent to yeshivos—individuals tasked with carrying both presence and purpose, example and initiative.

The stated expectation is usually simple: be there. Be in the zaal. Learn with the bachurim. Spend time, model consistency, and embody what it means to live a life of Torah and Chassidus. This is not a small request. To be a dugma chaya—a living example—demands discipline, visibility, and reliability.

And then comes the second request.

“Could you run a mivtza?”

The request is understandable. Mivtza’im work. They motivate. They energize. They push bachurim to grow beyond habit and comfort, to engage more deeply with their Yiddishkeit and Chassidishkeit. When done properly, they create momentum that lingers long after the charts come down and the prizes are distributed. Many shluchim love this work precisely because they see its impact.

But this is where the tension begins.

A mivtza is not an afternoon project. It requires planning, fundraising, coordination, follow-up, and emotional investment. It demands time—time that inevitably comes from somewhere. When shluchim commit to this work, they do so knowing that something else will be strained.

Then comes the next conversation.

“Why aren’t you showing up on time?”

And when the response is honest—because it is impossible to do everything well at once—the answer shifts.

“Fine. Just focus on showing up.”

So they do.

Until the next request.

“Now that you’re here consistently… could you run another mivtza?”

And so the cycle repeats.

This is not a question of effort or willingness. It is a question of coherence. One cannot ask for total presence and total output simultaneously without acknowledging the cost of each. To demand both, without prioritization, is to place shluchim in a position where they are always falling short—no matter how much they give.

What is needed is not criticism, but clarity.

If the priority is presence, then that must be protected and valued, even when it comes at the expense of programs. If the priority is initiative, then space must be created for it, with realistic expectations about time and visibility. Either path is legitimate. Both together, without structure, are unsustainable.

Communities thrive not when expectations are high, but when they are honest. Leadership is not merely about asking for results; it is about aligning vision with reality. When words and actions diverge, even the most dedicated people are left confused rather than inspired.

Shluchim are ready to give. They already are. The question is not whether they care—but whether they are being asked, clearly and consistently, what they are meant to build.

Clarity does not limit growth. It enables it.

And without it, even the best intentions remain trapped in an endless loop.