Rabbi Dovid Goldwasser

He Who Cleans

Once, a group of men arrived at the home of the great tzaddik, the Baba Sali zt”l, revered by young and old alike, a renowned Sephardic sage. An entourage of cars pulled up in front of his house, and out stepped men dressed in dark suits, somber and serious. Their beards had begun to grow, a sign of mourning. They approached the Baba Sali and explained their tragic situation.

Their son, their brother—a member of their family—was an Israeli soldier who had gone on a mission that failed. He never returned. The army had called to deliver the devastating news: their loved one was missing in action, presumed dead. Heartbroken, the family began to sit shiva, mourning his loss.

The men sought comfort from the Baba Sali. As he listened, he began to rock his head back and forth, muttering words that were difficult to understand. “Shall he who cleans, not be clean? Shall he who cleans, not be clean?” His words were a mixture of Hebrew and Arabic, making it even harder for them to grasp his meaning. They could barely make out what he was saying.

Confused, the family thought that perhaps the Baba Sali didn’t understand them or was in a different state of mind. Eventually, the entire entourage all got up and left, feeling unsettled and unsure.

About three weeks later, the same individuals returned to the Baba Sali’s home. But this time, everything was different. They were dressed in colorful, festive suits, clean-shaven, and smiling. They walked in, carrying boxes of fruit, candy, cakes and sodas, setting them on the table with joy. And with them, to their amazement, was the soldier they had mourned—their son, their brother, alive and well.

The soldier stood before the Baba Sali. Raising his eyes, the Baba Sali looked at him and asked, “Tell me, which special mitzvah do you do?”

The soldier, modest and humble, looked down. “I'm just an ordinary person, like anyone else. I don’t do anything special at all.”

But the Baba Sali insisted, “Please, tell me, which mitzvah do you do that is special?”

The soldier hesitated before finally answering. “On our army base, we have a small beit midrash, a little chapel. The soldiers come in and out, always in a hurry. Sometimes, during prayer, the books get thrown around. Every Friday afternoon, I go in, put everything in order, sweep the floors, wash the floors, and clean up.”

The Baba Sali then looked at everyone and said, “Shall he who cleans, not be clean? Shall he who cleans, not be clean?”

In that moment, they understood. Understood very well. This soldier’s simple act of devotion had protected him, guiding him safely back to his family.

“Shall he who cleans, not be clean?”

Rebbetzin Slovie Jungreis-Wolff

Tears for You

As we approach Tisha B’av, we prepare our lamentations, our day of fasting, our mourning, our Kinnot. But what will make this year different from all the others? When the day ends and the sun sets, how will we be transformed from when the sun rose at morning?

On Tisha B’av, the echoing words of Yirmiyahu HaNavi reverberate. He describes how Rachel Imeinu went to plead for the children of Israel after Avraham, Yitzchak, Yaakov, and Moshe Rabbeinu had all begged Hashem for mercy, but were met with silence. Rachel approached Hashem and cried, as we are told, “Kol b’Ramah nishma”—a voice is heard on High, the voice and cry of Rachel Imeinu (Yirmiyah 31:15). In response, Hashem said, “Refrain your voice from weeping, and your eyes from tears, for your work will be rewarded.”

What was it that Rachel did that pierced the heavens, which left even the greatest forefathers and leaders unanswered? Understanding her merit might help us, too, pierce the heavens and bring redemption for Am Yisrael.

Rachel Imeinu had a difficult life. Think of her wedding night. Instead of Rachel walking down to the chuppah, she gave the simanim (signs) to her sister, Leah, and watched as Leah opened the wedding gifts meant for her. Rachel struggled to conceive and cried out, “Give me children, or I shall die.” Eventually, she gave her life in childbirth, naming her son Ben-Oni (son of my sorrow), but Yaakov called him Binyamin (son of my right hand). Rachel was buried on the roadside, sacrificing the chance to be buried with the Patriarchs and Matriarchs.

Rachel saw her son, Yosef, suffer. His brothers couldn’t speak peaceably to him, they threw him into a pit, sold him into slavery, and he ended up in Egypt. There, he faced further suffering and imprisonment. Rachel could have cried out, “Hashem, it’s too much, it’s not fair!” Yet, she used all her pain and tears for her children, for Am Yisrael. When we cry not for ourselves but for others, those are tears that bring redemption and salvation.

This is why Rachel was the one whose tears Hashem responded to. “Refrain from weeping,” Hashem said, “for your children will return.” Rachel’s selfless tears were for the sake of her children, not herself.

Some time ago, I spoke in a beautiful out-of-town community. After my talk, a select group of women asked to meet with me. These women had moved from places like New York, Lakewood, and Brooklyn to start anew. One young woman, despite the late hour, asked to speak. She shared her story.

Her two-year-old child was born with a painful condition, causing the child to wake up crying every hour throughout the night. The mother looked at me and asked, “What can you say? Here I am, alone, trying. Why was this child born with so much suffering?”

I told her I didn't have an answer. But when I looked around the room, I saw every woman crying with her, for her and her child. These are the tears of Rachel Imeinu, tears of redemption.

This Tisha B’av, let’s not cry just for ourselves. Cry for another, cry for Am Yisrael, cry for the divisions and pain among us. Let’s show Hashem that we care, and that the divisive stories of Kamtza and Bar Kamtza, the troubled chronicles of our past, are ancient history. We are here for each other.

Together, let us bring the ultimate redemption.

Rabbi YY Jacobson

You Are Chosen

Some time ago, I spent Shabbos in Detroit for a Partners in Torah Shabbaton, and during lunch, I had the opportunity to sit next to a friend and great philanthropist, Gary Torgow. Gary is the chairman of the board of directors of the Chemical Financial Corporation. As we chatted, Gary shared an incredible experience.

While sitting in his office on the 11^th floor of the bank, Gary received a call. “Is your name Gary Torgow?” the caller asked. “Are you the chairman of the bank?” Gary confirmed in the affirmative, and the man continued. “I’m a Jew living in Dublin, Ohio, and I have to tell you that I am embarrassed by you as a Jew. The Jewish people are embarrassed to have you as one of us. I know you were previously chairman of another bank, which you named after your grandfather. Your grandfather must be turning in his grave at the thought of you as his grandson.”

Gary was shocked. What had he done? So he inquired, his mind blank as to what it could be. “What happened?” he asked the fellow. “Maybe I can help.” “I’m 91 years old,” began the man, “and my wife passed away recently, and we have no children. Forty years ago, we built our home together with a $40,000 mortgage. I’ve never missed a payment in all those years. But after my wife died, I became disoriented and neglected my mortgage payments. When I realized this, I sent a check for the seven missed payments and an explanation. But your bank responded with a foreclosure notice.”

Gary asked for the man’s name and address and promised to look into it. And then he did, right away. He went down to the foreclosure department and inquired about the amount owed. It was $5,200. On the spot, Gary wrote a check for the full amount and asked them to cancel the foreclosure. However, he was told that the mortgage had been sold to a servicer, and there was nothing they could do.

Unless…

Gary overnighted a check for $5,200 to the servicer and instructed them to cancel the foreclosure. He then sent a note to the elderly man, informing him that his mortgage was fully paid, all penalties and fines were covered, and he owed nothing more. Gary wished him many more happy and healthy years in his home.

About a year later, Gary received a call from a lawyer in Dublin. The lawyer introduced himself and then asked, “Is your name Mr. Torgow? Do you remember a Jewish man from Dublin?” Gary, unsure where this call was headed, confirmed his identity, whereupon the lawyer continued. “The man passed away yesterday. He had no family or children, but he left his home to you in his will. He wanted it to be given to any charity of your choice.”

If Gary had been shocked before, this trumped all else. “How much is the house worth?” Gary asked the lawyer. “It’s valued at $850,000.” All Gary could remember was how much he had paid to cover the owed mortgage expenses and how much the house was now worth. Gary instructed the lawyer to take steps to sell the house and distribute the proceeds to various charities in Israel, including yeshivas and other organizations.

Before ending the call, the lawyer added, “I’m a Catholic man. I’ve read the Bible all my life and wondered why G-d chose the Jews as His people. I saw them as chronic complainers and rebels. But after witnessing this, I now understand why they are the Chosen People.”

Our calling and the power we have as Jews to make a significant impact, both within our community and beyond, is immeasurable. It’s a responsibility which not only inspire others far and wide, but even those near and dear.

We are Chosen, indeed we are.

You and me.

Rabbi Yoel Gold

Back Home

Years ago, my wife and I decided to celebrate our 10^th anniversary by driving down to Temecula, California, the capital of hot air balloons. We boarded a balloon, and within twenty minutes, we were witnessing the most magnificent view we’d ever seen. It felt like we were wrapped in a blanket of clouds, touching the sky as the sun rose. The ride was supposed to last only twenty minutes, but forty-five minutes later, we were still suspended in the air, hovering between heaven and earth. The pilot had made several failed attempts to land back at our starting point, but to no avail.

I started growing nervous. I turned to the pilot and asked, “Sir, how long before we land?” “I don’t know,” he replied. Startled, I asked, “What do you mean you don’t know? You’re the pilot!” He looked at me, as if the answer was obvious. “Rabbi, I have no control over the direction of the balloon. I can only control how high or low it goes by adding or stopping fuel. But we are completely dependent on the wind and the weather… Pray.”

I’ll never forget that feeling. As soon as the pilot said that, I thought to myself, “Oh no. What if we run out of fuel before the wind carries us back to where we took off? What if it carries us out of Temecula? What if we crash?” I was panicking inside, trying to put on a brave face for my wife. Fortunately, twenty-five minutes later, the wind carried us back to our starting point, and I’m here to tell the tale.

For almost two thousand years, we have been suspended in the air, waiting to return and land on the ground from which we took off. We’ve been subjected to so many storms along the way, and miraculously, we’re still floating, still in the air. We have survived, but we haven’t landed yet.

When Yeshaya HaNavi describes the vision of what that final landing might look like, he gives two possible examples: “K’av te’ufena u’k’yonah al arubosay’hem” (Yeshayah 60:8). “K’av te’ufena” means it might feel like a cloud being blown by the wind back to the Land of Israel. Or “K’yonah al arubosay’hem,” it might feel like a bird flying back to its nest.

If we wait passively, just going with the flow and adopting the attitude of whatever happens, happens, then when Moshiach comes, returning to Israel will feel like a cloud simply being blown by the wind in a certain direction. But if we wait actively—learning, carrying out kindness, davening, and asking ourselves the ultimate question: “What can I do to personally speed up the Geulah (redemption)?”—then when Moshiach comes, returning to Israel will feel like a bird returning to its nest, finally coming home.

May it be soon in our day.

Rabbi Yaakov Asher Sinclair

Love For Free

It’s very difficult not to see ourselves as the center of the world. It’s easy to think, “Shema Yisrael Hashem Elokeinu… Ani Echad—Hear O Israel, Hashem is our G-d… I am one.” Yes, there is a G-d in the world, but I am the center of my own universe. And if it’s my universe, my world, then everything revolves around me—you’re driving my Ferrari, you’re wearing my Zegna suit, you’re walking around in my Gucci shoes, you’re breathing my air.

The first Beis HaMikdash, the First Holy Temple, was destroyed because of the three cardinal sins: murder, immorality, and idolatry. It lay in ruins for seventy years until those sins were corrected, and then it was rebuilt. The Second Temple, however, was destroyed because of sinat chinam—baseless hatred, the dislike of the unlike. We’re still awaiting its rebuilding, nearly two thousand years later.

The opposite of sinat chinam is ahavat chinam—loving others without cause, simply because they are made in the image of G-d. It’s easy to love and respect someone who is just like you. But can you respect someone who is completely different from you? Can you see the image of G-d in them?

Can you respect someone who is greater than you? Can you respect someone who is smaller? Can you respect someone who is more religious than you? Less religious than you? Different from you? Can you respect the soul inside, even when the outside repels you?

Every person is priceless. A smile says, “You matter.” A hello says, “I noticed you.” A nod says, “You’re in my world. You haven't fallen off my radar. I haven’t canceled you.” I respect you because you have a neshama, a soul. And even when you make choices I wouldn’t make, even when you’re wrong, I still love you. I see the pure neshama inside you.

I love you for free.

Rav Yoel Teitelbaum, the Satmar Rebbe zt”l, was well-known as a fierce defender of Jewish values. What was probably less known, however, was that he had a heart of gold. He was an easy touch, as they say. People would pour their hearts out to him, and he would give to them unstintingly.

One day, a well-known, albeit not widely known, con man managed to weasel his way in to see R’ Yoel. This con artist poured out a tale of woe: his wife had severe mental health issues and was constantly in and out of the hospital; his son was struggling and penniless; and he had just been evicted from his apartment. One tragic story followed another, until R’ Yoel sat there, tears pouring out of his eyes.

Moved by the man’s plight, R’ Yoel reached into his pockets, pulled out all the money he had, and said, “Take it, take it, take the money! Go and make sure your wife is okay, get your son a proper apartment. Go, go!” He gave the man a big blessing as he handed over the money.

As the con man was leaving, in walked the Rebbetzin, catching sight of him. “Who was that?” she asked R’ Yoel. “What was he doing here?”

“My dear wife,” R’ Yoel replied, “you have no idea of the tale of sorrows I just heard from this poor man.” He began to recount the story of the man’s wife, his son, and their desperate situation.

But the Rebbetzin interrupted. “You must be joking. That man doesn’t have a wife. He’s not married! The whole story is a lie—it’s completely untrue.”

R’ Yoel paused for a moment, taking in what his wife had said. Then, with a gentle smile, he reacted, “Ahh, Baruch Hashem! None of it’s true.”

That’s real ahavas yisrael.

That’s true love. For free. Actually, more than free. Even better.