Joke: A Jew and an Arab go into a bakery.

A Jew and an Arab go into a bakery. The Arab steals 3 pastries and puts them in his pocket. He says to the Jew, "See how good I am? The owner didn't see anything!"

 

The Jew says to the Arab, "I am going to show you there is nobody better than a Jew." He goes to the owner and says, "Give me a pastry and I will show you a magic trick.''

 

Intrigued, the owner accepts and give him a pastry. The Jew swallows it and ask for another one. The owner gives him another one. Then the Jew asks for another one and swallows it just the same.

 

The owner is starting to wonder where the magic trick is and says, "What did you do with the pastry? Are you trying to fool me?"

 

The Jew answers, "Look in the Arab's pocket."

Joke - his entire life he never gave a thing

Issy and David friends fir many years always together
Every Sunday went fishing together

One Sunday the water got very rocky and turned over the boat.

David starts to swim to shore and hears Issy calling fir hell turns around sees Issy struggling to stay afloat
David remembers Issy doesn't know how to swim
He swims towards Issy and Issy starts going under and up
David says give me your hand Issy give me your hand ill save you
But he drowns

During shiva David is at the home if the widow
And she asks what happened that day
David tells over
She replies oy you should have given him your hand
Don't you know his entire life he never gave a thing

Story: Buying a Miracle

A little girl went to her bedroom and pulled a glass jelly jar from its hiding place in the closet. She poured the change out on the floor and counted it carefully. Three times, even. The total had to be exactly perfect. No chance here for mistakes.

Carefully placing the coins back in the jar and twisting on the cap, she slipped out the back door and made her way 6 blocks to Rexall's Drug Store with the big red Indian Chief sign above the door.

She waited patiently for the pharmacist to give her some attention but he was too busy at this moment.

Tess twisted her feet to make a scuffing noise.

Nothing.

She cleared her throat with the most disgusting sound she could muster

No good.

Finally she took a quarter from her jar and banged it on the

glass counter.

That did it!

"And what do you want?" the pharmacist asked in an annoyed tone of voice. "I'm talking to my brother from Chicago whom I haven't seen in ages," he said without waiting for a reply to his question.

"Well, I want to talk to you about my brother," Tess answered back in the same annoyed tone. "He's really, really sick... and I want to buy a miracle."

''I beg your pardon?" said the pharmacist.

His name is Andrew and he has something bad growing inside his

head and my Daddy says only a miracle can save him now. So how much does a miracle cost?"

"We don't sell miracles here, little girl. I'm sorry but I can't help you," the pharmacist said, softening a little.

"Listen, I have the money to pay for it. If it isn't enough, I will get the rest. Just tell me how much it costs."

The pharmacist's brother was a well dressed man. He stooped down and asked the little girl, "What kind of a miracle does your brother need?"

I don't know," Tess replied with her eyes welling up. "I just know he's really sick and Mommy says he needs an operation. But my Daddy can't pay for it, so I want to use my money."

"How much do you have?" asked the man from Chicago.

"One dollar and eleven cents," Tess answered barely audibly. And it's all the money I have, but I can get some more if I need to."

"Well, what a coincidence," smiled the man. "A dollar and eleven cents—the exact price of a miracle for little brothers."

He took her money in one hand and with the other hand he grasped her mitten and said "Take me to where you live. I want to see your brother and meet your parents. Let's see if I have the miracle you need."

That well dressed man was Dr. Carlton Armstrong, a surgeon, specializing in neuro-surgery. The operation was completed free of charge and it wasn't long until Andrew was home again and doing well. Mom and Dad were happily talking about the chain of events that had led them to this place.

"That surgery," her Mom whispered, "was a real miracle. I wonder how much it would have cost?"

Tess smiled. She knew exactly how much a miracle cost...one dollar and eleven cents, plus the faith of a little child who managed to inspire a surgeon from Chicago to fulfill the purpose of all creation: to give.

Joke - Members who died in Service

Rabbi walks out of the sanctuary and sees the young Daniel staring at the memorial wall. He says, "Daniel, welcome to shul. I see that this is your first time here, you look bewildered, perplexed. What's on your mind? Why do you seem so confused?"

Daniel replies, "Rabbi, I'm fascinated by this wall. I love the lights and how they shine on the names, but I just can't figure out what this is all about."

"Oh Daniel," says the Rabbi, "it's quite simple, these are names of people who davened in this shul and now passed on, we remember their memories by lighting a candle on these special days."

But Rabbi, I still don't get it, what's up with those flags in the middle section? "Daniel, those are the names of members who died in service?"
In utter shock, Daniel replies: Really Rabbi!!? Which service? Rosh Hashana or Yom Kippur?!

Der Yosem's Esrog

A Story from the Shtetl

I want to share with you a poignant story from the shtetl. This story gives us a glimpse of both the tragedy and the rich beauty of a world that once was.

Tzvi Yehuda Kushelevitz, was the rabbi in a small Lithuanian town. But he not just another rabbi in town, but he was the “Rav,” meaning the foremost decider on all major spiritual and communal issues, and the Rabbinical judge of the town, to whom all matters of importance were addressed, and whose decisions were final and conclusive.

Rabbi Kushelevitz’s son, Chaim, relates the following story in his memoirs (1):

The Magid

It was a harsh and rainy Lithuanian winter day. A stranger appears in our shtetl bais-midrash, our village study hall and synagogue. A small Jew, a little yidele, bent under his pack, enters the synagogue. This Jew was a magid, an itinerant preacher who would travel from shtetl to shtetl, from town to town, to give speeches and to try to inspire the locals. Usually, between mincha and maariv (between the late afternoon and evening service) these “maggidim,” Jewish preachers, would deliver a few words of Torah amid a call for repentance and self-improvement. The Jews of the shtetl, poor as they already were, appreciated the spiritual message, and would voluntarily donate after the sermon was over, and on these few and meager coins, the magid would survive. He would then disappear the way he had come.

This scene was barely extraordinary.

But this magid – this visiting preacher -- was different. Not because of who he was, and not because of what he preached, but because of what he was carrying. A baby. Crying, pale, shivering, and pitiful. Why does a perpetual wanderer, without the bare necessities for himself, carry with him a needy child?

With a broken heart, he tells his tragic story:

“I am a ‘geshtrofener mentsch,’ a punished human being. I am an orphan who was raised by a large Jewish community, without a relative in the world. Jews, ‘rachmanim benei rachmanim’ (merciful one, descendants of the merciful ones), knowing that I had no parents, gave me teg, free meals at various homes, and put me through Talmud Torah, the shtetl Hebrew School, and then Yeshiva. They sponsored my education. I married according to my class: an orphan girl, every bit as poor as myself. After my marriage, I needed to make a living, so I became a magid.

Always traveling from city to city to hold sermons in small Jewish communities, I was able to return home and see my wife only during holidays. My son was born, and -- G-d protect me -- calamity struck: my wife died, and I was left alone with my infant son. Who could I leave him with? How could I support myself? I had no choice but to continue traveling; this was my only means for earning a livelihood so that he and I would live. And I have no choice but to take my poor orphan-child, my yosemel, with me.” (A yosemis an orphan. The word still maintains much power in the Jewish world. When you say that a child is a “yasom,” an orphan, it means that all must mobilize to help him or her. The endearing term for yosem is yosemel.)

This was the story this preacher told us.

We Take In the Orphan

My shtetl, moved by the magid’s plight, offered to care for his young orphaned son -- theyosemel. To raise him and educate him. As for the expenses involved, they reasoned, to become yet poorer was in any case not possible. They found a widow, who, for a fewgroshen, a few pennies, took him in to her home and promised to try to educate him to the best of her ability.

The magid agreed to this arrangement. Better that his child has a permanent home, then shelp around with his father as a nomad. The  magid took out of his satchel a few wrinkled women’s clothes and a set of tin leichter, tin candle-sticks. “His mothers inheritance. So he doesn’t get married empty handed.” He also left a paper with the yosem’s name: “Kasriel Sender ben Reb Moshe Hakohen--So he knows he is a Kohen, and that he may not marry a divorcee.” With that, the magid bid farewell to his infant boy, continued traveling, and we never saw him again.

The townspeople, who had enough of their own tzaros, their own problems, went on with their lives leaving the poor orphan with the widow. The shamash, the sexton of the synagogue, set up a pushka, a charity box—to collect the coins the villagers would donate during prayers—next to the one of Rabbi Meir Baal Haness, with only three words: “Far Der Yosemel,” “For The Orphan.” Everyone knew whom this was referring to.

And this became his name: Der Yosemel, the orphan. This is how he was always known and called both by his classmates and his teachers, an eternal reminder of his tragic history. “Come Yosemel”, “Learn Yosemel”, “Go wash your hands Yosemel”. This was not meant to hurt or offend him; this was simply the way everyone knew him, and this was the most obvious term of reference. But hurt him it did. It marked him as being different, someone to be pitied, and someone all alone, an eternal orphan. This is how all others knew him, and this is how he came to know himself. The shtetl Jews, who so compassionately agreed to raise him, failed to sense the deep pain that this caused him. He was now bereft of everything: his parents, his own home, his own possessions, and even his own name.

The first time Der Yosem actually heard himself being called by his own real name was when he turned thirteen, at his bar mitzvah. He was called up to the Torah: Yamod Habachur Kasriel Sender ben Reb Moshe HaKohen, “Please step up to the Torah, Kasriel Sender ben Reb Moshe,” and he began crying.

The second time he heard his real name, he was standing under the chuppa, the wedding canopy. As an orphan, he married a girl from equal standing, also an orphan, and also penniless. The dowry he gave her was his deceased mothers tin candlesticks, and the few worn dresses his father left behind years ago. And the Rabbi announced while reading the ketuvah (marriage contract): Kasriel Sender ben Reb Moshe, our groom, chassan dinan, hereby takes this woman…

The Esrogim Show

But then his name changed.

And it came about in an extraordinary moment.

It was Motzai Yom Kippur, the evening after Yom Kippur. Immediately following the anxiety,  fear, and dread of the fast-day of Yom Kippur, the shtetl burst to life, as Jews eagerly and energetically would begin to bustle about preparing for Sukkos. Women, their faces shining and their hearts light, would kick their husbands out of the house to begin building the Sukkas as soon as the fast ended. Men with long white beards would become construction workers, and the kids would make sukka decorations from colored paper and hanging fruits. In the Chassidim’s shtibel, one could hear singing and dancing long onto the night. For, the evening after Yom Kippur was  like a holiday, the joy of Sukkos already had begun as Jews busily began preparing for the holiday, confident that their repentance was accepted, and that they were inscribed and destined to a good and  healthy year.

But the greatest celebration in town was at the Rav’s Beis Midrash, at the Chief Rabbi’s study hall. Long tables were set up, covered in pure white tablecloths, all the chandeliers were lit, and a steaming samovar of tea was placed in the corner, providing hot drinks to anyone that so desired. The shtetl-Jews arrived, dressed in their holiday clothes, and lined up to wish the Rav, the Rabbi, a heartfelt “Gut Yom Tov.”

And the main highlight of the night – that night after Yom Kippur -- was the displaying of the esrogs, of the citrons, which we shake on the Sukkos holiday. In cases of glass, wood, or metal each man brought with him his esrog, which he had personally and meticulously chosen earlier. They came to show the Rabbi their esrog and to hear his expert and decisive opinion about its quality and beauty.

You see, the esrog is the citrus fruit that we take on Sukkos together with the other three species, the Lulav—the tall palm branch, the hadass—the myrtle branch, and the arava—the willow (hold them up to show your crowd.) However, of these four species the Torah tells us to make sure the esrog is specifically beautiful, that it is a hadar. This means that it should be perfect in color, size, shape, proportion, and most important, in "cleanliness" meaning lack of any bruises or blemishes. To this very day, Jews the world over will spend hours upon hours, as well as tremendous amounts of money for the esrog that they feel is best. Grade "A" esrogim have to pass very stringent tests. In the open markets, some buyers come with a magnifying glass. An outsider would find it quite amusing…

The laws are intricate, and the Rabbi of the town was the true connoisseur of what constitutes a beautiful citron. Each of the more well-to-do people of the town who could afford to purchase a beautiful esrog, would now proudly show off his purchase to the Rav, eager to receive his critical approval.

It was a tense moment as the Rabbi thoughtfully chose the exact proper description for each esrog: “A kosher esrog;”“a nice esrog;”“a beautiful esrog;” “a hadar,” “a masterpiece,” “a real beauty,” “stunning,” “amazing,” “dazzling.”

The Gvir

Suddenly, after everyone had already sat down for tea, Reb Yitzchak, the gvir of the shtetl, the richest man in town, entered carrying with him a heavy silver esrog box. (They say that every town in Eastern Europe had to have at least one Rav, one gvir, onemeshuganer, and one drunk. And they were the main players in town.) An excited hush fell over the crowd. Rumor had it that this year Reb Yitzchak had managed to obtain a truly unique and beautiful esrog, one for the record books.

After wishing the Rav a “Gut Yom Tov,” with a finger trembling from excitement, Reb Yitzchak snapped open his silver box. Tenderly and lovingly, he removed his large esrog and handed it to the Rabbi.

The esrog was a sight to see: a perfect shape, and a gorgeous color. The Rav reverently turned it over, noting its clean skin, and exquisite fragrance. “Reb Yitzchak, theaibershter—G-d—has blessed you this year with an esrog that is a true hadar, a true beauty.” An impressed murmur swept through the crowd, and the shtetl Jews looked on with a healthy jealousy.

But just as Reb Yitzchak the wealthy Jew sat down, the door opened one last time. All eyes turned to see who had entered the room. They were stunned: it was one of the poorest Jews of the town. It was Der Yosemel. “What is HE doing here,” the more affluent Jews thought to themselves? “What type of esrog can he afford?”

 

Der Yosemel, the orphan, entered the room, holding an esrog wrapped in a plain white cloth. He walked hesitantly and shamefacedly, with slow, dragging, and uncertain steps.

The yosemel had so much wanted to finally feel like a "real man," a baalabos, an independent householder, an aigener mentch, that he had spent his last pennies on this esrog and he came to show it to the rabbi.

But it was the esrog that nobody had wanted. It was bruised and discolored. The pitum – the stem on top of the esrog - was hanging on precariously, like the survivor of a shipwreck to his battered plank of wood.

The other Jews sitting there could not grasp why he would even come at all with such a sad-looking esrog to the Rabbi. Theirs were beautiful, while his was grotesque. It was clearly a great doubt if the esrog was even minimally kosher.

Now the Lithuanian Rabbi was a man known for his unbending adherence to the strictest letter of the law. Lithuania, much more than Poland, Russia, or Hungary, is famous for its extreme ritual conservatism, its absolute adherence to the every letter of the law. Judaism in Lita was first and foremost about halacha. No loopholes, shortcuts, or compromises. Pure and undiluted, whatever that may be, whatever that will cost. What would the Rabbi say? What could he say?

All eyes turned to the Rabbi.

The Verdict

The Rabbi  – Zvi Yehudah Kushelevitz -- gazed at the sorry esrog, and gazed at the sorry man before him. He turned it over reverently, and tenderly rubbed its bruised skin. He meditated on the esrog very deeply.

“What is he doing,” other people thought to themselves. “What is there to meditate on? It is a lousy, impoverished esrog, and that’s the end of the story,” they said to themselves.

But then the Rabbi spoke:

“Gut Yom Tov, Reb Kasriel Sender! Thank G-d, you have a perfectly kosher esrog! And may you have next year an even more beautiful esrog!”

The orphan’s face lit up…  He felt so happy, so validated, so at peace.

The Rav continued talking to Kasriel Sender: "It says in the Torah, “You shall take for yourself the four species” (Ulekachtem Lecham). This means that every person takes according to who he is and what he can afford. The flour of the poor man – say our sages -- is just as beautiful to G-d as the ox offered by the rich man. Let each man must serve G-d based on his or her own capabilities.”

The orphan was kveling. For the first time in his life he felt truly validated, uplifted, recognized as a man of status.

The other Jews sitting in the room were stunned. Really? A nice Kosher esrog? Who even knows if it’s kosher? Why didn’t the Rabbi say the truth about the esrog -- that it was ugly? And why did the Rabbi have to meditate for so long?

Then with a lightning flash of realization, the entire community present realized what the Rav had just done. Understanding the inner pain of the man before him the Rabbi made sure to grant the person those few words he so desperately needed to hear. Halachikally, the esrog was extremely questionable, and to make a blessing on a non-kosher esrog is a grave offense. Yet the Rav chose to accept upon himself the full responsibility of that risk (2).

From that instant on, Der Yosemel, that broken and sorry object of communal pity, ceased to exist. Instead he was replaced by Reb Kasriel Sender, a man with a straight back, a firm walk, and most important, a proper name. “Reb Kasriel Sender, come sit down with us." “Reb Kasriel Sender, have a lechaim.” "Reb Kasriel Sender, can I offer you something hot to drink?"

Story: Yiskor for a living son

A Jewish observant Jew was once on a flight in the US. He struck up a conversation with the man
sitting next to him who also happened to be Jewish, by the name of Mr. Weinstein. When the
meals were served, he took Kosher, but Mr. Weinstein didn’t. He asked Mr Weinstein in a casual
way, why it was that he didn’t order Kosher? Why would he eat bacon?
Mr. Weistein pulled up his sleeve and showed his neighbor the number tattooed by the SS on his
arm. He shared how lost his family in the war, besides for one son who survived the selections
with him. But then, near the end of the war, they took his son away to another camp, and he
never ever saw his son again. That was the last straw that killed my faith. Why should I keep
Kosher? The man was startled and remained silent.
Four years passed, and one Yom Kippur whilst he man was going to Shul, he noticed an elderly
Jewish looking figure smoking, sitting on the bench. As he approached he was surprised to see it
was the same man he had met a few years earlier on the plane. Mr. Weinstein. He saw this as no
coincidence, and decided to go up to him and strike a conversation. He told him that today was
Yom Kippur, and in a few minutes they would say yizkor for all our loved ones who have passed
on. Weinstein did not want to hear from it. He said that he never been to a synagogue since the
Holocaust. “I have nothing to find there.”
But this other Jews pleaded: What can you lose? It will be a comfort for you to be with many
other survivors who remember and pay tribute to all of their loved ones who perished. You will
say a kaddish for your son. You know what? I will ask the cantor to do a special service, a Kel
Maleh Rachamim, for your son, since you have never been to shul since the Holocaust.
The man reluctantly agreed. They entered the synagogue and for the first time since the war he
said Yizkor for his beloved family.
Then the Jew who brought him in, approached the Chazan to say a prayer for his son.
The cantor began the prayer: E-l Maleh Rachamim, Shochen Meromim… Compassionate G-d,
please remember the soul of… and the cantor turned to the Jew to tell him the name of the boy
and his father’s name. The Jew said: Kasriel Menachem ben Yechezkel Shraga.
The Chazan heard the name and turned white like a ghost.
People ran over to support him.
The cantor asked who is the father of this child, and they pointed to the man, the survivor, who
just came to shul for the first time.The cantor ran over to him, screaming: Tate, Tate, Tate --- Father, father, father. As father and
son embraced.

Dead man walk through door

A defendant was on trial for murder. There was strong evidence indicating guilt,
but there was no corpse. In the defense's closing statement the lawyer, knowing
that his client would probably be convicted, resorted to a trick.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I have a surprise for you all," the lawyer said as
he looked at his watch. "Within one minute, the person presumed dead in this case
will walk into this courtroom." He looked toward the courtroom door. The jurors,
somewhat stunned, all looked on eagerly. A minute passed. Nothing happened.
Finally the lawyer said, "Actually, I made up the previous statement. But, you all
looked on with anticipation. I therefore put to you that you have a reasonable doubt
in this case as to whether anyone was killed and insist that you return a verdict of
not guilty."
The jury, clearly confused, retired to deliberate. He really caught them! A few
minutes later, the jury returned and pronounced a verdict of guilty.
"But how?" inquired the lawyer. "You must have had some doubt; I saw all of you
stare at the door."
The jury foreman replied, "Oh, we all looked, but your client didn't."