oy, i wish i had your will power

 Womans is leaving her muli-million estage in beverly hills...

Poor man 'Please i have not eaten in 3 days"

Woman - oy, i wish i had your will power

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?"

Choose between wealth, honor and wisdom.

A joke is told of a genie that appeared at a meeting of the faculty at a
prestigious university. She approached the president and told him that due
to his scholarship, diligence and devotion he was entitled to one of three
blessings. He must choose between wealth, honor and wisdom. Without
hesitation the president chose wisdom and the genie granted his wish and
disappeared.

Awed by the moment the faculty waited silently for the first pearls of
wisdom to flow from the president?s mouth. Awash in a halo of light, the
president quietly murmured, ?I should have taken the money

We die with our hands open

It was taught in the name of Rabbi Meir:  When one comes into the world his hands are clenched as if to say: the whole world is mine and I will inherit it.  And when one takes leave of the world his hands are open, as if to say:  I have not taken from this world a single thing.

Fascinating: The Midrash examines what is the underlying reason for the contrast between the hands of a newborn baby and that of one who has just died. When a baby is born its hands are tightly clenched. In fact, one of the earliest “games” we play with our infants is placing our fingers inside their tiny hands and they clench their fist and grab it.

Whereas the hands of a corpse lay lifelessly wide open. Why?

The Midrash explains that a newborn fools himself into believing that he has the power to conquer the world. This is symbolized with his tightly clenched hands. It is as if he were saying that he will take hold and seize this world. However, when that individual dies, those same hands lay wide open in acknowledgement of the fact that he has taken absolutely nothing from this world. We die and we can take nothing.

"He has a rich father"

A shnorrer was soliciting a handout from Baron Rothschild. Displeased with the amount he'd been given, the shnorrer complained, "Your son gave me twice as much" ● "Well, my son can afford to," said Baron Rothschild.  "He has a rich father"

“Thanks, Dad, for showing me how poor we are.”

One day, the father of a very wealthy family took his son on a trip to the country with the
purpose of showing him just how poor some people are. They spent a couple of days on the farm
of a destitute family. On their return home, the father asked, "Son, how was the trip?"
“It was great, Dad.” The son replied.
“Did you see how poor people can be?" the father asked.
“Oh yeah," said the son.
“So what did you learn from the trip?” asked the father.
The son answered, "I learned that we don’t allow pets into our fancy house, but they have dogs
and cats they enjoy very much.
We have a pool that reaches to the middle of our garden and they have a creek that has no end.
We have imported Japanese lanterns in our garden and they have stars at night.
We have a small piece of land to live on and they have fields that go beyond our sight.
We have servants who serve us, but they serve others.
We have walls around our property to protect us, they have friends to protect them.”
After hearing all this, the father was speechless. Then his son added, “Thanks, Dad, for
showing me how poor we are.”

Barefoot

Barefoot

When G-d first revealed Himself to Moses from the Burning Bush, He said to him, “Remove your shoes from your feet.” With this command, G-d impressed an important point on Moses.

That point was that when you walk down the road in shoes, you stroll easily. The shoes that you wear protect you from feeling the little stones and the sharp pebbles on the road.

However, when you walk down the road barefoot, you feel every little stone and every sharp pebble that you step on.

As Moses was being appointed to lead Israel, he was commanded to remove his shoes. This hinted to the fact that he had to walk through life “barefoot”, so that he could feel and understand every little pain and every little sorrow which was the lot of his people.

The true Jewish leader cannot isolate himself from the plight of his people. He cannot put on the figurative shoes of indifference, caring for himself, at the cost of feeling the distress of his flock.

Similarly, each of us should take off the shoes of apathy, and be sensitive to the even the smallest opportunities for kindness. We never know which minor gestures on our part could make a difference in people’s lives.

Parable - Throwing 17,000 shekels off the roof

. Lesson from the Economic Crisis

“From a narrow place I call out to you, oh G-d; answer me from an expansive place.” – The first of seven verses resided before the blowing of the shofar.

We are experiencing an economic crisis. Some of us have endured difficult times. We all hope and pray that this year brings all of us much success and abundant prosperity. Yet we ought not to allow the financial challenges of these past years to slip away without teaching us one important lesson about life.

I will illustrate it with a story:

About ten years ago a rich Israeli businessman who we will call Jerry was on the top of the world. He was a multi-millionaire, toured the globe enjoying the best hotels, restaurants, cars and anything that money could buy. He was a self-made-man who loved his creator (i.e. himself). He was arrogant, cold, tough, and boatful. But a number of years ago, like many others, he made some big investment mistakes, and began to lose his fortune. In just months every penny he had saved and slaved for was gone and he was a pauper. And after he liquidated all his assets and even sold his house to pay his debts he still owed 17,000 shekels to the Israeli Revenue Service.

He asked an old friend for a loan. He went up to his friend’s office at the 49th floor of the Azrieli center in Tel Aviv.  His friend gave him 17,000 shekel and the man left the office.

With nothing better to do he decided to walk around and have a look. After a few minutes of strolling he noticed a set of stairs leading up to a large metal door, which he ascended and opened the door. A cold autumn wind blew into his face. It was the door leading to the roof, 'why not', he thought to himself as he went out.

Ah it was beautiful! From here he could see far into the distance; the Judean hills in one direction, the wide, vast Mediterranean sea on the other. He just stood there, thinking and trying to enjoy the weather when suddenly a loud thud behind him broke his thoughts; a quick glance revealed that the wind slammed the door shut. He decided it was time to go back.

He went to the door and tried to open it but it seemed to be locked. He tried peering from all sorts of angles to figure out the latch but he couldn't. So he began to pound on the door and when that didn't work, to kick at it. For sure someone would hear.

But no one did. The wind was getting stronger and colder now and he wasn't really dressed for this. He looked around for some object to hit the door with, to attract attention and get out but there was none. He still had a good hour before dark; people were probably still in their offices so he pounded, kicked and yelled but there was no response.

When he took out his black berry he discovered that the battery was dead. Totally dead! Of all times for this to happen!

But he didn't lose his composure. He had to work fast. He went to the edge of the building, peered over the small protective fence and began waiving his arms and yelling to the people far below which, after just five minutes, he realized was totally futile. There was no way that anyone would notice him from 49 floors below. But he had to remain calm. It was his only chance. Soon it would be dark and really cold. And there was nowhere to get protection from the wind, which was getting colder by the minute.

Suddenly he had an idea. The money! He had 17,000 shekels in his pocket. For sure if he threw a 200 shekel note down people would look up to see where it was coming from… and see him.

He pulled out a stack of bills, removed one, looked over the fence and threw it. He watched as it floated crazily in the wind and finally, after several minutes, landed on the other side of the street, someone stopped, bent down, picked it up and continued walking.

This time he took out five bills, 1,000 altogether and let them drop… but it was the same thing. No one noticed them until they hit the ground, then they picked them up, looked around for more and kept going.

He knew what he had to do! It was his only chance! He took all the money from his pocket, tore the band that held it neatly in a pack and with a yell, threw it below as hard as he could. With his last optimism he gazed as it scattered far below him. He removed his shirt and began waving it frantically for someone to notice. But he couldn't believe his eyes; not only did no one look up or hear his cries for help; they were all arguing down there about who saw which bill first!

He looked around on the roof, the sun was setting, it was still light enough to see, but he saw nothing……. only the sky.

His eyes filled with tears, suddenly he felt small, he needed help; he was sure that G-d would help him. The sky said so. A second ago he didn't even believe there was such a thing but now it was obvious… he wasn't alone. He yelled out, "HaShem! HaShem! (G-d)…. help! Help me!"

Suddenly his eye caught a medium sized sack of small pebbles. Why didn't he see it before? But there it was! He dragged it to the fence, took a handful, said a prayer, threw it over the side and began waving his arms and looking down again.

Sure enough, this time it worked! People began cursing; looking up pointing and screaming at him. Probably all of them called the police because in just moments the door burst open, police with guns drawn stormed through, put handcuffs on him and took him to the station. He was saved!

It took some serious explaining. He was lucky that no one was really hurt from his pebbles and, of course, he lost the 17,000 shekel and still owed the taxes. But after a few days they accepted his story and let him out.

At that moment he discovered a deep lesson: the people on the street, were just like him. All the time money was raining down the people never looked up… they looked only down, for more money. But as soon as they started feeling the pebbles hurting them they looked up to see where they were coming from.

How true of life. When we have everything we need, we sometimes take it for granted and we never look up. We can become insensitive to the plight of others; we feel we don’t need anybody. We are on top of the world. Only when we feel the “pebbles” falling on us, does it make us look up… look up beyond ourselves… see that there is something that transcends our egos, there is a higher source, to whom we are responsible.

This is the meaning of the above verse: We tend to call out to G-d “min hamatzar,” from a narrow place. Yet we ask of Him to answer us with expansiveness, with prosperity. Once we have learnt the lesson, let us all be blessed with tremendous wealth, so we can utilize the Divine gift to help people.

Doctor Myers
Issy is not well and goes to see Doctor Myers. After examining him, Doctor
Myers says, "Well, I can help you, but it will require many sessions."
"OK," says Issy, "how much is this going to cost me?"
"The 12 sessions plus drugs will cost you $1000," replies Doctor Myers.
"Oy," says Issy, "I’m not a wealthy man, Doctor. Couldn’t you make it less?"
"Well … I could do it for $850," replies Doctor Myers.
"It’s still more than I can afford, Doctor," says Issy. "I’ve got 3 children
and a wife to support."
"OK," says Doctor Myers, "how about $700?"
"It’s still too high, Doctor," says Issy. "My business is doing terrible and
my wife has told her mother that she can live with us."
"Alright already," says Doctor Myers, "I’ll do it for $600 and not a penny
less."
"Thanks doctor, I can do that," says Issy.
"Good," says Doctor Myers, "but tell me – why did you come to me to seek
treatment when you know I’m the most expensive doctor in this area?"
"Well," replies Issy, "you’ve got a marvellous reputation and when it comes
to my health, money is no object!"