D'Var Torah - Purim - 5764
When the Jews were threatened by
the wicked Haman, they came together under the leadership of Mordechai
and Esther. They engaged in prayer and repentance in total unity
reminiscent of the unity that the Jews had in the time of Moshe at Har
Sinai when they accepted the Torah. Unity is a hallmark of the Jewish
people as the following true story, submitted by Denise Nahman, illustrates:
HOME FOR SHABBAT by Deena Yellin
As I settled into my seat on
Flight 1272 bound for Chicago, I glanced at the passengers filing down
the aisle. My Jew-radar immediately went off; in addition to the
business travelers toting their laptops and briefcases and the pleasure
travelers wearing shorts and Walkmans, I spied several suede kippot, a
striemel [fur hat worn by some Chasidim] and ankle-length skirts.
Despite our shared heritage, I
didn't bother acknowledging them. They were strangers. And I live in
New York, where strangers seldom exchange greetings, even if they recite
the same prayers. The plane rolled toward the runway and I waited for
takeoff. No such luck. The pilot announced that the flight was being
delayed three hours due to stormy weather conditions in Chicago.
I glanced at my watch nervously.
Usually, I avoid flying Friday afternoons for fear I won't arrive in
time, but on summer weekends when Shabbat doesn't begin until around 8
p.m., I figured I'm safe. I figured wrong. I calculated that I could
just make it if I didn't claim my luggage and jumped into a taxi. I
turned around to check on my co-religionists. Two kippot were examining
their watches. The chasid was on the airphone.
A half-hour before arrival, the
pilot announced that O'Hare Airport was shut down and we were landing in
Milwaukee until we could continue on. My stomach sunk. Candlelighting
was an hour away. I'd never make it on time. Like most religious Jews
who work in the secular world, I'd experienced my share of close calls.
But I never knowingly violated the Sabbath. Now, I was stuck.
By now, the kippot and long skirts
were huddled in the back of the plane. They had been joined by others.
Shabbat was bringing strangers together.
It was time to introduce myself.
"We're going to get off in Milwaukee," a young man told me. The Chasid
had called a local Milwaukee Rabbi, who offered to host any stranded
passengers for Shabbat. "Come with us," he urged. I nodded with relief
but returned to my seat crestfallen, since I had planned this weekend
with my family for months.
My non-Jewish seatmate, noticing
my despair, inquired what was wrong. When I told him the story, his jaw
dropped. "Let me get this straight," he said. "You're getting off the
plane in a town where you've never been with people you don't know to
stay overnight with complete strangers?" For the first time that day, it
occurred to me just how lucky I was.
When the plane landed, the pilot
announced that we were disembarking for religious reasons. Passengers
stared at us, dumbfounded.
My seatmate bid me farewell as if
he didn't think I'd survive. But I quickly realized I was among
friends. As I attempted to carry my bags off the plane, a woman insisted
on helping me. When we crowded into cabs to take us to the Rabbi's
house, the Chasid insisted on paying for me. And when the cabs pulled
up at the home of the Rabbi and Rebbetzin, they ran outside to greet us
as if we were long-lost relatives.
As the sun began to set on
Milwaukee they ushered us into their home, where a long table was set
for Shabbat with white tablecloth, china and gleaming kiddush cups.
When I lit the Shabbat candles, a wave of peace washed over me.
With all that had transpired, I
was warmed by the notion that the world stops with the first flicker of
the Sabbath lights. Over a traditional Shabbat feast, the Rabbi
enchanted us with tales and words of Torah, and informed us that our
reroute to Milwaukee was not the world of weather but of Divine
providence.We lingered over our meal, enjoying our spiritual sanctuary
in time after the stressful day. Zemirot [Shabbat songs] filled the
room. We shared disappointments about our unexpected stopover. Most of
the group was traveling to Chicago for their friend's aufruf
[celebration at the Torah on the Shabbat before one's wedding] and
wedding and were missing the aufruf. The Chasid and his wife were
missing a Bar Mitzvah.
We pondered the meaning of the
departure from our journey and marveled at the coincidences. I had
attended camp with my "roommate," a couple had conducted business with
my father, a man had learned in yeshiva with my cousin, the Chasid used
to work in my hometown of Aurora, Illinois, and I had once spent Purim
in Brooklyn with my hosts' son.
Exhausted as we were, everyone was hesitant to leave the table to go to
sleep. The next morning a lively tefila [prayer service] was followed by
a leisurely meal where we exchanged stories about our lives, careers and
dreams. We nicknamed ourselves the "Milwaukee 15" and wondered if
future generations would retell the story of the flight that barely made
it in time for candlelighting.
Saturday night, we made a
regretful journey back to the everyday world. But before we began the
final leg of our journey, I called my husband to tell him all that had
transpired.
"Who did you spend Shabbat with?"
he asked worriedly. I pondered how to explain who these former strangers
were who had given me object lessons in Shabbat hospitality and in the
power of Shabbat to bring Jews together. And then, as swiftly as a 747
can leave the tarmac on a clear day, I realized the truth: miles away
from my parents, husband and home, I had accomplished what I had set out
to do when I booked my ticket: I had spent Shabbat with family.
Deena Yellin, a journalist who lives in New Jersey, has written for a
variety of newspapers including The New York Times, Newsday and The
Jerusalem Post.
D'Var Torah - Purim - 5764
The following true story, submitted by Yaakov Lederman, is documented in
Kids Speak 4:
My name is Chaim. I am eleven. I live in
Israel. At the beginning of the school year my father met my teacher on the
street. At first he tried to cross to the other side because he didn't want
to hear the usual teacher complaints about me that he was accustomed to
hearing year after year, but the teacher spotted him and said, "Hello, how
are you. I must tell you what a wonderful boy you have. He's progressing in
his studies from day to day and his behavior is exceptional. You can be
really proud of him."
My shocked father listened to what he
said and literally burst with pride. He came home and gave me two resounding
kisses, saying, "I have never had such nachas."
I, of course, was confused. On the one
hand, I was happy with my whole heart to see my father so happy and proud of
me. But on the other hand, I knew that it wasn't true. I asked myself,
Why would my teacher lie for me? I thought that maybe he was trying to
encourage me, but in any case, I still couldn't understand what was going
on.
The next day I went to school and looked
at the teacher, but he acted as if he hadn't praised me to my father the day
before. I didn't understand his game, but just to be on the safe side and as
a gesture of appreciation, I tried not to disturb him in class.
This went on several more times. Whether
I behaved good or bad, my father would meet the teacher on the street and
hear unimaginable praises sung about me. Then my father would return home
beaming with happiness, pride and even prizes. The next day, the teacher
would always act as if nothing happened. The whole thing was becoming
increasingly uncomfortable and distinctly unpleasant for me. None the less,
I thought I should behave better and even participate in class. My good
behavior would usually last for about a week or so, after each of these
encounters.
The mystery was solved on Purim. I
arrived at my teacher's house with my father to bring him shalach manos
(a Purim Gift Basket). I was wearing a mask on my face and you couldn't
recognize me. The teacher greeted my father with a joyous cry of "Happy
Purim! Please come in and drink something." Then he called his family.
"Come meet the father of my best pupil. I've already run into him several
times and, judging by his reaction, he doesn't believe me when I tell him
that his son is so outstanding."
My father actually blushed with pride.
"He sits at the back of the classroom
yet still participates as if he were sitting right next to me." A warning
bell began to ring inside my head. It wasn't true. I've sat in the front row
since the beginning of the year because I disturbed the class. What was
going on here? At that moment it occured to me that he must have mistaken my
father for someone else's. As if to confirm my thoughts, the teacher cried
"Come, Yosef, take off your mask so that everyone can see you."
Yosef?!! Suddenly I understood
everything. My teacher had mixed up the hardest working kid in the class
with the laziest. I recalled how much Yosef's father and mine looked alike.
I started sweating under the mask and maybe there were even a few tears
mixed in. My father though, was laughing, thinking that the teacher 'mixed
up' my name as a Purim joke.
With one swift movement, the teacher
removed the mask from my now very wet face. I saw how his expression rapidly
changed to one of confusion. He looked at me and at my father, then back
again at me and didn't know what to say. "What's going on here?" he said,
"You're Yosef's father, aren’t' you?"
"Chaim, not Yosef," my father corrected
him with a laugh, thinking that the teacher was continuing his Purim joke. I
knew that if the teacher would explain what had become clear to him that
moment, I was lost. I gave him a pleading look. Let him just not destroy my
father's Purim joy. Later, whatever would be would be.
The teacher looked at my pleading face
and said, "Oh, of course, Chaim. I must have drunk too much wine and I'm
mixing up Mordechai and Haman," he said, and my father gave a hearty
chuckle.
The scene ended somehow. My teacher
shook my hand warmly, looked at me and said, as if suddenly remembering,
"You know something?" he turned to my father, "Lately your son has really
been making excellent progress."
That was the most thoughtful Purim in my
life. The mystery was solved. The teacher had mistaken my father for Yosef's
father and all the praises I got really belonged to Yosef. All of a sudden I
realized how pleasant it was to be the best boy in class. I had never felt
as good as I had in the previous weeks.
Now I can't wait to go back to school to
thank my teacher for keeping our little secret - and to start to work hard
so that next time he meets my father, the praises will really be meant for
me - when I am the hardest working boy in the class.
D'Var Torah - Purim - 5763
On
Purim there is a special mitzvah of Matanos
L'evyonim - Gifts to the Poor. Tzedaka is fundamental to the Jewish people as
the following true story illustrates:
In the city
of
Krakow
there lived a rich Jew by the name of Israel who was famous for his
stinginess. The local beggars had long since given up trying to knock at his
door. All attempts by the trustees of the community's
various charity funds to elicit at least a token contribution from him
were met with polite but adamant refusals.
Israel's
utter heartlessness outraged and mystified the Jews of Krakow. From the days
of Abraham, charity had been the hallmark of the Jew; in 17th-century Europe,
where Jews were subject to frequent confiscations of their property and expulsions from their homes, it was essential to
the community's very survival that those of means should aid their
impoverish fellows. How could a Jew be so indifferent to the needs of his
brothers and
sisters? People started referring to the rich miser in their midst as
"Israel Goy" [1] and the epithet stuck.
Years passed
and the rich man grew old and frail. One day, the Krakow Burial Society
received a summons to Israel's home. "I feel that my days are numbered," he
told them when they came, "and I would like to discuss with you my burial
arrangements. I have already had shrouds sewn for me and I've hired a man to
recite the kaddish for my soul. There is just one thing remaining: I need to
purchase a plot for my grave."
The members of the Burial Society decided that this was their
opportunity to collect the debt owed by Israel to the community. "As you
know," they said to him, "there is no set price for a cemetery plot. Each Jew
pays according to their ability, and the money is used
for charitable purposes. Since you are a wealthy man, and since -- if you
will excuse our bluntness -- you have not been very forthcoming over the
years in sharing the burdens of the community, we think it appropriate to
charge you 1000 guldens."
The rich man calmly replied: "For my deeds
I shall be judged in the heavenly court. It is not for you to judge what I
did or did not do in the course of my life. I had planned to pay 100 guldens
for my plot -- quite a respectable s! um -- and that is what I shall pay, not
a penny more. I'm not asking for any special location or a fancy gravestone.
Bury me where you see fit. I have just one request: on my gravestone, I want
it to be inscribed 'Here lies Israel Goy.'"
The members of the society exchanged glances: was the old man out of
his mind? They spent a few more minutes at his bedside hoping to secure at
least a modest sum for the community poor, but finally left his house
in exasperation.
The entire town was abuzz with this latest show of miserliness by
"Israel Goy." How low can a man sink! Even at death's door, he's hording his
wealth, refusing to share his blessings with the needy. Israel's funeral was
a sorry affair. It was difficult to even scrape
together the needed quorum of ten to conduct a proper Jewish burial. He
was buried off to a side, on the outskirts of the
cemetery. No eulogies were held, for what could be
said of such a man?
The
following Thursday evening, the was a knock on the
door of the chief rabbi of Krakow, the famed Rabbi Yomtov Lipman Heller
(1579-1654; known as the author of Tosophot Yom Tov). In the doorway stood a
man who explained that he had nothing with which
to purchase wine, candles, challah and food for the Shabbat. The rabbi gave
him a few coins from his private charity fund and wished him a "Good
Shabbat".
A few minutes later there was another
knock on the door, heralding a similar request. A third petitioner followed,
and then a forth and a fifth. Within the hour, no less than twenty families
came to ask for the rabbi's aid to meet their Shabbat expenses. The rabbi was
mystified: nothing like this had happened before in all his years in Krakow.
Why this sudden plague of poverty?
Rabbi Heller called an emergency meeting of the trustees of the
community's charity founds, but they could not explain the phenomenon. They,
too, had been deluged with hundreds of requests
for aid in the last few hours. The communal coffers had
been virtually emptied! As if on cue, there was another knock on the
door. "Tell me," asked the rabbi after handing a few coins to the late! st
petitioner, "how did you manage until now? What did you do last week?"
"We bought on credit at the grocer's," replied the pauper. "Whenever
we needed food and did not have with what to pay, the merchant said it was
not a problem -- he just wrote it down in his ledger. He didn't even bother
us about payment. But now he says that that arrangement is over."
Investigation revealed that hundreds of families in Krakow had
subsisted this way -- up to now. For some reason, none of the grocers,
fishmongers and butchers were willing to extend
credit any longer to the town's poor.
The rabbi called the town's food merchants to his study and demanded
to know what was going on. At first they refused
to tell him. But Rabbi Heller was adamant. "You're
not leaving this room," he insisted, "until you tell me what this is all
about."
Finally, the truth came out. For years, Israel had supported hundreds
of the poorest families in Krakow. Every week the town's merchants would
present the bill to him, and he paid in full. His only
condition was that not a soul, not even their closest family members,
should know. "If any one of you breathes a word of this to anyone," he
threatened, "you won't see another copper from me ever again."
Rabbi Yomtov Lipman was shattered. Such a special person had lived in
their midst, and they, in their haste to judge him, had insulted him and
reviled him. The rabbi announced that the shloshim (30th day anniversary of
the passing) of Israel shall be a public fastday.
All adults will neither eat nor drink from morning to evening, and all will
gather at the cemetery to beg forgiveness from the deceased.
The rabbi himself eulogized Israel. "You," he cried, "fulfilled the
mitzvah of tzedakah (charity) in its most perfect form -- without taking any
credit for the deed, and ensuring that no recipient of your generosity should
ever stand ashamed before his benefactor or fee l indebted to him. And we
repaid you with derision and scorn..." The rabbi expressed the wish that when
his own time came, he should be laid to rest next to Israel. "We buried you
near&n! bsp;the fence, like an outcast, but I shall consider it a great honor
and privilege to be buried near you!"
The rabbi also instructed that the rich man's last wish
be fulfilled. On the marker raised above the grave
were etched the words "Here lies Israel Goy". However, one word
was added to the inscription -- the word kadosh,
"holy one". And so the inscription reads to this
day on the gravestone adjoining that of the famed Rabbi Yomtov Lipman Heller
in the old Jewish cemetery of Krakow: "Here lies Israel Goy Kadosh." [2]
Footnotes:
1. Goy literally means "nation"; in common Yiddish usage, the term is
used to designate one "of the nations" -- i.e., a non-Jew.
2. Literally, "The holy nation Israel."
[Story submitted by
Barry & Marilyn Gindoff] HAVE A GREAT STORY?
Please send it to us.
Last week, we told the story of Israel Goy of
Krakow. Laurie Rappeport, a faithful ShulWeek subscriber from Tzfas,
Israel, read our story and sent us the following amazing true story which
is related in the most unique and remarkable way:
A number of years ago, the famous
Jewish musician, Shlomo Carlebach was invited to perform at an interfaith
event on a college campus. Shlomo, who had a magical way of mixing stories
and songs, told the story about Israel Goy. During the second day of the
conference, when Shlomo got up to speak, the Catholic priest in attendance
asked Shlomo to repeat the story of Israel Goy, which, though a bit
surprised, he did. The same thing happened on the third day of the
conference.
After the 3rd night, Shlomo pulled the priest
aside, and asked him to explain why the story had such significance to him.
The priest stared at him, then began to shudder. Shlomo didn't know what to
make of it. He thought that either the man before him was crazy or having a
heart attack.
The priest, by now sweating profusely,
explained that recently, his mother had passed away, "On her deathbed,
she related a tale that would shake me to the core. She recounted that
she was a survivor of the concentration camps. After the war, she was a lost
and broken soul. Her entire family was wiped out. She was alone in the world
with no where to turn. She then met an American Christian soldier who
befriended her."
"Friendship led to romance, and romance led to
marriage. Her soon-to-be husband had one strong condition for marrying her
and bringing her to America. She was never to reveal her true heritage. She
was never to reveal that she was a Jew. This idea was shocking and
reprehensible to her, but in her exhausted shattered state, she did not have
the fortitude to argue, so reluctantly she agreed."
"For many decades, she lived in this manner,
and even raised a son to be a priest in the Catholic Church! Now, on her
deathbed, she wanted her son to know his heritage. She wanted me to know that
I was a Jew."
"I felt like my head was going to explode when
she revealed this to me. The room was spinning."
There was more, she added. They had a famous
relative who had lived in Krakow many years ago, who had been known as
"Israel the Goy." She didn't know much about him, but she knew that he had
been buried in the Krakow cemetary next to one of the most famous Rabbis in
the world.
"I did not know what to make of this new
information. I have been agitating and churning in a state of turmoil and
confusion ever since. Then I heard you tell the story of Israel Goy. Could
this be a coincidence? I don't think so. Somehow I knew that hearing this
story independently was nothing less than a sign from G-d that I should
return to my Jewish roots. Hearing you tell the story, not once but three
times, instilled in me the courage that I needed, to do what I know I must
do."
He immediately resigned his post, shed his
Catholicism and returned to Torah Judaism. He chose for himself a proper
Jewish name - Israel.
HAVE A GREAT STORY? Please send it to us.
DVAR TORAH: Purim
The wicked Haman built a galley for the purpose of
hanging the pious Jew, Mordechai. That galley appeared to be the worst
thing in the world; but, it turned out the the building of that galley
was the best thing that ever happened to us. That galley was used to
eliminate the evil Haman. Had it not been for that galley being ready
for use, Haman would have had time to convince the king to spare his
life and allow him to continue his death campaign against the Jewish
people.
Often in life, what is initially perceived as bad, turns
out to be good. We never know how Hashem (G-d) is orchestrating the
events of our lives, as the following true story, told to me by Esther
Fein, illustrates:
Esther Fein had been teaching in a public high school in
northern California for many exhausting years. Teaching is a very
draining experience. She needed a break – badly. She applied for a
sabbatical for the upcoming year. If she were to be granted the
sabbatical, she would get a full year off, with half salary, and would
automatically have her job back when she returned.
A sabbatical is a great way for a teacher to get
recharged, both physically and emotionally. Based on her many years of
service, it seemed like a sure thing that she would be granted the
sabbatical. She put in her application and waited anxiously.
Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity, the
principal called her into his office to tell her the unhappy and
unexpected news that her request was denied. This development was
devastating. Esther, an extremely dedicated teacher, had been running on
empty for quite a long time. Like all teachers, she loved her work, but
her frazzled nerves needed refreshing.
Although Esther didn’t know it at the time, this was the
best thing that could have happened to her. She now thanks Hashem that
the request was denied, even though at the time she had no idea how
important that outcome would be to her.
Esther girded herself up for another strenuous year of
teaching. She also reapplied for sabbatical for the following year. This
time, she was not to be denied. Her petition was granted for the 2002-3
school year.
During her sabbatical year, tragedy struck. Her 28 year
old son Benjy Brandwein was diagnosed with an unexpected cardiac
myopathy. Benjy was always a good-hearted person, who, even as a youth
in San Diego, used to invite guests home from shul for Shabbos meals. He
lived in Florida with his devoted wife Myra and their children. The
shocking prognosis was that he had only a year or two left to live.
Her time off from work
in California made Esther available to be in Florida with her beloved
son. She spent Pesach with him and cooked him his requested chicken
soup. Because she didn’t have to deal with work pressures and
constraints, she could do all she needed to do in a relaxed, unstressed
way. Esther had a peaceful and meaningful year with Benjy and his
family; lots of celebrations and walks to Shul.
On one such walk, Benjy
asked his mother if she were afraid that he would die (since he had an
enlarged heart, a pacemaker and a defibrillator).
She answered, ‘Yes’
then gave him a blessing that he should be well and live to raise his
children.
He said, "But, Mom,
Hashem may have other plans for me."
As Esther recalled, “Benjy was a doctor
and he didn't think he'd live past 30 with his heart condition. Yet he
comforted me and said, "Don't be sad, Mom. I have a good life."
Later that year, Benjy
(Yaakov) Brandwein returned his soul to his Creator. He was a loving
husband and father. He was an inspiration to all who knew him and will
always be remembered kindly.
Dedicated by Ricky &
Ashira Kramer
Dedicated by Michael
& Rivka Spiegel
DVAR TORAH: Purim
The giving of the Torah at Har Sinai (Mount Sinai) is
referred to as Kabbalas haTorah miyirah – acceptance of the Torah
out of fear, Purim is referred to as Kabbalas haTorah miahavah –
acceptance of the Torah out of love. This is the yesod (foundation)
of Purim – returning to Hashem (G-d) and fulfilling His Torah with
love.
The practices of Purim, such as Shalach Manos (Gifts
of Food) and Matanos L’evyonim (Gifts to the Poor) are designed to
foster love and unity amongst the Jewish people. Loving and caring
for each other is a hallmark of the Jewish people as the following
true story, heard from Rabbi Eliezer Langer, illustrates:
There is a
beautiful minhag that when one receives a bracha (blessings) or good
wishes, they respond with their own bracha to the benefactor.
One year, after Havdalah on the Motzay Shabbat (Saturday
night) before Rosh Hashana, Reb Yosef Chaim Sonnenfeld, Chief Rabbi
of Jerusalem, was in a great rush to go to the house of a fellow
Yerushalmi (Jerusalem resident). Immediately upon arriving at the
person’s house, he began showering him with brochos (blessings) for
the upcoming year. Quite surprised by the arrival of this prominent
Rav at his home on one of the last nights of the year, the gentleman
asked why the Rav had bestowed him with such an abundance of
blessings.
His answer was the explanation of this custom. The
response to a bracha is to not only reciprocate, but in fact to
bless the other person with an even greater bracha. When one
receives the wish “a gut morgen – a good morning” the response is “a
gutten tog – a good day”, even greater than they received. When one
is wished “a gut voch - a good week” one gives back wishes for even
more than a week, “ a gut yohr – a good year.”
Why was Rav Sonnenfeld in such a rush to greet the
congregant? He said that on this Saturday night, the last of the
year, he had received the man’s bracha for a good week – a full
seven days’ bracha. He had responded with the customary “a gut yohr”,
but this year was going to end in the middle of this week. Not only
had he not wished him more than he had received, he blessed him with
even fewer days!! The Rav wanted to immediately make amends and
therefore rushed to offer even greater blessings for an entire year
of life and happiness.
Dedicated in
memory
of Simcha ben
Manya
by his children Dr. & Mrs. Alfred Salganick.
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