Welcome to Kehillas Torah Online

Parshas Toldos - 5765 by Rabbi Baruch Lederman

Yaakov is known for the midah of emes (quality of truth) as we say teetain emes l'Yaakov. He had many struggles throughout his life which molded him to a perfect model and understanding of emes. Our struggles teach us much the following true story illustrates:

Baruch Cohen, Esq., attended yeshiva from preschool to high school and spent six years studying in post high school yeshiva, before entering law school on Los Angeles. Prior to his law school graduation, in the late 1980s, the dean called him with interesting news. An extremely prestigious law firm had contacted him with an invitation for Baruch to interview.

This was an amazing development. First of all, Baruch had not even sent a resume to that firm. Secondly, even if he had, the chances of landing an interview were almost nil. This prominent Wall Street firm, which recently expanded into L.A., was one of the top in the nation and one of the most selective. Normally one would have to be a graduate of Harvard or Yale to even be considered by this firm. Baruch was a good student from a good law school, but the school’s ranking was not Ivy League high. In fact the dean told him that none of his graduates had ever been invited for an interview by this firm.

“Baruch, I know you always wore that religious skullcap all through law school, and you still wear it now that you are clerking in bankruptcy court, and I respect that,” the dean said, “But now you have an opportunity to get in to an elite firm. The skullcap could turn them off and cost you the job.”

Baruch was now torn. He had worn the yarmulke (ritual skullcap, also known as a kippah) all his life. As a kid he was beaten up by neighborhood boys for wearing it, but, he would rather have a bloody nose than no yarmulke on his head.

Before he entered law school he worried that pursuing a career in law could force him to remove his precious yarmulke. Indeed, to this point in his brief career he had always worn his yarmulke. But now he had an opportunity of a lifetime. The experience and prestige of being associated with this firm, as well as the six figure starting salary was a dream come true. He was starting a family. He had a wife and young daughter to support.

He did his due diligence and asked other religiously observant Jewish lawyers. They all told him that wearing a yarmulke at work was just not done. He even spoke with a prominent Rabbi who told him that it is permissible to go without a yarmulke to pursue a parnassa (livelihood). Yes, he could remove his yarmulke he thought – but did that mean he should?

After much soul searching, he finally decided that this was too big an opportunity to jeopardize, so he went to his interview bare headed. He still felt ill at ease, but at the same time he felt confident in that he had sought advice from the experts and that no matter how wrong it felt to him, he was doing what he was told to do. He went into the big fancy building and found his way to the interviewers office. He was seated in the reception area. Finally the secretary told him that he could go in to the interviewers office. He entered the room.

Nothing could have prepared him for the shock that awaited him. There in front of him was the interviewer, sitting at his desk, clad in a yarmulke. The interviewer looked at him and his uncovered head with equal shock and said, “Where is your yarmulke?”

Baruch was frozen. He was numb. He couldn’t even feel his hands to find which pocket his yarmulke was in.

The interviewer continued, “Do you know why you got this interview? I happened to be in bankruptcy court and saw you clerking for the judge. It intrigued me that someone in Los Angeles would have the conviction to proudly wear a yarmulke whiling working in a court. I researched you. I found that you spent six years studying Talmud, in a prominent yeshiva before entering law school. That is an outstanding combination.

“Now you show up to this interview without a yarmulke?!

“I also know that you come from a long line of Rabbis. You studied in the finest Yeshivos. I checked all that out before contacting your dean. Now when the opportunity presents itself, look at you. You're a sellout. I am so deeply disappointed in you. You’ll never make it in this firm – this is a firm of leaders, not followers. This interview is over.”

Baruch was sent home reeling. He felt lower than he had ever felt before. He then shed tears, not because of the job, not because of the harshness of the rebuke; but because deep down he felt the interviewer was right.

He resolved from that point to only do the right thing, and never accept the argument from others that 'this is the way things are done.' From that point on he never removed his yarmulke for fear of what an employer, client or jury might think. Let them think what they will. He was determined to do the right thing and people would just have to recognize that. Today Baruch Cohen is a successful trial attorney in Los Angeles, who has inspired many with the profound perspective that he acquired the hard way. [The foregoing true story was told to me by Baruch Cohen, Esq.]

Dvar Torah - Parshas Toldos - 5763 by Rabbi Baruch Lederman

It looked for some dark moments, as though our forefather Yaakov would be denied his heritage, but, when something is meant to be, HaShem (G-d) will move heaven and earth in the most remarkable ways, to make things right, as the following true story illustrates:

On his way out from shul in Jerusalem, Dan approached a young man in Dungarees, backpack, dark skin, curly black hair -- looked Sephardi, maybe Moroccan. "Good Shabbos. My name is Dan Eisenblatt. Would you like to eat at my house tonight?" The young man's face broke in an instant from a worried look to a smile. "Yeah, thanks. My name is Machi." Together they walked out of the shul.

        A few minutes later they were all standing around Dan's Shabbos table. Dan noticed his guest fidgeting and leafing through his songbook, apparently looking for something. He asked with a smile, "Is there a song you want to sing? I can help if you're not sure about the tune."

        The guest's face lit up. "There is a song I'd like to sing, but I can't find it here. I really liked what we sang in the synagogue tonight. What was it called? Something 'dodi.'"

        Dan paused for a moment, on the verge of saying, "It's not usually sung at the table," but then he caught himself. "If that's what the kid wants," he thought, "what's the harm?" Aloud he said, "You mean Lecha Dodi. Wait, let me get you a siddur."

        Once they had sung Lecha Dodi, the young man resumed his silence until after the soup, when Dan asked him, "Which song now?" The guest looked embarrassed, but after a bit of encouragement said firmly, "I'd really like to sing Lecha Dodi again."

        Dan was not really all that surprised when, after the chicken, he asked his guest what song now, and the young man said, "Lecha Dodi, please." Dan almost blurted out, "Let's sing it a little softer this time, the neighbors are going to think I'm nuts."  He finally said, "Don't you want to sing something else?" His guest blushed and looked down. "I just really like that one," he mumbled. "Just something about it -- I really like it." In all, they must have sung "The Song" eight or nine times. Dan wasn't sure -- he lost count.

        Later Dan asked, "Where are you from?" The boy looked pained, then stared down at the floor and said softly, "Ramallah."

        Dan's was sure he'd heard the boy say "Ramallah," a large Arab city on the West Bank. Quickly he caught himself, and then realized that he must have said Ramleh, an Israeli city. Dan said, "Oh, I have a cousin there. Do you know Ephraim Warner? He lives on Herzl Street."

        The young man shook his head sadly. "There are no Jews in Ramallah."

        Dan gasped. He really had said "Ramallah"! His thoughts were racing. Did he just spend Shabbos with an Arab?  He told the boy, "I'm sorry, I'm a bit confused. And now that I think of it, I haven't even asked your full name. What is it, please?"

        The boy looked nervous for a moment, then squared his shoulders and said quietly, "Machmud Ibn-esh-Sharif."

        Dan stood there speechless. What could he say?

        Machmud broke the silence hesitantly: "I was born and grew up in Ramallah. I was taught to hate my Jewish oppressors, and to think that killing them was heroism. But I always had my doubts. I mean, we were taught that the Sunna, the tradition, says, 'No one of you is a believer until he desires for his brother that which he desires for himself.' I used to sit and wonder, Weren't the Yahud (Jews) people, too? Didn't they have the right to live the same as us? If we're supposed to be good to everyone, how come nobody includes Jews in that?

        "I asked these questions to my father, and he threw me out of the house. By now my mind was made up: I was going to run away and live with the Yahud, until I could find out what they were really like. I snuck back into the house that night, to get my things and my backpack. My mother caught me in the middle of packing. I told her that I wanted to go live with the Jews for a while and find out what they're really like, and maybe I would even want to convert.

        "She was turning more and more pale while I said all this, and I thought she was angry, but that wasn't it. Something else was hurting her, and she whispered gently, 'You don't have to convert. You already are a Jew.'

        "I was shocked. My head started spinning, and for a moment I couldn't speak. Then I stammered, 'What do you mean?'

        "'In Judaism,' she told me, 'the religion goes according to the mother. I'm Jewish, so that means you're Jewish.'

        "I never had any idea my mother was Jewish. I guess she didn't want anyone to know. She whispered suddenly, 'I made a mistake by marrying an Arab man. In you, my mistake will be redeemed.'

        "My mother always talked that way, poetic-like. She went and dug out some old documents, and handed them to me: things like my birth certificate and her old Israeli ID card, so I could prove I was a Jew. I've got them here, but I don't know what to do with them.

        "My mother hesitated about one piece of paper. Then she said, 'You may as well take this. It is an old photograph of my grandparents, which was taken when they went visiting the grave of some great ancestor of ours.'"

        "Now I have traveled here to Israel. I'm just trying to find out where I belong."

Although Yitzchok (Isaac) wound up giving his blessing to Yaakov (Jacob), he initially chose to give the special blessing to Esav. Why did he choose the wicked Esav over the righteous Yaakov. Surely by that time he must have realized that Esav was not worthy of this important holy blessing. The Dubno Maggid explains this with a moshol (parable):