?During the course
of my career I’ve pretty much heard and seen it all. From the sublime and holy
to the ridiculous and insane.
I am reminded of a conversation I
had with the late great Rabbi Herman (Naftali) Neuberger, zt”l, in the wee hours of a summer morning 26 years ago in his
humble first-floor apartment on Yeshiva Lane. I had just told Rabbi Neuberger
that it was almost impossible for me to process all of the amazing things that
he had achieved, in so many areas, during his lifetime. Without missing a beat,
he half smilingly said, “The greatest accomplishment is when you can stop bad
things from happening; those achievements are the most important and the least
known.” An incredibly profound statement, which I took to heart and have tried,
whenever possible, to emulate.
Beginning in the mid-eighties, many
overseas airlines began reducing the space in economy class. Those same
airlines were adding space to, and upgrading, first class – for which they
charged a small fortune. Back then, the layout of business class was pretty
much what we now refer to as premier economy. It was only in the late nineties
that airlines, led by British Air, started upgrading their business-class
offerings. Today, business class is almost equal to first. I recall in 1997
listening to a radio ad for the Delta Airlines “all new no touching seat in first class.” The ad promised that if you flew
in their first-class cabin, you would never
have to rub elbows with anyone. Your “personal” space would be sacred.
During my years in Cape Town, South
Africa, our shul was privileged to host many inspiring Torah scholars from the
USA, the UK, and Israel. Because the trip to Cape Town was arduous – 15 hours
(nonstop) from the US, 13 hours from the UK, and 11 hours from Israel, our shul
would always purchase business-class seats for our guest scholars. They were
appreciative, and we benefited because our guests were not totally exhausted
upon arrival. When Rabbi Dr. Abraham J Twerski, zt”l, accepted our invitation to be a resident scholar, we informed
him that he would be flying in business class. He said, “Why?” I explained all
of the logical reasons and added that the ticket had already been budgeted for.
He then said, “If it has already been budgeted for would you mind if I fly
economy and donate the difference to a rehab facility that I just opened in
Israel?” I was a bit taken aback – since (for good reasons), all of our
overseas guest rabbis were relieved and happy to not be crammed into the economy section for a very long flight. I
told Rabbi Twerski that if he flew business, I would raise funds for his rehab
center. He replied, “That’s great, thank you. I’ll be the first to donate from
the funds saved on my ticket!” He flew economy.
When I picked him up at Cape Town
airport, he looked amazingly chipper. I said, “How was the flight?”
He said, “Great. I had a middle seat
in the middle section, so no one had to step over me.” The saintly Rabbi
Twerski was one of a kind.
During his four days in Cape Town,
he spoke numerous times. In one of his talks, he quoted Pirkei Avos 5.5, which references the miracles of Temple times.
Referring to the huge crush of people surrounding the Beis HaMikdash, the
Mishna says, “Omdim tzefufim.” (They
stood packed together but nevertheless had ample space to prostrate themselves.)
One of Rabbi Twerski’s listeners asked, “How was that possible?”
I assumed that Rabbi Twerski would
say, “It was a miracle.” Instead, he said, “The devoted Jews who came up to the
Temple were humble. They had their egos under control. The smaller the ego, the
more humble the person. The more humble the person, the less physical space
they require. Therefore, there was plenty of room for everyone.” Incredible
answer! I then understood how Rabbi Twerski had ample space in his economy
seat. I still aspire one day to possibly have the humility to feel like I have
ample space in the sardine section of an aircraft. I admit, I’m not quite there
yet.
* *
*
As I mentioned, during my career, I’ve heard
lots of odd things, and I’ve also been asked many unusual questions. More than
once, those questions had to do with personal space, which many consider to be
sacred. A few years ago, an ostensibly frum
couple met with me. At the time, they had four children. The husband, an ehrlich Yid, wanted more children. The
wife said, “I wouldn’t mind having another child, but we only have five
bedrooms and a den, which doubles as a guest room. The only way I could
possibly consider having another child is if we build on another bedroom and
bath.”
Now, I’ve learned over my many
professional years not to display the emotions I’m feeling while listening to
some pretty strange stuff. I calmly said, “Would it not be possible for a
couple of your daughters to share a room?”
The wife looked directly at me and
said, “I could never do that to my children. They each need their own space.”
The girls were four and six. I said, “But you
share a room.”
She replied, “Not always; that’s why
we have a den.”
Although lots of things were
spinning around in my head, I realized that this couple hadn’t come to me for
values counseling. So I stayed on topic. Admittedly, my mind wandered to my
grandchildren in Eretz Yisrael, for whom sharing a room with four siblings is
quite normal. From the youngest age, they learn to share and care, and if a
guest shows up, they don’t think twice about giving up their bunk for a
sleeping bag on the dining room floor. Anyway, I said to the husband, “Are you
prepared to add on to your house.
He said, “If that’s what it takes
for my wife to agree, then I’ll do it.” By the time they left my office, they
had agreed that the construction should be completed within six months, and indeed,
the extra bedroom was finished in record time – two months before she
delivered. Upon delivery, it seemed clear that G-d sent her a message. The lady
gave birth to twins! Mazal tov! A boy and a girl.
* * *
I’ve noticed that many people can be
quite possessive of (what they perceive to be) their space. Twenty years ago, I
was on a panel in London, entitled “Values-Based Parenting,” with the
distinguished late Chief Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, zt”l, and, may he live and be well, the brilliant Rav Tzvi Hersh
Weinreb, who at that time headed the Orthodox Union. On the Shabbos preceding
the panel discussion, I davened at the famous St. Johns Wood Shul, which is one
of the great “cathedral” synagogues in central London. The main sanctuary has 1,800
permanent seats, which are occupied on the High Holidays and, occasionally, when
major communal events take place. The overwhelming majority of seats are
unoccupied on a regular Shabbos. The Rav is a talmid chacham named Ivan Binstock, a dayan who serves on the London Beth Din.
On that Shabbos morning, after
clearing the security checkpoints, I entered the sanctuary and chose to sit in
an empty row near the front of the shul. Dayan Binstock and I made eye contact,
exchanged smiles, and began davening. About an hour later, just before the
Torah reading, a fellow showed up, entered my empty row, and informed me that I
was in “his” seat. I moved over two seats. Twenty minutes later, another fellow
arrived and informed me that I was in his
seat. I didn’t realize that the Dayan had been observing my movements from his
vantage point next to the aron kodesh. A moment later, he came over to
me and said, “Please come with me.” The Dayan led me up to the seat next to his
and said, “Make yourself comfortable. No one will evict you from here.”
The Dayan’s actions did not go
unnoticed. I saw several congregants come over to the guys who evicted me. It
seems that some other congregants had noticed the poster in the shul lobby
advertising the next day’s program with the Chief Rabbi, myself, and Rabbi
Weinreb. The poster included a photo of each speaker. After shul one of the
seat landlords sheepishly came over to me and said, “I’m so sorry, Rabbi, if I
had known it was you, I would never have asked you to move.”
Sometimes, I let things go, but when
a teachable moment occurs, I feel that it’s my obligation to teach. I said, “I
very much appreciate your thoughtful words. Maybe in the future, if someone
arrives before you do and is sitting in your usual seat, you might want to
consider choosing another seat – especially since there are so many available.”
It was a private conversation that I hoped would be accepted and understood.
Nevertheless, from time to time,
it’s good for me to receive a humility check. Having served as the rabbi of a
large congregation, I became used to my makom
kavuah (my dedicated area) on the bimah next to the aron kodesh. On the first
Shabbos after leaving Cape Town to return to the States, I entered a local
shul, slipped into the last row, opened up a siddur and started to daven. Within a minute, a very frum-looking fellow came over and said,
“Would you kindly move over; you’re in my k’veeus
(space). It was then that I realized that I needed to become more
comfortable in the shul’s economy section while internalizing an important middah learned from Rabbi Twerski. I
also thought that maybe, when we gather to daven, G-d likes to see His children
omdim tzefufim (close together) and ish echad b’lev echad (united as one
heart).
*
* *
Thinking
about Rabbi Twerski’s selfless humility, which transcended physical discomfort,
and Rabbi Neuberger’s desire to “stop bad things from happening,” I ask myself
why are we living in such insane times? How did this mess happen, and what can
we do to stop it? Only one answer seems to make sense: The chaos all around us
is about us. When Jews are at odds
with each other – when, as a people and a nation, we are divided and polarized
– our internal issues play out in the world around us and are reflected back in
an exaggerated and frightening manner.
Throughout Jewish history,
infighting and rejection of G-d and His Torah has led the Jewish people into
very precarious situations, which have emboldened the forces of darkness. When
that occurs, open hatred of Jews becomes accepted. When we fail to fulfill our
mission as “a light unto the nations,” those nations embrace darkness.
During my lifetime, I have rarely
seen a majority of the Jewish people unified in celebration. The two times that
I can recall are June of 1967, after the Six Day War, and July of 1976, after
the Entebbe raid. But I have often seen unity when we are collectively
threatened. That’s because missiles and terror attacks do not discriminate
between religious, secular, and unaffiliated Jews.
During the second intifada, my
family gathered together in Yerushalayim to celebrate the wedding of our
youngest son Michoel. The family was staying in a hotel near Ben Yehuda. A few
days before and a few days after Michoel’s wedding, Arleeta and I would
accompany Arleeta’s late parents to a lovely milchig cafe on Ben Yehuda for
lunch. After Arleeta’s parents’ departure from Israel, the two of us decided to
take a day trip to the Yom Hamelach. As we were returning that afternoon, our
bus driver informed us that a terrorist attack had occurred on Ben Yehuda and
the entire area was cordoned off. He dropped us off a kilometer from our hotel.
As we walked through the somber
streets approaching our hotel, the police asked us for proof that we were
staying inside the cordoned-off area. We showed our keys bearing the name of
the hotel and were permitted through. The blast site was horrific. Blood stains
everywhere. What was jolting was the fact that the bomb went off in front of
the restaurant where we had dined each day (except that day) with Arleeta’s
parents.
Yes, we pondered why we were spared.
I cannot describe the mood of the city that night. All types of Jews, from
right to left – chareidi, dati, chiloni – were working to clean up the bombing site, and were doing
the sacred work of retrieving blood and minuscule pieces of human remains. Many
then converged at the Kotel to say tehillim.
In tragedy there was achdus (unity).
It seems that we Jews (throughout our history) struggle to unify when we aren’t
being threatened. Sad indeed!
* * *
We are living in a time when mitzvah
observance seems to be improving. Unfortunately though, I’m not sure that our middos are keeping pace with our
mitzvos. In this period of Sefiras Ha’omer,
we mourn the loss of 24,000 talmidim
of Rabbi Akiva. We need to remember that those talmidei chachamim
perished due to their lack of respect for one another. Growing up, my parents
and teachers stressed “Derech eretz kadma
l’Torah,” proper manners come before Torah. On Yom Kippur, we repeatedly
recite the Al Chet, the majority of
which focuses on our conduct bein adam lechaveiro
(between each other). Shmiras halashon,
not speaking ill of others, seems to be a challenge for many. A century ago,
when the Chofetz Chaim kept stressing the importance of the observance of
positive speech, I’m wondering if he foresaw the darkness descending upon
European Jewry and intuitively knew that unity among Jews was essential and
that proper speech promoted that critical achdus.
Rabbi Twerski was the paragon of
humility and outstanding middos.
Rabbi Neuberger understood the need to prevent bad things from happening to
Jews. I’m thinking that if each of us, seriously and graciously, embraces the
mitzvah of v’ahavta l’rayacha kamocha (treating
others as we would like to be treated) and makes space for others – while being
careful not to speak lashon hara – we
might be able to promote the achdus that
is so critical to Jewish survival. Never diminish yourself by saying, “I’m only
one person.” Assume that you are the person! If we can work on middos improvement, then, with Hashem’s
blessing, we can hopefully once again stand omdim
tzefufim,” with ample room for all,
in Hashem’s holy presence as we did 3,300 years ago at Sinai.
As Shavuos approaches, may we be ach sameach (very happy) as we rejoice
in receiving the Torah – G-d’s gift to humanity. Chag sameach! May we be united in simcha and celebrate the Redemption soon!
