Rabbi Avrohom Schorr

The Sound of Emunah

The Steipler Gaon (SeferChayei Olam) writes that parents should tell their children stories about tzaddikim. Such stories awaken emunah and give a child a picture of what spiritual greatness can look like. Of course, one needs wisdom in choosing the stories. They should not be so distant or extraordinary that the child cannot relate to them. They should teach something practical about life and inspire the child to aspire toward growth. There is one story, however, that every Jewish child should know. I have asked many classes about it, and almost no child has ever heard it.

In the early 1950s, a child was born who, according to those who witnessed it, could recite vast portions of Torah before the angel caused him to forget. He could recite from Shas, Rambam, Shulchan Aruch, and other seforim, despite being far too young to have learned them in the ordinary way.

Why is this story so important? Because it brings to life the teaching of Chazal that before a child is born, a malach teaches the neshama the entire Torah. The child does not enter this world empty. The neshama comes from another realm, already connected to Torah and Hashem. The angel then causes the child to forget so that he can spend his life rediscovering what his neshama already knows.

For many of us, such a story is difficult to accept because it does not fit within the ordinary laws of this world. But that is precisely why it is so powerful. It reminds us that this world is not the only world. A neshama existed before it entered the body, and it carries memories and capacities that cannot be explained through physical experience alone.

In one sefer, a letter is printed from a great Rosh Yeshivah in Detroit to Rav Chatzkel Levenstein zt”l, the Mashgiach of Ponevezh. He had heard about this child and wanted to know whether the report was true. From far away, the story sounded almost impossible, so he wrote to Rav Chatzkel in Bnei Brak and asked him to investigate.

Rav Chatzkel wrote back that his daughter and son-in-law lived near the family and had personally told him about the child. When he first heard the report, he put on his coat and began walking toward the house to see the child for himself. Then he stopped.

He thought, “My daughter and son-in-law are trustworthy Jews. They told me what they witnessed. Why must I see it with my own eyes? If I cannot believe until I personally see, I am weakening the very emunah this story is meant to strengthen.” He therefore turned around and returned home without seeing the child.

That is an extraordinary lesson for our generation. We live in an age of photographs, videos, recordings and constant documentation. Whenever something remarkable occurs, people immediately ask, “Is there a video?” We assume that seeing creates belief. Yet seeing is not always emunah. Sometimes the demand to see everything is itself the opposite of emunah.

The Ohr HaChaim (Shemos 10:2) explains that hearing is connected to faith, while seeing can remove the need for faith. When I see something directly, I no longer believe it; I know it through my senses. Emunah begins where physical sight ends.

The Meshech Chochmah develops this idea through the mitzvah of honoring parents. The Gemara (Yevamos 6a) refers to various actions associated with kibbud av va’em as a hechsher mitzvah, a preparation to a mitzvah. The Meshech Chochmah reads into this that the very mitzvah of kibbud av va’em is unto itself a hechsher mitzvah to all other mitzvos of the Torah.Why would honoring parents be the foundation of the entire Torah?

The answer is that our emunah in Torah rests upon mesorah. Why do I believe that Hashem revealed Himself at Har Sinai? Because my father told me what his father told him, and his father received it from the generation before him. The chain continues all the way back to those who stood at Sinai.

If one destroys the authority of parents and the concept of transmission, one eventually undermines the entire foundation of Torah. Without mesorah, there is no one to hear, and at that point, a person believes only what he can personally see or prove.

We do not need anyone to explain that disrespect toward parents is one of the great illnesses of our generation. Society often teaches young people that they are not obligated to listen to their parents and that their own feelings and opinions automatically outweigh the wisdom of previous generations. Of course, complicated situations require wisdom and guidance. But once the general concept of kibbud av va’eim is weakened, the power of mesorah is weakened with it.

One avodah during Elul is the restoration of emunah. We reclaim the ability to believe in Hashem and receive the mesorah of Torah from past generations without demanding that everything first be proven to our own satisfaction. We stop living as people who question every tradition and doubt every message simply because we did not witness it ourselves.

Reb Zusha of Anipoli notes that the letters of the word teshuvah represent different foundations of returning to Hashem. The first, he notes, is “Tamim tihyeh im Hashem Elokecha—You shall be wholehearted with Hashem your G-d” (Devarim 18:3). Teshuvah begins with temimus, a simple and wholehearted faith. It is the willingness to follow Hashem without constantly questioning whether we know better.

Temimus has become an undervalued quality. If a shidduch resume described someone first and foremost as a tamim, many people might not be impressed. They prefer someone sharp, sophisticated, worldly, independent, and fully aware of everything happening around them. Simplicity is sometimes treated as weakness. But the Torah sees it differently. To be a tamim does not mean to be foolish. It means to be whole and sincere in one’s relationship with Hashem. It means not living with constant suspicion and cynicism.

The world sometimes mocks Jews for having gone “like sheep.” That expression is often used critically, as though following with faith were a sign of weakness. Yet Klal Yisrael is repeatedly compared to Hashem’s flock. We are proud to follow the Shepherd because we trust Him. We do not wander without direction. We follow the Ribbono Shel Olam with temimus.

This is the deeper meaning of “Lo anachnu amo—We are His people” (Tehillim 100:3). We become His nation when we are willing to hear His voice and trust the mesorah He has given us. The transformation from lo with an aleph, “we are not His,” to lo with a vav, “we are His,” takes place through genuine emunah.

This is also how we prepare for the Shofar of Rosh Hashanah. The beracha is “Lishmoa kol Shofar,” to hear the sound of the Shofar. The mitzvah is specifically in the hearing because hearing represents emunah. We cannot see what the Shofar accomplishes in Shamayim. We cannot photograph the gates it opens or the accusations it silences. We hear its cry, and we believe.

May we arrive at Rosh Hashanah with ears that truly know how to hear and may the sound of the Shofar awaken our emunah, restore our temimus, and remind us that we are the flock of Hashem.

And through that faithful hearing, may we live fully and proudly as His people.

Rabbi Aryeh Kerzner

The Bearer of Good News

During the lifetime of Rav Yitzchak Elchanan Spektor zt”l, the revered Rav of Kovno, one of the greatest fears facing Jewish families was the Russian military draft. A young man conscripted into the Czar's army could be forced to serve for twenty-five years under brutal conditions, where observing Torah and mitzvos was nearly impossible.

One of Rav Yitzchak Elchanan's talmidim received notice that he had been drafted. The entire community was devastated. They davened fervently, and through great effort an appeal requesting an exemption was submitted to the authorities.

Some time later, Rav Yitzchak Elchanan was presiding over an important din Torah (court case) with two other distinguished rabbanim. In the middle of the proceedings, one of his students burst into the room. "Rebbe! Rebbe! Did you hear the wonderful news? The exemption was approved! Yankel doesn't have to serve in the Russian army!"

Rav Yitzchak Elchanan immediately stood up, embraced the student warmly, and exclaimed, "Thank you for bringing me such wonderful news! May Hashem bless you with long life and countless besuros tovos (good tidings)." He then returned to the din Torah.

Ten minutes later, another student entered, unaware that the Rav had already heard the news. "Rebbe, did you hear? Yankel has been exempted!" Again, Rav Yitzchak Elchanan rose from his seat, embraced him with the same enthusiasm, thanked him warmly, and showered him with heartfelt blessings.

This happened several more times. Each student received the identical joyful reaction.

Finally, one of the rabbanim sitting with Rav Yitzchak Elchanan asked in amazement, "Why don't you simply tell them you already know? We are in the middle of an important din Torah, and each interruption delays the proceedings."

Rav Yitzchak Elchanan smiled and replied, "Because I want my talmidim to learn a lesson they will never forget.

"I want them to know that there is tremendous value in being the bearer of good news. It is easy to spread fear, anxiety and bad tidings. But someone who chooses to spread hope, joy, and encouragement deserves appreciation. Every one of these students came because he wanted to make another Jew happy. I want each of them to know how precious that is."

In a world overflowing with discouraging headlines, perhaps one of the greatest gifts we can give another person is a besurah tovah in the form of a word of encouragement, an uplifting story, or a reason to smile. And may we all strive to become people who spread light instead of darkness, hope instead of fear, and joy instead of despair.

Rabbi Shlomo Landau

Reaching the Heavens

A young woman, the mother of a house full of children, once came before Rabbi Yosef Shalom Elyashiv zt”l with an agonizing question.

Her husband was gravely ill and the leading physicians in Eretz Yisrael had exhausted every available option, informing the family that there was little more they could do. Yet they added one final possibility: in the United States, there were several major medical centers offering an experimental treatment that, perhaps, might save his life.

The dilemma was heartbreaking. Traveling overseas could save his life, but in his fragile condition, it could accelerate his decline and hasten his death. Remaining in Eretz Yisrael, on the other hand, would allow him to spend his remaining days surrounded by his wife, children, and family, but it meant opting out of a potential life-saving treatment. What should they do?

The woman presented all the medical details to Rabbi Elyashiv, who listened carefully, weighed the facts, and finally responded. "I don’t believe you should travel to the United States. Your husband should remain here with his family."

The woman began to cry. She cried and cried until no tears remained. Then she looked up at Rav Elyashiv and asked, "Rebbe, tell me something. Years from now, when I walk my children to their chuppahs, and they look at me and ask why only one parent is standing beside them, will I be able to look them in the eye and say, 'I did everything possible to save your father, but the Rebbe and the Ribbono Shel Olam did not want it'? Will I be able to say that with a clear conscience? You are telling me not to go to America. Will I truly be able to tell that to my children?"

Rabbi Elyashiv paused. He thought again. Then he said: "No, you will not. Take your husband to the United States, and may the Ribbono Shel Olam send him a complete recovery."

The family traveled to America, and against all expectations, the treatment succeeded. The husband recovered and lived for many more years. He was privileged to stand beneath the chuppah and walk his children to their weddings.

Later, one of Rabbi Elyashiv's students approached him. "Rebbe," he asked, "I don't understand. Initially you ruled that they should not go. Then you changed your mind. Not only that, but the man survived! How could your original ruling have been not to travel? It seems that decision would have been a death sentence."

Rabbi Elyashiv answered with profound wisdom. "When the woman first came to ask her question, she asked a shailah according to the laws of halachah and the realities of medicine. According to the natural order of things, there was no reason to believe that traveling to America would improve his condition. If anything, it might have made matters worse.

"But then she began to cry. She wept from the deepest recesses of her neshama. And when she looked at me and asked, 'Rebbe, what will I tell my children?' everything changed. 'Sha'arei dema'os lo ninalu—The gates of tears are never closed’ (Berachos 32b).

"According to the laws of nature, there was no way to save this man. But the tears of a Jewish mother, the tears of a Jewish neshama, can overturn the natural order itself. Once she cried, it was no longer the same question."

The Ribbono Shel Olam did not bring Mashiach in the days of the Chofetz Chaim. The Vilna Gaon did not merit to see the final redemption. Neither the Rambam, nor Rashi, nor the Ramban, nor the Geonim, nor the Amoraim, nor even the Tannaim brought Mashiach. And we will? By the ordinary course of history, it seems impossible. By the laws of nature, perhaps we do not deserve what the generations before us did not attain.

Yet Rabbi Elyashiv reminded her and reminds us that there is an­other force in this world. There are the Sha'arei Dema'os, the Gates of Tears.

A broken heart reaches places that nothing else can reach.

Rabbi Yaakov Rahimi

A Mind of Torah

How does a person keep his mind from becoming filled with thoughts of sin?

The Rambam (Hilchos Issurei Biah 22:21) gives us a fundamental principle: fill the mind with Torah. When a person's mind is occupied with Torah and wisdom, there is far less room for thoughts that can lead him in the wrong direction.

Think of a car with a gas tank. The tank is designed to be filled with something specific. Leave it empty, or fill it with the wrong substance, and the car cannot function as it should.

The same is true of the human mind and neshama. They are not designed to remain empty. Something will inevitably occupy them. If we do not consciously fill our lives with kedushah, Torah, mitzvos, and meaningful pursuits, that empty space will eventually be occupied by something else. A vacuum does not remain a vacuum for very long.

This is therefore one of the most practical ways of confronting sin. Sometimes we concentrate entirely on what we need to stop thinking about: Don't think about this. Don't look at that. Don't become involved in this.

But the Rambam teaches us to focus not only on what we are removing, but on what we are putting in its place.

How does a person begin to develop better thoughts? Start learning. Fill the mind with more Torah and fill the day with more mitzvos. Become occupied with things that elevate you. The more one's mind and life become saturated with Torah, the less space there is for everything else to take hold.

A person needs to be connected to Torah because the mind will always be filled with something. The question is simply: what are we choosing to fill it with?