Tag: religion

Adapted from: The Eternal Wisdom of Pirkei Avos by Rabbi Yechiel Spero

רַבּיִ שִׁמְעוֹן אוֹמֵר: הֱוֵי זָהִיר בִּקְרִיאַת שְׁמַע וּבִתְפִלָּה 

Rabbi Shimon says: Be meticulous in reading the Shema and in prayer (Avos 2:18)

The Mishnah speaks about the importance of tefillah.

Yes, prayer is crucial to our connection with Hashem, but have you ever wondered why it is necessary to daven three times every day? Shouldn’t once a day suffice?

The Maharal (Nesivos Olam, Nesiv HaAvodah, 3) explains that the tefillos of Shacharis, Minchah, and Maariv represent our shibud to Hashem via our guf, mamon, and nefesh — our body, money, and soul.

Let’s begin with Shacharis. We are lying in bed, in a very deep sleep. There is nothing quite like it. Sweet, indeed. Sleep invigorates and refreshes our body, enabling it to take on the challenges of the day. Lost in “Never Neverland,” we are suddenly awakened by the rude shrill of the alarm clock. While our body begs us to turn it off and go back to sleep, we know that we answer to a Higher Calling. And so, we muster every ounce of strength and schlep ourselves out of bed to daven Shacharis. As we rise to daven, we are meshabeid our guf, we subjugate our body, to Hashem.

Throughout the day, we dedicate ourselves to the task of parnassah. It is gratifying to make money, and every second of the day is precious. As the old adage goes, “Time is money.” When we take fifteen to twenty minutes from our work schedule to daven Minchah, we make a statement that no money in the world is more important than Hashem. Thus, with our declaration of faithfulness through our tefillah of Minchah, we are meshabeid our money, a shibud hamamon to Hashem.

Finally, after the day is over, we are exhausted and overwhelmed. We just want to sit back, relax, and unwind, as we yearn for a little bit of menuchas hanefesh. But we can’t shut down our mind just yet. There is still a Maariv to be davened. I imagine many of us have been there. We are ready to call it a day, grateful to finally catch our breath, and then we remember: Maariv. When we pick ourselves up off the comfortable couch and head out to daven Maariv, we are meshabeid our nefesh to Hashem.

And now, the three-ply cord, the Shacharis-Minchah-Maariv connection, is complete. We have successfully subjugated our guf, mamon, and nefesh to Hashem.

One day, Rav Naftali of Ropshitz watched as a fellow entered the beis midrash quite late in the morning, quickly donned his tallis and tefillin, and rushed through the entire davening. He mumbled his way through each part, barely spending more than a minute or two on Shemoneh Esrei. Shortly thereafter, he removed his tefillin with the urgency of one who is trying to rid himself of an annoying insect.

As the fellow made his way toward the exit doors, Rav Naftali called him over and asked if he could share a story with him. Unaware of Rav Naftali’s intention, the man sat down and listened to the tale.

There was once a young man who spent his days wisely. After davening, he took a quick bite and headed out to learn. Ordinarily, when he came back for lunch, his wife cooked a pot of simple grits, which didn’t take much time to prepare. It wasn’t all that tasty, but it was good enough and he didn’t complain.

One day, when he walked into his home at noon, his wife told him that she was still preparing his lunch, so he sat down to wait. As the minutes turned into hours, he imagined that she was preparing a lavish meal of stuffed duck and delicious wine. His mouth watered and he anticipated the most delicious meal of his life. The hours passed and his anticipation grew; each passing moment whetted his appetite further. Finally, his wife emerged with his lunch… a plate of grits.

With an enormous sense of disappointment, he sighed deeply. “It is not that I mind the simplicity of the meal,” he explained to his wife. “I’m fine with grits, if that is all you have to give me. But this time, I waited a long time for the meal.

And while I waited, I grew very excited, anticipating a most delectable and sumptuous feast. When you came out with grits, I couldn’t help but mutter to myself, ‘Grits? Noch amol?’”

Rav Naftali looked at the fellow, who was starting to catch on. “The Ribbono Shel Olam understands that you may not be a ‘velt’s davener,’ highly attuned to praying earnestly. But if He waited, hoping for a sincere tefillah, being that you were late in coming to daven, then do you want Him to say, ‘Grits? Noch amol?’” 

Adapted from: Moments of Greatness by Rabbi Yitzchok Hisiger

R’ Yosef, a talmid of R’ Yitzchok Hutner, would often bring his father, R’ Avrohom,* to the rosh yeshivah for chizuk and encouragement. At the time, R’ Avrohom was out of a job and his parnassah struggles left him despondent. Amazingly, after each “session” with R’ Hutner, R’ Avrohom emerged as if transformed. He was able to unburden himself to the rosh yeshivah, who had the right words for him, and he walked out like a new person, upbeat, positive, and optimistic.

One time, R’ Avrohom asked his son to make an appointment for him with R’ Hutner. R’ Yosef hesitated, however, explaining to his father that, after all, R’ Hutner was extremely busy, with no time on his hands. Between his shiurim and maamarim, and all the issues that came across his desk, he didn’t have time. How could he ask R’ Hutner to give away an hour or two just to shmooze? For this reason, they decided not to bother R’ Hutner any longer with this matter.

Sometime afterward, R’ Hutner saw R’ Yosef and asked him, “How’s your father doing? I haven’t seen him in a while. Has anything changed with his parnassah?”

R’ Yosef responded that no, nothing had changed, as his father was still jobless and parnassah was a challenge.

“So why haven’t you brought your father to see me?” asked R’ Hutner.

R’ Yosef explained that his father did indeed wish to come, but after thinking it over, they felt bad taking up the rosh yeshivah’s precious time just to shmooze about such mundane matters.

“Zog mir Yosef, tell me,” said R’ Hutner, “es iz em gringer oifen hartz ven ich rett mitt em? — Does he feel better after I speak with him?”

“Absolutely!” said R’ Yosef.

Now R’ Hutner grew animated. “Hust du ah besserer zach tzu ton mit tzeit vi tzu machen ah Yid feelin besser oifen hartz? — Do you have something better for one to do with his time that to make a Yid feel better in his heart?”

Indeed, there is nothing better to do with one’s time than to remove or ease the burden on the shoulders of a fellow Yid. Even one as busy as R’ Hutner felt that bringing a smile to another’s face has priority. 

Adapted from: The Power of a Vort by Rabbi Yissocher Frand

דַּבֵּר אֶל בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל וְאָמַרְתָּ אֲלֵהֶם אִישׁ אוֹ אִשָּׁה כִּי יַפְלִא לִנְדֹּר נֶדֶר נָזִיר לְהַזִּיר לַה’

Speak to the Children of Israel and say to them: A man or woman who shall dissociate himself by taking a Nazirite vow of abstinence (Bamidar 6:2).

Rashi, citing Chazal (Sotah 2a), explains that the parashah of nazir follows immediately after the parashah of sotah because when a person witnesses the downfall of a sotah, he should take on a nazir vow and abstain from drinking wine so that he doesn’t suffer the same ignominious fate.

Rav Yaakov Weinberg zt”l, the Rosh Yeshivah of Ner Israel, pointed out that we might have expected the opposite to be true. When someone witnesses a horrendous car accident in which a passenger died because he wasn’t wearing a seatbelt, that generally gives him pause the next time he gets into a car. Even someone who hates seatbelts will think twice about flouting the law upon seeing a body carried off a highway after not buckling up.

Shouldn’t the same be true for someone who witnesses the disgrace of a sotah? Shouldn’t the image of the sotah being degraded be seared upon his memory, providing him with spiritual immunity from further sin? Why should such a person need to become a nazir as a barrier to sin?

Rav Weinberg answers that the healthiest way to avoid sin is to be so far removed from it that it never enters the realm of possibility in our minds. Seeing someone else sin — or even paying the price for their sins — moves the possibility a little bit closer to us. The sin just seems more doable now that we know that someone else has done it.

One of the dangers of living in such an open society is that when we witness others transgressing or even hear about it, our own levels of kedushah are diminished. We may begin to entertain the thought of engaging in acts that lack kedushah. A person who witnesses a sotah’s downfall must proactively counteract the spiritual weakness it introduces into his psyche by vowing not to drink wine, which can cause a person to act frivolously and eventually lead to sin.

Even the greatest tzaddikim are well aware of the damage of being exposed to sin, and take active measures to fight it.

Radin, where the Chofetz Chaim lived, was a tiny hamlet that had no chillul Shabbos whatsoever. Until World War I, when the Chofetz Chaim was already in his mid-70s, he never witnessed someone desecrating Shabbos.

When the battlefront encroached on Radin during World War I, the entire population of the village picked up and moved into the interior of Russia for the duration of the war. The first Shabbos the Chofetz Chaim was in exile from Radin was the first Shabbos he saw desecrated — and the sight made him break down into copious tears.

The next week, when the Chofetz Chaim experienced chillul Shabbos again, he cried for even longer than he had the previous Shabbos.

“We understand why you cried so much last week,” the people who were with him said. “Witnessing chillul Shabbos for the first time was a traumatic experience, and you were so shocked by it that you cried. But by this week you should have expected it already. Why did you cry at all, and moreover, why did you cry with more intensity this week than you did last week?”

“The first time I saw another Jew violate the holy Shabbos,” replied the Chofetz Chaim, “I was crying for the problem itself. This week, it didn’t hurt me nearly as much — and that’s why I cried even more. I am concerned that I have become callous toward Shabbos because I have fallen from my own spiritual level and I no longer feel Hashem’s pain when his children desecrate Shabbos.

“Last week, I was crying for Shabbos,” summarized the Chofetz Chaim. “This week, I am crying for myself.”

If the Chofetz Chaim considered himself spiritually vulnerable after witnessing chillul Shabbos when he was over 75 years old, how much more are we susceptible to becoming spiritually weak if we witness a sin being committed?

This is the message the Torah is imparting to us. If a nazir does not take on a vow of abstinence from wine, not only won’t experiencing the sotah’s downfall prevent him from sinning, it might actually lead him to sin.

A person who sees another sinning — and in today’s world, we are exposed to such transgressions with frightening frequency — must realize that they have become vulnerable. Those sins no longer seem as distant and undoable as they were before. Although we may not have the nezirus vows today, when our spiritual firewalls are breached by witnessing others sinning or even being disgraced for their sins, we must repair that breach immediately to prevent ourselves from becoming corrupt.

Adapted from: Moments of Greatness by Rabbi Yitzchok Hisiger

It is very easy, R’ Moshe Eliezer Rabinowitz would remark, to delegate jobs, making sure that everyone else is put to work. True greatness, he said, is when the “delegator” is the one working the hardest to see a task through. Yes, a person may ask for help, because one cannot do everything on his own. A human being is, after all, limited in his own capabilities. However, he must not be lazy. He must do his utmost, asking others to join only because it will increase the overall accomplishment.

R’ Rabinowitz shared the following touching story.

R’ David Twersky, the Skverer Rebbe of Boro Park, was an exceptional baal chessed. In particular, he helped many Yidden in the medical field, bringing them to the highest quality doctors, and seeing to it that patients were cared for in the best manner possible.

In one instance, a Jewish patient required surgery during the time of the secular New Year holiday. The Rebbe contacted a top-notch surgeon and asked him to perform the surgery.

“I understand that this is your vacation and that it is difficult for you,” the Rebbe told him, “but there is a life in danger. Please, you must help this person.”

The surgeon was moved by the Rebbe’s plea and agreed to perform the surgery. The surgery was scheduled to begin at night and was to take six hours.

As the surgeon was about to enter the operating room, the Rebbe was there to wish him success. The Rebbe then sat down and began saying Tehillim along with the family members, remaining there throughout the night. In fact, he was there even as the surgeon emerged from the operating room many hours later.

“Rabbi,” the surgeon exclaimed in surprise, “you didn’t tell me that this was your family member!”

The Rebbe shook his head. “No,” he said, “he is not a family member.”

“Then why were you sitting here praying through the night?” asked the doctor.

The Rebbe explained, “I was not going to call you to come here and spend the night doing surgery while I am sleeping at home in bed. If you are spending the night here, so am I! True, I cannot perform the actual surgery, but I can still be here with you, praying for your success!”

Adapted from: Moments of Greatness by Rabbi Yitzchok Hisiger

R’ Eliezer Yosef Lederberg was a storekeeper who lived in Batei Varsha in Yerushalayim; he used every spare moment to learn Torah.

R’ Eliezer Yosef was diagnosed with a disease that affected his eyes and was informed that he would have to undergo surgery, which would likely cause him much discomfort afterward and possibly even render him blind.

“How long can I wait until I undergo the surgery?” asked R’ Eliezer Yosef.

They told him that he can wait six months, but not longer than that.

R’ Eliezer Yosef realized that once the operation was performed, it was probable that he’d never be able to look into a Gemara ever again.

If that was true, he had work to do.

For the next half a year, he spent every waking moment of every day focused on one thing: learning two masechtos by heart. He learned Rosh Hashanah and Beitzah over and over, day in and day out. The only thing that consumed him was mastering those masechtos. R’ Eliezer Yosef prepared himself for the challenge that he might be forced to face on the road ahead.

On the day of the operation, his family wept while saying Tehillim, hoping and davening for a positive outcome.

As he was about to be brought into the operating room, he gazed at his family, knowing that this might be the last time he would be able to see them.

He thought of all the moments he had wasted during his lifetime. But now he had achieved something remarkable. He had mastered those two masechtos.

When he woke up after the surgery, his eyes were bandaged. They wouldn’t know for a few days if the operation was a success and whether he’d ever be able to see again.

Finally, the day arrived. Thick apprehension filled the air. R’ Eliezer Yosef took off the bandages and couldn’t hold himself back from crying.

He was able to see!

For the rest of his life, wherever he went, he reviewed the masechtos that he had mastered before his operation.

After his petirah in 1954, his children read his will. In it, he instructed them to write on his matzeivah that he had learned Rosh Hashanah and Beitzah over 4,000 times. He explained his reasoning: “Perhaps one day someone will read this and accept upon themselves to do the same.”

When I heard this story, I wondered if it was true. Then a friend of mine told me that he had gone to Har HaMenuchos himself to find the kever. There, he saw that the words were indeed inscribed on R’ Eliezer Yosef’s matzeivah. 

Adapted from: Hacham Baruch by Rabbi Nachman Seltzer

Despite the fact that Hacham Baruch was such a scholar and so brilliant, he never made a big deal about the amount of knowledge he possessed or the fact that he had a mind and memory that were razor-sharp. He was naturally humble and instinctively shied away from drawing attention to his greatness. But the signs were there for anyone who cared to connect the dots.

David Abe Kassin recalls an incident that illustrates Hacham Baruch’s incredible memory. He was learning halachot shehita in the Shulhan Aruch with the Rabbi in the Lawrence Avenue shul. One day they were learning together, and Hacham Baruch was reading to him from the words of the Shach, breaking down the intricate laws in a way that was easy to understand. Suddenly David, who’d been looking into the Shulhan Aruch, realized that the Rabbi’s voice had become harder to hear. He looked up, only to see that the Rabbi had left his spot at the table and had gone to the nearby kitchen to make himself a glass of tea. What was fascinating was that, although he was no longer at the table and not looking into the sefer, he continued reciting the words of the Shach as if the sefer were still sitting open before him!

“Until today,” David said, “I’m trying to figure out how a person knows every word of the Shach on the very complicated halachot shehita by heart…”

In the Syrian community, there was a longstanding tradition in which people would come together at the office of a business that was being established and recite selected pieces from different sources (similar to a hanukat habayit), as a segula for the success of the new enterprise. Hacham Baruch was always invited to take part in these gatherings, and he always attended them, as he did every other celebration, shiva, or event in the community. There he would go through the Zohar they were reading, stopping every so often to explain what they were reading and adding stories to bring the lessons to life.

One day, a group of people gathered at a brand-new office in Manhattan to mark a firm’s opening. As the group took their seats around the polished conference table, people began asking one another who had brought the books containing the pieces of Zohar they were supposed to be read. To their chagrin and disappointment, everyone admitted that they’d forgotten to bring the sefarim, which were still sitting peacefully back in Brooklyn.

Now what? Who was going to go back to Brooklyn to bring them?

Hacham Baruch was not fazed.

“It’s okay,” he said.

Everyone there looked at one another. What did the Rabbi mean?

The question was settled moments later, when Hacham Baruch began reciting the words of the Mishnayot, Gemara, Rambam, and Zohar aloud without hesitation, from memory, without missing a beat and without skipping a word.

And on the topic of Zohar:

Hacham Baruch would recite the words of the Zohar at any event where it was called for, be it the opening of a business or the night before a baby’s berit. However, he had his own way of doing it. Whereas most people recite the Zohar as quickly as possible before carrying on with their lives, Hacham Baruch would stop after every two paragraphs and explain the ideas contained in the words that had just been read, usually bringing the message home with a story that resonated with the people in the room. It was his way of turning something esoteric into an idea that everyone was able to relate to in their own way.

R’ David Seruya understood why the Rabbi went out of his way to attend every huppa he was invited to. But he didn’t quite grasp why Hacham Baruch felt the need to go to every Zohar reading as well. He once asked the Rabbi to explain his reasoning.

“When I come to read the Zohar,” the Rabbi said, “I am being invited into a person’s home and tasked with giving a speech. This gives me an opportunity to tell every person and family what they need to hear. I cannot tell you how many lives were changed because I came to recite the words of Zohar in so many homes and businesses.”

Hacham Yaacov Ben-Haim had this to add:

“My father told me that the two places where he was able to have the most influence on the people were during the Zohar readings and when a family was sitting shiva for a loved one. And because he was able to change their lives during those times, he never missed going.” 

He was a towering leader, a brilliant orator, a beloved rebbi, and a visionary builder of Torah life in America. He was the Rabbi’s Rabbi. He was Hacham Baruch Ben-Haim zt”l.

In this unforgettable episode, Rabbi Shlomo Landau sits down with two people who knew Hacham Baruch best: his son, Yaacov Ben-Haim, and Rabbi Raymond Beyda, a close student who became a respected educator and leader in his own right.

Together, they share personal memories, powerful insights, and moving stories about a man who changed the face of the Syrian Jewish community in America. From his decades of leadership on Brooklyn’s Ocean Parkway to his role as the spiritual heart of an entire generation, Hacham Baruch’s life was one of quiet greatness and enduring impact.

Adapted from: Moments of Greatness by Rabbi Yitzchok Hisiger

R’ Moshe Gobioff, today of Lakewood, New Jersey, was a bachur living in Monsey, New York, years ago when this story occurred. He had davened Shacharis at the Vizhnitzer Beis Medrash in Kaser Village, one of the most popular minyan factories — forgive the term — in Monsey. Upon returning to his car, he was chagrined to find a parking ticket on his windshield.

Parking near Vizhnitz is not for the faint of heart, and arriving mispallelim often have a difficult time finding a vacancy, sometimes parking in areas that aren’t clearly marked. R’ Moshe had apparently parked illegally, and now he was going to pay for it.

The ticket sat in his room at home for weeks, almost a forgotten memory. By the time R’ Moshe remembered about the ticket, it was long past the due date and he was sure he’d have to pay some sort of penalty on top of the fine. He went down to the Rockland County courthouse to settle the ticket.

Upon arriving at the courthouse, R’ Moshe greeted the hawkeyed guard at the door and then headed to the clerk, giving her his ticket number and explaining that he’d like to pay his summons.

“Sir,” the clerk said, “this summons has already been paid.”

“Madam, I’m certain that I never paid.”

“What can I tell you?” said the clerk, pointing to her screen. “I’m telling you, it’s been paid.”

R’ Moshe thanked the clerk and headed home, confused.

Upon seeing his bewildered expression as he walked through the door, R’ Moshe’s mother knew something was up.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

R’ Moshe explained that he had gone to pay his summons but was told it was paid.

Putting the pieces together, along with a strange phone call Mrs. Gobioff received some weeks prior from a man who said he’s paying for a parking ticket of which she had no knowledge, the full story emerged:

The morning R’ Moshe had gotten his ticket, traffic outside the Vizhnitzer Beis Medrash was at a standstill. There was total gridlock and no one was moving. One well-meaning observer felt that there was no choice but to have the police come down simply to clear up the bottleneck and direct the motorists out of the vehicular quagmire. However, once the police were present, they wasted no time writing out summonses to those vehicles that they felt were not parked legally.

The well-meaning Yid who had contacted the police now felt terrible, having caused the summonses to be given out. He had merely wanted to clear up the traffic, not have people be paying parking tickets, even if the tickets were warranted, but that was what happened.

The man immediately walked over to each car and took down the ticket and license plate information. Then, he contacted the police department and paid every ticket, not wanting to be the cause of any loss to a fellow Yid.

R’ Moshe now understood why and how, indeed, his summons had already been paid.

When R’ Moshe told me this story some twenty years after it happened, he was still inspired by the compassion and understanding of this special Jew, who demonstrated once again why there’s no nation like ours. 

Adapted from: Hacham Baruch by Rabbi Nachman Seltzer

The Rabbi ran the school minyan for many years,” R’ Eli Mansour said. “He might have been the rabbi of the community, but he was busy dealing with children every single day. It didn’t faze him. But then very few things did.

“It would be very difficult to find a man who is so great and yet so humble at the same time.

“He was there every day of the week, running the minyan for the sixth, seventh, and eighth grades. Even on Sundays, the rabbi was at Magen David teaching Sunday school.

“I remember one day we were nearing the end of the tefilla,” R’ Mansour recalled, “and I was talking to one of my friends — just as the hazan said ‘Barechu,’ which I missed because I was talking.

“As always, Hacham Baruch saw everything that took place in the room. There was no question that he was going to teach me a lesson — in his unique and memorable fashion.

“Looking at the dean, R’ Moshe Greenes, the rabbi said, ‘R’ Moshe, Eliyahu Mansour just lost a million dollars!’

“R’ Greenes, who immediately understood what the Rabbi meant, caught the ball and ran a few steps further, saying, ‘At least a million dollars!’

“That was the entire interchange. But there isn’t a day that goes by when I say the words ‘Barechu et Hashem’ that I don’t think that I just deposited a million dollars in my bank account. With that one line, the Rabbi changed my life forever!

“But the story isn’t over.

“Many years later, I was learning at Mercaz HaTorah in Yerushalayim. We were praying Arbit when someone came into the bet midrash to tell me that I had a phone call from overseas. In those days, that meant that your parents had called you on the yeshiva payphone — and because back then it cost a lot of money to call Israel from the United States, when you got a call from America, you picked yourself up and you ran to the phone.

“I stood in the bet midrash, struggling with myself. I wanted to run to the phone, but I also didn’t want to miss saying Barechu. In the end, I stayed in my spot until the hazan said Barechu. Moments later, I was out the door of the bet midrash and running to the phone.

“Later that evening I was informed that the Rosh Yeshiva, R’ Rotman, wanted to see me in his office.

“‘What do you know about Barechu that I don’t know?’ the Rosh Yeshiva asked me. I didn’t understand what he was talking about.

“‘I don’t know anything about Barechu more than the Rosh Yeshiva,’ I replied in confusion.

“‘No, you must know something.’

“I didn’t know what he was talking about, and told him so.

“‘Look, I know that I am correct about this,’ he said. ‘I watched you. You got a call from the States, but you didn’t leave the bet midrash until the hazan said Barechu. So, I’m asking you the same question again. What do you know about Barechu?’

“Now I understood what he was referring to.

“I have a rabbi in America. His name is Hacham Baruch Ben-Haim. And five years ago, my rabbi told me that Barechu is worth a million dollars.”

“‘That’s a good rabbi,’ the Rosh Yeshiva said. ‘If you are still affected by something that he told you five years ago — he’s a very good rabbi!’

“That story happened forty years ago, and I’m still thinking about how every Barechu that we say is worth a million dollars! That was the power of the Rabbi and his unique ability to make the kind of comments that a person never forgot.

“For some reason, when Hacham Baruch taught you a lesson, it stuck. That is why I consider him a master mehanech. A master educator.

“If I try to analyze why his words had such an impact, I must conclude that it had to do with the fact that he had yirat Shamayim. As Hazal tell us, when someone possesses yirat Shamayim, his words make an impact.

“Above and beyond that, when you were learning with Hacham Baruch you were also learning with his rebbi, Hacham Ezra Attieh, and his havruta, Hacham Ovadia. Sitting with Hacham Baruch meant being connected to the Ben Ish Hai (whose derashot the Rabbi’s grandmother had heard) and to his mother, who inculcated him with an understanding of what awaited him in Porat Yosef (‘My dear son… you will see angels’).

“Keeping all this in mind, we can understand why a few well-chosen words from the Rabbi had the ability to change a person’s entire life.” 

Adapted from: Rabbi Frand on the Parashah 2 by Rabbi Yissocher Frand

וַיֹּאמֶר ה‘ אֶל מֹשֶׁה אֱמֹר אֶל הַכֹּהֲניִם בְּניֵ אַהֲרֹן וְאָמַרְתָּ אֲלהֵֶם לנְפֶֶשׁ לא יִטַּמָּא בְּעַמָּיו

Hashem said to Moshe: Say to the Kohanim, the sons of Aharon, and tell them: 

Each of you shall not contaminate himself to a [dead] person. (21:1)

Parashas Emor begins with a seemingly redundant phrase: “Say to the Kohanim… and tell them.” Rashi, quoting Chazal’s famous dictum of Lehazhir gedolim al haktanim (Yevamos 114a), explains that this repetition teaches the mitzvah of chinuch — that adult Kohanim must educate their children in the halachos specific to them.

Chazal extend the obligation to teach one’s children to all; every parent is obligated to teach their children the relevant mitzvos. But why does the Torah choose to teach this universal lesson through a mitzvah that applies only to Kohanim? Wouldn’t a more widely applicable mitzvah, like avoiding chometz on Pesach or fasting on Yom Kippur, be a more fitting choice?

Rav Yaakov Weinberg zt”l, Rosh Yeshivah of Ner Yisrael, explained that the charge placed on Kohanim is actually a most appropriate setting for the obligation of chinuch. So much of parenting is dependent on our ability to withstand that famous personality, “Mr. Everyone Else”. Our children want to take part in activities that we feel are not appropriate for a Jew. When we disallow that activity, we face a barrage of complaining and whining. “But everyone else is going. It’s not fair. You never let me go along with everyone else. What’s wrong with it?”

Who has to deal with these complaints more than anyone? The most restrictive parents in the times of the Beis HaMikdash were undoubtedly the Kohanim. Little Aharon’l comes home from school and runs straight to get his bat and ball. 

“Where are you going?” his father asks.

“To play baseball in the empty lot at the end of town. That’s where we are supposed to meet,” Aharon’l responds.

“Ahh. Aharon’l, as far as I know, the only way to get to that field is to cut through the cemetery. We are Kohanim; we are not allowed to walk through a cemetery.”

“It’s not fair!” Aharon’l shouts indignantly. “Last week I couldn’t play in the alley in back of our house because there were dead sheratzim (creeping creatures that are a source of impurity) there and you were afraid that I would contaminate the terumah in our house, and now I can’t go play baseball with all the others. You never let me do what everyone else is doing.”

All parents know the next steps. First come the tears, then the shouting, and finally the sulking. It feels painful sometimes, but our better judgment tells us not to let them go. What should we do? How are we to teach our children the proper path of Torah without alienating them? A very important, yet vexing question. 

I think that the answer lies in the parashah in which the Torah decides to teach us about chinuch. Why is little Aharon’l not allowed to become tamei? Is his father just being mean and more restrictive than other parents? Of course not – he is simply aware of Aharon’l’s special status as a Kohen, and he wants Aharon’l to know and appreciate his role in Klal Yisrael. 

If Aharon’l’s father is wise, he will sit down and tell him, “Aharon’l, do you know how special you are? You can serve in the Beis HaMikdash!” If Aharon’l’s father then spends some time discussing the privileged status and special role of Kohanim with him, by the time he finishes, Aharon’l will – hopefully – no longer be jealous of his friends.

The same applies to every one of us. If we simply say, “Sorry, but you cannot go,” we will find ourselves fighting tooth and nail with our children. But if we take the time to discuss our special role in the world to our children; to tell them that our holy eyes cannot see things that others see; our hearts filled with kedushah can be contaminated by food that others are allowed to eat; that our holy neshamos can be tarnished by listening to music that others listen to, and what a privilege it is to be such a holy nation, we may get a respite from our difficult enemy, Mr. Everyone Else.