Rabbi Paysach Krohn

The Battle We Can Fight

It was a Friday afternoon, and a rabbi was rushing to complete errands for his wife in preparation for Shabbos. He was moving quickly from place to place when he realized he needed to cash a $500 check. Pressed for time, he drove through a bank's drive-thru, handed the teller the check, and received an envelope of cash in return. He tucked the envelope into his pocket and continued his errands.

When he returned home later that day, he placed the envelope on the kitchen table. Together with his wife, they began counting the money, only to discover a shocking error. The envelope contained $5,000 instead of $500. The teller had mistakenly read the check as $5,000.

“We’ve just become $4,500 richer!” said the husband aloud, shocked. But his wife, resolute, felt otherwise, “What are you talking about? You must return it!” “Let’s not rush,” replied the husband. “I’ll speak to the rabbi on Monday and see what he says.”

However, before he could even consult his rabbi that Monday, his wife made her position clear. “Listen,” she said, “regardless of what anyone says, you’re a Jew, and you ought to return the money.” Recognizing her sincerity and the truth of her words, the rabbi promptly returned the excess funds to the bank.

The following Friday afternoon, there was a knock at the rabbi’s door. Standing outside was a man who introduced himself as the bank teller. “I made the $4,500 mistake last week. On Tuesday, the bank was prepared to fire me because of it. But when you returned the money, they reconsidered and allowed me to keep my job. I’m here to thank you. The only reason I still have my livelihood is because of your honesty.”

“Are you Jewish?” the rabbi asked, out of sheer curiosity. The teller nodded. “Yes, I’m a Bukharian Jew, though I’m not religious. But now, I understand what it means to be a religious Jew. You’ve inspired me.”

Such an act was undoubtedly a profound Kiddush Hashem.

In America, we never truly considered the depths of anti-Semitism. It was something that felt distant, almost theoretical, until we realized that we must actively combat it. Recently, I had a conversation with one of the foremost thinkers about Klal Yisroel today, a brilliant individual by the name of R’ Lipa Geldwerth. During our discussion, he shared a profound insight, one that has stayed with me.

R’ Geldwerth explained that there are, in fact, two types of anti-Semitism. The first is an existential form—a type of hatred so ingrained, so deeply rooted, that it is beyond our ability to change. This form of anti-Semitism will persist until the arrival of Moshiach. He described it as a hatred that seeks the very erasure of the Jewish people from existence. This existential anti-Semitism is embodied in ideologies like that of the Iranian regime, where the very idea of Jews existing is viewed as intolerable.

Where does this deep-rooted hatred stem from? R’ Geldwerth pointed to the Gemara (Shabbos 89a), which discusses the relationship between the Jewish people and the nations of the world. Har Sinai is called such, as it is connected to the word sinah, hatred. Rashi’s writes that it was the refusal of the other nations to accept the Torah which gave birth to a hatred toward the Jews. The Torah is seen as the highest standard of morality and way of life for the Jewish people. Similarly, Rashi (Bereishis 33:4) cites the Sifri that it is a well-known halacha (law) that Eisav hates Yaakov. Those who reject our standard of moral and ethical life cannot bear to see us.

This existential anti-Semitism is something we will never be able to fight until the arrival of the Moshiach, when all will be set right. The struggle between Yaakov and Esav is eternal. The enmity between us and the descendants of Esav will never fully cease until the end of days.

However, there is a different, more practical form of anti-Semitism, and that is a disdain which arises from our own actions. This is the anti-Semitism which can be confronted and eliminated. It emerges when we, as Jews, act dishonorably, whether through dishonest business practices, rude behavior on public transportation, or being disrespectful to others. This type of anti-Semitism stems not from an inherent hatred, but from the way we present ourselves to the world. When we cheat, when we insult, when we fail to act with integrity, we are contributing to the negative stereotypes that lead to animosity against us.

For those of us living in communities with large Jewish populations, our neighbors may not be non-Jews, but the world is much broader than our immediate circles. From the firemen to the police officers, the bus drivers, and the taxi drivers, we interact with them, and how we conduct ourselves matters. The anti-Semitism that surfaces from our behavior is something we have the power to change. It is within our ability to transform how others perceive us by acting with dignity, kindness, and respect.

In this way, we can combat anti-Semitism. It’s not just about the big ideological battles, but also about the everyday choices we make in how we treat others. By acting with care and avoiding actions that might provoke or insult, we can change the tide. It is within our hands to stop the second kind of anti-Semitism, the one we can control, and thereby contribute to a world where respect and understanding can flourish.

Rabbi Yaakov Mizrahi

For My Mother

Allow me to share an incredible story I heard from Rabbi Fishman.

There was a woman, a single mother, raising five daughters on her own. As the years passed and her daughters reached marriageable age, she began arranging shidduchim (matches) for them. When the oldest daughter came of age, she started going on dates, but she struggled to find the right match. One after another, the potential matches didn’t work out.

One day, the mother approached her eldest daughter and said, “You know, your four younger sisters will also want to get married. If they wait for you, it might delay their chances. Are you okay with them going out before you?”

The daughter thought about it and replied, “If they find the right one, of course, they should go ahead.” With her blessing, the second sister began dating, and soon enough, she found her match and got married. Then the third sister started dating, found her match, and also got married. The same happened with the fourth sister, and eventually, the youngest as well.

Each sister found her partner and stood under the chuppah, leaving the oldest daughter as the only one still unmarried. Despite her admirable qualities—her kindness, her refined character, and her dedication to Torah values—she remained at home, without a match.

One day, the mother, deeply pained, approached her oldest daughter and said, “I can’t bear to see you like this. I would rather die than watch you alone like this any longer.” The words struck a chord. Shortly afterward, the daughter agreed to go on a date. This time, she met the right person, and they quickly moved forward toward marriage.

On the day of her wedding, a bittersweet moment unfolded: her mother passed away.

During the shiva, the oldest daughter shared a remarkable story. She explained, “Years ago, my mother was very ill, and someone gave her a blessing: ‘You should live to see all your daughters married.’ From that moment, my mother believed this blessing was her lifeline. She would live as long as at least one of her daughters remained unmarried.

“I realized this, and I couldn’t bear the thought of her passing away. So, every time a shidduch came up for me, I turned it down. I pushed it away, thinking, ‘If I remain unmarried, my mother will have more time to live.’ It was my way of protecting her.

“But when my mother confessed that the pain of seeing me unmarried was too much to bear, I realized that holding myself back was now causing harm. So I let go of my resistance and pursued marriage, knowing it was what my mother truly wanted.”

Such is the profound love and devotion children can show their parents, even at great personal cost. It takes immense strength to make decisions motivated by pure selflessness, but we can rise to the occasion and care for our loved ones with profound sensitivity and dedication.

Rabbi Shlomo Landau

When Less is More

It was supposed to be the wedding of the century. Two of the wealthiest families in the Jewish world were joining together, and the celebration was planned to be nothing short of extravagant. Among the guests at the wedding, one particular table stood out. It was occupied by nine of the most affluent men in the community, along with a young kollel yungerman, a stark contrast to the others.

As the evening progressed, the men at the table began discussing their professions. One by one, they shared their ventures, including real estate, healthcare and finance. When it came to the young scholar’s turn, they asked him what he did for a living. “I do something a little different,” he said. “I dedicate my time to Torah learning.”

Intrigued, they pressed further. “How do you manage financially?”

The young man smiled. “I receive a modest stipend from the yeshiva, I tutor on the side, and my wife works. We live very simply, but we’re happy and fulfilled.”

One of the wealthier men, known for his cynicism, smirked. “Do you realize that in one day, your father-in-law makes more money than you do in six months? How does that make you feel?”

The yungerman, unfazed, replied gently. “Perhaps. But I may have something he doesn’t.” “And what could you possibly have that he doesn’t?” “I have enough,” the yungerman said simply. “In my view, true wealth isn’t about how much you have. It’s about being satisfied with what you have. If you feel you have enough, you have everything. But if you’re always chasing more, then you have nothing.”

This sentiment echoes the timeless wisdom of Pirkei Avos (4:1): “Who is wealthy? One who is happy with his portion.”

Here is another account of this same principle.

A certain Rabbi Rosenberg recounted how he had started a shul from the ground up. After some time, the congregation outgrew their rented space, and it became clear they needed to build a new, larger building. The board initiated a building campaign, and the rabbi, reluctantly, took on the role of fundraiser.

His first stop was the wealthiest member of the shul, a man who lived in a palatial mansion, drove luxury cars, and owned multiple vacation homes. The rabbi presented his case and asked for a substantial donation to kickstart the campaign.

“Would you consider donating $500,000?” he asked. The wealthy man sighed and replied, “Rabbi, you think I’m rich, but the truth is, I’m barely making ends meet. My mortgage is $40,000 a month, my car payments are astronomical, and maintaining my lifestyle leaves me running a deficit each month. If I could just make an extra $20,000 a month, I’d be comfortable.”

The rabbi moved on to another affluent congregant, this time asking for $250,000. Once again, the response was similar. “Rabbi, I have a large home, cars, and a vacation property, but I’m constantly in the red. If I could just make an extra $15,000 a month, I’d be at ease.”

One by one, the wealthier members gave similar answers. Each admitted to feeling financially strained, despite their opulent lifestyles.

Finally, the rabbi visited a humble community member, a teacher living on a modest educator’s salary. When asked for a donation, the man said, “Rabbi, I’d love to contribute. We live simply, but I’ll do what I can, even if it means tightening our already minimal budget.”

Curious, the rabbi asked, “Do you ever feel financially strained?” “Sometimes,” replied the teacher. “If I could just make an extra $2,000 a month, I’d be perfectly comfortable.”

Driving home that evening, the rabbi reflected on the contrast. The wealthiest members, despite their immense earnings, felt like they were drowning in financial pressure, always needing more. Meanwhile, the teacher who lived simply was the most content.

Wealth isn’t measured by income or possessions. It’s about being satisfied with what you have. As Chazal teach, “He who has 100 desires 200; he who has 200 desires 400” (Koheles Rabbah 3:13). The more one has, the greater the perceived deficit.

To live a life of tranquility and gratitude, focus not on what you lack, but on appreciating what you have. True wealth comes from recognizing the incredible gifts bestowed upon us by Hashem and living with a sense of enough.

Rabbi Meir Simcha Sperling

Investment in You

Imagine you have a few hundred or thousand dollars to invest, and you decide to buy shares in a large hotel chain. Naturally, you can’t claim ownership of the company. It’s not your company; you don’t sit in the boardroom or make decisions about its future. What you own is a fraction of a fraction, a tiny, almost negligible piece of the massive corporation.

And yet, something happens. Suddenly, news about this hotel chain grabs your attention. Whether it’s a surge in bookings or an unfortunate scandal, your ears perk up. Your emotions ride the waves of its success or failure. When the stock price rises, you feel a thrill, as if you’ve won something. But when it dips, your mood sours, stress creeping in.

Why? This hotel isn’t truly yours, but because you’ve invested even a small part of yourself in it, its story becomes your story. You’re tethered to its highs and lows, its triumphs and setbacks.

This is the perfect metaphor for human connection. Imagine that every person around you holds a piece of you, and you, in turn, hold a piece of them. We are all interconnected, bound together as a single nation, a single family—Am Yisrael. When one of us succeeds, we all rise, even if we don’t always perceive it. When one of us falters, we all feel the tremor, whether spiritually or emotionally.

This unity is profound. When someone does a mitzvah, it elevates all of us. Conversely, when someone stumbles, the impact is shared. Their joy is, in some small way, your joy. Their pain becomes your burden.

It’s a transformative thought, especially when we face moments of judgment or anger. Before speaking lashon hara, before tearing someone down with words, pause and remember: they carry a piece of you within them. To harm them is, in essence, to harm yourself.

Of course, this isn’t easy. Life tests us. Divorce, broken engagements, failed partnerships, jealousy over promotions, and resentment over perceived slights all challenge us to see others with compassion. It’s hard to resist the temptation to vent, to lash out, to assign blame.

But the Torah teaches us to strive higher. If we view others as part of our extended self, the calculation changes. Imagine if you held stock in every person you knew. Their successes and failures would matter deeply to you.

This perspective aligns with the Torah's commandment to, “Love your neighbor as yourself.” It’s not just poetic; it’s a call to action. By restraining ourselves even once, by holding back harmful words, we create spiritual merit beyond comprehension. That moment of self-control might be the turning point in someone’s life, or in our own.

Think of it this way: if Hashem, our ultimate Father, sees His children treating one another with kindness and patience, how much pleasure must it bring Him? Consider the blessings it could draw down for us individually and collectively.

This practice isn’t just for the people we already love. The real challenge lies in extending this perspective to those who irritate us, to colleagues who frustrate us, to acquaintances with whom we’ve had misunderstandings. That’s where the real work begins. and where the greatest growth happens.

When we see each other not as separate individuals, but as interconnected pieces of one Divine whole, we elevate the entire world. May we merit to hold back when it’s hard, to see others through the lens of family, and to bring nachas to our Father in Heaven through our unity.