Rabbi Yitzchok Aryeh Epstein

Give In, Get Out

Allow me to share two stories about an essential quality, whose impact will soon be evident.

A family in Eretz Yisrael was struggling financially. To support themselves, they purchased a dilapidated apartment, renovated it beautifully, and put it up for rent. This way, the rent payments would provide a steady income.

Early one morning, the phone rang. A woman introduced herself, saying, “My name is Mrs. Berger, and I’m looking to move into the area. I’d like to come and see the apartment.”

The landlord, Rabbi Soltz, peeked through the peephole when Mrs. Berger arrived. To his surprise, she was a woman close to 90 years old. Everyone else in the building was under 25, and this elderly woman didn’t quite fit the profile he had imagined for a tenant.

Mrs. Berger entered the apartment, looked around, and exclaimed, “Beautiful! I’m taking it.” She immediately wrote six postdated checks for six months of rent and began moving in.

Before long, she had become the unofficial grandmother of the building, visiting neighbors, sharing her stories, and becoming a constant presence. Within a week, everyone in the building knew her life story: she had been engaged to a soldier who tragically died in the Six-Day War, and she had been a widow ever since. She spoke of her struggles, her loneliness, and her need for companionship.

Four months later, Mrs. Berger knocked on the Soltz family’s door with bad news. “There’s no more money in my account,” she said. “Please don’t deposit the remaining two checks. They’ll bounce.”

Rabbi Soltz and his wife were in a bind. They needed the rent money to cover their own expenses, including the mortgage and living costs. After consulting with their rabbi, they were advised to ask Mrs. Berger to leave. However, after much thought and deliberation, the couple decided to be mavater—to yield—and allowed her to stay for another two months, even though she wasn’t paying rent.

As the months passed, they kept extending her stay, putting aside their financial worries.

One day, while shopping, Mrs. Berger fell and was taken to the hospital. Mrs. Soltz rushed to her side and organized a rotation among the neighbors so Mrs. Berger would never be alone. Sadly, the next day, Mrs. Berger passed away.

After the levayah (funeral), the rabbi advised the Soltz family to go through her apartment to see if there were any valuables to offset the debt. On the dining room table, they found a large brown envelope with the word “Tzava’ah” (will) written on it.

In the will, Mrs. Berger revealed the truth: she was never poor and had always been capable of paying rent. She had wanted to test the family’s kindness and see if they cared for her as a person or only as a tenant.

“I was so impressed by how you treated me,” she wrote. “As a token of my appreciation, I’m leaving you my apartment in Tel Aviv—two and a half rooms with a view of the ocean. It’s now yours.” It was an apartment worth more than the Soltz’s could believe.

When you give to others, you never lose out.

Here’s another story.

A young couple lived in an apartment with a bright, sunny living room and a lovely porch. One day, their neighbor knocked on their door.

The neighbor explained that they wanted to expand their apartment. While they had permission from the downstairs neighbor to build outward, this expansion would block the sunlight from the couple’s living room and porch. “We understand if you say no,” the neighbor said, “but we really hope you’ll agree. We need more space for our growing family.”

The couple was torn. They loved the sunlight that streamed into their apartment, but after speaking with their rabbi and considering the needs of their neighbors, they decided to be mavater. They gave their approval for the expansion.

Construction began, and within a few months, the neighbors’ addition was complete. However, as the couple had feared, their living room became dark. They had to keep lights on during the day, and they missed the natural light that had once filled their home.

A year later, the husband received a new job offer in another city, and the family decided to sell their apartment. The wife was skeptical. “Who’s going to want to buy a dark apartment?” she worried. To counter expected bargaining, they decided to list the apartment for $100,000 more than they thought it was worth.

To their surprise, a woman called within two days. She visited the apartment at midday, carefully inspecting every room. She was ecstatic. “I want this apartment,” she said immediately. “Where do I sign?”

Curious, the couple asked her why she was in such a rush. She explained, “I have a medical condition. I’m severely allergic to sunlight. Every apartment I’ve visited has too much light for me, but this one is perfect. I’m so afraid of losing it that I’m willing to pay full price.”

The couple was amazed. What they had seen as a loss—giving up their sunlight—turned out to be a blessing. Hashem had sent them the ideal buyer, and they sold the apartment quickly, and for even more than they had anticipated.

When you give in, you get out. It’s that simple. Hashem knows the calculation, and He’s more than ready and willing to take care of you if you take care of others.

Rabbi Naftali Reich

Worth the Cost

Rabbi Berel Wein shared a fascinating story from the early days of his illustrious career when he served as a Kashrut Director at the OU. At the time, a prominent winery in upstate New York reached out to the OU with the desire to produce a kosher run of wine. Rabbi Wein was dispatched to guide them through the process.

Sitting in the boardroom with the winery’s executives, Rabbi Wein explained the intricate requirements for producing kosher wine. The executives listened intently, captivated by the details. When the meeting concluded, they prepared to give him a tour of the facility. However, the chief winemaker emerged from his office and said to the executives, "You return to your work. I will personally show the Rabbi around."

As they toured the winery, Rabbi Wein observed the immense respect accorded to the chief winemaker. Workers approached him regularly, presenting glasses of wine drawn from various vats and barrels. The winemaker would swirl, taste, and decide whether the wine needed an adjustment in temperature or if it was ready for the next stage of aging.

When their tour concluded, they returned to the winemaker’s office, adorned with elegant wood paneling and luxurious furnishings. Sitting together, Rabbi Wein remarked, “I must admit, I’m a little jealous of your job. It seems incredible to be paid to drink wine all day.”

The winemaker smiled and responded, “Rabbi, let me share something with you. My grandfather was a winemaker, my father was a winemaker, and now, I am too. Since I was a child, I’ve avoided tasting salt, pepper, ketchup, mustard—anything that could dull or distort my palate. In our home, everything is bland: the rice, the potatoes, every dish. My taste buds must remain exquisitely refined so I can detect the subtlest nuances in wine.

“You think my job is easy and well-compensated, but it comes with a cost.”

Rabbi Wein reflected on this profound insight. “Judaism, too, comes with a price,” he explained. “If we wish to savor the delight of Shabbos, the sweetness of Tefillah, and the joy of closeness to Hashem, we must guard ourselves with intention. To truly taste the Yayin HaMeshumar (the special, guarded spiritual delights) waiting for us in Olam Haba, we must hold our ‘taste buds’ in check, restraining ourselves from indulgences that could dilute our spiritual sensitivity.

“Every act of restraint refines us, perfecting our ability to experience the ultimate delight: an intimate, infinite, and eternal relationship with Hakadosh Baruch Hu. This relationship is the greatest reward, and one that lasts forever.”

Rabbi Moshe Tuvia Lieff

Mark Your Moments

The escape of the Mir Yeshiva and others from the clutches of the Nazis to Shanghai, China, is the stuff of legends. Their journey was fraught with peril and uncertainty, including a harrowing ride on the Trans-Siberian Railway. Many lived in constant terror, dreading the possibility of being arrested by secret Soviet police (the NKVD) and exiled to Siberia. Their escape continued aboard a decrepit steamer, so unseaworthy that it sank on its return voyage. Accompanied by a Russian destroyer, they were considered enemies of the Rodina—the state—and feared at any moment the destroyer might ram their vessel, sending them all to a watery grave.

As they reached international waters, the Russian destroyer finally turned back. At that moment, the passengers erupted into euphoric dancing, celebrating their miraculous deliverance. It felt like a reenactment of Chanukah or Purim, a moment of Divine intervention that they knew would stay with them forever. Rav Chaim Shmulevitz zt”l, one of the survivors, later reflected on this experience, acknowledging that while he could never fully recreate the emotions of that moment, he had internalized its essence.

Rav Chaim quoted the Gemara (Sanhedrin 19b) about Palti ben Layish, who was forced to marry Michal, the daughter of Shaul Hamelech. On their wedding night, Paltiel placed a sword between them and declared that anyone who crossed it would be pierced. In doing this, explains Rav Chaim, Palti wasn’t just avoiding an aveira; he was marking a moment, creating and searing a memory of moral triumph that would guide him in future challenges.

Rav Chaim likened this to his own experience on the ship. Even though he couldn’t fully relive the emotions of that euphoric moment, he recognized its transformative power. It became a marker of his spiritual growth, a reminder of the strength he once displayed.

This lesson extends to all of us. Everything we do or refrain from doing—whether it’s looking away from something inappropriate, controlling our anger, or holding back from a forbidden act—we’re powerfully marking that moment in time. And it is these moments of spiritual triumph which shape who we are.

The essence of Yiddishkeit is to celebrate these successes, internalize them, and allow them to fortify us for future challenges. Each act drives a symbolic sword into the heart of the Yetzer Hara, affirming that we are in control. By reflecting on our accomplishments and drawing strength from them, we live lives imbued with meaning, holiness, and purpose, ready to face whatever trials may come.

Rabbi Avi Wiesenfeld

Peer into the Pit

The descent of Klal Yisrael into exile in Egypt begins with a fateful moment: the brothers’ decision to cast Yosef into a pit. Initially, they intended to kill him, but Reuven persuaded them otherwise, suggesting instead that they throw him into a pit. Reuven then left briefly, only to return and discover that Yosef was gone. Yosef had been sold to a caravan of merchants on their way to Egypt, marking the beginning of the exile and eventual enslavement of the Jewish people.

The question arises: where did Reuven go, and why wasn’t he there to guard the pit? If he had remained, he might have prevented the sale of Yosef and the subsequent years of suffering in Egypt.

Rashi explains that Reuven left to fast and perform teshuva (repentance) for past misdeeds. While he was engaged in personal spiritual work, Yosef was sold, setting into motion the events that would shape Jewish history.

The Lubavitcher Rebbe offers a profound insight on this episode. Yosef HaTzaddik was not sold into slavery by wicked individuals, but rather as an indirect result of a righteous brother focusing on his own personal spirituality. The seeds of exile were sown not by malicious intent, but by a holy person consumed with his own avodas Hashem.

This message is timeless. When a Jewish child is in a pit—whether physically, emotionally, or spiritually—it is not enough to focus solely on one’s own religious growth. We must turn and focus on their needs.

A shliach was once on his way to Kol Nidrei when he noticed a broken sewage pipe. Without hesitation, he rolled up his sleeves and began repairing it, getting dirty in the process. A passerby, shocked at the sight, asked, “Rabbi, how can you be doing this? It’s right before Yom Kippur! Is this appropriate for someone in your position?”

The rabbi calmly replied, “I’m doing what the Kohen Gadol did in the Kodesh HaKodashim.” The Chassid understood the message: the Kohen Gadol, on the holiest day of the year, did not only focus on his own service but also engaged in the work of atoning for the entire Jewish people.

The greatest act of Yiddishkeit is not necessarily advancing one’s own spirituality at the expense of helping others. There are countless Jewish children and adults in “pits” around the world, and it is our responsibility to reach out to them. Whether through direct action or by supporting those who dedicate their lives to this holy work, we must never lose sight of the broader mission: lifting others from their pits, ensuring no one is left behind, and building a stronger, united Klal Yisrael.

Rabbi Yonoson Roodyn

Life of Tests

The Torah introduces Parshas Vayeshev by stating, “Yaakov dwelled in the land of his father’s sojourning, in the land of Canaan.” On the surface, this seems redundant. Why do we need to know that Yaakov dwelled in the same land as his father, Yitzchak? And why emphasize that it was in the land of Canaan?

Rashi comments that Yaakov sought to dwell in tranquility. After a life fraught with hardship—fleeing from Esav, enduring the schemes of Lavan, and suffering the tragedy of Dina—Yaakov yearned for peace. Yet, as soon as he desired rest, the ordeal of Yosef “pounced upon him.” Hashem essentially said to Yaakov, “Is the reward prepared for you in the World to Come not enough? Must you seek tranquility in this world too?”

Yaakov aspired to live a life akin to Yitzchak, who as an olah temimah (a perfect offering), lived a more insulated and serene existence. Yitzchak never left Eretz Yisrael, and his challenges were of a different nature than Yaakov’s. However, Hashem reminded Yaakov that his mission was distinct. Unlike Yitzchak, Yaakov was meant to engage with the world and its imperfections, infusing kedusha (holiness) into it amidst challenges and struggles.

Yaakov’s desire for tranquility represents a universal longing to live comfortably, free of trials. But Hashem’s message to Yaakov is equally universal: tranquility is earned, not given. The path to ultimate peace and spiritual fulfillment lies in navigating the difficulties of this world, not in avoiding them.

The trials that Yaakov faced, culminating in the saga of Yosef, were not random. They were precisely tailored for him and were critical for shaping the destiny of the Jewish people. As Rashi notes, these challenges “pounced” upon Yaakov, catching him by surprise. Yet this surprise underscores the nature of life’s tests: they often arrive unbidden and unanticipated.

Life, as Hashem designed it, is a world of asiyah, a world of doing. It is imperfect, filled with sorrow and lack, yet intentionally so. Each challenge is an opportunity to refine ourselves, to rise to our potential, and to contribute to the ultimate rectification of the world.

Yaakov’s journey is a message for all of us. We are not meant to retreat from the world’s imperfections or avoid its struggles. Instead, we are called to confront them, to elevate the mundane, and to transform the challenges into stepping stones toward spiritual greatness.

In this imperfect world, our responses to challenges shape our eternal reward. It is through these struggles that we fulfill our Divine purpose. Like Yaakov, we must embrace the reality of this world, live within it, and commit to fixing it, one challenge at a time. In doing so, we contribute to building not only our personal sanctity but the collective destiny of Klal Yisrael.