Rabbi Aryeh Kerzner

The Shoemaker

Let me share with you the story that, according to tradition, inspired Rav Yisrael Salanter to create the Mussar movement.

In the mid-1800s, there lived a simple Jew known as Yankele the Shoemaker. He was poor, humble, and barely earned enough to support his family. He lived quietly in a small shtetl, stitching leather by candlelight, doing what he could to survive.

One day, everything changed.

A letter arrived informing him that his wealthy uncle—an extraordinarily rich man with no children—had passed away. And with his passing, he left his entire fortune to none other than Yankele the Shoemaker.

In a single moment, Yankele went from struggling artisan to one of the wealthiest men in the region. He left his workshop. He invested wisely. He hired the finest melamdim to teach his children. He was honored, respected, admired. His social standing soared.

Eventually, it came time for his son to marry. A shidduch was arranged with the daughter of the most prominent rav in the city. It was called “the wedding of the century.” The entire community buzzed with excitement.

Under the chuppah, with hundreds gathered, something unthinkable happened.

An old acquaintance of Yankele—a blacksmith whose shop had once stood beside his—approached the chuppah. The blacksmith had watched Yankele’s meteoric rise with burning jealousy. Hidden beneath his coat he carried an old, broken shoe.

He stepped forward and, in front of the entire crowd, held it up. “Yankele the Shoemaker,” he said mockingly, “how much would you charge me to repair this worn-out shoe?” The words cut like a knife. In an instant, the humiliation overwhelmed Yankele. Shocked and shattered, he collapsed and passed away on the spot.

The tragedy reverberated through the Jewish world until it reached the ears of Rav Yisrael Salanter. It was this story, we are told, that moved him to establish the Mussar movement.

But why?

A tzaddik from Yerushalayim later explained. Rav Yisrael was not motivated because of what the blacksmith did. Human beings succumb to jealousy; sadly, such behavior is not uncommon. He was motivated because of how Yankele reacted.

Here was a man who had achieved tremendous success, wealth, honor, and reputation. And yet a single petty remark—an old shoe waved in the air—was enough to destroy him emotionally. One insult stripped away his entire sense of worth.

If a person truly understood his value, his mission, and his place in the world—if he lived with Mussar—no small, spiteful comment could shake him.

The purpose of Mussar, Rav Yisrael taught, is to anchor a person so deeply in his mission that no external voice can define him. The only voice that truly matters is the voice of Hakadosh Baruch Hu. The only opinion that counts is Hashem’s opinion of who you are and what you are meant to become.

Mussar teaches us: Know your role. Know your worth. Know your calling. And do not let the noise of the world drown out the truth of your neshama.

Rabbi Yaakov Asher Sinclair

Exit to Entrance

I don’t think I will ever forget seeing Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead at the National Theatre in London in 1967. I had never encountered anything so witty, brilliant, and piercingly funny. Tom Stoppard—who just passed away at 88—was a singular voice. Born in Czechoslovakia to a Jewish family, and later hailed as the greatest British playwright of his generation, he transformed the way we think about story, identity, and existence.

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead was Stoppard’s breakthrough. In it, he reimagined Hamlet through the bewildered eyes of two minor characters who barely understand why they’re onstage at all. The result was a dizzying mix of tragedy and absurdist humor—profound, unsettling, and laugh-out-loud funny.

His biographer, Hermione Lee, once said that in Stoppard’s plays, “People arrive in the middle of history without knowing why they’re there. They don’t know whether they can get home again. They are often in exile, unable to remember their own names. They may be wrongly imprisoned, facing an impossible moral dilemma, or grieving someone they’ve lost.”

How very Jewish.

Our world often feels like an absurdist drama. We appear suddenly. We depart abruptly. And in the space between, we stumble through meaning, laughter, fear, longing, and mystery. But a Jew knows something essential: this world is the backstage, not the stage. It is the prelude, not the play. And as Shakespeare taught us, the play’s the thing.

What looks like exile is often the corridor before the entrance.

In this week’s Parsha, Yaakov crosses the river Yabok and wrestles with the angel of Esav until dawn. He is struck and wounded, and yet the angel is forced to bless him with a new name: Yisrael. The exit from Yaakov becomes the entrance into Yisrael. The wound becomes the covenant. Night becomes morning.

So it is in our lives. We think we are departing; in truth, we are arriving. What feels like collapse is often construction. What feels like loss is often the seed of birth.

Stoppard—son of a people who have crossed more rivers, borders, and eras of exile than any nation in history—gave voice to this idea, even without intending to. Behind every ending lies a beginning. Behind every concealment, revelation. Behind this world, the next.

Though not remotely religious, he articulated a worldview that could have come straight from Chazal: “Every exit is an entrance somewhere else.”

May we, like Yaakov, find the courage to cross our rivers, the faith to see doorways where others see walls, and the wisdom to know that every exit is but the first step into forever.

Rabbi Avi Wiesenfeld

Busy with Spirituality

“Yaakov Avinu was left alone and a man wrestled with him until daybreak” (Bereishis 32:24).

Chazal tell us that the “man” who grappled with Yaakov throughout the night was none other than the angel of Esav, the embodiment of spiritual opposition. Interestingly, in next week’s Parsha we encounter another mysterious “man”: “Vayimtza’eihu ish—A man found Yosef wandering in the field.” Chazal there identify the “man” as the angel Gavriel, a holy malach sent to guide Yosef toward his destiny.

But how does the Midrash know? How does it determine that one “man” is a destructive force while the other is an angel of light? What clues reveal the nature of each encounter?

Rav Yaakov Galinsky zt”l explained this with a story.

The holy Sanzer Rebbe, the Divrei Chaim, was once visited by a very wealthy man who had come seeking a beracha. The Rebbe asked where he was from. “Lemberg,” the man replied. The Rebbe continued, “Tell me, did the teacher in your town, Reb Zelig, manage to raise the money for his daughter’s wedding?”

The visitor looked puzzled. He had no idea what the Rebbe was referring to. The Divrei Chaim explained that just a month earlier, a broken-hearted teacher from Lemberg had come asking for help. His daughter was engaged, but the dowry was missing, and the shidduch was on the verge of collapsing. The Rebbe had written him a letter of recommendation to help him collect funds.

“Do you know if the situation was resolved?” the Rebbe asked.

“Oh… Reb Zelig,” the wealthy man said. “Yes, he’s well-liked. But I didn’t know he had a daughter, or that she was engaged, or that he needed money. Someone did come to me for help, but I didn’t realize it was serious.”

The Rebbe was astonished. How could he, living in Sanz, know the needs of a simple melamed in Lemberg, while the wealthy man living next door knew nothing?

The man defended himself. “I work all day to earn a livelihood. And the little free time I have, I rush to the beis medrash to learn, for my Olam Haba. I don’t have time for other people’s problems.”

He expected the Rebbe to admire his dedication. And at first, the Rebbe said, “Yes, a Jew should indeed learn whenever he has a free moment.” But then the Divrei Chaim added: “In that case, you must be a learned man. So let me ask you a question on Rashi.”

And he proceeded to ask our very question: How does the Midrash know that the “ish” who met Yosef was a holy angel, while the “ish” who fought with Yaakov was an evil one? The wealthy man had no answer.

So the Rebbe explained: “It is really quite simple. When Yosef was lost, a ‘man’ appeared and helped him—that is the mark of a holy angel. But when Yaakov asked the ‘man’ who wrestled with him for a blessing, the angel refused, saying he had no time—he had to go sing shira. An angel who is too busy with his own spiritual matters to help another Jew… that is an angel of destruction.”

The lesson is unmistakable.

A person who is so absorbed in his own spiritual growth that he cannot pause to help another Jew, even for a moment, resembles the angel of Esav.

As the Kedushas Tzion taught: “Another’s gashmiyus—another Jew’s physical needs—is my ruchniyus. Their material welfare is your spiritual greatness.”

Yes, strive for spiritual elevation. Yes, pursue growth, learning, and avodah. But on that journey, do not forget those around you. A friend who needs a good word. A neighbor who needs a smile. A family that needs a few dollars. A stranger who needs a helping hand.

Your care for another Jew may be your greatest spiritual achievement.

Rabbi Dovid Orlofsky

Locked in a Box

In Parshas Vayishlach, we confront the tragic story of Dinah’s kidnapping and violation. Rashi, quoting Chazal, asks why such a calamity befell her. He answers that Dinah was a yatzanis—a girl who “went out,” much like her mother Leah had gone out. To be fair, Dinah ventured into Shechem simply to see the local girls, to observe how they lived, how they celebrated, perhaps seeking companionship. But because “Kol kevuda bas melech penimah—The dignity of a Jewish woman is inward,” her wandering made her vulnerable. In a city steeped in idolatry and corruption, walking alone carried terrible risks.

But this raises a deeper question: Why was Dinah a yatzanis at all?

I once heard a profound insight from the Tolna Rebbe. When Esav approached with four hundred men, the Torah describes Yaakov arranging his family, and then Rashi notes: Where was Dinah? The answer: Yaakov placed her in a box and locked it. Vena’al lifaneha—he bolted it shut right before her eyes.

The Tolna Rebbe asked: Why lock it? Did Yaakov truly imagine Esav rifling through his luggage in hopes of finding a daughter to marry? No. Yaakov locked the box not to keep Esav out, but to keep Dinah in. He feared she might act out of compassion, try to “save” Esav, perhaps even marry him in the hope of bringing him to teshuvah. Yaakov said, in effect, “I don’t trust you to make the right choice.”

The Rebbe concluded: When you lock your children in a box, do not be surprised if, at the first opportunity, they run as far as they can.

We must be extremely careful with the instinct to overprotect. There is a world of difference between guiding a child and confining one.

A friend of mine serves as a Rosh Yeshiva in an out-of-town community. As his children grew older, his daughter would occasionally ask, “Ta, the girls are doing this—can I go?” He would answer, “No, we don’t do that in our family.” Another request—same answer. And again. After several rounds, she finally asked him, “So what do we do in our family?” He told me that question shook him. He realized he had a long list of don’ts, but not a clear vision of what he wanted to affirm and celebrate in Jewish life.

Rav Moshe Feinstein famously said that the phrase “Shver tzu zein a Yid—It’s hard to be a Jew”—helped destroy American Jewry. When Judaism is experienced only as hardship, restriction, pressure, and prohibition, children eventually suffocate. But when Judaism is presented as beautiful, joyous, rich, uplifting—as Givaldik, as something to cherish—then it becomes a source of identity, connection, and pride.

If our children do not see the beauty of Shabbos, the joy of the chagim, the depth and sweetness of Torah—if we only lock them in a box of “No, no, no”—why should we expect them to remain?

We certainly must guard and guide our children. Perhaps Yaakov was right to place Dinah in a protective box. But when the box is locked—when a child senses, I don’t trust you—the damage can be profound. Children thrive on the knowledge that their parents believe in them. Trust empowers. Trust strengthens. Trust invites a child to rise to the expectations placed upon them.

When our children feel that we believe in their goodness, in their judgment, in their spiritual potential, they will build on that trust and grow into strong, committed, and joyful bnei and bnos Torah.

May we all merit to raise children who feel trusted, valued, and inspired to live authentic Torah lives.

Rabbi Sruly Shane

Fishele and Fraydele

You might be familiar with the classic Jewish children’s book series Fishele and Fraydele. They were written years ago by my grandmother, Feige Shane. What many people don’t realize is that she had no background in writing, no publishing connections, and no formal training. She wasn’t an author—she was simply a Jewish mother who noticed something missing in the world. At that time, there were almost no children’s books teaching authentic Jewish values. She saw the need, felt the responsibility, and said, “If it isn’t there, then I will create it.” And she did. She wrote a series of books that shaped generations.

One of the greatest obstacles to action is fear—fear of inexperience, fear of failure, fear of inadequacy. We hesitate because we wonder, “Who am I to do this? What if I don’t succeed? What if I have no idea how to start?” But often it is precisely the first step—even the imperfect, uncertain one—that becomes the path to triumph.

We see this in the life of Yaakov Avinu. When he wrestles the angel of Esav, the angel blesses him and identifies two extraordinary achievements: “Ki sarisa im elokim v’im anashim—you struggled with an angel; “Vatuchal—And you prevailed.”

We understand the second praise—winning the fight. But Rav Gamliel Rabinowitz points out that the first praise may be even greater: that Yaakov fought at all. Who attempts to battle an angel? What chance does a human being have? And yet Yaakov did not ask, “Can I win?” He asked, “Is this my responsibility?” And if the answer was yes, he stepped forward, and Hashem granted him victory.

Chazal teach that this angel represents the yetzer hara, and the message is profound. In our own inner battles, it often feels impossible to keep fighting. We wonder how long we can resist, how many times we can get up again. But Torah does not ask us to calculate our odds. Hashem does not demand guaranteed success. He asks for courage, for movement, for an opening. We take the first step and He carries us through the rest.

Chanukah expresses this same truth. The Chashmonaim were outnumbered, outarmed, and outmatched. By every natural measure, the war was unwinnable. So why did they fight? Because a Jew does not ask, “Is it possible?” A Jew asks, “Is it necessary?” And if it is, we act, even when the story has no logical ending in sight. The miracle comes only after the first courageous step.

My grandmother didn’t worry about whether the world needed another writer, whether she had the credentials, or whether success was likely. She simply saw that something important had not yet been created and she trusted that Hashem would help her write it.

And so the message is this: Don’t wait for the story to be written before you begin. You may be the one Hashem is waiting for to write it.