Rabbi Eli Stefansky

Heart Attack for Shabbos

It’s a remarkable story, though I’m not sure if it is halachically correct. It is cited in the sefer Birchas Dovid.

A man was once on a flight from Chicago to New York on Erev Shabbos. He knew, of course, that flying so close to Shabbos was risky. But he made the calculation: it’s only an hour-and-a-half flight, and even with minor delays, he would land with time to spare. What could possibly go wrong?

Naturally, everything went wrong.

The flight was delayed forty minutes. Still manageable. The plane eventually taxied toward the runway, but then stopped. Minutes passed, and then an hour.

Finally, the captain announced that the President of the United States was landing in the area, and air traffic was frozen indefinitely and no one would be taking off.

Now anxiety set in. He began calculating: if we land after shkiah in LaGuardia, what happens? What will I do? He tried asking the crew whether he could disembark. Absolutely not, he was told.

At this point, the man knew he needed to do something. So he got to work.

He began making noises, feigning that he was having a heart attack. Hearing him, the stewardess rushed over. “Sir, are you okay?” “I don’t know,” he said. “My chest feels tight. I think I might be having a heart attack.” Within moments, she was calling out, “Is there a doctor on board?”

A woman rushed forward, stethoscope in hand. She examined him briefly and then declared with urgency, “Sir, you are having a heart attack. We need to get you off this plane immediately.”

He was stunned. A real heart attack? He hadn’t planned that part.

The decision was made quickly, and the plane returned to the gate. A wheelchair was brought and the “patient” was wheeled off with medical urgency.

As they approached the terminal doors, he suddenly stood up and announced, “I’m feeling great!” and he ran.

A year later, this same man heard this woman recounting her own Erev Shabbos ordeal.

“You won’t believe what happened,” she said. “I was on a plane Erev Shabbos, completely stuck, and I didn’t know what to do. Suddenly, this frum-looking man clutched his chest and began crying out in pain. That was my chance! I jumped up and “examined him” and told him he was having a heart attack! They rushed us both off the plane, and we were saved for Shabbos!”

Whether or not, you should try this is questionable. But what is true is that sometimes, you need to sacrifice in some way for Shabbos. Because when you do, Shabbos will save you.

Rabbi Moshe Dov Heber

The Diamond and Setting

In Parshas Mishpatim, the Torah opens with the words: “Ve’eileh ha’mishpatim asher tasim lifneihem— And these are the laws that you shall place before them.” Rashi comments that just as the previous commandments were given at Har Sinai, so too these civil laws were given at Har Sinai.

At first glance, Rashi’s comment seems unnecessary. Why would we assume otherwise? The Chiddushei HaRim offers an eye-opening insight.

One might be tempted to view the laws of Mishpatim—civil regulations governing damages, property, interpersonal responsibility—as purely logical constructs. They make sense. Societies need structure and order requires legislation. It would be easy to conclude that these are humanly derived systems of ethics and social organization that the Torah simply affirms.

Rashi therefore emphasizes: no. These laws are no less Sinaitic than the Ten Commandments themselves. Even those mitzvos that appear rational and intuitive are not binding because they are logical; they are binding because they are the will of Hashem. We observe them not merely because they make sense, but because they were commanded.

A similar principle emerges at the opening of Pirkei Avos. The tractate begins: “Moshe kibel Torah m’Sinai—Moshe received the Torah from Sinai.” The commentators explain that this introduction is deliberate. Pirkei Avos does not primarily present technical halachic detail; rather, it speaks about character, refinement, and ethical conduct. One might mistakenly think that these teachings are wise recommendations. They are valuable guidance for living nobly, perhaps, but not intrinsic to Torah law itself.

The Mishnah preempts that misconception. Moshe kibel Torah miSinai. What follows is Torah in the fullest sense. Middos, derech eretz, and character development are not optional enhancements; they are part of the Sinaitic transmission.

This idea may be compared to a magnificent diamond set within a ring. The diamond is priceless, though the setting may be worth far less. Yet if the setting is tarnished or dirty, the entire ring appears diminished. However radiant the diamond may be, its brilliance is compromised by its frame.

The Torah is the diamond. Our middos—our character traits, our yiras Shamayim, the refinement of our conduct—are the setting. If the setting is neglected, if one’s middos are coarse or unrefined, then even a life filled with Torah knowledge appears clouded. Only when the setting is polished does the diamond shine with its full brilliance.

Thus, “Ve’eileh ha’mishpatim.” These are not merely sound social policies. They are the Divine framework through which a Torah life is sustained. Torah, avodah, and gemilus chasadim flourish only within the beautiful setting of refined middos and authentic yiras Shamayim. And when both the diamond and its setting are aligned, the life of a Jew radiates with its intended splendor.

Rabbi Chaim Veshnefsky 

Learning from Living

At the conclusion of Parshas Mishpatim, the Torah states: “Vayakam Moshe v’Yehoshua mesharto—Moshe arose, and Yehoshua, his attendant” (Shemos 24:13).

It is striking that the Torah refers to Yehoshua not as his student, but as his servant or attendant. This is particularly noteworthy because, as the Alshich observes, Yehoshua stood higher on the mountain than the elders; he was positioned just beneath Moshe Rabbeinu at the summit. If anyone deserved the title of distinguished disciple, it was he. Yet the Torah defines him by his shimush.

The Alshich explains that this is precisely the point. Chazal teach, “Gadol shimushah shel Torah yoser milimudah— Serving Torah scholars is greater than merely studying from them” (Berachos 7b). The prophet praises Elisha not primarily for his intellectual mastery, but as, “The one who poured water upon the hands of Eliyahu” (Melachim II 3:11). To live in the presence of one’s rebbe, to observe how he conducts himself, how he breathes Torah in every interaction is a deeper education than attending even the most brilliant shiur.

Let me illustrate.

Years ago, before the era of cell phones, I was driving Rav Dovid Schustal, the Rosh Yeshiva of Lakewood, back home. We were ten minutes from Lakewood, in Howell Township, when he asked me to pull over. There was a pay phone by the roadside. He stepped out, made a brief call to his wife, and returned to the car.

“Rebbe,” I asked, “why the phone call? We’ll be home in ten minutes.” “When someone is worried, a minute feels like an hour,” he said.

That lesson does not appear as a formal se’if in Shulchan Aruch. There is no explicit halachic paragraph mandating such a call. It was not book learning. It was lived sensitivity; an instinctive refusal to cause another person even ten unnecessary minutes of anxiety. His wife did not know his precise location. She did not know that everything was fine. Therefore, he called.

That moment was Torah in motion. It was shimush.

The same principle applies in family life. If a child takes the car and does not inform the parents when he will return, the parents worry. A simple phone call prevents unnecessary anguish. This is not advanced scholarship. It is refined decency.

On another occasion, I was hospitalized for twelve days. For the first two days, no one knew I was there. But over the next ten days, I received sixty visitors from Lakewood, many of whom did not even own cars in those days. They rented vehicles and drove an hour and a half each way to visit me at the University of Pennsylvania hospital.

Was there a specific halachic ruling requiring a three-hour round trip? No clear halacha demands such effort. Yet those who had grown up within the culture of Torah instinctively understood that when someone is in the hospital, you go. You do not merely call. A phone call is not the same as sitting at someone’s bedside.

Others—well-meaning individuals who had not absorbed this lived Torah—might call, or send regards. But they did not automatically get into a car and travel. They had not seen it modeled.

When I was in Yeshiva Staten Island, when a fellow student was hospitalized, the Rebbe announced that everyone would take turns visiting. It was not debated. It was not analyzed. It was simply what one does. Rav Moshe famously advised: when it comes to chesed, do not overthink it. Do not dissect it with excessive pilpul. Just do it.

That is the greatness of shimush. Intellectual Torah teaches principles. Living alongside a gadol teaches application—how Torah breathes, how it shapes reflexes, how it guides conduct in areas never formally “taught.”

Yehoshua merited leadership because he was not only Moshe’s student; he was Moshe’s attendant. He absorbed the living Torah—the Torah of sensitivity, of responsibility, of instinctive chesed. He watched how Moshe Rabbeinu lived every moment with awareness of Hashem and with consideration for others.

That is why the Torah calls him mesharso. Because the real Torah is not only what is said in the beis midrash.

It is what is lived when no one is lecturing.

Rabbi Hillel Feldman

A Payment of Passion

The Gemara (Megillah 13b) teaches that Hashem, Who foresees all of history, anticipated that Haman would one day offer Achashverosh an enormous sum of money in exchange for the right to destroy Klal Yisrael. Before Haman could present his “shekalim,” Hashem instituted ours. The annual mitzvah of machatzis ha’shekel would precede and counterbalance Haman’s payment.

But what exactly was Haman’s “shekel”? What was the spiritual force behind it that required preemption?

R’ Tzadok HaKohen (Tzidkas HaTzaddik) explains something profound. The power of Amalek, embodied by Haman, is the power of cheshek, burning passion.

Amalek attacked Klal Yisrael immediately after Kriyas Yam Suf. At that time, the nations trembled and no one dared confront a people who had just witnessed open miracles. Amalek knew they would lose militarily. Yet they attacked anyway. Why? Passion. Hatred so intense it overrode logic. A fiery, irrational drive.

And when did they attack? At Refidim, when Klal Yisrael had grown weak in Torah, weak in spiritual fervor. Amalek’s passion confronted our cooling.

The same dynamic appears in the Purim story. Haman, descendant of Amalek, emerges at a moment of spiritual vulnerability. Chazal (Megillah 12a) teach that Klal Yisrael partook in Achashverosh’s feast and they bowed when they should not have bowed. There was a subtle weakening in our avodas Hashem.

Haman demonstrated passion. He was prepared to empty his treasury for his cause. He exhibited cheshek, even if for evil. That intensity gave him spiritual leverage.

So Hashem responds measure for measure.

“You think you have passion?” Hashem says to Amalek. “Look at My people.” Every year, Klal Yisrael gives the machatzis ha’shekel. They open their hearts and their wallets for the Beis HaMikdash. They demonstrate devotion. The counterforce to Amalek is not mere compliance. It is cheshek for kedushah.

We can sometimes approach mitzvos as obligations to be endured. We place them on a scale: inconvenience versus reward, sacrifice versus benefit. “I have to do this. I’m a Jew. This is what’s required.”

But the deeper ideal is different.

Yes, mitzvos require sacrifice. Yes, they demand effort and sometimes discomfort. But they are meant to be performed with passion, with love. “You shall love Hashem with all your heart” (Devarim 6:5). When a Jew gives tzedakah with enthusiasm, keeps Shabbat with joy, learns Torah with fire, performs chesed with eagerness, that cheshek neutralizes Amalek.

When we serve Hashem not merely out of duty but out of love, when we bring passion to Torah and mitzvos, we generate the spiritual force that overwhelms Amalek’s fire.

That is the message of Shekalim before Purim. Haman brought silver filled with hatred. Klal Yisrael brings silver filled with love. And love, when it burns brightly enough, always wins.

Rabbi Yaakov Rahimi

The King’s Table

I would like to share a powerful teaching cited by Rav Yitzchok Zilberstein in the name of his revered father-in-law, Rav Yosef Shalom Elyashivz zt”l.

In Sefer Melachim (Melachim I 2:1-9), we read that before David HaMelech passed away, he summoned his son Shlomo and delivered his final charge. He instructed him to walk in the ways of Hashem, to safeguard the Torah and its mitzvos, and to uphold the honor of Heaven even in the face of opposition. It was a majestic and principled farewell; one king entrusting the eternal mission of Klal Yisrael to the next.

Yet at the conclusion of this exalted instruction, David HaMelech adds something seemingly unrelated. He tells Shlomo:

“And with the sons of Barzillai the Gileadite you shall act with kindness, and they shall be among those who eat at your table.”

Rav Elyashiv asks: Who was Barzillai HaGiladi, that David felt compelled, at this climactic moment, to single him out?

Chazal recount that when David was fleeing from his son Avshalom, the national tide had turned against him. Avshalom’s rebellion gained massive support. David was vulnerable, displaced, humiliated. In that moment, when association with David was politically dangerous, Barzillai HaGiladi stood up. He provided food, support, and protection. He identified himself publicly with the fallen king.

Now, restored to the throne and nearing the end of his life, David does not forget.

He tells Shlomo: when the world was against me, Barzillai was not. When it was unpopular to stand by me, he stood firm. Therefore, his children shall forever be me’ochlei shulchanecha, eating at the royal table, treated with distinction and closeness to the king.

Rav Elyashiv explained that this narrative carries a profound message for our generation.

Chazal (Sotah 49b) teach that before the coming of Mashiach, the spiritual climate of the world will grow increasingly distant from kedushah. Modesty will erode. Reverence will weaken. Public culture will drift further from the values of Torah.

In such an environment, it is easy to be swept along. It is difficult to resist.

But there will always be individuals, perhaps a smaller group, who choose differently and bring kedushah into their homes and strive for higher standards spirituality, even when the surrounding culture moves in the opposite direction.

Rav Elyashiv said: When Mashiach comes, Hakadosh Baruch Hu will remember those people. Just as David HaMelech never forgot Barzillai, who stood by him when others did not, so too Hashem will grant a unique closeness to those who stood by Him in a time of concealment. They will be me’ochlei shulchanecha, figuratively, those who sit at the King’s table.

The world may not applaud it. But the King remembers. And when the ultimate revelation comes, those who remained steadfast in quiet devotion will discover that they were never unnoticed.

They will be invited to the King’s table.