Rabbi Meir Simcha Sperling

Outside the Banquet

“Why? Why is this happening?” That is the question many of us asked ourselves at one point or another in our lives.

And it was the question the Chofetz Chaim once asked too. He answered with a parable.

There was once a wealthy man who had a single son, a child he cherished deeply. One day, the boy fell gravely ill. The finest physicians were summoned, spared no expense, and exhausted every possible treatment. Yet none could identify a cure. Hope began to fade, and the household was enveloped in despair.

Then, at the moment when all seemed lost, a young doctor from a distant land arrived. He examined the child, studied the case carefully, and, almost unexpectedly, discovered a remedy. The boy recovered. Relief and gratitude filled the home.

Before departing, the doctor gave the father a solemn warning: “We were fortunate to save him in time. But you must be vigilant. Under no circumstances may your son eat meat; it is precisely what endangers his life. He may eat anything else, but never meat.”

The father accepted these instructions with absolute seriousness. He watched over his son carefully, and the child flourished. At times, this vigilance was difficult. There were feasts, celebrations, and delicacies that the boy desired, yet the father consistently refused. Though it appeared harsh, it was an expression of deep love and protection.

Eventually, the father was called away on urgent business. Before leaving, he instructed his servants with great emphasis: “No matter how much he pleads, you must not allow him to eat meat. Even if he cries, even if it pains you, this is a matter of life and death.”

In his absence, the inevitable occurred. One day, the boy wandered into the kitchen and was overcome by the enticing aroma of freshly prepared meat. Unable to restrain himself, he seized a piece and ate it. Within hours, he fell dangerously ill.

When the father returned and found his son on the brink of death, he immediately summoned the doctor, pleading for his return. The doctor came once more and, with great effort, succeeded in restoring the boy’s health.

Following the recovery, the father was instructed to host a grand celebratory feast to give thanks. He invited the entire town. The tables were laden with delicacies of every kind, including an abundance of fine meats.

Yet the father faced a painful dilemma. He understood that if his son remained in the banquet hall, the temptation would be overwhelming, and potentially fatal. So, in full view of the assembled guests, he removed his son from the celebration and placed him in a separate room, instructing him gently but firmly to remain there.

To the onlookers, this act appeared incomprehensible, even cruel. They saw a father excluding his own son, the very child in whose honor the feast was held. Unaware of the full story, they whispered among themselves, questioning his compassion and judgment.

But they did not know what the father knew.

The Chafetz Chaim concluded. So too, in life, Hakadosh Baruch Hu places us in circumstances we do not understand. At times, it may feel as though we have been removed from the celebration, set aside while others partake freely. The reasons are often beyond our grasp, hidden within calculations far greater than we can comprehend.

Yet we must believe, firmly and unwaveringly, that every situation we encounter is guided by Hashem, and rooted in His deep love for us, even when it is not immediately apparent.

Rabbi Joey Haber

The Right Story

A short while ago, I had the privilege of moderating a Q&A with the Roshei Yeshiva of Lakewood: Rav Malkiel Kotler, Rav Yerucham Olshin, Rav Dovid Schustal, and Rav Yisroel Neuman. The panel offered a rare opportunity to explore the state of Torah life today.

I posed what I assumed was a straightforward question. In earlier generations, mesirut nefesh for Torah often took on visibly dramatic forms. Families lived in cramped conditions, financial hardship was the norm, and material sacrifice was unmistakable—old cars, modest homes, and a life stripped down to essentials for the sake of learning. Today, even those learning in kollel often live with a degree of stability that appears, at least externally, less austere.

So I asked: how should we understand this shift? Has something been lost?

I expected a familiar answer. An acknowledgment that while earlier generations embodied extraordinary sacrifice, today’s landscape, though different, is still admirable. But that was not the response.

Instead, one of the Roshei Yeshiva challenged the very premise of the question.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “There is tremendous mesirut nefesh today.”

He acknowledged that the imagery may have changed—perhaps fewer visibly broken-down cars—but insisted that the essence of sacrifice is not only alive, it is pervasive. Today’s mesirut nefesh expresses itself in quieter, yet deeply demanding ways: navigating the pressures of earning a livelihood, raising children, enduring long commutes, managing financial strain, and maintaining commitment to Torah amidst the relentless pace of modern life.

That answer reframed everything.

There is a common narrative that the past was purer, stronger, more authentic. But that perspective often overlooks the reality of our present condition. In many ways, the challenges of today demand a different, and perhaps even greater, form of strength.

A person living in a rural setting one hundred and fifty years ago encountered relatively few triggers. Life was simple, insulated, and slow. Today, by contrast, a person is inundated—constant exposure through streets, media, advertising, and digital platforms. The volume and intensity of these challenges are unprecedented.

And yet, despite this, people persevere.

Across cities—New York, Los Angeles, Chicago, Toronto, London, and beyond—individuals are striving, struggling, and growing. They are not insulated from the world; they are immersed in it, and still choosing the pathway of a Torah life. They actively seek guidance and the strength to navigate these challenges with integrity.

This is mesirut nefesh of a different order.

It may not always be visible in external deprivation, but it is deeply present in internal resistance, in daily discipline, and in the quiet victories that no one else sees. To confront not one or two challenges, but dozens—sometimes hundreds—in a single day, and to continue choosing the higher path, requires remarkable resilience.

In that light, our generation is not weaker. It is being asked to be strong in new ways.

And that strength—persistent, often unseen, but profoundly real—may be among the most impressive forms of greatness there has ever been.

Rabbi Bentzion Shafier

The Heavyweight Champion

When I was a young yeshiva student, I was invited to join a highly selective Mussar chaburah—a serious group of peers committed to growth. Each week, one member would present a Torah idea: a teaching from Chazal, a passage from Gemara, a Rashi on Chumash. The standard was high and the tone was intense.

When my turn arrived, I walked into the room carrying something unexpected—not a sefer, but a sports magazine. I could feel the shift in the room immediately. Curious looks quickly turned skeptical. I placed the magazine on the table, opened to the center spread, and revealed a striking image: Muhammad Ali standing victorious, holding the heavyweight championship belt.

The reactions sharpened. This was not what they had expected. “What do you see?” I asked. They answered plainly: “Victory. Glory. Ali just won the fight.”

“Exactly,” I said. “That’s what you see. But what you don’t see is the rest of the story. You don’t see that the world champion was so battered in that fight that he was taken straight to the hospital where he remained for three weeks, unable to get out of bed.”

That part isn’t captured in the photograph. It’s not what gets celebrated. The image shows triumph, not the cost. And that was the point. The key to success is not talent. It is not even determination alone. The key to success is the ability to take a punch. Because no matter how capable or driven a person is, life will bring setbacks. Goals will be missed and plans will unravel. There will be moments of failure, of exhaustion, of feeling knocked down.

The question is not whether you will fall. The question is whether you know how to get back up.

Find any individual who has achieved greatness—in any field—and you will discover a common trait: resilience. The willingness to be knocked down, to endure the blow, and to rise again, repeatedly, without surrender. This is true in every pursuit, and certainly in avodas Hashem. Growth is not linear. It demands persistence through struggle, the courage to begin again, and the humility to keep fighting even after defeat.

Real success, in the deepest sense, belongs to those who refuse to stay down and who absorb the punch, regain their footing, and step back into the arena, time after time.

Rabbi Shlomo Miller

The Son of Peace

Some time ago, I was in America for Shabbos. After Shabbos, I davened in a local shul and had the opportunity to speak with the rabbi. In the course of our conversation, he pointed to a young boy nearby and said something that immediately caught my attention:

“You see that child? He was born from a miracle.”

Naturally, I asked him to explain.

The rabbi told me that after his marriage, he and his wife were blessed with two children. They longed to expand their family, but for many years, it did not happen. They accepted it with faith, but the pain remained.

One day, he received a phone call from a congregant.

“Rabbi,” he said, “you’re close with my son. You know he’s making a bar mitzvah tomorrow night. I received the invitation… but I’m not invited. I won’t be there.”

The backstory was complicated and painful. Years earlier, a dispute had broken out between two brothers. Harsh words were exchanged and tensions escalated. The father, trying to avoid deepening the conflict, chose not to take sides. But one son interpreted his silence as betrayal. Hurt turned into distance, and distance into estrangement. For seven years, father and son did not speak.

Now, the son’s own child was celebrating his bar mitzvah and the grandfather would not be there.

The rabbi listened, and then said, “I’ll try.” That night, he drove to Brooklyn and knocked on the son’s door.

“What brings you here?” the man asked, surprised. “I heard you’re making a bar mitzvah tomorrow night,” the rabbi replied. “I may not be able to attend, so I came tonight to wish you mazel tov.”

They sat together, spoke warmly, and then the rabbi gently shifted the conversation. “Tomorrow night,” he said, “people will come and give you a beracha that you should have nachas from your children. Those blessings will rise to Heaven. But you should know… your father is sitting at home crying. His tears will rise as well. And in Heaven, there will be a dilemma what to do between the berachos and the tears.”

The words landed. “You’re right, Rabbi,” the man said quietly. “What should I do?” “Seven years is a long time,” the rabbi answered. “It’s time to make peace.”

The man hesitated. “You’ve convinced me. But my wife… she was deeply hurt. I can’t do this without her.” “Let me speak with her,” the rabbi said. She entered the room, still carrying the weight of years of pain. The rabbi spoke gently, respectfully, acknowledging her hurt. Then the husband turned to her and said: “We’ve been waiting fourteen years to have another child. Perhaps… if we make shalom, if we let this go, maybe in that merit Hashem will bless us.”

For a moment, she said nothing. Then, quietly, she replied: “For that… I cannot say no.”

They called the father. Arrangements were made. The next evening, he arrived at the bar mitzvah. What followed was deeply moving—embraces, tears, reconciliation after years of silence. A family restored.

The rabbi paused and then said something unforgettable: “Exactly nine months later, to the day, this child was born.” He looked again at the boy and repeated, “This is a child born from shalom.”

Chazal teach shalom is a vessel that holds blessing (Uktzin 3:12). When we choose reconciliation over resentment, we open the door for something far greater than we can imagine.

Rabbi Yechiel Spero

Open the Door

When running a playgroup, one of the first questions is always: who are you inviting in? Who will shape the environment, the tone, the experience?

In Eretz Yisrael, there was a woman named Malka who ran a highly respected playgroup. At the start of a new year, parents began registering their children. One day, a woman named Efrat called, hoping to enroll her son, Yonatan.

Malka didn’t know her well. Later that day, while sitting in the park, she mentioned it to a friend.

“Efrat?” her friend responded. “I think I know her older child… he’s very difficult. I’m not sure you want to bring that into your group.”

The comment lingered and it was enough to plant doubt. Malka began to reconsider whether to accept Yonatan at all.

That night, she shared the conversation with her husband. He listened carefully and then asked a single question. “Are you sure you want to make a decision based on one person’s comment? Maybe this child is different. Maybe this mother is exceptional. At least look into it more before you decide.”

Malka paused. He was right.

She followed up, asked questions, and discovered something important: the two children were entirely different. And more than that, she learned that Efrat herself was an outstanding woman—a devoted nurse, responsible, thoughtful, and deeply caring. Malka accepted Yonatan into the playgroup.

A few weeks into the year, one morning, there was a knock at the door. Malka, who had not been feeling well, went to answer it. As she opened the door, she suddenly collapsed.

It was Efrat standing there.

Without hesitation, Efrat sprang into action. Drawing on her medical training, she called an ambulance, and stayed by Malka’s side, stabilizing her until help arrived.

Malka had suffered a stroke. The doctors later said clearly: her life had been saved because of how quickly she received care.

Weeks later, after beginning her recovery, Malka called Efrat.

“I need to tell you something,” she said. “I almost didn’t accept your son. I nearly made a decision based on what someone else said. I had no idea… that the very person I hesitated about would be the one to save my life.”

There was a long silence.

The lesson is subtle, but profound.

A single comment can shape perception. It can close doors—or, if we pause and look deeper, it can be set aside in favor of truth, nuance, and fairness. And sometimes, that choice can change everything.

Words matter.

And so does the wisdom to listen carefully… and decide thoughtfully.