Rabbi Shlomo Landau

A Jewish Parrot

There was once a religious family in Eretz Yisrael. The father was a rabbi, a teacher, and a well-known speaker. For quite some time, his children had been pleading with him, “Please, can we get a bird?” Eventually, he and his wife agreed, and they bought their children a parrot, one of those remarkable parrots capable of actually speaking. In fact, this particular species could develop a vocabulary of hundreds of words.

Sure enough, before long, the parrot began to talk. It learned the children’s names and also picked up the vocabulary of a Jewish home: Shabbos, challah, Kiddush, tefillah, muktzah, cholent and kugel. There was only one problem. To prevent the parrot from flying away, the family periodically had to have its wings clipped. One time, life became busy, and they forgot to do so, and the parrot escaped. The children were devastated. They searched, but there was nothing they could do. The bird was gone.

A full year passed.

One day, the father received an unusual phone call from someone who worked in the same organization. “I recently began giving a Torah class to a nonreligious family in Kfar Saba,” the man explained. “The problem is that they have a parrot, and this bird keeps squawking and talking throughout the shiur. It’s becoming very distracting. I don’t feel comfortable saying anything to the family because they are extremely attached to the bird. But I know you once had a parrot. Maybe you could speak to them and help me figure out what to do.”

The rabbi agreed. The next day, he called the owner of the home in Kfar Saba and gently explained that the parrot had been disrupting the Torah class. “I know,” the man replied. “But you have to understand, this is no ordinary bird. This parrot has an incredible story.”

He began to explain. “Right next to our apartment is a large soccer field. One day, completely out of nowhere, there was a knock on our door. Standing there was the coach of one of the soccer teams, holding a parrot that was barely alive. He told me, ‘This bird literally fell out of the sky onto our soccer field. Everyone in the neighborhood says that you know something about birds. Is there any chance you can save it?’ I took one look at the bird and saw that was starving and exhausted. It could barely move. I felt terrible for it, so I took it inside and began nursing it back to health.

“After several days, the bird began to recover. And then it started talking. At first, we were fascinated. But then we noticed something strange. The bird was saying words that none of us understood: Kiddush. Challah. Muktzah. Tefillah. Shabbos. My children began asking me, ‘Abba, what do these words mean?’ I told them, ‘I have no idea. They must belong to some other part of Israeli culture.’

“There was a rabbi who would occasionally come to our area and give a Torah class, so eventually I approached him. ‘Rabbi, have you ever heard these words?’ He smiled. ‘Of course I have. Those are the words of a Jewish home.’ And that began everything. We started asking questions, we started learning, and one thing led to another. I’m happy to tell you that today our family is shomer Shabbos. And it all began because of this parrot.”

There was silence on the other end of the telephone. Finally, the rabbi said, “You are not going to believe what I am about to tell you. That parrot is ours.” He explained that his children had owned a parrot, that it had escaped exactly a year earlier, and that they had never seen it again.

Suddenly, the man in Kfar Saba became quiet. “Well… it was very nice speaking with you,” he said abruptly, and he hung up. The rabbi was bewildered. What had happened?

The answer came the following morning. The man from Kfar Saba called him back. “I owe you an explanation,” he said. “My children and I love this bird. It has been part of our family for an entire year. When you told me yesterday that it belonged to you, I became frightened that we would have to give it up. But then I realized that if this bird really belongs to somebody else, I have to know what the halachah requires. So I went to my rabbi. He told me that if the original owner has a siman—some identifying sign demonstrating that the bird is his — then I have to return it. Do you have a siman?”

The father thought for a moment. What identifying mark could there possibly be? It was a parrot. It looked like any other parrot of its species. And then he had an idea. “I don’t know whether this qualifies as a siman,” he said, “but perhaps I can bring my children. Maybe, even after an entire year, the parrot will recognize them.” The man agreed.

The father gathered his children and traveled with them to Kfar Saba. They entered the house, and the moment the parrot saw the first child, it called out his name. Then it saw the daughter. “Sarah!” One by one, the bird began calling the children by name. There was no longer any question.

The man from Kfar Saba looked at the family and said, “The bird is yours. Thank you for allowing us to have it for this past year. But more than that, thank you for what this bird gave our family. Because this parrot was the catalyst that brought our entire family back to Torah.”

These are the Aseres Yemei Teshuvah. Hashem wants us to return to Him. And sometimes we imagine that teshuvah requires us to transform everything overnight. But perhaps our job is simply to take that first sincere step. Because once a person begins moving toward Hakadosh Baruch Hu, Hashem can arrange circumstances we could never possibly arrange ourselves.

Even a parrot can do the job.

Rabbi Dovid Goldwasser

The Tenth Man

During these remarkable days in which we now find ourselves, the Navi Yeshayahu tells us: “Dirshu Hashem b’himatzo, kera’uhu bihyoso karo—Seek Hashem when He may be found; call upon Him when He is near” (Yeshaya 55:6). The Pasuk then concludes: “Ki yarbeh lisloach— For He is abundant in forgiveness.”

The Zera Shimshon questions the meaning of these final words. What exactly does it mean that Hashem is “abundant” in forgiveness? If a person commits an aveirah and then sincerely does teshuvah, what more is there to forgive?

There is a profound idea expressed by the Ramah MiPano.

When a person commits an aveirah, there is, of course, the aveirah itself. A person violated the will of Hashem, and for that act he must do teshuvah. That much we readily understand. But there is a second dimension. During the time that the person was involved in the aveirah, he also lost precious time whose minutes could have been devoted to a mitzvah. They could have been used for Torah, chesed, tefillah, personal growth, or something else that would have benefited himself and the world. Instead, that irreplaceable portion of life was lost.

But there is yet a third dimension. The Torah tells us, “U’bacharta bachaim— Choose life” (Devarim 30:19). Every person is placed into situations of nisayon, moments of challenge and choice. At such a moment, the question is, “What will I choose? Will I give in to what pulls me away from my purpose or will I choose what is right? Will I choose what Hashem wants from me and what my neshama was sent into this world to accomplish?” When I choose incorrectly, therefore, I have not only committed an aveirah and lost precious time. I have also failed, at that moment, to fulfill the very purpose of bechirah, the extraordinary gift Hashem gave me to choose good.

The Zera Shimshon explains that Hashem’s forgiveness is abundant because His forgiveness reaches every dimension of what we have done. Perhaps when I performed teshuvah, I thought only about the aveirah itself. I did not consider the time I had squandered or I did not appreciate that I had misused a moment of bechirah. I did not even recognize all the dimensions for which I needed forgiveness. And yet, “Ki yarbeh lisloach.” Hashem’s forgiveness can encompass even what we ourselves failed to recognize. His forgiveness is greater than our understanding of our own failures.

But this idea teaches us something else as well. During the years that Hashem grants us in this world, we must never lose sight of our tafkid: the unique purpose for which our neshama descended into this world.

There is a remarkable story told about Reb Dovid, one of the great talmidim of the Baal Shem Tov. Every year, Reb Dovid did everything in his power to spend Yom Kippur with his revered Rebbe, the holy Baal Shem Tov. No matter how difficult the journey, he would travel to be in the presence of his Rebbe on the holiest day of the year. One year, however, the journey seemed plagued by obstacle after obstacle. First, a torrential storm made the roads impassable, forcing him to wait and costing him precious time. The following day, the wagon on which he was traveling broke down. Repairs consumed more than half the day. Still, Reb Dovid persevered.

After everything he had endured, he was finally approaching the city of the Baal Shem Tov. He was almost there. As he passed through a small town, a man suddenly came running toward him. “Wait! Please, wait!” The man explained that there were only nine Jewish men in the town. “Please stay with us for Yom Kippur,” he pleaded. “We need a tenth man for a minyan.” Rav Dovid was torn, but he answered, “I’m sorry. I have to reach my Rebbe. I have traveled so far and I’ve overcome so many obstacles. I can’t stop now.” The man pleaded with him, but Reb Dovid continued on his way.

At last, he arrived at the Baal Shem Tov. After Maariv, the chassidim approached the Baal Shem Tov to receive his beracha. Reb Dovid stood in line, eagerly waiting for the blessing he had traveled so far to receive. But when his turn came, something strange happened. The Baal Shem Tov turned to the person beside him. Reb Dovid was passed over. He did not understand. The next day he tried again, but once more, the Baal Shem Tov seemed not to see him.

Finally, shortly before Ne’ilah, Reb Dovid could bear it no longer. He rushed toward the Baal Shem Tov and stood directly before him. “Rebbe,” he pleaded, “please tell me. Why am I not zocheh to receive the Rebbe’s beracha? That is all I want.” The Baal Shem Tov looked at him and asked, “Before you arrived here, did you pass through a town where nine men asked you to remain so that they could have a minyan for Yom Kippur?” Rav Dovid lowered his head. “Yes.” The Baal Shem Tov told him, “I want you to know something. The entire reason your neshama came into this world was for that moment—to be the tenth man for those nine Jews.”

Imagine.

Reb Dovid had traveled to be with the Baal Shem Tov. He had overcome storms, endured delays and persevered through obstacle after obstacle, determined to reach something holy. And yet, his tafkid was waiting for him somewhere along the road. Sometimes we can be so focused on where we believe we are supposed to be going that we fail to recognize why Hashem placed us exactly where we are. The Baal Shem Tov instructed Reb Dovid in the path of teshuvah, gave him his beracha, and wished him a good year; a year in which he would yet merit to fulfill his purpose in this world.

That is our avodah during these extraordinary days. We are to ask ourselves, “What opportunities has Hashem placed before me? What is my neshama uniquely capable of accomplishing? And when my moment arrives, will I recognize it?”

May Hakadosh Baruch Hu grant each and every one of us the wisdom to recognize our tafkid, the courage to choose correctly when our moments of bechirah arrive, and the privilege of fulfilling the mission for which our neshama was sent into this world.

Rabbi David Sutton

The Photographer and the Doctor

What is the difference between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur? It is the difference, once remarked Rav Mattisyahu Salomon zt”l, between going to a photographer and going to a doctor.

When you go to a photographer, you want to look your best. You cover the blemishes, and make sure the lighting is right and that the photographer captures your best profile. You want the photograph to present the finest possible image of who you are. When you go to a doctor, however, you do exactly the opposite. You do not want to conceal anything. You want the doctor to see every blemish and every mark because you want the doctor to identify what is wrong and help you fix it.

That, Rav Mattisyahu explained, is the difference between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.

On Rosh Hashanah, we go, so to speak, to the photographer. We are creating an image of the greatest person we can become. Imagine there were a remarkable new kind of Photoshop. It is a machine that could actually transform you into the person depicted in the photograph. You step into a booth and design precisely how you want to look: the shape of your face and the color of your eyes, down to every detail. Then you press a button, and suddenly you become exactly the person in that picture.

We have a spiritual image as well. Rosh Hashanah affords us the opportunity to reflect on the person we truly aspire to become. That becomes the portrait we want to create. We do not spend Rosh Hashanah enumerating our sins. There is no Vidui. Instead, we speak about Hashem’s Malchus. We proclaim His Kingship and express our aspirations for the kind of life we want to live under that Kingship. Before examining everything that has gone wrong, we first establish a vision of what right looks like.

Then comes Yom Kippur, and reality sets in. We look at that beautiful portrait we created on Rosh Hashanah and recognize that we are not yet there. So now we go to the doctor. Now we reveal everything and say, “Ribbono Shel Olam, please heal me. My eyes have not always looked where they should. My tongue has not always spoken as it should. My mind, my heart, my priorities, and my actions have all been affected in different ways. I do not want to hide any of it anymore, because I want You to help me repair it.”

The order is essential. Rosh Hashanah has to precede Yom Kippur. Before we can repair myself, we need a vision of the person we are trying to become. If all we see are our failures, we can become overwhelmed by them. Rosh Hashanah first asks us to look beyond the failures and envision the real me, the person I was created to become. Then Yom Kippur gives me the opportunity to remove everything standing between the person I am today and the person I know I can be.

Perhaps that is part of the extraordinary symbolism of the Shofar. On Rosh Hashanah, we return to the creation of man, when Hakadosh Baruch Hu breathed the nishmas chaim, the breath of life, into Adam. We, too, blow breath into the Shofar. It is a day of renewal, a day on which we recognize that we have the ability to recreate ourselves. We do not have to remain trapped by the person we were yesterday.

That is the extraordinary gift of these days. We can pick ourselves up from wherever we have fallen, look again at that beautiful portrait of the person we were created to become, and begin moving toward it. Rosh Hashanah gives us the vision. Yom Kippur gives us the opportunity to make that vision real.

And now is the gift of time we have to do so.

Rabbi Dovid Orlofsky

Kiddush on Yom Kippur

During a break on Yom Kippur, Rav Samson Raphael Hirsch once invited several people to accompany him home. When they entered, they saw that the table was beautifully set and noticed that Rav Hirsch proceeded to take a Kiddush cup and fill it with wine. One of the guests could hardly understand what he was seeing. What was going on?

Rav Hirsch lifted the cup and said, in effect, “Ribbono Shel Olam, today is Yom Tov. Really, we should make Kiddush and really, we should sit down to a festive seudah. But we are not doing so for one reason: because You told us not to.”

Sometimes, when we can’t eat L’Shem Shamayim, for Hakadosh Baruch Hu, we do the next best thing. We prepare everything as if we would and tell Him, “All of this is for You.” And with that, we demonstrate that even when we do it, it’s not for ourselves. It’s to be healthy and strong to serve Him.