Rabbi Chaim Rosenfeld

You Only Live Once

The Gemara (Yoma 35b) teaches that when a person comes before the Heavenly Court, he will be asked why he did not devote more time to learning Torah. Suppose he responds that he was poor, struggling to earn a livelihood and provide for his family. He worked tirelessly, running from one responsibility to another, and simply did not have the opportunity to learn as much as he would have liked. The Heavenly Court will ask him, "Were you any poorer than Hillel?" Hillel was so impoverished that he could not afford the modest admission fee to enter the beis midrash. Yet his desire to learn Torah was so extraordinary that he climbed onto the roof and listened through the skylight, even in the freezing cold.

Now consider the opposite situation. A man is blessed with considerable wealth. He has a successful business, substantial assets to manage, and a family to support. He keeps Shabbos, observes kashrus, puts on tefillin, and fulfills his obligations as a Torah-observant Jew. Nevertheless, his business responsibilities consume much of his time, leaving him with relatively few opportunities for serious Torah study. When he arrives before the Heavenly Court, he explains that although he would have loved to learn more, the demands of managing his affairs made it exceedingly difficult. He, too, will be challenged: "Were you any wealthier than Rabbi Elazar ben Charsom?" Rabbi Elazar ben Charsom possessed extraordinary wealth, yet he did not allow his financial responsibilities to interfere with his dedication to Torah learning.

I must tell you that this Gemara has bothered me tremendously.

Consider the predicament of an ordinary Jew. Hashem gives him a Torah and commands him to observe its mitzvos. He accepts that responsibility. He keeps Shabbos, observes kashrus, puts on tefillin, and strives to fulfill the obligations incumbent upon him. He works hard to support his family and conducts his life according to the Torah's requirements. Then, after a lifetime of sincere effort, he arrives in the World to Come and is seemingly told that he has fallen short because he did not accomplish more. How is he supposed to understand that? He might reasonably protest, "Ribbono Shel Olam, You gave me a Torah and instructed me to follow its commandments. I did my best to fulfill everything You asked of me. How can it be that, after spending my entire life observing Your mitzvos, I am now being held accountable for not having accomplished something greater?" What, precisely, is the Torah demanding of us?

There is another thing that has bothered me just as much. In the seventh chapter of Mesillas Yesharim, the Ramchal identifies a spiritual danger of extraordinary significance. What would you imagine to be the greatest danger confronting a Jew? Naturally, we might think of the gravest transgressions. There is giluy arayos, shefichas damim, and the terrible consequences of lashon hara. We know that the Beis Hamikdash was destroyed because of serious spiritual failings. We recognize the importance of establishing safeguards against temptation. These are unquestionably serious concerns.

Yet the Ramchal draws our attention to something that might initially appear far less consequential. He explains that when a person conceives of a worthwhile action, he must seize the opportunity to perform it immediately, without allowing unnecessary time to elapse. Perhaps he has an idea for a new learning commitment, an act of chesed, or some other meaningful undertaking. The moment the thought enters his mind, he should act upon it rather than postpone it. Why? Because delay itself presents an extraordinary spiritual danger. Once a person allows an opportunity to pass, even briefly, he risks losing the inspiration and resolve that might have enabled him to accomplish something remarkable.

Think about that. We hear countless speeches warning us about the dangers of modern technology, inappropriate influences, and the various temptations confronting contemporary Jewish life. All of these concerns are legitimate. Yet how often do we hear someone stand before an audience and declare that one of the greatest dangers facing a Jew is the tendency to procrastinate when an opportunity for a mitzvah presents itself? What makes this seemingly ordinary failure so consequential?

To appreciate the answer, let us consider a third question. The Torah contains 613 mitzvos, consisting of 248 positive commandments and 365 prohibitions. Which category should occupy the greater part of our attention? Should we concentrate primarily on fulfilling the positive commandments, or on avoiding the negative ones? At first glance, the answer seems obvious. The consequences of violating a prohibition are generally far more severe than those associated with neglecting a positive commandment.

Chazal (Yoma 86a; see Rambam, Hilchos Teshuvah 1:4) state that when a person neglects a positive commandment, sincere teshuvah can secure atonement immediately. If someone fails to recite Krias Shema at its proper time or neglects to put on tefillin, he has certainly missed an important obligation. Nevertheless, when he sincerely repents, his atonement is not subject to the same additional requirements associated with more serious transgressions. By contrast, certain prohibitions require not only teshuvah but also Yom Kippur for complete atonement. More severe transgressions may require suffering as part of the process of achieving full atonement.

It would therefore seem that avoiding prohibitions must be our foremost concern. After all, the consequences of violating a lo saaseh can be considerably more severe than those of neglecting an aseh. Yet the Torah introduces a principle that seems to challenge this conclusion: Aseh docheh lo saaseh, a positive commandment can, under the prescribed halachic circumstances, override a negative commandment. Consider the mitzvah of tzitzis in relation to the prohibition of shatnez. The Gemara (Yoma 4a) teaches that the positive obligation of tzitzis can override the prohibition against wearing a garment containing a forbidden mixture of wool and linen. How can that be? If violating a negative commandment is so much more severe than neglecting a positive one, why should a positive commandment possess the power to override a prohibition? Clearly, there is something about the significance of positive action that we have not yet fully appreciated.

Let me introduce one final question.

Chazal (Shabbos 55b) teach that four individuals lived their entire lives without committing a sin: Binyamin ben Yaakov, Amram the father of Moshe Rabbeinu, Yishai the father of Dovid Hamelech, and Kilav ben Dovid. Four extraordinary individuals who never committed an aveirah. Now let me ask you something. Can anyone tell me one particularly remarkable accomplishment of Kilav ben Dovid? What great achievement of Binyamin immediately comes to mind? What extraordinary deed of Yishai would you identify as the defining accomplishment of his life? Most people would struggle to answer. Yet these individuals possessed an astonishing distinction: they lived without sin.

Now imagine that we were asked to construct a Jewish Mount Rushmore, a monument honoring the greatest personalities in our history. Whose faces would we place upon it? We might choose Avraham Avinu, Moshe Rabbeinu, Yaakov Avinu, Dovid Hamelech, or Rabbi Akiva. These are the individuals whose lives inspire us and whose greatness we aspire to emulate. But what do they have in common? Every one of them, despite his extraordinary spiritual stature, experienced human failure. The Torah and Chazal do not conceal the shortcomings or struggles of even our greatest personalities. And yet, when we think of the greatest Jews who ever lived, these are the names that immediately come to mind. Meanwhile, the four individuals whom Chazal identify as having never sinned are rarely the first names we mention. Why? What does this teach us about the true measure of spiritual greatness?

The Value of a Single Moment

I would like to share a remarkable story that I heard from Rabbi Ezriel Tauber, a distinguished kiruv personality from Monsey who served as one of my mentors. Rabbi Tabor once received a telephone call concerning a seventeen-year-old boy who was hospitalized with a terminal illness. The doctors had informed the family that the boy had approximately six months to live. The young man had a question that was weighing heavily upon him, and he specifically requested that Rabbi Tauber come to the hospital to speak with him privately. Rabbi Tauber agreed. When he arrived, he found a seventeen-year-old boy confronting a reality that no young person should ever have to face.

The boy explained that he had come to terms with his prognosis. He understood that, according to the doctors, he had only six months remaining, and he was prepared to accept that reality. There was, however, one possibility that complicated his decision. The doctors had informed him about a new treatment that might extend his life by an additional four or five months. Unfortunately, the treatment would be extraordinarily painful. The boy looked at Rabbi Tauber and asked him a heartbreaking question. "Should I undergo the treatment? Why should I put myself through months of terrible suffering, and force my parents to watch me endure that pain, simply to gain another four or five months? If I am going to die anyway, would it not be better to accept the six months I have left?"

Rabbi Tauber later explained that he was not prepared to answer such a question himself. "I am involved in kiruv," he said. "I travel and teach Torah, but I am not qualified to issue a halachic ruling concerning a matter of life and death." He therefore made it clear that he was not telling the boy what medical decision to make. He would simply share an insight into the Torah's understanding of the extraordinary value of human life.

He offered the boy a hypothetical illustration. "Imagine," he began, "that a ninety-nine-year-old man is lying in a hospital in a vegetative state. The doctors inform his family that there is a way to extend his life by just ten minutes. Now imagine that the only way to accomplish this would be for every Jew in the world to enter McDonald's on Yom Kippur and eat a cheeseburger. Of course, this is purely hypothetical. But suppose that violating these prohibitions would somehow enable that elderly man to live for another ten minutes. What would the halacha say?"

Rabbi Tauber explained that the Torah attaches such extraordinary importance to preserving human life that even serious prohibitions may be set aside when doing so is halachically necessary to save a life. The principle is pikuach nefesh. When a person's life is at stake, actions that would ordinarily be forbidden can become not merely permissible but obligatory. The precise halachic application depends on the circumstances, but the underlying principle reveals the immense value the Torah places upon human life.

Rabbi Tauber continued. "I am not telling you whether to undergo this treatment. That is a question requiring proper medical and halachic guidance. But consider what the Torah is teaching us. If preserving even a few additional minutes of human life can justify setting aside some of the Torah's most serious prohibitions, imagine how precious those minutes must be in the eyes of Hashem." With that, Rabbi Tauber concluded his conversation.

The boy reflected upon what he had heard and ultimately decided to undergo the treatment. Before doing so, however, he made one request. "Rabbi, would you be willing to record what you just told me? I know the treatment will be extremely painful, and I want to be able to listen to your words whenever I need encouragement. I want to remember why those additional months are worth fighting for." Rabbi Tauber agreed. The young man underwent the treatment and was eventually discharged from the hospital. Several months later, he was niftar. But Rabbi Tauber related that the boy approached the end of his life with a sense of peace and purpose. He understood that the additional time he had been granted was precious, and he had chosen to embrace it.

That story made an enormous impression upon me. It also reminded me of something I witnessed many years earlier. Over two decades ago, a friend of mine named Sruly Miller, a grandson of Rav Avigdor Miller zt"l, was tragically killed in a car accident. He was only thirty-six years old. Rav Avigdor Miller subsequently came to our shul to address the community. I had been privileged to attend Rav Miller's shiurim regularly. I would go to hear him on Shabbos and on Thursday evenings, and I considered myself a devoted talmid. His audiences were remarkably diverse, bringing together Litvish Jews, Chassidim, Sephardim, and people from many different backgrounds. When I heard that this gadol would be speaking in our shul, I made sure to sit in the front row. I wanted to hear every word.

Rav Miller rose to speak in his characteristic manner. He began by acknowledging the various initiatives people had undertaken in memory of his grandson. "I see that some of you have accepted upon yourselves additional commitments to Torah learning. Very nice, very nice. Some have undertaken to complete Shas. Wonderful." He continued: "I also see that people have distributed copies of Kitzur Shulchan Aruch so that they can complete the entire sefer during the coming month. Very nice. These are wonderful zechusim for my grandson." Then he offered a different perspective. "But do you know what would be the greatest zechus for my grandson?" The room listened intently.

"When you wake up tomorrow morning, remember that a thirty-six-year-old man has passed away. And then realize that you have been granted another day of life. Say, 'Thank You, Hashem, for allowing me to wake up this morning. Thank You for giving me another opportunity to serve You, to learn Your Torah, and to perform Your mitzvos.'" Rav Miller invoked the words of Dovid Hamelech: “Lo ha’meisim ye’hallelu K-ah—The dead cannot praise Hashem" (Tehillim 115:17). Those who have departed this world can no longer perform mitzvos or express their gratitude to Hashem through the opportunities of earthly life. But we are alive. We can learn and we can daven. We can perform acts of kindness. We can thank Hashem for His goodness. Rav Miller explained that the greatest zechus would be for people to awaken with a renewed appreciation for the gift of life and to use the day they had been granted.

The Time We Can Never Recover

Those words have remained with me ever since. Years later, when the major gathering concerning the dangers of modern technology was held at Citi Field, I attended and listened carefully to the various concerns that were raised. Over the years, I have encountered virtually every problem associated with smartphones and unrestricted internet access. Through my work with students, I have seen the damage caused by exposure to violence, gambling, and countless other harmful influences. These are real dangers, and they deserve to be taken seriously. But after years of observing my students, my own children, and the broader community, I have come to believe that there is another danger that is often overlooked.

It is the loss of time.

Think about how many hours people spend each day reading emails, checking messages, browsing websites, and moving from one distraction to another. Some estimates suggest that the average person spends 3.1 hours each day dealing with email alone. And that does not even account for social media, news, videos, or the countless other activities that compete for our attention. I am not speaking now about negative content or the other moral dangers of technology. I am speaking about something far more fundamental. Time. Time is among the most precious gifts that Hashem has entrusted to us. And unlike almost everything else in life, once it is gone, it can never be recovered.

Consider the difference between committing an aveirah and allowing an opportunity to pass. When a person commits a transgression, the Torah provides a path toward spiritual restoration. We have the extraordinary gift of teshuvah. We have Yom Kippur. Hashem, in His infinite mercy, allows us to return to Him and repair the damage we have caused. But suppose a person wastes three hours every day. At the end of the year, he approaches Yom Kippur with sincere remorse. He cries, confesses his shortcomings, and resolves to change. His teshuvah may be entirely genuine, and Hashem may grant him forgiveness. But can he recover those lost hours? Can he go back and learn the Torah he might have learned, perform the chesed he might have performed, or accomplish the meaningful things he might have accomplished during that time? He cannot. Teshuvah can repair a person's relationship with Hashem, but it does not literally return the opportunities that have already passed. That is what makes wasted time so devastating.

As I reflect upon the years behind me, I find myself thinking about the opportunities I might have used differently. We all have regrets as we grow older. I look back upon my years in yeshiva and consider how much more I might have accomplished had I appreciated the value of every hour.

In my work with young people, I have encountered students who have struggled with serious religious observance. Some have eaten non-kosher food. Others have stopped keeping Shabbos. Of course, these are painful situations, and they concern me deeply. Yet I have also witnessed something beautiful. Baruch Hashem, many of these young people eventually find their way back. They return to Torah observance, establish beautiful Jewish homes, and build lives filled with mitzvos. The Torah provides a path of return. But there is one thing that even the sincerest return cannot literally restore: the years that have already passed. I cannot go back and become the person I might have become had I used every opportunity more wisely.

And perhaps that is the answer to the questions with which we began. The greatness of a Jew is not measured solely by the transgressions he manages to avoid. It is also measured by the positive accomplishments he brings into the world. The Torah does not ask us merely to refrain from doing wrong. It calls upon us to become something greater. That is why the lives of Avraham Avinu, Moshe Rabbeinu, Dovid Hamelech, and Rabbi Akiva inspire us so profoundly. Their greatness lies not in an absence of struggle, but in the extraordinary spiritual accomplishments that defined their lives. That is also why the Ramchal places such emphasis upon acting immediately when an opportunity for a mitzvah arises. Every delay carries the risk that an irreplaceable opportunity will slip away.

And that is why the Gemara challenges both the poor man and the wealthy man with the examples of Hillel and Rabbi Elazar ben Charsom. The question is not simply whether we observed the rules. The question is what we did with the extraordinary opportunities Hashem placed before us. Did we recognize the possibilities contained within each day? Did we act upon our moments of inspiration? Did we use our time to become the people we were capable of becoming?

The Irreplaceable Value of Two Minutes

There is a beautiful story about Rav Pam zt"l, with whom I had the privilege of developing a close relationship through his involvement with Sinai Academy. On one occasion, Rav Pam was informed that an elderly man who lived nearby had become seriously ill and was hospitalized. Someone suggested that perhaps the Rosh Yeshiva could visit him. Rav Pam explained that he was a Kohen and was generally careful about entering hospitals because of the halachic concerns involved. Nevertheless, he wanted to offer the man encouragement. "I will write him a letter," he said. Rav Pam took out a pen and paper, composed a personal letter, and handed it to a bachur, who hurried to deliver it to the elderly patient in the hospital.

The elderly man was a simple, unassuming individual, someone whom very few people knew. Yet when he opened the letter and realized that Rav Pam himself had taken the time to write to him, he was overcome with emotion. Tears began streaming down his face. He could hardly believe that the Rosh Yeshiva had written him a personal letter. He placed the letter beside his hospital bed, where he could look at it whenever he wished. Every time someone entered his room, he would proudly point to it. "Look! Rav Pam wrote me a letter!" he would exclaim. The letter became one of his most treasured possessions, a source of tremendous encouragement during his final weeks.

Two months later, the elderly man was niftar. The bachur who had delivered the letter returned to Rav Pam and informed him of the man's passing. "Rebbe, do you remember the elderly gentleman for whom you wrote that letter? He passed away yesterday." Then he continued, "But Rebbe, you cannot imagine what that letter meant to him. The moment he received it, his entire face lit up. He kept it beside his bed and showed it to everyone who came to visit. In fact, at his levayah, someone remarked that he must have been an extraordinary person if Rav Pam had taken the time to write him a personal letter. That letter brought him such happiness and comfort that he spent his final days with a smile on his face."

Upon hearing this, Rav Pam let out a deep sigh. The bachur was puzzled. "Rebbe, why are you sighing? This is such a beautiful story. Look at the tremendous chesed you performed and the happiness you brought this man!" Rav Pam looked at him and replied, "Do you know how long it took me to write that letter? Two minutes. Just two minutes." He paused before continuing. "Do you know how many hundreds of two-minute opportunities I have wasted throughout my life, simply because I thought to myself, 'It's only two minutes'?"

What an extraordinary perspective.

Consider how often we find ourselves with a few spare minutes. We are waiting for a bus, sitting in a waiting room, or waiting for someone to finish getting ready. We glance at the clock and think, It's only two minutes. What could I possibly accomplish in such a short amount of time? And so we reach for our phones, scroll through messages, or simply allow those minutes to pass. But Rav Pam understood something profound. Two minutes can change a person's life. Two minutes can bring comfort to someone who is suffering or create an opportunity for a mitzvah whose impact extends far beyond anything we could have imagined. The tragedy is not merely that we waste time. It is that we so often underestimate what can be accomplished with the time we have.

My own rav, was Rav Yitzchok Isbee zt"l, with whom I was privileged to share a very close relationship. One year, on Shabbos Shuvah, Rav Isbee delivered an entire shmuess devoted to the preciousness of time. He spoke passionately about the responsibility to use every day meaningfully and the danger of allowing life's opportunities to slip away. As a young man, I had given relatively little thought to the subject. Like most young people, I felt as though I had all the time in the world. There would always be another day, another week, another year in which to accomplish whatever I hoped to achieve. But Rav Izbee challenged that assumption.

I remember him describing something that had happened that very morning. "Today," he told us, "I looked in the mirror and noticed white hairs appearing in my beard." He then posed a question. "Why did the Ribbono Shel Olam create white hair? Why does a person's hair gradually turn gray as he grows older?" His answer was unforgettable. "Because Hashem is sending us a message. He is reminding us that our time in this world is limited. He is telling us, 'Get busy! Make something of yourself! You have only one life to live. Don't waste it!'"

Rav Isbee continued to emphasize that whenever a worthwhile opportunity presents itself, we must act upon it. If someone suggests a meaningful undertaking, if an idea for a mitzvah enters our mind, or if an opportunity arises to accomplish something worthwhile, we should not automatically postpone it. Life does not continue indefinitely. The opportunities available to us today may no longer be there tomorrow.

I remember leaving that shmuess feeling extraordinarily inspired. The following day, I arrived at yeshiva with a renewed sense of determination. I was not going to leave early, extend my lunch break unnecessarily, or squander the precious hours available to me. I was determined to make every moment count. And I did. For approximately ten days. Then, unfortunately, I gradually slipped back into my old habits. But at least those ten days were meaningful!

What happened next, however, transformed Rav Isbee's words into something I would never forget.

Shortly after Sukkos, Rav Isbee was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. The news was devastating. He was flown to Boston for treatment, and the doctors eventually informed him that he likely had only until Purim to live. Nobody could believe it. The entire atmosphere in the shul changed. There was a solemnity that had not been there before. People davened with an intensity and sincerity born of genuine concern. Everyone was hoping and praying that somehow the prognosis would prove mistaken. I remember visiting Rav Isbee in the hospital at Sloan Kettering. Tragically, the doctors' prediction proved remarkably accurate. Just two days after Purim, Rav Isbee was niftar.

I will never forget his levayah. As I walked behind the hearse, accompanying my beloved rav on his final journey, I found myself overwhelmed with emotion. I am not generally someone who cries easily. I have never considered myself particularly emotional. But that day, I simply could not stop crying. Because as I walked, I kept hearing his voice. "Why does Hashem give a person white hair? To remind him to get busy. To make something of himself. To recognize that life is not forever." Those words, which had inspired me so deeply only a few months earlier, suddenly took on an entirely different meaning.

I realized that Rav Isbee had not merely been delivering a beautiful Shabbos Shuvah shmuess. He had been articulating one of life's most profound truths, a truth that his own passing would soon bring into painfully sharp focus. And as I followed the hearse, I understood something that I had never fully appreciated before. The greatest shmuess Rav Isbee ever gave me was not the one he delivered from the pulpit. It was the one he delivered through his passing. Standing there, confronting the loss of someone I loved and respected so deeply, I finally understood the full weight of his message. Life is precious. Time is irreplaceable. And every day that Hashem grants us is an opportunity to accomplish something that can never be accomplished in quite the same way again. We cannot afford to spend our lives waiting for the perfect moment to begin.

The moment is now.

The Opportunity That Slipped Away

I would like to share a personal experience involving one of my students, an experience that remains among my greatest regrets. In many ways, telling this story is part of my own therapy, because its lesson has stayed with me throughout my life. When I first became involved in kiruv more than twenty years ago, the circumstances were quite different from what they are today. Nowadays, many of the boys attending our yeshiva have already grown up in America. They are the next generation, raised in New York and generally familiar with Jewish life. But when I first began teaching at Sinai Academy, many of our students were recent immigrants from Russia. They had grown up with virtually no Jewish education or observance. Some had never even undergone a bris milah.

Imagine that. We were working with seventeen- and eighteen-year-old boys who had never had a bris, and part of our responsibility was to help them understand the significance of this fundamental mitzvah. For someone involved in kiruv, there are few experiences more moving than witnessing a young Jewish man voluntarily embrace his heritage in such a profound way. Of course, a bris performed on an eighteen-year-old is quite different from one performed on an infant. Nobody carries an eighteen-year-old into the room like a kvatter! At that age, it is a medical procedure requiring appropriate professional care. Nevertheless, the spiritual significance of the occasion is extraordinary.

One day, a student named Boris approached me with a question. "Rabbi, I had a circumcision in the hospital when I was a baby, but I'm not sure whether it was performed properly according to halacha." I reassured him that we could have the matter examined. If the circumcision had been performed adequately but without the necessary halachic requirements, it might be possible to complete the process through hatafas dam bris, the drawing of a small amount of blood. I contacted Rabbi Edelman, a mohel, and asked him to come to Sinai Academy to examine the boy. "Rabbi Edelman," I explained, "this young man was circumcised in the hospital as an infant. We just need you to determine whether anything further is required." The student was understandably nervous. "Will it hurt?" he asked. I assured him that if only hatafas dam bris was necessary, it would be a very minor procedure.

Rabbi Edelman arrived, and the student went into a private room with him. A few minutes later, the mohel emerged. "Mazel tov?" I asked expectantly. "Not yet," he replied. He explained that the original circumcision had been incomplete, and the young man would require a more involved procedure. When the student heard this, he became frightened. "Absolutely not!" he exclaimed. "There is no way I'm doing that!" I tried to encourage him. We had already come this far, and he had demonstrated such admirable willingness to fulfill the mitzvah.

Then something remarkable happened. After a few moments, the boy looked at me and said, "Rabbi, I'll do it. But only on one condition." "What condition?" "We have to do it right now. If I go home and start thinking about it, I know I'll become frightened and change my mind. But if we do it immediately, before I have a chance to reconsider, I'm ready." I immediately thought of the teaching in Mesillas Yesharim. When a person is inspired to perform a mitzvah, he must seize the opportunity without unnecessary delay, because postponement can extinguish even the strongest inspiration. "All right," I told him. "Let's do it."

I remembered a Russian physician who maintained an office near 79th Street and Bay Parkway. I telephoned him and explained the situation. "Doctor, I have a Russian student who wants to undergo a bris. We have the mohel here, but we need an appropriate room. Would you be able to accommodate us?" He hesitated. "Rabbi, this is a pediatric office." "I understand," I replied, "but we have everything arranged. We simply need a suitable place to perform the procedure." Eventually, he agreed.

We got into our cars and hurried to the doctor's office. Before long, my entire class had arrived to support their fellow student. You can imagine the scene. The waiting room was filled with mothers holding small children, and suddenly a group of large, enthusiastic Russian teenagers came marching through the door, cheering on their friend. The young man entered the examination room with the medical professionals while the rest of us waited outside. Approximately half an hour later, he emerged. "Mazel tov!" The entire room erupted in celebration. We brought out wine, offered our congratulations, and rejoiced in the extraordinary mitzvah that had just been performed.

Then another student named Purvitz approached me. "Rabbi, I have to tell you something. I never mentioned this before, but I've never had a bris either. After seeing what Boris just did, I'm so impressed that I want to do it too." I could hardly believe what I was hearing. "Wonderful! You're next!". Approximately forty-five minutes later, we were celebrating another bris. Two young men, one after another, had voluntarily undertaken a mitzvah that required extraordinary courage and commitment.

The following day, we organized a celebration in the yeshiva. We gave the boys some time to recover and arranged a special gathering to mark the occasion. During the festivities, a third student approached me. "Rebbe," he said, "I've been watching everything that happened, and I have to be honest with you. I've never had a bris either." I looked at him. "Are you telling me that you want to have one?" "Yes," he replied. "After seeing what these two boys did, I can't believe their courage. I'm ready to do it too."

I immediately contacted Rabbi Fischer, a mohel from Monsey. "Rabbi Fischer, would you be able to come to Flatbush tomorrow?" He agreed. We arranged to use the office of Dr. Weiser, a dermatologist on East 10th Street, and brought the entire class along to celebrate this third bris. While the student was undergoing the procedure, I used the opportunity to speak to the boys about the extraordinary significance of what they were witnessing. I reminded them of the well-known exchange concerning Yishmael and Yitzchak. Yishmael argued that his bris, performed at thirteen years of age, demonstrated a greater degree of personal sacrifice than Yitzchak's, which had been performed when he was only eight days old. "But look at what is happening here," I told the students. "Yishmael had his bris at thirteen. These boys are undertaking it voluntarily at eighteen!" It was a remarkable moment of Jewish pride and commitment.

When the student emerged, we celebrated once again. Three young men had now undergone a bris, and the excitement among the students was extraordinary. Then a fourth boy, Dima, approached me. "Rabbi, I have to tell you something." I could already anticipate what he was about to say. "You want to have a bris too?" "Yes," he replied. I turned immediately to Rabbi Fischer. "Are you ready for another one?" Unfortunately, he explained that he had exhausted the necessary supplies. He would need additional gloves, instruments, and medical materials, which were at his office in Boro Park. There was no practical way to proceed immediately. I turned to Dima. "Would you be willing to do it tomorrow? We'll arrange everything and have another celebration." "Sure, Rabbi," he replied. "Tomorrow is fine." I was delighted.

The following morning, we gathered the boys and prepared to return to Dr. Weiss’ office. "All right, Dima," I announced. "Let's go." But Dima looked at me and shook his head. "Rabbi, I'm not doing it." I was stunned. "What do you mean you're not doing it? Yesterday you told me you were ready!" "That was yesterday," he replied. "I went home, thought about it all night, and realized what I was agreeing to. Are you crazy? You want me to undergo a bris at my age? If you tell me to cut my fingernails or toenails, fine. But this? Absolutely not!"

I tried to reason with him. "But Dima, everyone is waiting. Rabbi Fischer has arranged his schedule, the doctor's office is available, and the entire class is ready to support you." He would not budge. "Rabbi, yesterday I was inspired. I saw what the other boys did, and I wanted to do the same thing. But then I went home and thought about it. I'm not doing it." There it was. The very danger described by the Mesillas Yesharim had unfolded before my eyes. A moment of genuine inspiration had been allowed to pass, and the determination that had seemed so strong the previous day had disappeared.

Nevertheless, I was not prepared to give up. That Friday night, Dima came to my home for a shalom zachar. I decided to enlist the assistance of some friends. I approached a friend of mine who was an optometrist. "Listen," I told him, "this boy really wants to have a bris, but he needs a little encouragement." My friend turned to Dima. "Come to my office. If you have the bris, I'll give you any pair of glasses you want, completely free." Dima shook his head. "No."

I approached another friend, Shimon, and explained the situation. Shimon looked at Dima and said, "I'll tell you what. I have two excellent tickets to a Yankees game, right behind home plate. If you have the bris, they're yours." Still, Dima refused. I tried to make the offer sound more appealing. "Dima, think about it! A free pair of glasses and two great tickets to Yankee Stadium!" Nothing. Then I approached another friend, Penny, who had a Corvette parked nearby. When he heard the story, he made an extraordinary offer. "Dima, if you have the bris, I'll let you drive my Corvette for an entire week." I could hardly believe it. I turned to Dima. "Do you understand what you're being offered? A beautiful pair of glasses, two front-row Yankees tickets, and a Corvette for a week!" Dima looked at me. "No, Rabbi." And that was the end of it.

To this day, Dima has never had a bris. In fact, he called me just this past week. He is a wonderful young man who has built a successful life. He now owns several optical stores, and the glasses I am wearing were actually purchased from him. But whenever I see him, I cannot help feeling a pang of regret. Because I remember that day in the doctor's office. He was ready. He was inspired. He wanted to fulfill the mitzvah. And all that stood between him and the accomplishment was the opportunity to act immediately. Once that moment passed, no amount of encouragement or persuasion could restore his original determination.

The Greatest Tragedy of All

That experience taught me a lesson I have never forgotten. Approximately a year later, something remarkably similar happened. Another student was undergoing a bris, and while we were celebrating, one of the boys approached me and confessed that he, too, had never been circumcised. "Rebbe, I want to have a bris." I immediately turned to Rabbi Fischer. "Are you ready?" But once again, there was a problem. "My supplies are in Boro Park," he explained. "I don't have everything I need with me."

I was not about to repeat the mistake of the previous year. This time, I was determined not to allow an unnecessary delay to interfere with the student's willingness to proceed. I arranged for everyone to remain at the office while we obtained the necessary supplies. One of my students, Mike, owned an Infiniti G35 and loved driving. "Mike," I told him, "I need you to go to Boro Park and bring back Rabbi Fischer's supplies as quickly as you safely can." He was delighted to have the assignment. Mike hurried off, retrieved the supplies, and returned to the office. The young man was then able to proceed with his bris.

And that same Mike later became a police officer. Let me tell you something amusing about him. Shortly after the COVID period, my son was driving along Bay Parkway. Like many New Yorkers, he had Waze running on his phone, even though he knew exactly where he was going. Anyone who drives in Brooklyn understands why. Between the speed cameras and traffic enforcement, you can receive a ticket in the mail for traveling only a few miles above the speed limit.

My son was driving approximately thirty-nine miles per hour when a police officer pulled him over. It was his first traffic stop, and he was understandably nervous. The officer approached the window. "License and registration, please." My son handed over his license. The officer examined it. "Rosenfeld," he read. "Who's your father?" My son answered. "Is your father Rabbi Rosenfeld?" "Yes." A moment later, my telephone rang. "Rabbi, I just pulled over your son!" It was Mike. The very same student who had driven to Boro Park to retrieve the mohel's supplies years earlier.

"Mike!" I exclaimed. "What are you doing pulling over my son?" He explained that my son had been driving too fast. "Come on, Mike," I said. "Be nice to him!" Mike returned to my son's car and let him off with a warning. He even handed him two Police Benevolent Association cards. I joked afterward that it must have been the first time in New York history that someone was pulled over and, instead of receiving a ticket, came away with two PBA cards!

The entire experience reinforced a lesson that has accompanied me throughout my life. Every time I see Dima, I remember the opportunity that slipped away. And every time I think about that second student, I remember what became possible because we did not allow the moment of inspiration to disappear. The Mesillas Yesharim is teaching us something fundamental about the nature of spiritual growth. One of the greatest dangers in life is not merely committing an aveirah. It is failing to accomplish the good that we were capable of accomplishing.

Of course, aveiros are serious. The Torah's prohibitions safeguard our relationship with Hashem, and violating them can have devastating spiritual consequences. But avoiding wrongdoing is not the ultimate purpose of our existence. We were not placed in this world merely to refrain from sin. We were placed here to accomplish something.

Consider marriage.

A person does not get married simply to avoid making mistakes. Imagine a young man announcing, "I'm getting married, and my entire goal is to make sure I never do anything wrong." What kind of marriage would that be? Of course, he must avoid hurting his wife. He must be faithful, considerate, respectful, and careful not to damage the relationship. Those obligations are essential. But that is not why he got married. He got married to build something beautiful.

He wants to create a loving relationship, establish a home, bring happiness to his spouse, and develop a bond that grows deeper and more meaningful with every passing year. He wants to give, to contribute, to surprise his wife with thoughtful gestures, and to become the best husband he can possibly be. Avoiding wrongdoing protects the relationship. Positive action is what builds it. The same principle applies to our relationship with Hashem.

The prohibitions of the Torah protect us from actions that would damage our spiritual connection. They establish necessary boundaries and prevent us from undermining the holiness of our lives. But the positive commandments give expression to the relationship itself. Through Torah learning, tefillah, chesed, and the countless opportunities for mitzvos that present themselves each day, we actively build our connection with the Ribbono Shel Olam.

This helps us appreciate the deeper significance of the principle aseh docheh lo saaseh. Although violating a prohibition may carry more severe consequences than neglecting a positive commandment, the Torah nevertheless recognizes circumstances in which a positive mitzvah overrides a prohibition. The principle is not a blanket permission to disregard prohibitions whenever we wish to perform a mitzvah. It operates only within specific halachic parameters. Nevertheless, it illustrates an essential truth: positive commandments possess an extraordinary significance of their own.

The purpose of a Jewish life is not simply to avoid failure. It is to pursue

greatness. And greatness is achieved through action. Through the mitzvos we perform, the kindness we extend, the Torah we learn, and the opportunities we seize. That is why the Mesillas Yesharim warns us so emphatically against procrastination. Because the greatest tragedy is not always the wrong we have done. Sometimes, it is the good we might have done, but never did.

Becoming the Person You Were Meant to Be

A few months ago, I shared this story in a lecture that was subsequently posted on TorahAnytime. My intention was to inspire people to appreciate the importance of seizing opportunities and making the most of their time. I recounted the various offers my friends had made to Dima in an effort to encourage him to undergo a bris, including the Yankees tickets, the free glasses, and even the Corvette. The following week, I received an email from a woman in Florida. "Rabbi," she wrote, "please tell Dima that if he agrees to have a bris, I will personally bake him fresh challah every Friday for Shabbos." I smiled when I read it. Dima did not even keep Shabbos, but it was certainly a beautiful gesture.

Then other people began reaching out with their own offers. Apparently, the story had touched a nerve, and listeners were eager to contribute something that might finally persuade Dima to fulfill the mitzvah. But then I received an email that left me absolutely stunned. I want to read it to you because what happened afterward is almost impossible to believe. The email was dated June 17 of that year.

"Dear Rabbi, I enjoyed listening to your lecture and was inspired to help with your offer. If your student gets a bris, I will give him a pair of tickets to visit the top of the World Trade Center, at the One World Observatory." The sender had even included the two tickets. The email was signed: Brad Cohen, M.D. Aventura Orthopedics. Sent from my iPhone.

I thought it was an extraordinarily thoughtful gesture. Here was a physician in Florida who had listened to a Torah lecture and was willing to offer something of value to a young man he had never met, simply to encourage him to perform a mitzvah. Three days later, on June 24, 2021, the Champlain Towers South condominium building in Surfside, Florida, collapsed. The tragedy shocked the entire country.

Like everyone else, I followed the news closely. My in-laws lived only a few blocks from the building, so the disaster felt particularly close to home. As the days passed, the names of the victims began appearing in news reports. I was reading through one of those lists when a particular name caught my attention. Dr. Brad Cohen. An orthopedic surgeon. I stopped. The name sounded terribly familiar. Where had I heard it before?

Then I remembered the email. I immediately searched my inbox and found it. There it was, dated June 17, just one week before the collapse. Brad Cohen, M.D. Aventura Orthopedics. I could hardly believe what I was seeing. The physician who had generously offered those tickets to encourage Dima to have a bris was among the victims of the Surfside tragedy.

You may remember the young woman who stood near the site of the collapse, davening desperately for her father. Her anguish drew national attention, and President Joe Biden even spoke with her during his visit to the area. That young woman was Dr. Cohen's daughter. She had been davening for her father, hoping and praying that he would somehow be found alive. Tragically, Dr. Cohen and his brother were among those who lost their lives.

When I learned what had happened, I was shaken to my core. Here was a man who, just days earlier, had taken the time to listen to a Torah lecture, compose a thoughtful email, and offer a gift to encourage a fellow Jew to perform a mitzvah. A week later, he was gone. I immediately called Dima. "Dima," I told him, "I'm not calling to make you another offer. No Yankees tickets, no glasses, no Corvette. I'm not trying to bribe you into doing anything. I just want you to read an email." I forwarded him Dr. Cohen's message and explained what had happened.

I wanted him to understand that this was no longer a story about incentives or rewards. It was a story about life itself. A man had awakened one morning, gone about his ordinary responsibilities, and generously offered to help another Jew fulfill a mitzvah. He could not possibly have imagined that within days, his own life would come to such a sudden and tragic end. And now, in this world, he would never again have the opportunity to perform another mitzvah. Dima, however, was still alive. He still had the opportunity. He could still make the decision. I wanted him to recognize what an extraordinary gift that was. And do you know what happened? He never responded. Not a word.

That experience brought me back to a thought that has occupied my mind for many years. We often hear frightening descriptions of Gehinnom. We speak about the various punishments of the Next World, the suffering of the soul, and the consequences of our actions. But I have come to believe that there is another dimension of Gehinnom, one that may be even more painful to contemplate. Imagine being shown the person you could have become. Imagine standing before Hashem and being presented with a vision of your own unrealized potential: the Torah you might have learned, the people you might have helped, the lives you might have transformed, and the spiritual greatness you might have achieved. And then imagine being forced to confront the distance between that person and the person you actually became. What could be more painful?

I do not mean to suggest that this is a definitive description of Gehinnom. Rather, it is a way of understanding the profound spiritual anguish associated with recognizing opportunities that can never be recovered. As long as a person is alive, the possibilities remain open. He can change. He can grow. He can begin again. He can become someone greater than he was yesterday. But once a person's life has ended, his opportunities for accomplishment in this world have come to an end. And the knowledge of what might have been, of the greatness that was possible but never realized, is itself a devastating thought.

I remember speaking with Rabbi Zechariah Wallerstein zt"l, who was doing extraordinary work in the Jewish community. He established schools and programs for girls, developed Ohr Naava, and dedicated himself to helping young people struggling with addiction and other serious challenges. His accomplishments were remarkable. Yet despite his extensive responsibilities, Rabbi Wallerstein continued using a simple flip phone. I once asked him about it. He explained that his choice of phone was directly connected to his ability to accomplish so much. "Do you know why I have time for all these things?" he asked. "Because I have a flip phone." He explained that by avoiding the endless distractions of a smartphone, he was saving several hours every day. Those were hours he could devote to his students, his institutions, his family, and the countless people who depended upon him. It was not merely a matter of avoiding inappropriate content. It was about preserving his most valuable resource.

Time.

When people speak about the dangers of smartphones, I agree with many of their concerns. The exposure to inappropriate material, the addictive nature of certain applications, and the damage that unrestricted technology can cause are all serious issues. But there is another danger that deserves equal attention. The extraordinary amount of time these devices can consume. We casually use the expression "killing time," as though time were something we needed to dispose of. But think about what that expression really means. Time is the substance of life itself. When we deliberately squander our time, we are throwing away portions of the only life we have been given. In that sense, killing time is a form of self-destruction. Not because every moment must be filled with relentless activity, but because every moment is precious, and we should be conscious of how we choose to use it.

One Can Save Six Million

And now, perhaps, we can finally return to the question with which we began. The Gemara teaches that when a person arrives before the Heavenly Court, he may be challenged with the examples of Hillel and Rabbi Elazar ben Charsom. At first glance, the challenge seems unfair. Imagine a man who spent his entire life keeping Shabbos, observing kashrus, putting on tefillin, and fulfilling his obligations as a Torah-observant Jew. He arrives in the World to Come and is asked why he did not accomplish more. He protests, "But I did everything I was supposed to do! I kept the mitzvos. I lived as a good Jew. What more could have been expected of me?" And the response is, "Were you any poorer than Hillel? Were you any wealthier than Rabbi Elazar ben Charsom?"

But perhaps we have misunderstood the question. The Heavenly Court is not merely asking why this individual failed to become Hillel. It is asking something far more personal. Why did you fail to become you? You were a fine Jew. You observed the mitzvos. You avoided many aveiros. You fulfilled your basic responsibilities. But did you become the person you were capable of becoming? Did you develop the talents Hashem entrusted to you? Did you seize the opportunities placed before you? Did you accomplish the unique mission for which you were brought into this world? That is the real question.

Every person possesses a particular combination of abilities, circumstances, relationships, and opportunities. No two individuals are given precisely the same mission. The goal is not necessarily to become another Hillel or another Rabbi Elazar ben Charsom. The goal is to become the greatest version of ourselves.

I was privileged to have a close relationship with Rav Noach Weinberg zt"l, the founder of Aish HaTorah. I remember watching him during the early years, when he was struggling to establish and expand his kiruv efforts. Many people thought his ambitions were unrealistic. He wanted to reach Jews throughout the world, inspire them to rediscover their heritage, and create an international movement dedicated to Jewish education and spiritual growth. To some, his vision seemed almost impossible. But Rav Noach was undeterred. I have rarely encountered a person with such extraordinary determination and clarity of purpose. He understood what he wanted to accomplish, and he devoted himself to that mission with remarkable intensity. Every minute mattered.

He would often relate a powerful idea that he attributed to Rav Shach zt”l. If one individual could be responsible for the destruction of six million Jews, then one individual could also be capable of saving six million Jews. Rav Noach took that thought to heart. He believed that one person, armed with conviction, determination, and a willingness to act, could influence the spiritual destiny of an entire generation. That belief became one of the driving forces of his life. He did not allow himself the luxury of thinking small. He worked tirelessly to establish institutions, inspire students, develop programs, and create opportunities for Jews around the world to reconnect with Torah. And look at the results. Aish HaTorah developed into an international organization with numerous branches and educational initiatives. Thousands upon thousands of people were influenced by Rav Noach's vision, and his impact continues long after his passing.

Now, I am not suggesting that everyone is expected to become Rav Noach Weinberg. Very few people will establish an international movement or achieve that degree of influence. But every person in this room will encounter opportunities throughout life that are uniquely suited to him. Perhaps someone suggests a new learning program. Perhaps you have an idea to complete a masechta. Perhaps an opportunity arises to help another person, organize a chesed initiative, strengthen your marriage, improve your relationship with your children, or contribute something meaningful to your community.

And what is our usual response? "That's a wonderful idea. I'll think about it." "Maybe next month." "When things settle down." "When I have a little more time." But the Mesillas Yesharim’s directive is that this is precisely where so many opportunities are lost. The moment of inspiration arrives, and instead of acting upon it, we postpone it. We assume the opportunity will still be there tomorrow. Sometimes it is. But sometimes it isn't. And even when the opportunity remains, the enthusiasm and determination that might have enabled us to pursue it have already disappeared.

That is why the greatest accomplishments in life so often begin with a simple decision to act. A person does not need to transform the entire world overnight. He needs to recognize the opportunity that Hashem has placed before him today. Because ultimately, the measure of our lives is not simply the mistakes we managed to avoid. It is also the good we brought into the world. The Torah gives us the extraordinary gift of teshuvah, allowing us to repair our spiritual failures and return to Hashem. But the opportunities we never pursued, the mitzvos we never performed, and the lives we might have touched but did not are not always opportunities we can recover.

I speak about this subject as much for myself as for anyone else. Every time I discuss the value of time, I am reminded of how much more carefully I need to use my own. Imagine that six months from now, someone approaches me and says: "Rabbi, I want you to know something. After hearing your lecture, I went home and deleted an application from my phone. It was an app that consumed so much of my time. I would open it without thinking, scroll endlessly, and suddenly realize that another half hour or hour had disappeared. But after hearing what you said, I decided that I no longer wanted to waste those hours. I deleted the app, and I have been using that time for something more meaningful ever since."

If someone were to tell me that, I would feel that everything I have taught has been worthwhile. Because those seemingly insignificant moments add up. A few minutes here, another half hour there, an hour that might otherwise have disappeared. Over the course of a lifetime, those moments can become years of Torah learning and years of chesed. Years of building relationships, helping others, and becoming the people Hashem intended us to be.

We often speak about killing time. But the truth is that time is our life. And every moment we preserve is another opportunity to live that life with purpose.

May Hashem grant all of us the wisdom to recognize the opportunities He places before us, the courage to act upon them, and the determination to use our precious time to accomplish everything we are capable of achieving.