Rabbi Zechariah Wallerstein zt”l

Chickens in the Court Room

There was once a fundraiser in America collecting money for chickens, so poor families in Eretz Yisrael could have food for Yom Tov. One year, he went to a man who regularly helped him. “Every year you give me for a hundred chickens,” he said. “But this year, after the market crash, no one has money. I need five hundred chickens.”

The donor answered honestly. “I can’t. I can maybe do a hundred, a hundred-twenty. Five hundred is beyond me.” But the collector pressed. “Please, help me out. If you do, Hashem will help you. Everyone else is tapped out.” But the man still said no.

He went home disturbed. When someone asks for tzedakah and you turn them away, it gnaws at you. “He wanted five hundred,” he told his wife, “and I told him I can’t. We just don’t have the means.” “Don’t overthink it,” his wife told him. “Call him back and write the check for all five hundred. Just do it.” He hesitated, but then did it. He wrote the check, not even sure how he’d cover it.

A few days later—Erev Yom Kippur—he had a dream. He was in Shamayim being judged and felt the presence of the Beis Din Shel Maalah. He heard a malach defending him, listing the good he had done. Then the room grew quiet, and the accusing voice began: “Now let me tell you what this person did this year…”

Suddenly, a few chickens burst into the courtroom. Then more. And more. Soon, hundreds of chickens—flapping, clucking, feathers everywhere—filled the room. The accuser raised his voice, but the chickens grew louder. He shouted, but they drowned him out. Finally he said, “This has never happened! There are other souls waiting. Get these chickens out… I can’t be here right now!” The defending malach answered, “Deal.” Instantly, the dream ended and he woke up.

This is what tzedakah does. Those chickens he provided for poor families—those simchas Yom Tov, those full tables, that laughter—they were present in Shamayim at his judgement. They didn’t allow the accuser to speak. When you feed a family, when a mother brings home food and the children smile, that joy has a sound in Heaven. On the night you’re judged, it speaks for you.

Imagine paying for a wedding for an orphan or a widow. The music, the dancing, the “mazal tov’s”—that niggun fills your room in Shamayim. The accuser tries to raise his voice, but the band gets louder. He says, “Clear the room!” but your mitzvos are there, and they won’t leave.

Tzedakah tatzil mimaves. The happiness you create for another person advocates for you. And tzedakah isn’t only money. Make a kid laugh. Encourage a sick neighbor. Bring peace between two friends who haven’t spoken in years. From that moment on, every word they speak to each other is in your zechus. Think about that… millions of words credited to you. What’s the value of a single smile in Shamayim? We don’t know. But it shakes the accuser.

That’s the “chicken story.” It sounds wild, but it’s exactly how the system works. There’s the hard side of Elul and Yom Kippur—honesty, vidui, throwing out the spiritual poison—and there’s the sweet side: stocking the room with mitzvos, especially bein adam lachaveiro. The simanim of Rosh Hashanah are wonderful, but they only call out what’s already prepared in the kitchen. Tzedakah and chesed are the food itself; they are the substance waiting to be brought to your table when the bell rings.

So in these days before Yom Kippur, do both. Clean the room—confess, do teshuva, be real. And fill the room—give tzedakah, help others, lift their spirits. Then, when your judgment comes, may the sounds of joy you created on earth speak so loudly in Heaven that the accuser has nothing left to say.

Rabbi Dovid Lichtenstein

Forgiveness and the Human Struggle

On Kol Nidrei night, we recite a striking verse: “V’nislach l’chol adas b’nei Yisrael… ki l’chol ha’am b’shgaga—And forgiveness shall be granted to the entire assembly of Israel… for the entire nation has erred unintentionally.” It is derived from a Pasuk in Parshas Shelach (Bamidbar 15:26).

But is that really true? Is everyone a shogeg—someone who sins unknowingly? Many people commit sins fully aware of what they are doing. They make deliberate choices. So how can the Torah declare that the entire nation has sinned b’shgaga, by mistake?

Let me tell you about a man who came to me, broken and in tears.

He had served as a fiduciary for escrow accounts, managing millions of dollars. He was a young husband, with five children born in quick succession, little formal education, and increasing financial strain. One day, he received a “hot tip” on a stock. If he invested a million dollars from the account and the stock rose 10%, he would net $100,000, enough to pay his children’s tuition and ease his burden.

So he “borrowed” the money, but the stock plummeted. To recover, he took another million, again hoping to turn things around.

They didn’t. Quite to the contrary, it spiraled.

He lost everything and the IRS wasn’t merciful. He was sentenced to prison, his wife left him, and his family fell apart. And there he sat in my office, sobbing: “I think I’m going to end it. What do I do?”

This man wasn’t evil. He was desperate; he was human. He made a tragic decision trying to do what he believed was right. Is he a rasha or a shogeg? He is wicked or did he make a mistake?

This is the nuance behind, “Ki l’chol ha’am b’shgaga.” When we say that line in Kol Nidrei, it’s not denying human responsibility. It’s acknowledging human complexity.

We open Selichos with the words: “Lecha Hashem ha’tzedakah—To You, Hashem, is righteousness.” We then continue: “What can we say? What can we speak? How can we justify ourselves?”

These words echo a moment in Chumash. When Yosef framed Binyamin by placing his goblet in Binyamin’s sack, Yehudah stood before him, unaware this was a setup, and said, “What can we say? How can we justify ourselves?” (Bereishis 44:16).

Yehuda was innocent. Yet he said, “We’re guilty.”

This becomes the model for our confession before G-d. Even when we feel we’re right, even when life set us up, we still say, “Hashem, You are right, and we are wrong.”

But then we confront a deeper theological question. In the Yud Gimmel Middos HaRachamim—the Thirteen Attributes of Divine Mercy—we say: “Hashem, Hashem, Keil Rachum V’Chanun…—G-d, G-d, compassionate and gracious...” And suddenly, we say: “V’emes—And Truth.”

Truth? If we are seeking mercy, why invoke truth?

The answer is as a wise man once said: “To know all is to forgive all.” Think about the person who cut you off in traffic. What if you knew that just moments earlier, he received a call from a woman he hoped to marry who told him she had chosen someone else? Think about the person who hurt you. What if you knew they grew up in a home where they were ignored or unloved and they carry trauma, insecurity, or emotional scars no one sees?

Truth, in the deepest sense, is not about cold justice. It is about full understanding. And once you understand someone’s full story, you may not condone their actions, but you can find compassion.

This is what Dovid HaMelech experienced when Nasan HaNavi rebuked him. Nasan didn’t confront Dovid directly about Bat-Sheva. Instead, he told a parable. A rich man with many sheep steals the single beloved lamb of his poor neighbor. After hearing this, Dovid is incensed: “That man deserves to die!” Nasan replies: “You are that man” (see Shmuel II 12:1-9).

Why the roundabout rebuke?

Because real teshuvah comes not from being told you’re wrong, but from recognizing it yourself. Nasan didn’t judge Dovid. He helped Dovid judge himself.

And that, too, is the secret of, “Ki l’chol ha’am b’shgaga.”

When we look at each other’s choices, sins, and failings, we must remember that people are often trying their best with broken tools. We’re all dealt different hands. Some people were raised in pain, others were taught to fail, and some fight battles that never see the light of day.

So yes, perhaps technically, some of our sins were intentional, but what if you consider the full picture? Most of us are trying and doing our best, and Hashem sees that. So what should our mindset be as we recite Kol Nidrei and begin the process of teshuvah?

We say: “Hashem, I’ve made mistakes, but I tried. And I want to do better. Give me another year, another chance, and I’ll try even harder.” With that attitude, Hashem, in His infinite compassion, sees the truth in all of us.

Ki l’chol ha’am b’shgaga.

Rabbi Dovid Orlofsky

Great Reward

Once every seven years, during Sukkos following Shemitah, the entire nation gathered in the Beis HaMikdash. The king would read from Sefer Devarim before the men, women, and children. The Gemara (Chagigah 3a) asks: men came to learn, women to listen, but why bring the children? The answer given is striking: “Liten sachar l’meivi’eihen—To give reward to those who bring them.”

Rabbi Yaakov of Lisa, author of the Nesivos Hamishpat and Nachalas Yaakov, raises two difficulties. First, does Hakadosh Baruch Hu ever command a mitzvah that has no purpose other than reward? There are no divine decrees to “dig a hole and fill it in” simply for compensation. Second, if the men and women must go, what else should be done with the children? Leave them at home unattended? That would be reckless.

He illustrates this point with a story. On Kol Nidrei night, Reb Yisrael Salanter was missing from shul. A search party eventually found him inside a neighbor’s home, cradling a crying infant. The mother had assumed her baby would remain asleep, locked the door, and gone to shul. When Reb Yisrael passed by and heard the cries, he climbed through the window and stayed until the child was calm. He missed Kol Nidrei—but his avodah was holding that baby.

Every parent recognizes the dilemma. Life is filled with moments when children feel like obstacles to our lofty intentions. We want to daven with more kavana, learn with more focus, add extra chesed to our day—yet the responsibilities of childcare pull us away. Rav Shlomo Zalman Auerbach once comforted a man who came to him before Rosh Hashanah in tears. His wife was on strict bedrest, and his Elul had been spent at home making sandwiches, changing diapers, and grabbing a hurried Mincha only when a neighbor stepped in. “Rebbe, I did nothing this Elul,” he cried. Rav Shlomo Zalman replied: “What do you mean? You had the best Elul of your life. Hashem gave you this avodah. Caring for your children was not a distraction—it was your mitzvah.”

This, says the Nesivos, is the deeper meaning of schar l’meivi’eihen. Of course parents had no choice but to bring their children to Hakhel. But the Torah reframes the perspective: don’t view them as burdens dragged along. See them as blessings. The act of tending to them is itself a mitzvah. The schar is not for inconvenience; it is for recognizing that raising children is avodas Hashem.

Hakhel thus becomes a national lesson. Men, women, and even children stand before Hashem together. Not despite the challenges of parenthood, but through them. Not in spite of the noise, but with it. The Torah affirms that caring for our children is holy work. It counts.

As we approach the Yamim Noraim, this teaching speaks deeply. We often feel our tefillos are interrupted and our spiritual ambitions diluted by the responsibilities of family. Yet the Torah reminds us that those very responsibilities are sanctified. They are part of our connection to Hashem.

And so, when we enter the new year, let us carry this perspective. Bringing children, raising them, caring for them, is not a distraction from avodas Hashem. It is avodas Hashem. And for that, the Torah promises, there is great reward.

Rabbi Fischel Schachter

The Bar of Chocolate

I once went to be menachem avel a truly great family whose home was filled with chesed. Their mother had just passed away, leaving behind a legacy of quiet greatness, a life lived simply and honestly despite considerable means.

She was not only generous; she was ehrlich. She learned to speak Yiddish so she could understand the meshulachim who came to her door and feel their pain. She and her husband raised a family steeped in Torah, living simply even when they could have chosen comfort. Shabbos after Shabbos they would prepare and pack food for orphans with their own hands. Wealth never dulled their sense of responsibility or humility.

Many stories capture her character. When her husband first started his business, they had almost nothing. He once discovered a discrepancy of twelve cents, the value of two stamps. “They’re mine,” he said. But she gently corrected him. “Half belong to your partner.” In those days, stamps cost six cents each. To her, even pennies mattered when it came to honesty.

Her vigilance extended to daily life. After shopping she would go over every receipt, terrified of owing anyone a cent. One Friday she came home with groceries delivered in boxes but could not find the receipt. As she unpacked, she discovered a bar of chocolate she did not remember ordering.

Her husband tried to reassure her. “Don’t worry, if it fell in by mistake, the grocer won’t lose sleep over it.” But she insisted. “What if I didn’t pay for it? I don’t want my ta’am ganavah (taste of theft).” Despite the heat, she prepared to walk back and return the chocolate.

Her husband suggested calling the store instead. She phoned the grocer, who was busy with pre-Shabbos customers. “It’s fine,” he said. “Keep it.” But she pressed. “Please check whether I paid for it.” He sighed and promised to look it up.

Reviewing the records, he couldn’t find the entire order. Surprised, he checked the security cameras. But reviewing the cameras, he discovered something else. Something he never expected to find.

He saw the cashier accept a $100 bill, slip it under the drawer instead of into the register, cancel the sale, and pocket the money. There was no record of the transaction at all.

The grocer and his son went to the grocer’s home. “We can call the police,” they told the cashier, “or you can make restitution.” The grocer confessed on the spot. “Don’t call the police. I will return every dollar I took — all $25,000.”

It turned out she had been part of a ring of cashiers who had been skimming money for years. The business was on the brink of collapse, the owner unable to understand where the losses were coming from. This woman’s insistence on checking one bar of chocolate uncovered the theft and saved the store from financial disaster.

Think about that. One woman said, “If Hashem gives me something, I don’t want it to be at someone else’s expense.” Her focus was not on how much she had or how much others had, but on making sure every penny in her home was clean. She lived not for this world’s approval, but for Hashem’s.

And through that vigilance, she not only preserved her own integrity, but rescued another’s livelihood. This is what it means to live with Hashem present in every detail. Some people see angels, but others see the Ribono Shel Olam in every transaction, every choice and every bar of chocolate.

Rabbi Yitzchak Oelbaum

The Anchoring Rope

Every year the same question lingers in the back of our minds. We come to Yom Kippur, we work on ourselves, we do teshuvah, we make real changes—and then what happens? A few weeks later, many of us are back to the same habits, the same struggles. So what’s the point? Is Yom Kippur just a game, a cycle of trying and falling, year after year?

The Mashgiach of Ponovezh answered this with a powerful mashal.

There was once a wealthy man who owned a yacht. He kept it anchored in the marina, but every few months he would replace the rope that held the anchor. Someone asked him: “Why bother? The rope looks fine. Just leave it as is.”

The man explained: “You don’t understand. If I don’t change the rope, it will slowly corrode and weaken. One day the rope will snap, and the boat will drift away. I’ll lose everything. By changing it regularly, I make sure the yacht stays in place.”

So too, says the Mashgiach, with Yom Kippur. It is our chance each year to “change the rope.” Without it, without that annual anchoring of our lives to Hashem, we would drift far, far away. Slowly, without noticing, we could lose our entire connection.

Even if, after Yom Kippur, we slip back into certain habits, something changes inside us. For ten days, from Rosh Hashanah through Yom Kippur and into Sukkos, we anchor ourselves again. We remind ourselves who we are, what we’re striving for. Even if we cannot hold the same level all year long, we walk away with a new awareness, a deeper sensitivity.

And that alone makes a difference. Maybe you still stumble. But this time, before you stumble, you pause. You think twice. That pause is Yom Kippur living inside you. That hesitation, that awareness, is worth everything.

This is why Hashem gave us these days. Not to become angels forever, but to anchor ourselves again and again, so we do not drift beyond return.