Rabbi Yaakov Bender

Say Yes

I once spoke with a Yid who personally attended a talk delivered by Rav Shraga Feivel Mendlowitz zt”l, the visionary founder of Yeshiva Torah Vodaath.

Nearly eighty years ago, when Rav Shraga Feivel set out to establish the yeshiva, he was, in many ways, building from the ground up. Many people ridiculed him and dismissed the idea as unrealistic. His response, though, contained a profound lesson, and one that I believe speaks to every worthwhile endeavor in life.

Chazal (Bereishis Rabbah 8:5) tell us that before creating the world, HaKadosh Baruch Hu "consulted" with the ministering angels.  Hashem turned to the Malach HaChesed and asked, "Should the world be created?" The angel of kindness replied, "Yes, because the world will be filled with acts of chesed."

Then Hashem asked the Malach HaEmes, the angel who personifies truth. His response was different: "No. The world will be filled with falsehood." As the Midrash relates, Hashem cast Truth to the ground, as the verse says, "VaTashlech Emes Artzah—He cast truth to the earth," until ultimately "Emes mei'eretz titzmach—Truth shall spring forth from the earth” (Tehillim 85:12).

Rav Shraga Feivel offered a remarkable insight.

The Malach HaEmes was simply fulfilling his role. He was asked whether the endeavor would succeed, and from the perspective of absolute truth, he answered that the world would indeed contain deception and falsehood. But Rav Shraga Feivel said that the greatest falsehood of all is the belief that it cannot be done.

That is the greatest sheker in the world. His message was simple: Say yes. Build and begin.

Every person who has built a yeshiva, a school, an organization, or any enduring endeavor did so despite daunting financial challenges and countless reasons to give up. Had they listened to those voices of doubt, nothing would ever have been accomplished. Sometimes you simply have to take the first step.

I remember standing at the levaya of Rav Moshe Feinstein zt"l. Rav Nissan Alpert, one of Rav Moshe's distinguished students, was chosen to represent the students. He posed a fascinating question.

Anyone who sought a letter of recommendation from Rav Moshe received one almost immediately. Rav Moshe did not interrogate people or conduct lengthy investigations. Why? Rav Nissan Alpert explained that throughout Tanach, whenever the words chesed (kindness) and emes (truth) appear together, chesed always precedes emes. At first glance, that seems backwards. Shouldn't truth come first? Shouldn't you first determine the facts and only then extend kindness?

Rav Moshe thought otherwise. He believed that when another Jew came seeking help, the first response should be compassion. Begin with chesed. Believe in people and give them the opportunity to succeed. Truth has its place, but kindness must lead the way.

That outlook defined Rav Moshe, and it is the same spirit reflected in Rav Shraga Feivel's words. The greatest obstacle is often not reality itself, but the conviction that success is impossible. Sometimes the most truthful thing we can do is to have the courage to say "Yes" and begin.

Rav Moshe wasn't preoccupied with the possibility that, out of a hundred people requesting a letter of recommendation, perhaps five might not deserve it. His approach was different. If a fellow Jew came asking for help, the answer was, "Yes." Give him the letter and give him the opportunity. Perhaps one or two may disappoint you, but what about the other ninety-eight? What about the countless people whose lives may be changed because someone believed in them? That was Rav Moshe's perspective. Lead with chesed and help whenever you can.

So say yes. Yes to helping, yes to believing in people and yes to giving others a chance.

I had a close friend, Rav Shmuel Kunda, a"h. Many remember him through his stories, songs, and recordings. He often shared an insight from the Gemara (Berachos 28a) that beautifully illustrates this idea.

The Gemara relates that after Rabban Gamliel was removed from his position as Nasi, R’ Elazar ben Azaryah was appointed in his place. That day marked a turning point in the beis midrash. Until then, admission had been restricted. Only those whose “inside matched their outside,” whose character was deemed exemplary, were permitted to enter. But on that day, the doors were thrown open and anyone who wished to learn Torah was welcomed. The Gemara records that four hundred benches were added to the beis midrash and some say even more.

Rav Kunda asked a simple question. Why does the Gemara tell us how many benches were added? Why not simply tell us how many students entered? His answer was beautiful.

The benches teach us something about the attitude of the beis midrash that day. No one was expected to stand in the back of the room waiting to see if there might be space. No one was made to feel like an outsider. Instead, as each person walked through the door, they were greeted with an immediate response: "Come in... Here's a seat. You want to learn Torah? We're happy you're here."

That is the spirit of Torah. Don't begin by asking why someone may not belong. Begin by asking how you can make room for them. Start with chesed. Say yes and open the door and pull up a chair.

Sometimes that simple act of welcoming another person can change a life.

They Accepted Me

When Rav Baruch Mordechai Ezrachi visited America, I asked him if he would repeat a story he had shared in Hebrew. It was such a powerful story that I wanted others to hear it as well.

He related the following.

The Steipler Gaon had three children, among them Rav Chaim Kanievsky and his daughter, who married Rav Shaul Barzam. Before the shidduch was finalized, the Chazon Ish, who was the Steipler's brother-in-law, telephoned Rav Barzam's father to inquire about the young man. "I've heard," the Chazon Ish said, "that your son is an exceptional bachur." Rav Barzam's father replied, "Let me tell you a story.

"My son once told me that when he was about thirteen years old, he was standing outside the Chevron Yeshivah, engaged in learning with another student. Suddenly, a young boy approached them. He was wearing shorts, a T-shirt, and a beret. He looked completely out of place. The boy asked, 'Can you tell me where I register for the yeshivah?' We looked at each other in disbelief. Here was a boy dressed nothing like a yeshiva student, asking to enroll in one of the most prestigious yeshivos in the world. Still, we pointed him toward the office of the mashgiach, Rav Meir Chadash. We assumed it would be over in a matter of minutes because surely he would be told that this wasn't the place for him. But a short while later, the boy emerged with a smile.

“They accepted me,” he said. He was welcomed into the yeshivah. At first, he barely knew anything. He didn't even know how to hold a siddur or a Gemara correctly. He held them upside down.

But he was a survivor of the Holocaust. His family had been destroyed and he had virtually no Jewish education. The only thing he carried with him was a memory and message from his grandparents and it was this: learning Torah was the greatest privilege in the world.

Rav Meir Chodosh did not ask whether he fit the mold. He simply said, "Come in." The yeshiva gave him a place and believed in him. Rav Barzam later recalled that the floors of the beis midrash were soaked with the tears that young boy shed as he struggled to rebuild a Torah life from nothing.

Years later, that very boy grew into Rav Shaul Barzam, the same Rav Shaul Barzam whom the Chazon Ish considered worthy to marry his own niece.

All because someone said, "Yes."

Did You Fast Forty Days?

I remember accompanying my rebbi, Rav Shmuel Birnbaum zt"l, when the hanhalah (yeshiva staff) was discussing a particular bachur. The young man had become involved in gambling and, sadly, even worse behavior. Some felt there was no choice but to expel him from the yeshivah. One of those present suggested, "Perhaps it's time to send him away."

I had known Rav Shmuel as an exceptionally calm and measured person. But this time, he responded with unusual intensity. He wanted the bachur to be kept in the yeshiva. The argument continued."You can't keep a bachur like this in the yeshiva," someone insisted. "He's borrowing money and he's gambling. This can't be tolerated."Rav Shmuel stood up, pointed his finger directly at the speaker, and said, "Have you fasted forty days for this boy?"

The room fell silent. "No?" he continued. "Then don't tell me to throw him out. First fast forty days for him. Then can you begin discussing whether he belongs in the yeshiva."

He understood something profound. Do you know what a bachur can become? Never write off a young person. That was the philosophy of Rav Shraga Feivel Mendlowitz: Just say yes.

I once heard another remarkable story about Rav Aharon Leib Steinman zt"l.

A rav came to consult with him regarding a student whom the yeshiva administration wanted to expel. The case against the boy seemed overwhelming. Before discussing the details, Rav Steinman asked a simple question. "What is his mother's name?" The rav didn't know.

Rav Steinman looked at him and said, "You don't know his mother's name? That means you haven't davened for him." Only then did he continue. "First daven for him. Then come back and we'll discuss whether he should leave the yeshiva."

What an extraordinary perspective. The first response to a struggling child is not rejection. It’s compassion. It’s tefillah.

The Gemara says "Were it not for Yehoshua ben Gamla, Torah would have been forgotten from the Jewish people" (Bava Basra 21a). What did Yehoshua ben Gamla do that was so revolutionary? Before his time, fathers taught Torah to their own sons. But what happened to a child who lost his father? Who would teach him and who would make sure he had a place? Yehoshua ben Gamla established the yeshiva system so that every Jewish child would have access to Torah.

My rebbi, Rav Yisroel Belsky zt"l, once asked a striking question. The Gemara says that without Yehoshua ben Gamla, Torah would have been forgotten from Israel. Really? Would Torah have disappeared entirely? Surely the children of great talmidei chachamim would still have learned and the brightest students would still have flourished. So what does the Gemara mean?

Rav Belsky answered that Torah cannot truly endure if it belongs only to the gifted, the privileged, or the fortunate. If we fail to care for every child—especially the struggling child, the orphaned child, the child from a difficult home—then Torah itself is diminished. A Torah community that has room only for its strongest students is not fulfilling the vision of Yehoshua ben Gamla. The true measure of Torah is not how well we educate those who are easy to teach. It is whether we can look at the child everyone else has given up on and still have the courage to say, "Yes, come in. We have a place for you."

Yehoshua ben Gamla came along with a revolutionary idea. Let's make sure every child has a place to learn Torah, he said. Let's take responsibility for those who might otherwise be left behind. Because if we fail to care for those children, we are not merely losing them; we are risking the future of Torah itself.

The Response of Tefillah

Allow me to note something on a more personal note.

These have been painful days for Klal Yisrael. I have no desire to enter the political debates that seem to dominate every conversation. I find the endless arguments, accusations and divisions deeply painful. So often I wake up fearing the news, wondering whether another two or three soldiers have fallen defending Am Yisrael.

Why isn't our first response to cry? Why aren't we davening more? In our own yeshiva, as I am sure is true in many others, we have talmidim serving in the Israeli army. At last count, nine of our former students were on active duty. I speak with their parents. I know the fear they live with every day. Our office secretary has a grandson serving in the army. Every morning she waits anxiously to see whether his name appears on the casualty list.

We all know there are complex issues facing Eretz Yisrael. There are disagreements, difficult questions, and differing perspectives. But our primary response should not be endless fighting. It should be tears. It should be tefillah. It should be caring for one another.

In Parshas Maasei, the Torah speaks about the Arei Miklat, the Cities of Refuge. Chazal explain that these cities embodied compassion, responsibility, and concern for another Jew (see Makkos 10b-11a). That spirit should guide us today.

Our task is to remain positive and strengthen and encourage. That is far more productive than becoming consumed by political arguments that only deepen division. History reminds us what happens when we fail to reach those who need us most. Before the Second World War, entire communities in Eastern Europe were losing their youth. Before Sarah Schenirer founded the Bais Yaakov movement, countless Jewish girls had no meaningful Torah education. Her vision transformed generations and quite literally saved Jewish life.

I once heard Rav Shmuel Brevda describe the spiritual devastation of those years. "In my city," he said, "there were five hundred bachurim. Only three remained observant." His brother-in-law recalled his own hometown. "There were five hundred," he said, "and only five stayed frum."

Then Rav Shmuel smiled sadly and said, "Do you know why he had five and I had only three? Apparently his city was just a little more compassionate than mine." Behind the humor was a heartbreaking truth. An entire generation was lost because too many young people slipped through the cracks.

That is why we must never stop opening doors, never stop believing and never stop making room.

The Baby on Rav Chaim’s Doorstep

There is a remarkable story told about Rav Chaim Brisker. A child was born under tragic circumstances, and the mother was unable to care for the baby. She had nowhere to turn. Do you know where she left the child?

On the doorstep of Rav Chaim Brisker's home.

Rav Chaim did not ask questions. He did not ask who would pay or how inconvenient it would be. He simply brought the child into his house and raised him as his own. His son, Rav Yitzchak Zev Soloveitchik, the Brisker Rav, later recalled that there were times when he himself barely had room in the house because his father was constantly taking in children who had nowhere else to go.

That was Rav Chaim's philosophy: just say yes. How many children have remained connected to Yiddishkeit because one person opened a door instead of closing it? How many lives were transformed because someone chose compassion over convenience? There are still so many children today who deserve a Torah education and simply need someone to believe in them. Sometimes the obstacles are financial. Sometimes families cannot afford tuition. Too often, the answer they hear is "no." But if we truly believe that every Jewish child deserves Torah, then we must do everything possible to make the answer "yes."

Think about Moshe at the Sneh, the Burning Bush. For seven days Hakadosh Baruch Hu urged him to become the leader of Klal Yisrael, and for seven days Moshe resisted. Again and again he protested. "Who am I to go to Pharaoh? What if they don't believe me? Please send someone else." Most famously, Moshe said, "Lo ish devarim anochi—I am not a man of words” (Shemos 4:10). He insisted that he could not speak and he felt inadequate. He viewed his speech impediment as a disqualifying weakness. Yet Hashem kept saying, in effect, "Go anyway."

Open Sefer Devarim. The very first words are, "Eileh hadevarim— These are the words.” The Midrash asks the obvious question. Isn't this the same Moshe Rabbeinu who, forty years earlier, declared, "Lo ish devarim anochi—I cannot speak"?

What happened? The answer is one of the greatest lessons in growth.

The man who believed he could not speak became the one who delivered Sefer Devarim, perhaps the greatest work of mussar ever spoken. Chapter after chapter, Moshe Rabbeinu addresses an entire nation with clarity, passion, and timeless wisdom. The person who once said, "I can't," became the person whose words have inspired the Jewish people for more than three thousand years.

Sometimes greatness begins when someone else says "yes" before we are capable of saying it ourselves. You never know what that child, that bachur, or that struggling person may one day become.

Every person has the potential to become something extraordinary. That is true of every child and every adult.

Gratitude Before Grief

Years ago, my father passed away suddenly at a young age, leaving my mother to raise our family. My grandfather, Rav Binyamin Berman zt"l, came from Eretz Yisrael to live with us and help her through those difficult years. He was a remarkable man. Everything he did was with the guidance of the Steipler Gaon. He never made an important decision without consulting him.

After I was married and living in Eretz Yisrael, my cousin, Rav Shlomo Berman, told me a story about my grandfather that I have never forgotten.

My father was my grandfather's only child. When my father passed away, the family faced an agonizing dilemma. The Steipler advised that my grandfather should not be told immediately. He had only recently emerged from the mourning period for his second wife, and the concern was that the shock might be too much for him. So, week after week, letters continued to arrive.

In those days, letters were our only means of communication. Long blue airmail envelopes crossed the ocean every week. My father faithfully wrote to his father, filling the pages with every detail of family life, including what the children were doing, who had visited, what everyone had eaten. We enclosed photographs whenever we could.

After my father passed away, those letters did not stop. Every week, four new letters arrived, written by other family members in my father's name so that my grandfather would suspect nothing. Telephone calls were not a realistic option. They were prohibitively expensive, my grandfather's hearing was poor, and speaking for even a few minutes across continents was nearly impossible. For twenty-eight days, he did not know.

Finally, on the Steipler's instruction, the family prepared to tell him.

Relatives and close friends gathered in the house in Bnei Brak. Familiar faces filled the room—people my grandfather knew and trusted—so that he would not have to bear the devastating news alone. Rav Shlomo Berman later told me exactly what happened.

They gently sat my grandfather down, and then they told him. Those who were present wrote down every word he said immediately afterward so that nothing would ever be forgotten. It is a story that has remained with me ever since.

Then my grandfather said something I have never forgotten.

"My son," he said, "was three years old when he contracted rheumatic fever. The doctors told me he would not survive the year. But he did. Hashem gave me another fifty years with him. Before I cry over losing him, I first have to thank Hakadosh Baruch Hu for the fifty years He allowed me to have." For nearly half an hour, my grandfather spoke about my father without shedding a single tear.

Only when he finished did he quietly say, "Now I can cry." That was my grandfather.

Even in the midst of unimaginable loss, he first chose gratitude. He chose to say "yes" to what Hashem had given him before mourning what had been taken away. After my father's passing, my grandfather came to live with us and he became the source of our strength.

Alongside my remarkable mother, he helped raise us. Looking back, I realize that my siblings and I were blessed with extraordinary role models. We were surrounded by people who never surrendered to despair. Their message was always the same: yes. Yes, we can continue. Yes, we can rebuild. Yes, we can overcome.

My mother herself had lost her entire family in the Holocaust. She arrived in America with almost nothing. Later, she became a widow while still raising young children. She had every reason to become bitter. But instead, every day of her life she taught us one lesson: Yes.

My grandfather taught us the same lesson: say yes.

If there is one message I hope we can all internalize, it is this: the future of Jewish education is not built only on buildings, budgets, or programs. It is built by people who are willing to say yes to one more child, one more family, one more opportunity to change a life.

If we become a community that believes in people before they believe in themselves, that opens doors instead of closing them, that refuses to give up on a single Jewish child, then the future of Torah will be brighter than we can imagine.

May Hakadosh Baruch Hu grant us the wisdom, the courage, and the compassion to keep saying yes.