Mr. Charlie Harary

The Center of Your Life

The time before is the time when Hashem looks upon the entire world and determines each person's allocation for the coming year: life, health, wisdom, livelihood, and every blessing. It is an awe-inspiring season, yet many of us instinctively shy away from thinking about it because judgment can be frightening. Ironically, avoiding it is the last thing we should do if we truly want a meaningful year filled with blessing and closeness to Hashem.

In the famous tefillah of Unesaneh Tokef, we declare, "Teshuvah, tefillah, u'tzedakah ma'avirin es ro'a ha'gezeirah—Repentance, prayer, and charity have the power to transform the decree.” These are the three great areas on which we are meant to focus. Teshuvah means honestly looking at our lives through the lens of Torah. Hashem created the world and knows how it is meant to function. Why should I assume I know better than He does? What mistakes have I made? Where can I improve? Teshuvah is the sincere desire to align my life more closely with Hashem's vision.

The second pillar is tefillah. Prayer is much more than reciting words from a siddur. It is taking the time to speak with Hashem, to humble our hearts before Him, and to recognize that everything we have comes from Him. Tefillah reminds us that we are not independent beings controlling our own destiny. We are His children who turn to our Father with trust, gratitude, and hope.

The third pillar is tzedakah, and for many years I struggled to understand why it appears alongside teshuvah and tefillah. Teshuvah demands real inner work and tefillah requires emotional honesty and humility. But tzedakah? At first glance it seems almost too simple. Write a check, make a donation, and you're done. How can giving money possibly belong in the same category as changing your life and standing before Hashem in prayer?

Shlomo HaMelech tells us, "Tzedakah tatzil mimaves—Charity saves from death” (Mishlei 10:2).  The Zohar explains that when a person gives tzedakah, they awaken a higher flow of Divine kindness, a quality that is especially powerful during the Days of Judgment. The Baal Shem Tov phrases it that every coin given becomes a garment woven by Hashem's mercy. Clearly, there is something profound taking place, much more than simply transferring money from one person to another.

Rav Hutner explains that the essence of teshuvah is not merely correcting behavior. The heart of teshuvah is hachna'as halev, the humbling of the heart. We live in a world that constantly tells us to place ourselves at the center, with everything revolves around "me” and my success, my comfort, my accomplishments, my desires. That is called ga'avah, arrogance, and our Sages teach that nothing distances a person from Hashem more than believing he is the center of his own universe (Sotah 5a).

When a person humbles himself before Hashem, everything changes. He recognizes that Hashem possesses all wisdom, all wealth and every resource. Whatever we have is only because Hashem entrusted it to us. Teshuvah is the willingness to say, "I don't have all the answers. I want to live according to Your will, not my own." The more we move Hashem to the center of our lives, the more we become vessels capable of receiving His blessing.

This idea helps us understand tzedakah in an entirely new way. Our Sages teach that both money and blood are called damim, for a person's money is like his blood (see Sefer HaChaim by the brother of the Maharal of Prague; Sefer Parnasa Ve’chalkala, Ch. 5). Money is not merely something we possess; for many people it becomes part of their identity. We spend years earning it, worrying about it, investing it, protecting it, and measuring success by it. In many ways, money becomes an extension of ourselves.

That is precisely why giving tzedakah is so transformative. If I believe I am the center of the world, then my natural response is to keep what is mine. "I worked for this and I earned it. Why should I give it away?" But if Hashem is at the center, then everything changes. The money was never truly mine and Hashem simply entrusted it to me. If He blessed me with more than I need, perhaps it is because someone else needs what I have been given.

Tzedakah becomes an act of anivus, humility. It is the declaration that my possessions do not define me and I am willing to take something that feels like part of myself and share it with another person because I recognize that Hashem is the true Owner of everything. Giving tzedakah is not simply generosity; it is living testimony that Hashem is at the center of my life.

What greater way could there be to stand before Hashem on Rosh Hashanah? Through teshuvah we strive to improve ourselves. Through tefillah we humble ourselves before our Creator. And through tzedakah we demonstrate that even our possessions are tools for His service. We stand before Hashem and say, "Ribbono Shel Olam, if You bless me this year, I will use those blessings to help Your children. You can trust me to be a conduit for Your kindness."

During these precious days, every worthy cause deserves our support. So give and share. Become part of Hashem's kindness in the world, and let us stand before Him having worked on all three pillars of Unesaneh Tokef—teshuvah, tefillah, and tzedakah—and may Hashem see a people striving to grow, to pray, and to care for one another.

Rabbi Yoel Gold

Of Smokes and Surrender

It was the final day of filming my most recent Tisha B’av film, Holy Smokes, about the Ketores (Incense) burned in the Beis Hamikdash. We had been working on this project for months, traveling to different states and then spending nearly two weeks filming in Israel. But there was one interview we desperately wanted and simply could not get.

We were trying to speak with an official from the Israel Antiquities Authority (IAA) who had been involved in shutting down the excavation shortly after the alleged incense was discovered. We wanted to understand why. Here was an extraordinary find that had subsequently been subjected to scientific testing. Why wasn't the site preserved? Why didn't the IAA conduct its own investigation and testing?

Through our research, we came to believe that the official we needed to speak with was Ofer Sion. We obtained his number, and I called repeatedly until I finally reached him. I asked for just twenty minutes for an interview. He told me he would get back to me. The following day, he called and said, “I can't give you the interview. I spoke with the head of the IAA. They know what you're doing, and I was told to stay away.”

I was deeply disappointed.

I began calling people I knew who might be able to help. I contacted Rivka Ravitz, the former chief of staff to President Reuven Rivlin, who had appeared in one of my previous films. I also reached out to Amichai Eliyahu, who heads the Heritage and Tradition Department in the Knesset. I tried every connection I had. But everyone came back with the same answer: the IAA would not give us the interview. We still did not know why.

Finally, on our last day of filming, just hours before my flight, I turned to the production team and said, “We have nothing left to lose. We're going to the headquarters of the Israel Antiquities Authority.”

My Israeli production team thought I had lost my mind. These were highly professional people. Everything they did was researched, scheduled, arranged, and approved in advance. Showing up unannounced at the IAA headquarters was not exactly their normal production protocol. But they said, essentially, “You're the boss.”

So we went.

The building was extremely secure, and there seemed to be no possibility of simply walking inside. But then, unexpectedly, an archaeologist we knew came out of the building. He worked for the IAA and recognized us. “What are you doing here?” he asked. “There is an archaeological conference downstairs. Let me get you in.” Suddenly, we were inside.

We went down several floors and found a glass-walled conference room filled with archaeologists, all wearing name tags. Someone was giving a presentation. I began looking through the room for Ofer Sion, but I couldn't find him. I asked someone I had come to befriend over the years, who worked for the IAA, if he could call him. He looked at me and said, “Ofer Sion? I just had lunch with him. He's here in the building.”  He called him.

Ofer's response was the same it had always been. “I know these people. They've been trying to interview me. I can't do it. My hands are tied.” At that point, I was finished.

We had tried everything. I had a flight in a few hours. There happened to be a Minyan for Minchah in the building, so I told the team, “That's it. I'm going to daven Minchah, and then we're leaving.”

During that Minchah, something changed. For the first time since we had begun filming the project, I stopped trying to control the outcome.

I turned to Hashem and said, “Hashem, this isn't up to me. I've made the calls and I've used the connections. I've tried everything I know how to do. I surrender. You write the rest of this film. It's Your script.” And I meant it.

Immediately after Minchah, a man approached me and began speaking with me. I asked his name. “Dr. Yechiel Zelinger,” he replied. “Do you work for the Israel Antiquities Authority?” I asked. “Yes,” came the reply. “I've been with the IAA for thirty-five years.” I suddenly realized that he would have been there at the time of Vendyl Jones's excavation.

“Then perhaps you can help me,” I went on. “I'm trying to interview the person who shut down the excavation after Vendyl Jones claimed to have discovered the Ketores. I was told his name was Ofer Sion.” He looked at me. “Ofer Sion? He didn't shut it down.” “What do you mean?” I asked, confused.

“I shut it down,” he said.

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Here I had spent all this time searching for one man, and minutes after finally surrendering the outcome to Hashem, I was standing face-to-face with the man I had actually been looking for all along.

Dr. Zelinger explained that he had been the supervisor responsible for that area at the time. After Jones made his discovery, Zelinger came to the site and shut down the excavation. And then he explained why.

He said that when he arrived, Jones was holding a press conference surrounded by reporters from major international news organizations and announcing that he had discovered the Ketores of the Beis Hamikdash. Zelinger felt that such an extraordinary claim could not responsibly be made on the basis of preliminary evidence. From his perspective as an archaeologist and government official, the claim had gone far beyond what the evidence at that stage could establish. So he stopped the excavation. What made the encounter even more extraordinary was that we subsequently located old footage of that very press conference. And there, standing at the site decades earlier, was the same man with whom I was now speaking.

But I still had another question.

I told him, “I understand why you stopped it then, but subsequent testing was performed, and I have copies of scientific reports concerning the material. Why hasn't the IAA examined those claims and conducted its own testing? Isn't that precisely the kind of question the IAA should want to investigate?”

Before he could answer, an IAA spokesperson came rushing over. “Is this the interview these people have been trying to get?” And that was it. We were told to leave the building, never receiving the answer to what I considered the most important question.

But I walked away having learned two things.

First, there are moments when we exhaust every avenue available to us and finally recognize that the outcome was never entirely in our hands. Sometimes surrendering to Hashem does not mean giving up. It means recognizing Who was directing the story all along. I had been searching everywhere for the wrong man, and when I finally said, “Hashem, You write the script,” the man I actually needed walked over to me.

But there was a second lesson as well. Even when Hashem leads you somewhere, He does not necessarily give you every answer. I received an answer to half the question—who shut down the excavation and why was it initially stopped?—but the larger question—why didn’t the IAA conduct their own investigation to ascertain the authenticity of the Ketores—remained unanswered. And perhaps that, too, was part of the story.

In life, if we believe that Hashem is truly in charge and running the world, that means that Hashem runs every part of the story. We may be blessed in some respect, but not in the exact way we wanted. When that happens, we can grow disgruntled and upset, asking why Hashem, Who anyway can do anything and everything, cannot just grant our request exactly the way we want it. But that is the very point. Trusting Hashem means that, concurrent to our efforts, we surrender everything to Him, knowing that what happens and how it happens is all a part of His master plan.

That is true acceptance of Hashem’s dominion. And that is a lesson to ponder over and over every day of our lives.

Rabbi Yoni Ash

You Belong Here

It was one of those intense Yerushalmi shuls; a place of beards and peyos, long jackets and an atmosphere steeped in age-old tradition.

One day, in walked a man who seemed completely out of place. He wore no kippah, nor did he have long pants or a jacket. People looked at him, wondering what he was doing there. But that was just the beginning of the scene.

Moments later, he approached someone and asked, “Who is the gabbai?” They pointed him in the right direction. The man proceeded to walk over to the gabbai. “I would like to daven for the amud and say Kaddish,” he said. The gabbai turned silent. Of all the things he imagined this visitor might request—a drink, perhaps something to eat—he certainly had not expected him to ask to lead the davening.

Unsure what to do, he went to the rav, Rav Tzvi Pesach Frank zt”l, and explained the situation. Rav Frank listened and gave a simple answer. “Give him something appropriate to wear, and let him daven.” And so they did.

The following week, the man returned. This time, he had a simple white kippah on his head. And once again, he asked to daven, and once again they allowed him. He continued returning. And slowly, something began to change.

Several months later, a man entered the shul wearing a kippah and jacket and a beard. Approaching the gabbai, he asked, “May I daven for the amud?” “Of course,” the gabbai replied. “Why do you ask?” The man looked at him. “You don't recognize me?” The gabbai stared at him. “No,” he said, thinking over his reply as he uttered it. “I’m the man who came here a few months ago without a kippah…” The gabbai could hardly believe it. “That was you? What happened?”

The man began to explain.

His mother had been a religious woman. He was not. As she was nearing the end of her life, she made one request of her son. “When I pass away, please say Kaddish for me and please daven for the amud.” He reluctantly agreed.

But his mother told him something more. “You're not only doing it for me. You're saying, Yisgadal v’yiskadash Shemei Rabbah. You are helping make Hashem's Name greater in this world. This is bigger than me. Please promise me that you will do it.” He promised.

Privately, however, he told himself that he would listen to his mother on one condition: only if the shul he entered agreed to let him lead the davening. If they refused, he would consider himself absolved of his obligation. And so, he deliberately chose the shul where he thought he was least likely to be accepted. He walked into one of the most traditional shuls in Yerushalayim, dressed precisely as he was, fully expecting them to turn him away.

And to his astonishment, they said yes. That one yes changed his life. He came back the following week. And then again. And slowly, one step led to another until the man who had entered hoping to be rejected had found his way back to a life of Torah and mitzvos. Now months later, he sought to understand why.

“Why did the Rav allow me to daven that first day?” he asked. When the question reached Rav Tzvi Pesach Frank, he explained that when he had first seen the man, he sensed that something deeper was taking place. This was not mockery or provocation. Beneath the exterior was something genuine; a Jewish neshama reaching for something that perhaps the man himself could not yet articulate.

And now, hearing the full story, Rav Frank understood where that stirring had come from.

His mother's tefillos. Her prayers had awakened something within her son. Externally, he had entered the shul hoping they would send him away. But deep within, another part of him had walked through that door hoping they would let him stay.

A tefillah may appear to go unanswered for even years. Yet we have no idea what tefillah may be accomplishing beneath the surface.

But there is another lesson as well.

Every Jew possesses an inner self that cannot always be seen from the outside. There is the person we appear to be, perhaps even the person we believe ourselves to be, and then there is the neshama underneath it all.

Sometimes those two selves seem very far apart. A person can walk into a shul dressed as though he wants nothing to do with Yiddishkeit, while somewhere deep inside, his neshama is pleading: don't send me away. Give me a chance and help me find my way back.

Rav Tzvi Pesach Frank did not merely see the man standing in front of him. He saw the Jew inside him.

And sometimes, all that hidden neshama needs is one person who is willing to open the door and say, “Yes. You belong here too.”