Rabbi Ephraim Wachsman

Beneath the Surface

The Navi declares, "Darkness covers the earth, and a thick spiritual fog envelops the nations. But upon you G-d will shine and G-d’s Presence will be seen over you” (Yeshaya 60:2). As the world grows darker, our mission becomes brighter. Some of us have alright begun reciting Selichos, and some of us will begin soon. While the streets remain quiet and the world sleeps, Jews leave their homes and walk through the darkness toward shul. They come with yearning hearts to reconnect with their Creator.

The Chozeh of Lublin taught that Chazal say, "Ha'ba l'taheir mesayin oso—One who comes to purify himself is helped” (Yoma 38b), and yet the wording is striking. Chazal do not say who helps him.

The Chozeh explains that all of Creation comes to his assistance. Every aspect of the world becomes energized by the sight of a Jew sincerely seeking teshuvah. The entire universe asks, "How can we help him return?" Imagine, then, what happens when hundreds of thousands of Jews across the world gather for Selichos to pour out their hearts before the Ribbono Shel Olam. It creates an unparalleled awakening throughout Heaven.

Almost every aspect of Jewish life has something that resembles it. There are many Yamim Tovim, two-day festivals, and recurring mitzvos throughout the year. Selichos, however, is unique. There is no other occasion when Jews willingly leave the comfort of their beds in the middle of the night simply to speak privately with Hashem. It is a sacred appointment unlike any other; a quiet rendezvous between a child and his Father.

The Rebbe of Strikov offered a beautiful mashal.

Imagine extending your hand to greet someone, only to have him walk past without taking it. Few things are more painful than such a rejection. During these precious days, Hakadosh Baruch Hu stretches out His hand to receive those who wish to return. He is "posheit yado lekabel shavim,” as we recite during davening. He extends His hand to welcome every penitent. Hashem is not asking us to perform the impossible. He is simply asking us to take His hand. He does not want us to make this journey alone, but rather wants to walk beside us. When we allow Hashem to hold our hand, we become different people. We draw strength from His strength and courage from Him.

Reb Shayale of Kerestir once asked the Chozeh of Lublin about a familiar saying. "A guter cheshbon iz halb ge'tzahlt—A good accounting is already half paid.” The Chozeh explained with an analogy.

Imagine a merchant smuggling contraband, terrified that the authorities will discover his goods. Then suddenly he receives the royal seal of the king. At that moment his fear disappears, because everything bearing the king's seal is protected. So too, when we make a genuine cheshbon hanefesh, we stand before Hashem with complete honesty, with the very seal of Hakadosh Baruch Hu, which is truth (Shabbos 55b). Hashem asks only that we come before Him sincerely, acknowledging where we truly stand and speaking to Him without pretense.

The Chassidim tell of a Jewish soldier who had spent years serving in the army. With each passing year he drifted farther from Torah. He was forced to eat non-kosher food, desecrate Shabbos, and gradually felt himself becoming spiritually numb. One year, he managed to return home just before Selichos. As he entered the shul and saw the congregation crying out to Hashem, he burst into tears. "I would have endured everything," he said, "just to experience this moment of awakening." The yearning for teshuvah had never disappeared. It had merely been buried beneath the surface.

And so, as we enter the Yamim Noraim. We come as seekers. We come with honesty. We come holding out our hands toward the One Who is already reaching toward us. As the Pasuk says, "Karov Hashem l'chol kor'av, l'chol asher yikra'uhu be'emes—Hashem is close to all who call upon Him, to all who call upon Him in truth” (Tehillim 145:18).

May our Selichos rise before the Ribbono Shel Olam with compassion and favor.

Rabbi Aharon Pessin

The Trailblazer of Teshuvah

Many have the custom of learning Shaarei Teshuvah during the month of Elul. Few sefarim have the ability to awaken a person to teshuvah with the force and clarity of this great classic of mussar. But there is a remarkable tradition concerning why Rabbeinu Yonah wrote Shaarei Teshuvah in the first place.

Rabbeinu Yonah, who lived approximately eight hundred years ago, was initially a fierce opponent of the Rambam. Among the reports that reached him were accusations that the Rambam had eaten what appeared to be a human finger and had consumed meat without shechitah. Only later, according to this tradition, did Rabbeinu Yonah discover that these allegations were based upon misunderstandings. What appeared to be a human finger was actually a thick Egyptian plant resembling one, while the meat that had been eaten without shechitah was from a ben pekuah (a live offspring found inside its mother after the mother was properly shechted), which under the appropriate halachic circumstances does not require shechitah itself.

When Rabbeinu Yonah learned the truth, he was deeply distressed that he had suspected and opposed the Rambam unjustly. He sought to ask forgiveness and attempted to travel to the Rambam's grave, but he was ultimately unable to reach it.

The Mishnah teaches in Yoma (85b) that while Yom Kippur can bring atonement for sins between man and Hashem, aveiros shebein adam lachaveiro—sins committed against another person—are not atoned for until one has first appeased the person who was wronged.

The Chofetz Chaim likewise emphasizes in Shemiras HaLashon the extraordinary seriousness of sins committed through speech against another person. A careless word can be spoken in a moment, but its consequences may remain for years. Even though Hakadosh Baruch Hu is Erech Apayim, exceedingly patient, that does not mean that an unresolved wrongdoing simply disappears. If a person does not rectify what he has done, he may ultimately be held accountable for it.

What, then, could Rabbeinu Yonah do when he was unable to obtain forgiveness directly?

According to the tradition, he undertook an extraordinary act of teshuvah: he wrote Shaarei Teshuvah. The sefer that has taught generations of Jews how to return to Hashem was itself born from one man's profound determination to repair a wrong he believed he had committed.

And his teshuvah did not end with writing a sefer. It is related that thereafter, when Rabbeinu Yonah taught Torah, he would mention the Rambam with tremendous reverence and was exceedingly careful not to speak against him. According to a tradition noted in Sefer Taam Zekeinim, citing R’ Yehudah HaChassidi, even as Rabbeinu Yonah approached the end of his life, his lips could be heard repeating: “HaRambam, HaRambam, HaRambam.”

We often think of teshuvah as regretting what we did and resolving not to repeat it. The Rabbeinu Yonah teaches us something else. Genuine teshuvah seeks to repair. If our words caused damage, then our words can become instruments of healing. If our mouths were used improperly, those same mouths can now be used to speak Torah and chesed.

Perhaps that is one reason Shaarei Teshuvah is such an appropriate sefer to learn throughout the year, and especially during these yemei rachamim v'selichos. It does not merely teach us about teshuvah. According to this tradition, the sefer itself is a monument to teshuvah: a living demonstration of how seriously a great person took responsibility for his words, and how far he was prepared to go to make them right.

Rabbi Yitzchak Oelbaum

Here For You

The Chofetz Chaim was once traveling by train to the worldwide Knessiah Gedolah conference, together with the Kli Chemdah, a great talmid chacham and tzaddik. At one of the stops along the way, word spread that the Chofetz Chaim was aboard the train.

Hundreds of people gathered at the station. They were not passengers and could not board the train, but they knew that it would remain at the station for several minutes. They came for one reason alone: they wanted the opportunity simply to catch a glimpse of the Chofetz Chaim.

The Kli Chemdah turned to the Chafetz Chaim and said, “Rebbe, perhaps you should go over to the window. There are hundreds of Yidden standing outside who came just to see you.” The Chofetz Chaim declined. “Why not?” the Kli Chemdah asked.

The Chofetz Chaim explained that he was concerned about kavod (honor). If he were to stand at the window while hundreds of people gathered to look at him, he feared that the honor might affect him spiritually. He did not want to jeopardize even a small measure of his Olam Haba for the sake of receiving honor. The Kli Chemdah responded, “Rebbe, I have two reasons why I believe you should nevertheless go to the window.” He began with the first.

“Hundreds of Yidden have come here because seeing the Rebbe will give them chizuk. If showing yourself to them will strengthen so many Jews, then perhaps it is worthwhile to sacrifice even a little Olam Haba for the sake of giving chizuk to Klal Yisrael.” The Chofetz Chaim aim immediately jumped up. “You're right,” he said. “I don't need to hear the second reason.” And he went to the window.

The Chofetz Chaim’s reluctance to appear at the window demonstrated his profound anivus (humility). He genuinely feared the spiritual danger of honor. But the moment he understood that his appearance could strengthen other Jews, the calculation changed entirely. For himself, he wanted nothing. But for Klal Yisrael, he was prepared to give something up.

“I don't need reason number two.” One reason was enough. If hundreds of Yidden could receive a little chizuk, then even the possibility of sacrificing a small portion of his own Olam Haba was a price the Chofetz Chaim was prepared to pay.

That is anivus in its deepest form. Humility does not mean hiding when others need you. It means that when you do step forward, it is not because you need to be seen.

It is because someone else needs to see you.

Rabbi Shraga Kallus

The Bakery Smell

Someone once told me that he was walking with Rav Gershon Edelstein zt”l through Bnei Brak when they passed a bakery. Rav Gershon suddenly walked inside. Now, Rav Gershon walking into a bakery already sounds like the beginning of a great story.

He went inside for perhaps a minute, came back out, and continued walking. The person accompanying him wondered what had happened. Did Rav Gershon need something? A rugelach? A potato boureka? The food of champions?

Eventually he asked him.

Rav Gershon explained that whenever he passed this particular bakery, he enjoyed the wonderful smell coming from inside. As such, every so often, he would walk into the bakery simply to tell the baker, “Thank you. The smell from your bakery gives me pleasure.” That was it. He didn’t buy anything. He simply enjoyed something that another person had created, and he did not want to enjoy it without acknowledging the person responsible.

Rav Gershon was not merely performing an occasional act of hakaras hatov. He was a person who could not comfortably receive without recognizing the giver.

I loved the story so much that I decided to try it myself. I was once speaking somewhere in Israel, and nearby was a bakery. The smell coming from that bakery was unbelievable.

So I thought, “I’m going to do what Rav Gershon did.” I walked inside and told the baker in Hebrew, “The smell in here is incredible. I just wanted to come in and thank you.”

He looked at me suspiciously. “Mah atah mitkaven? What do you mean?” “Nothing,” I said. “I was standing outside, I smelled the bakery, I enjoyed it, and I wanted to thank you. You gave me some pleasure today.”

He looked at me. Then he took out a bag and put three rugelach inside.

Apparently, hakaras hatov has benefits. But that is not why we do it. We do it because we never want to become a kafui tov. And once a person trains himself to be makir tov toward other people, he begins to develop the ability to be makir tov toward Hashem.

Hashem gave me a neshama, abilities, and another day of life, and with that, I can ask myself: why did He give these things to me, and what am I going to do with them? If Hashem gave me a neshama for a reason, then gratitude means using that neshama for the reason He gave it to me. Because ultimately, hakaras hatov is more than saying thank you.

It is becoming the kind of person who notices the gift, recognizes the Giver, and lives differently because of it.

Rabbi Moshe Dov Heber

Mind in the Moment

The Pasuk in this week’s Parsha tells us that when a person brought his maaser and completed the required mitzvos, he declared, “I have not transgressed any of Your commandments, and I have not forgotten” (Devarim 26:13).

What does it mean, asks the Sfas Emes, “I have not forgotten”? The person is standing there performing the mitzvah. Obviously he has not forgotten it.

The Sfas Emes explains that the Torah is teaching us something profound. It is possible to remember a mitzvah enough to perform it, yet forget the mitzvah while performing it.

A person can daven without realizing he is standing before Hashem. He can make a beracha without thinking about the words. He can perform a mitzvah perfectly on the outside while his mind is somewhere else entirely.

That, too, is a form of forgetting.

There is a famous story of a man who was once standing in Shemoneh Esrei, and his mind began to wander until before long, in his imagination, he was walking through the marketplace. Suddenly, someone punched him in the chest. For a moment he wondered, “Who just hit me?”

Then he realized what had happened. Nobody had hit him. He had reached Selach Lanu and struck his own chest.

His body was standing in shul. But he was in the marketplace.

This is one of the questions Elul asks us to consider. It is not enough to take stock of which mitzvos we perform. We also have to take stock of how we perform them.

I performed the mitzvah, and I did not forget it while I was performing it.

When I daven, am I actually there? When I make a beracha, do I know what I am saying? When I learn Torah, is my mind present? When I perform a mitzvah, am I thinking about the fact that I am connecting to Hashem?

As Elul draws us toward Rosh Hashanah, our avodah may sometimes simply be to be more present in what we are already doing. The question is not only, “Are we doing the mitzvah?” The question is, “Are we there when we do it?”

Rabbi Yoel Gold

A man accidentally sideswiped a car, leaving a dent. He decided to leave a note, and wrote: “I’m so sorry. I want to pay for the damage. Please call me when you get back to your car.” Later, the owner called him. “I just deposited $5,000 into your account for Yom Tov,” he said. The man didn’t understand. “What are you talking about?” “You left your note on the back of a bank statement, and when I turned it over, I saw that your account was overdrawn. You don’t have money for Yom Tov. Your account number was right there, so I deposited the money.”

Mi K’amcha Yisroel. Who is like the Jewish people.