To pray is to take notice of wonder, to regain a sense of mystery that animates all beings, the divine margin in all attainments. Prayer is our humble answer to the inconceivable surprise of living. It is all we can offer in return for the mystery by which we live.

(in: The Wisodm of Heschel, Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1975, p 205)

[I first heard this story from Reb Mimi Feigelson, who heard it from Reb Shlomo Carlibach z”l. I found later another version that connects the Holy Miser with Rav Yom Tov Lipman Heller tzz”l, a hero of mine due to the stories around his commentary to the Mishnah, the Tosfot Yom Tov. You can learn more about him by clicking here. ]

Around 1600, there lived in Kracow, a very important rabbi, Rabbi Yom Tov Lipman Heller. In that same town, Kracow, there lives a very rich Jew, the greatest miser in the world. He had no family. His name was Yosseleh.

Back then, in Cracow everybody was poor, downhearted, depressed and heartbroken. There was only that one Jew who had a lot of money: Yosseleh the Miser. All rabbis had tried to get him to part with a few coins, but no matter how much they begged, asked, threatened, the answer was always no.

You know, our rabbis teach us a sinner is not anti-God. A person who sins just doesn’t do God’s will. But a miser is anti-God, because God is giving, but a miser only takes. A miser is not part of the world.

And that is how Yosseleh became an outcast. Kids would throw stones at him on the street. They would point and laugh at him. No one would ever say Good Shabbos to him and in trying to get him to give money they even stopped giving him honors in shul. But it was to no avail.

One day, the Chevra Kaddisha, the burial society, was told Yossaleh is dying.

They went to his bedside and they said,”Yossaleh, you can’t take the money with you anyway. Give us 1,000 rubles and we will bury you, and, we will give the money to the poor which you neglected all your life.” Leave it to Yossaleh though, he said: “No, this week I cannot give more than 50 rubles.” The people were so disgusted with him, they said you can’t take it with you anyway! Once in your life, give some money to the poor!

Yossalah insists and he refuses to give more than 50 rubles and the burial society members told him in that case, we refuse to bury you. He said to them, “I don’t mind. I’ll bury myself.” It was too ugly. The members got up to leave and at that moment, Yossaleh said the Shema, and his soul left the world. The Chevra was just disgusted – and left him there.

He died Sunday night – no one buried him. Monday, Tuesday passed. Tuesday night, a neighbor thought it was not fair to his wife and children, they were afraid of Yosseleh’s ghost. He must be buried. So, late at night – for the neighbor was more afraid of his other neighbors than of the ghost, you see, the neighbor was afraid to upset the community – late at night he loaded Yosseleh’s light, small body on the wagon and dug a grave for him near a lonely tree, in the back of the cemetery, in the area for the paupers. He threw him in and covered him with earth and left.

Late Thursday night, a poor man knocked on Rav Yom Tov Lipman Heller’s door and said, “Rabbi, please give me money to buy food for Shabbos.” Rav Yom Tov Heller says, “I’ll be glad to. Why tonight? I have never seen you before. How did you make out last Shabbos?” “Rav Yom Tov,” he said, “for the past twenty years, I can’t make a living, but every Thursday morning there were five rubles left in an envelope under my broken door. But not this morning.”

Five minutes later the local schoolteacher knocked on his door and said, “Rabbi Heller, please give me money to buy food for Shabbos.” “I’ll be glad to, but where were you last week?” He says, “Rav, the truth is that for the last ten years, I can’t make a living, but every Thursday morning, there were two rubles under my broken door. But not this morning.” Within hours, all the poor people in Cracow came and told the same story.

And then all the rabbis of Cracow got together and all were sharing the same story. Out of the woodwork, from nowhere, poor people were coming asking for money. They had never seen anything like this. And that is when they realized who was keeping all those people alive, for more than twenty years. Can you imagine? Yosseleh the Miser.

Rav Yom Tov Heller asked the poor people, “I don’t understand, how come to you he gave five rubles, to you two and to you, ten, and how did he know where you lived? The most unbelievable thing was revealed to him.

Once in their life, every poor person thought that he could get through to Yossaleh, the only man who has money in Cracow. He or she would visit Yossaleh. Yossaleh would open his door with so much love and so much understanding. “Come in, sit down.” He took a piece of paper and a pencil and would say. “What is your name, my friend?”

“I am Avramaleh, the watercarrier.” Or Sarah, the teacher. Or Meilech, the streetsweeper.

“How many children do you have?”
“Twelve.”
“Twelve? Oh, you must be starving to death. My heart is bleeding for you. What do you need to survive?”
“Oh, Yossaleh, if you could give me five rubles a week?”
“Where do you live my friend?” He would write everything down and say thank you so much for visiting me. He would speak for a long time about everything in the world. But suddenly, Yossaleh would go crazy. He would simply begin screaming for the person to get out! Get Out! What do you think? Do you think I am crazy, do you think I would give you my precious money? Get away! Don’t you ever come back!”

And then Meilech, Shlomo, Avrum, Sarah would go back to their houses and say to their partner and children, “What they say is right, he is crazy.” But, the next Thursday, under the broken door, there was an envelope with five rubles. And the next week, and the week after that. Predictable and constant, two days before every Shabbat and every festival.

And that story was repeated over and over again. The interview, the long talk, the loving listening and then the sudden crazy bout, and the money, without missing a week, every Thursday, under the door, first thing in the morning. Yosseleh probably came, Rav Yom Tov Heller reasoned, at night, when everyone was asleep.

Rav Yom Tov Heller was so broken. They didn’t even bury him! The holy of holiest! Not only does he gave, he gave like God gives. He announced a fast day for the whole city. Everybody came, especially the poor people who lived from him for all those years. All those same people whose children were throwing stones at Yosseleh, those who mocked him and spoke evil. All were crying in the synagogue. Yosseleh, Yosseleh, please forgive us. Please forgive us wherever you are. It was just about sundown and the fast day was over. Rav Yom Tov Heller felt they hadn’t gotten Yosseleh’s forgiveness yet, but he went home, and slept. He had a dream.

In his dream, he saw Yossaleh. And Yosseleh said, “Rav Yom Tov Heller, please, please, tell all my brothers and sisters to go home. There is no reason to fast. This is the way I wanted it. I wanted to have the privilege to give like God gives – without anybody knowing. Please, tell all my friends, especially the poor people. I am here in Heaven… yet, there is one thing I still miss. I’d give anything for another Thursday at 1 AM, for another door, for another envelope with five rubles to give away in honor of the holy Shabbos or Yomtev.”

Rav Yom Tov Lipman Heller woke up. Then, he had a new stone carved for Yossele saying “Holy Miser”, and requested that when he died he be buried right next to Yossele, the Holy Miser, and you can travel to Kracow and seen them both at rest together to this day.

 Here are the sources for our study in memory of Adath Israel’s beloved teacher Lynn Bennett z”l, as well as a summary of the points raised by all those who were there.

This is what Lynn z”l would do: she met everyone at their level without prejudging them at all. She was able to fire up everyone for Hebrew School, and make kids and parents feel welcome. Many young families came to Hebrew School through Lynn’s z”l Mazal Tots program.

Lynn z”l also learned from the students, she loved teaching and learning.

Lynn z”l loved her portion: her family, her friends, her grandchildren and her community. She saved every little thing thinking of possibilities to do with them: containers, every thing.

 How are we going to continue? By continuing her spirit, each and everyone of us moving our school forward, making it ever better, as Lynn z”l would have wanted. Every one of us inspired by her example and aware of her love for Judaism and Adath Israel.

Summary (read the portion by clicking here):

Lech Lecha is the portion where the first couple is introduced. At the beginning they are still called Sarai and Avram, and at the end of the portion they have their names changed to Sarah and Avraham.

The text refuses to give you a reason for Avram being chosen, and all the stories you know about it (that Avram smashes his father’s idols; that he sees the world on fire and so on) are all midrashim [read them by clicking here and here]. They are not present in the Torah text. Very important difference.

As we read this portion, we have the following arc: Avram continues the travel to the land that God will show him, together with Sarai and Lot. There is a famine and Avram goes down to Egypt, where he pretends Sarai is his sister; she’s taken to Pharao’s palace and they eventually get out. Avram is very rich by then, and so Lot and he need to separate since the land can’t sustain all their herds. Lot choses to live in Sodom. Then a war breaks between four kings against five, and the king of Sodom is one of them. Lot is taken captive and Avram sets out to take Lot back, vanquishing the four kings.

After that incident, comes one of the most obscure passages in Avram’s life, the covenant between the pieces. Both the war and the covenant are in our triennial reading.

The portion will end with Sarai making Avram and Hagar conceive Ishmael, just to have Isaac promised to her 13 years later, as God changes Avram’s and Sarai’s names to Avraham and Sarah and getting Avraham to circumcise himself and all the males in his household.

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My question for us today is: How do you understand what happens after the war, between Avram, the king of Sodom and this priest called Melchitzedek? The destruction of Sodom hasn’t happened yet, but is there something foreshadowing it? If this is one of Avram’s tests – remember, our tradition recons ten tests for Avram – what is the test? Do you think he passed it?

[There are different opinions of how to count the tests. Everyone agrees that sending Yishmael away and the Binding of Isaac were tests, as was Sarai in the court of Pharaoh, the war, and circumcision. Some count the act of going out; some count a faceoff with Nimrod that happened in a midrash; some count facing famine in the promised land and having to go down to Egypt, some count having Hagar as a second wife, some count sending both Hagar and Yishmael away, some count Sarah with Avimelech, some count the covenant between the pieces itself, some count standing up for Sodom and Gomorrah, some count Sarah’s burial. Click here for list one, two, three, four]

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So I want to point out that the idea of dissention and war appears strongly in this moment of Avram’s life. Just before the war we read the separation between Avram and his nephew, because the land can’t support all their herds, and the herdsmen fight. At that moment we see a different side of Avram, a side that the midrash will say is how the world is sustained: by those who do not engage in a quarrel, and do not let discord become a fight. Avram lets Lot make the choice: if you go left I will go right, if you go right I will go left, let us just not fight.

Which is a deep contrast with Avram in the very next chapter: the war breaks, an unnamed survivor tells Avram that Lot has been taken captive, in a series of five active verbs in two sentences, Avram liberates all those who are captive [here’s a map] [here are tar pits, I find them fascinating]. Once he does that the king of Sodom and the King of Shalem – previously unmentioned – come to meet Avram. The King of Shalem, who moonlights as a priest of El Elyion, God Most High, blesses Avram who gives him a donation. It is at this junction that the King of Sodom asks Avram for the persons, but not the possessions. And Avram refuses the possessions.

If we are going to see the arc of the story of Avram and possessions, we see how central possessions were up to this moment, and still are in the Covenant of the Pieces. Avram gets financially comfortable out of the lie that Sarai is his sister at the beginning of the story, and his possessions keep growing from then on. At this point maybe he has come to a place of understanding that possessions matter little if you don’t go after your principles – in this case, liberating Lot and the rest of the people from a life of slavery most probably. The text says: “Lot, the women and the rest of the people.”

In that sense we can understand the dispute with Lot and then the war as Avram growing into the realization that stuff matters less than relationships and people.

The Chasidic commentators will make sure that we read the text closely – the King of Sodom says:

תֶּן־לִ֣י הַנֶּ֔פֶשׁ וְהָרְכֻ֖שׁ קַֽח־לָֽךְ

Literally: Give me the soul, and the possessions take for yourself

That Sodom was a bad place we will be informed in the next portion, but you and I know that places and countries don’t turn bad suddenly. Just like milk begins to sour, and the taste becomes acid before a full blown curdling, there is a process for people and cities and countries. If you chose to read the text in its basic Hebrew, you have a king asking for the people back in exchange for things. And Avram not willing to see himself as a bounty hunter of sorts, a paid militia, but as someone who did this because it was the right thing to do.

But if you want to read it in a symbolic way, what is the King asking? Your soul for the money. Give me the soul. Your soul. Which is to say: “Stay stuck in the concept of possessions, of amassing things, and your soul will be mine.” The King of Sodom is seen as the symbol of the impulse for selfishness, for thinking only about ourselves, for wanting to have stuff instead of being and becoming good people.

It is not anymore “your money or your life” – it is your money or your very soul. Your essence. And it is by saying – I am my values, I am on the side of anti-slavery, I want freedom for the people and for myself that Avram merits the next step – the vision of the Covenant Between the Pieces.

The covenant between the pieces, which has this name because Avram has to split the bodies of certain animals, is laden with symbolic meaning. So laden that already many commentators see this as a dream, and not a prophetic vision – in part because of the image of the torch passing through the pieces.

After promising that Avram will have an innumerable quantity of descendants – the number of stars – God then asks five different animals of Avram. All of them kosher, three of them need to be meshulash, which is rendered as “three-year old”. And after slaughtering the animals, he has to cut the big ones in two pieces. So notice the number pattern already: two, three, five. And as one vulture comes down – God talks about Avram’s descendants, who will stay in Egypt for four hundred years. This is such an important moment that it figures in the Hagaddah: it was said that our slavery was going to happen. And the same way it was promised, its end was promised and again – here is the presence of possessions. The descendants will come out with “rechush gadol”, many possessions.

And I think the question that this story is asking us is – have we resolved our relationship with possessions? How do we respond, we, here, today, in an America that gives us a fairly comfortable life, how do we respond, as descendants of Avraham, to the question: your soul or your stuff?

Rabbi Yosi and the student from Great Snoring (based on Bereshit Rabbah 34:15, read the original by clicking here)

Rabbi Yosi was an excellent teacher. There was no child he could not inspire. No child he could not make love the Torah. No child he could not make see the greatness of the Jewish tradition and instill pride and desire to learn more. No child that is, until Natan came along.

Natan was the worse student in the academy. His mind seemed coated in a fact-repellant oil. He wasn’t  a bad kid, he was quiet and compliant. But he had no friends, and simply wasn’t there. He was always looking through the window. The other teachers in the academy had tried their best, but with no success whatsoever.

Rabbi Yosi was patient. He explained the same verse once, twice, three times, ten times. Nothing. Natan simply couldn’t absorb anything.

Rabbi Yosi asked: “Natan, why can’t you learn? Why do you look at the window so much? Where are you from?

Natan answered: “Me? Rabbi, I’m from Great Snoring. I miss it deeply and can’t think of anything but how much I’m not from here”

Rabbi Yosi contained his desire to laugh. Great Snoring was like Chelm, you know, the place where people make jokes about. They said that it was so far away that you would grow old before reaching it. They said it was so hot that even the camels couldn’t stand it. They said it was so dry that they marked Great Snoring with a mount of sand on the map. They said that in Great Snoring you had to speak with your mouth closed so that the flies wouldn’t get in. And that, of course, even the babies snored in Great Snoring.

“Oh”, said Rabbi Yosi, “tell me, why do you like Great Snoring so much?”

“Great Snoring is the grandest of places! It is warm and sandy. I never need to wear so many layers as I do here! The dorm is so cold and damp. Great Snoring is warm. People there care for each other and help each other in the dry season. My people are smart too! They even figured out that if you smear the heads of the newborns with paste of dried red figs, the flies don’t bother the newborns. Here, when others talk to me, it is just to make jokes about my town. There I had real friends. Here, everyone is buzzing talking about each other, there the only buzzing was the flies.”

This was more than Natan had said in the entire year. So Rabbi Yosi started asking Natan, every day, for stories about Great Snoring, and did he have stories! And bit by bit Natan began improving. He stopped looking at the window so much, and even made a few friends. And that is how rabbi Yosi said: “Blessed is the One who makes any place be loved by those born there.”

Natan became a good student. Eventually he returned to Great Snoring and became a teacher himself. And he never forgot Rabbi Yosi.

As I read the Torah text, I’d ask you to pay attention to verses 8:5 to 8:15 [click here], which bring the birds that Noach sends out, just before coming out of the ark. What do you make of which birds are sent, and how the text describes them? If they are symbols, what do they symbolize?

How do you understand the end of Noach?

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So let’s just pay attention to the fact that the distinction between the dove and the raven could not be greater. The raven is always black – with the exception of albinism – and the dove is multicolor, in most people’s minds it is white. What the Western tradition does with the image of the dove coming back with a leaf branch is amazing – it becomes almost a universal symbol of peace. In the text it is not so clear that that is the case. The raven, thanks to Edgar Alan Poe, becomes a symbol for all that is mysterious and spooky. In the text this is also not clear.

What is pretty clear is that the raven merits just one verse:

וַיְשַׁלַּ֖ח אֶת־הָֽעֹרֵ֑ב Noach sends the raven and it goes back and forth until the waters dry up.

Now if you read the Hebrew carefully, regarding the dove there is an added word: וַיְשַׁלַּ֥ח אֶת־הַיּוֹנָ֖ה מֵאִתּ֑וֹ

He sent the dove from himself, me-ito. And there is more, there is a mission given to the dove: to see whether the water had decreased from the earth. And then we have a much longer description of a relationship, really: the dove goes back and forth, since it can’t find a resting place. So Noach waits another 7 days, and sends the dove again. And the dove brings the famous olive branch. And the text is very clear, repeating on both occasions a word that does not get translated: elav, the dove returns to him. And Noach waits yet another seven days, sends the dove again, and when the dove does not come back, and Noach knows it is time for himself to look – and the ground is drying. But he waits another month and 27 days inside, until God tells Noach to get out.

I find quite interesting that Noach is so scared that he does not really want to look. Then I think we can understand a bit this sending of the raven and then the dove. The raven, apparently, is going back and forth on its own, while the dove needs to be sent out every time.

Jewish tradition does not take kindly to the raven. The raven is not a kosher species, and so the rabbis in the Talmud, tractate Sanhedrin 108b will judge it in relation to the dove: kosher birds want to stay with the tzadikim, the righteous, and that is why the dove needs to be sent every time. The raven, on the other hand, is the one species that does not accept the ban on reproduction in the ark, according to that same piece in the Talmud. And how do we know there was a ban? Because when they get in Noach family is separated by gender, and when they get out they are not.

The raven is the only one that reproduces in the ark, according to the rabbis. If you are going to count every instance of how long the ordeal of the flood took, you might be surprised: the total time Noach spends in there sums 444 days. And this is without Netflix, internet and cellphones. So the raven opposes the reproduction ban, and again according to the rabbis in Sanhedrin accuses Noach of wanting Mrs. Raven for himself.

Many species of doves are monogamous. But all species of ravens and corvids are monogamous as well [click here to know more], and will defend their mate no matter the cost. In that sense we can understand the worry – and even jealousy – of the raven.

So let’s go back to the question of symbols: the dove represents repentance, teshuvah, hope, goodness, calm love and peace. It is the symbol of repentance due to the Book of Yonah, which we read on Yom Kippur, and also because of its flight, that goes up and down. No wonder Noach want it back to him every time.

Imagine that the raven is up for grabs, despite Edgar Allan Poe’s The Raven, which clouds a lot of American sensitivities towards this very intelligent animal [click here to see what ravens are capable of! And here too].

The Chasidic master Itzchak Leyner of Itzbicza, or Mei HaShiloach, affirms that the raven is the symbol of anger. He understands that Noach sends out the raven as a symbol of sending out the anger from the remaining existence. The idea is that the world had gone through a purification process, and that Noach understood that anger and violence were the causes of the destruction. The raven, as a symbol of anger, is sent out. But it does not disappear, it comes back and forth.

The Mei HaShiloach believes that this is because anger is still needed in the world. When an individual feels the desire to do something wrong, he says, that person can get angry at herself or himself, and then put the desire away, conquering that impulse. Anger, the Mei haShiloach says, can be very useful.

It is in that usefulness that the raven shows up in another story. The main character that is going to be helped by a raven is the prophet Elijah, beloved of the seder table and the brit milah. You might not know this, but Queen Jezebel wanted to kill Elijah the prophet, and so he hides in a cave. Ravens bring bread to him. And that is the other symbol of the raven – the raven, according to a midrash, knew that God needed it for this much more important errand, and so wanted to be ready. So ravens can be the symbol of readiness, preparedness, the desire of being consequential in the world.

Anger, in that sense, is a hint to our base desires – just like the raven. Because of our desire to be consequential, to live meaningful lives, is also important. Anger can get out of control, and Noach himself experiences that at the end of his story.

The end of Noach is painful to watch. He drinks himself to stupor. If you understand Noach as a survivor of trauma, it is not so surprising that he drinks to forget. He and his family have been inside the ark for so long that Noach has to send the birds first – he cannot bear to look for himself at the destruction, which he probably imagines is great. And he refuses to get out of the ark. God has to call him out. And even when he is out, just imagine what he saw. Sure, most flesh was decomposed after 444 days in water, but the bones are certainly still there. Just imagine the vision.

It is with no surprise that he becomes drunk. Survivors of trauma that did not do the work to transcend and conquer the scars of trauma are in a very likely to become drug and alcohol abusers. And I want to say that his son, that does something to his father of obviously sexual nature, is also reacting as survivors of trauma might – not using alcohol or drugs to dull the pain, but using sex instead. And the end, in which Noach curses his own grandchild, not even the son who did the thing to him, but his own grandson, shows to us how destructive anger can become and spill out through generations, perpetuating the cycle of trauma.

So part of the sending of the raven, which is Noach’s desire for a world without anger, according to the Mei Hashiloach, is beautiful – but Noach did not send anger away from himself. He did not work on his own trauma, and so becomes a victim of it.

And so here is the lesson I see in this story this week: it is not enough to want to make the world a better place. We have to make ourselves better people too. It is not enough to want to send anger away from the world, we have to work on our anger as well. Then maybe we will be able to both become better people and make this world a better place, and not become victims of it.

Shabbat Shalom

The portion of this week, Noach, carries a hint about prayer:

“make an ark for yourself” (Genesis 6:14) – which is understood as make a word for yourself. In Hebrew, TEIVAH is both “word” and “ark”. How we construct our words is then a quest of everyone – what do you say to people, how we say those words, what we say to God and how we pray.

The Watchman

Reb Naftali of Ropshitz met a watchman making his rounds and asked him, “For whom are you working?” After answering, the man turned to the rabbi and inquired, “And you, for whom are you working?” The Ropshitzer was thunderstruck. He walked alongside the man for a bit and then asked him, “Will you work for me?” “Yes,” the man responded, “I should like to, but what would be my duties?” “To remind me,” responded Reb Naphtali, “to remind me.”

~ the question contained in this story is: how do you remind yourself to be connected to God? What will you do?

A Little Milk

Rabbi Naftali of Ropshitz walked into his kitchen one morning before prayers, and complained to the womenfolk who were busy there:” “For all my efforts don’t I deserve a little bit of milk?”

At that time Reb Asher, his son-in-law, had not yet learned to plumb the profundity of the rebbe’s words, and it bothered him that his father-in-law should become so irritated with other people. “This is no way to talk to people in the house! I’ll have to rebuke him about this” he thought to himself.

Just at that moment a woman came along to the tzaddik and sobbed out her plaint: “Rebbe, please help me, I haven’t enough milk with which to nurse my twin babies!”

“Go back to your home, my good woman,” he answered, “and the Almighty will help you.” And he gave her a blessing and comforting words.

Reb Asher was distracted from the little incident, and forgot the idea of rebuke.

A few weeks later Rabbi Naftali entered the kitchen, slammed the table and screamed another angry complaint: “So I’m already given a bit of milk, it’s all watery. Haven’t I earned some good nourishing milk for all my work?”

“This time,” thought Reb Asher, “I will not keep silent. In fact I will rebuke him twice, a holy man like himself losing his temper over such trifles!”

Again his thoughts were interrupted by the bitter weeping of the same woman, who had just entered.

“Rebbe!” she cried to Rabbi Naftali. “Thank God I now have milk to give my little ones – but it’s like water, and the babies are as skinny as sticks! Won’t you pray and ask the Holy One to bless me with good milk?”

“My good woman,” said the tzaddik, “return home to your babies. God will help you and you will have good milk.” And he gave her a blessing and comforting words.

A few weeks later, the twins, strong and healthy, were the happiness of the neighborhood. And Reb Asher began to understand how reb Naftali worked, and Reb Naftali’s relationship to God: a Friend.

~ This story asks us not to judge others harshly, and to remember that prayer is about others – relieving them of suffering and pain, offering a hand when we’re able and a blessing if we’re capable.

~~

Biographical note:

Rabbi Naftali of Rofshitz (1760-1827) became known for his sharp wit and humor and his elusive shining aphorisms. Some of his teachings are collected in his works, Zera Kodesh, Ayalah Sheluchah, and Imrei Shefer. Many stories about him appear in the book, Ohel Naftali.

The last three gifts

When God sent Adam and Chava from the garden, God gave them three gifts.

The first one, as you probably know, was clothes. The Torah text says:

And the LORD God made garments of skins for Adam and his wife, and clothed them. (3:21)

It took them a little to see the second gift.

They were now o

utside the garden. They were afraid. According to the midrash, they had five children with them: Kayin and his twin sister, and Hevel and his two twin sisters <you can read this midrash by clicking here>.

They were afraid for the first time. They had never experienced fear in the garden. They were sad for the first time. They had never experienced sadness in the garden. They were anxious for the first time. They had never experienced anxiety in the garden. With all those feelings swirling around and inside them, they felt terribly alone and confused, too.  They also felt guilty. It was such an oppressive amount of negative feelings, and the only thing they could do was to

hug each other and cry together. It was the first time they cried, too.

And suddenly, they felt better. A little lighter. That’s when they learned of the second gift – the power of tears. After the tears, they held their hands together and began walking away from the only home they had known so far, the garden.

And as they looked back, they saw the third gift, even though it would take them a very long time to comprehend that it was a gift. They saw the tree of life – if you remember, they had only taken from the tree of knowledge, but the tree of life was left untouched. God did not want them to take the fruit from the tree of life because that would mean they could live forever. Notice – they were going to die inside the garden, they just didn’t know it.

So God had decided that the best way to prevent this was to put angels guarding the tree and the way back:

the cherubim and the fiery ever-turning sword, to guard the way to the tree of life. (Gen. 3:24)

Now imagine what Adam and Chava and their children saw: a tree with fire all around, and not being burnt.

And so I ask you – what do we call the tree of life? What is the Etz Chayim? It’s Torah. You know who saw that entrance again, many generations later? Moshe.

What did Moshe see? He saw a tree, with fire all around, not being consumed. And he did understand how fabulous that vision was.

And this was God’s last parting gift: the entrance of the garden is still there, the signpost for it is our Torah, and the more we study and learn, the more we follow the mitzvot, the greater is the fire within, burning with love for God and the garden. And that is how we make our way back, every day.

The Etrog by S. Y. Agnon, adapted

[By clicking on the links you will see the original story by Agnon and other interesting things]

If you want to know how precious the mitzvah of Etrog is to the Jewish people you just need to go to Meah Shearim before Sukkot. That neighborhood, which is like a withered plant all year long, becomes pleasure garden, with stores full of etrogs, lulavs, and hadasim. Jews from all over Jerusalem crowd into those stores, inspecting the etrogs, lulavs, and hadasim, or sharing learned insights about them.

Shmuel went to purchase an etrog for himself, since you know, the worse thing in the world is a stolen etrog. It has to be yours, even if a richer friend wants to lend it to you, they need to give it as a gift. And then, of course, you gift it back to them. The worse thing in the world is a stolen etrog – because from that mitzvah you acquire riches without end, mostly they say, a son. And so Shmuel pushed his way into the shop of a seller of old books, who abandons book selling during the month or so before Sukkot in order to sell etrogs.

The shop is full of customers, and the book seller, who had become an etrogger (that is, a seller of etrogs), was busy with his merchandise. Very, very busy. He leaped from corner to corner, from shelf to shelf, pulling one etrog out of its wrapping while wrapping another etrog back up.

If a person should say, “There’s a wrinkle in this here etrog,” the book seller transformed into an etrog seller is quick to remind the buyer that this wrinkle is to the praise of the etrog, for the fruit that Eve ate in the Garden of Eden was none other than an etrog, and her teeth marks remain on the fruit in the shape of this wrinkle.

On seeing that the shop was packed, and the storekeeper preoccupied, Shmuel decided to leave. He pulled him back and said, “Wait a moment and I’ll give you an etrog that blesses those who bless on it.” He abandoned all his other customers, jumped about while presenting me with two or three etrogs; about each he asked, “Were you looking for one like this? Is this the one you desire?” Shmuel hadn’t a chance to examine them before he presented a fourth, fifth, and sixth etrog, and then the etrog seller moved to another customer. And despite the differences among the etrogs—in size, quality, and beauty—the storekeeper’s mouth had the same word of praise for each. When Shmuel finally made up his mind – so many choices! – he heard the price and set that etrog aside, to find one, well, more within his budget. You know, in Sukkot we have many other mitzvot, and none of them are free. But then the storekeeper smiled and said, “Rabban Gamliel purchased an etrog for one thousand zuz, and the sages did not even specify whether it was beautiful or not, and you set aside the choicest of etrogs on account of a few dollars?”

In a corner of the shop, away from all the other customers, stood an old man inspecting the etrogs in one of the boxes. Sometimes a person can stand in the thick of a crowd, and only one other person draws attention. This is what happened to Shmuel with that old man at that time.

When he selected an etrog he asked the storekeeper what it cost. He told him the price. Setting the etrog aside, the old man said, “That much money I do not have. Give me one cheaper than this.” The storekeeper said, “Rabbi, if you want a kosher etrog you have to pay such-and-such a price, just as Rabbi Ploni and Gabbai Almoni paid for theirs. Do you know, rabbi, how much they paid?” At that point the storekeeper named an outrageous price, while looking at the etrog and declaring it to be the very embodiment of the Torah’s ideal of beauty, strictly kosher according to all opinions. The old man replied, “Even the money, with which one purchases the etrog, must also be kosher. There is nothing worse than a stolen etrog.” Without saying another word, the store-keeper sidled up to Shmuel and asked: “Have you found one yet?”

“That man you called ‘Rabbi’—who is he?”, asked Shmuel. The storekeeper whispered, “Why, that’s the Rabbi of Teplik. I’m surprised you don’t know him. All of Jerusalem says he’s a true genius.” I told the shopkeeper, “I’ve heard his name but have never seen him face-to-face until now.”

What had Shmuel heard of him? He was a genius, very pious, but above all the rabbi of Teplik was renowned for his charitable works with the poor. The rabbi struggles with those hard-hearted and uncharitable, making them give tzedakah even when they don’t really want. The rabbi also deals with those appointed to administer the funds that are supposed to go to the poor. On account of the mitzvah of tzedakah he thinks nothing of his own honor, nor of the trouble he exerts on behalf of the needy. There are rabbis who are praised for their Torah knowledge, for their piety, their cleverness, or worldly knowledge — the rabbi of Teplik also had all these things. He was worthy to be crowned with gold and reside in splendor, but he lived in a poor neighborhood, in a small apartment, in worn-out garments, like most of the folks in Jerusalem who do not possess enough money to purchase fancy clothes. Most of his salary earned from the rabbinate was distributed to orphans and widows.

The rabbi of Teplik finally found a kosher etrog that was within his budget. He took out his wallet and paid the storekeeper. From the way he opened the wallet and counted out the money, it was clear he didn’t have much to spare.

Shmuel, too, found an etrog. He ended up splurging on that etrog, its price having been driven up by the competition for a beautiful etrog. Weary and worn, Shmuel left the etrog shop. The day before had been Yom Kippur, and despite the fact that he had spent 26 hours or more fasting and praying barefoot he hadn’t felt tired — not in body neither in spirit, but he had felt a great joy. But in those three or four hours spent in the pursuit of a kosher etrog, there was no joy and all the haggling over prices, even when it involves a mitzvah, brings one to exhaustion.

Shmuel had always been troubled by this: Mitzvot that are given to the whole of the Jewish people should be affordable to all Jews, yet some mitzvot are within reach of the rich but not the poor. Yet Torah and mitzvot were given to all Jews.

While Shmuel was still thinking about this, a certain fellow approached him, “You should wish me Mazal Tov — my wife, she should live and be well, gave birth to a son.” After Shmuel had finished with all the possible blessings for the father and the mother and the son, he asked when the brit milah would take place. He told Shmuel, “On the first day of Sukkot, following the services at the small shul of my neighborhood.”

So on the first day of Sukkot Shmuel rose extra early, washed his hands and face, entered his sukkah, recited the blessing over the lulav and etrog, had some coffee, took his tallit, his siddur, and his lulav and etrog, and headed off for the little shul of that man making a brit for his son. He rose early because of the honking of the cars, truth be told. But he set on his way.

It was a nice day, neither too hot nor too chilly. The sukkot and the lulavs he saw in his way perfumed the air of his journey. After a bit more than an hour walk he arrived in the neighborhood where the brit would take place.

That neighborhood was quite impoverished, with neither nice homes nor maintained streets, gardens, or orchards to please the eye. Yet it was quiet. No cars at all, and from a few sukkot could be heard the sound of Torah study. Out of love for the mitzvah of sitting in the sukkah, some of the people sat learning Torah outside. The sukkot, with their leafy green roofs, made the neighborhood look like a beautiful garden, while etrogs and hadasim gave off a pleasant fragrance, and the decorated cloth sukkah walls added beauty to the scene.

Shmuel entered the little shul, set his lulav down on the windowsill, took a book from the shelf, and sat down to learn. The shul was empty but for one old man, who stood bent over at the bookcase looking at a book. After a moment old man returned the book to its place and began pacing about like one troubled by a difficult matter.

As he was pacing he passed the windowsill where Shmuel’s lulav and etrog rested. He looked and asked permission to see the etrog. Upon examining it he declared, “Kosher, kosher.”

Shmuel then remembered who the old man was. It was the rabbi of Teplik! Shmuel also remembered what he had said about the officials who waste communal funds to acquire beautiful etrogs for themselves. His exact words were: “Even the money used to buy the etrog needs to be kosher, that is, ‘kosher money’ is more important than adding to the beauty of the mitzvah. There is nothing worse than a stolen etrog.”

While Shmuel was thinking about the meaning of those words, the rabbi of Teplik said to him: “I would like to perform the mitzvah with your etrog.” Shmuel said to him, “It is given to you as a gift.” After he recited the blessing, the rabbi also gave the etrog back, as a gift.

Shmuel then asked: “Rabbi, where is your etrog? You bought a lovely etrog, and with kosher money too, I saw when purchased it.”

He gazed at Shmuel with large and lovely eyes, in which you could see wisdom and innocence, and he said, “You were there when I bought my etrog? Indeed, a kosher etrog it was, but something happened to it. But why are you standing?” Shmuel said to him, “If the rabbi doesn’t sit, I don’t sit either.” He said, “I am used to standing, but so that you need not stand, I will sit.”

The rabbi sat, Shmuel sat, and the rabbi told the story: “In my neighborhood there resides a certain baal-ha-bait, a certain houseowner. A tough, angry, irritable man, but careful about mitzvot. He bought an etrog for at least 80 dollars, maybe more. He bragged about it in front of his neighbors, that there was none finer. I’m not sure how beautiful it really was, but there’s no one in this neighborhood who can afford to buy an etrog for 80 dollars. This morning I heard a sound of crying coming from his house. I told my wife ‘I hear the neighbor’s child crying, go see why she is crying, please.’ My wife returned and said: ‘The girl was playing with the etrog her stepfather bought for eighty dollars, the etrog fell from her hand, broke its pitom and became invalid for the mitzvah. Her mother smacked her. That poor woman knows what’s in store for her from her husband on account of her daughter from her first marriage.’ I asked my wife: ‘Where is he now?’ She said: ‘He ran to the mikveh to immerse prior to taking the lulav. If he’s come out of the mikveh, he must be sitting in the sukkah of the Rebbe of Zvhil, to watch and learn as he waves the lulav, for his waving is like that of his father, who received the tradition from his father, and his father from his father back to the Maggid.’ I then ran and took my etrog to the girl and said to her: ‘Don’t cry. Here is my etrog, give it to your mother. If your father asks, have your mother tell him: The rabbi was here and saw that your etrog was not kosher. To enable you to perform the mitzvah properly, he gave you his etrog as an unconditional gift.’ It was because of that trouble that I didn’t have time to recite the blessing on my own etrog.”

The rabbi added, “You know, there’s nothing worse than a stolen etrog. The etrog must be kosher, but the money that purchases the etrog must be kosher also!”