Part I
Story 1: Sinat Chinam
Chaim the tailor lived in a small shtetl in Poland. He had a large family but a meager parnassah. The traditional custom was to send out one’s children of age to seek out additional income to send back to the family and lessen the burden. The time came when the eldest son, Yankele, was sent to do exactly that. Luck was with him and he turned out to be a successful businessman accruing a nice fortune for himself; unfortunately, he forgot his responsibility to the family. As time went on, Shloimie, the second in line, reached maturity and it was his turn to go out into the world. News of Yankele’s success reached their hometown, and Shloimie was encouraged to seek out Yankele and ask for his help. He was successful in his search and found the factory Yankele established. Shloimie was so overcome with the excitement of reuniting with his brother that he was barely able to relate his request to the foreman—only to be overcome with shock and bitterness when the foreman returned alone, with Yankele’s response: “Send the traveler away; I have no brother.” It was with a broken heart that Shloimie continued his journey to find parnassah to supplement the family’s income. Years later, Yankele learned that his father was on his deathbed. He returned home to sit at his bedside and share some words of comfort. Yet, to his surprise, his father looked at him sadly, and turned away. Finally, Yankele cried out: “Tati, don’t you remember me? I am Yankele, your eldest son!” Chaim used all of his residual strength, nearly choking in his tears, when he uttered his parting words: “If you have no brothers, then I have no son with the name of Yankele.” This, my friends, is exactly how Hakadosh Baruch Hu feels when He sees we are not getting along and failing to be there for one another,
As we left behind the time period known as bein hametzarim, between the narrow straits, we couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief. After all, we earned the “pass” to enjoy the food and activities that were denied us during the Nine Days and Three Weeks. On one level, so many of us look forward to the annual celebratory weekend of Shabbos Nachamu, yet there seems to be a serious disconnect in the way we celebrate this day. Is it possible that we are so ready to give up our period of mourning because we forgot that without the Beit Hamikdash Hashem is “homeless?” If that isn’t bad enough, don’t we know that as long as we are separated from Him we lose the protection He offers in His dual metaphorical roles as our father and husband? When will we come to realize the tragic implications of the reality that while the calendar tells us that the Three Weeks are over, we are still in the same “tight spot”? The good news is that our Torah offers the formula for a permanent remedy, and accessing the cure is in our own hands.
Our Torah teaches us that there is always a connection between the Books of the Torah and parshiot that juxtapose one another. We ended Sefer Bamidbar with Parshiot Matot/Masei where we learned an alternative explanation offered by the Rav on the meaning behind bringing forth the Korban Chatat on Rosh Chodesh: The Holy One, Blessed be He, said, “Bring an atonement for me because I made the moon smaller.” We are all familiar with the midrash that relates that when Hashem created the sun and the moon, the moon argued that “two kings cannot wear one crown.” Hashem knew that mankind, like the moon, would also be challenged by the inherent trait of “jealousy.” Therefore, He decided to teach us the power of a word via His own response to the moon’s complaint. And so he revealed to us that His act of pegimat ha’levana, the diminution of the moon, was the root cause of the “chaos” that exists in world, until this very day. How so? Hashem wanted mankind to understand the dual power of our words, both to create or destroy. Indeed, in responding to the moon’s complaint Hashem could have “enlarged” the moon. This would have been seen as an act of enhancement—by building on His creation of the sun. Instead, He chose to “cut” the moon down, an act of destruction, and this was the reason Hashem had to ask for atonement. Thus we learn that the choice of destruction over creation, even if made for good reason, by the Holiest of Holy, is the wrong option.
In analyzing the text, our rabbis teach us that the word “devarim” is also a combination of the words davar, word, and yam, ocean. They explain: “Words, like the ocean, can be both stormy and calm. An evil mouth, like stormy waves, can destroy and kill; yet, as we all know, calming words, like a medicinal balm, can soothe away the greatest pain. On Tisha B’Av, Rabbi YY Jacobson spoke to the idea that the foundations of Ahavat Chinam begins in the home via our interactions with our spouses and our children. If we begin by simply feeling and expressing hakarat hatov to Hakadosh Baruch Hu for His daily chesed, we take the first essential step in coming out of ourselves; as a result, it will be easy to transfer these feelings onto our spouses, family members and others we interact with on a daily basis. In doing so we open the door to giving rather than receiving. Reaching out with a word of encouragement, a smile of recognition/approval or just an ear that really listens to someone in need empowers the giver as well as the recipient. A real-time story told by Rabbi Paysach Krohn bears testimony to the power of our words.
Story II: Ahavat Chinam
Rabbi Krohn was enjoying the seudah following a bris he performed when a young lady approached him, crying, “Rabbi, I can’t do this anymore.” He calmed her down and encouraged her to share the story behind the tears. It turns out that she was married for 10 years and was still childless. It broke her heart to attend the celebrations of all her friends, yet she felt guilty spoiling the simcha with her tears. Rabbi Krohn empathized with her pain and gave her the following advice: “Every day I would like you to daven for another childless couple, with immense kavana, really feeling their pain and using your tears for the yeshua of another.” A few years later, when Rabbi Krohn was participating in another bris, a young woman approached him. It was quite difficult for him to recognize that this smiley, confident individual was the same despondent akara who once sought out his help. When he learned that she was now the mother of two young children, he thanked her for making his day by sharing her good news, to which she replied: “I may have made your day, but you made my life!”
So, my friends, along with enjoying the pleasures of hearing the music at concerts on Shabbos Nachamu and the rest of the year, let us remember that we can also look forward to the geulah by making someone’s day, or someone’s life, making it possible for them to “hear the music” as well. Even simple acts of kindness—taking the time to listen and show a broken soul that we care—can enhance and even transform his or her life. And perhaps, as these acts accumulate, we will be zoche to hear the music made by the trumpets of geulah, transforming our day of mourning on Tisha B’Av into a Yom Tov of joy. L’shana haba’ah b’Yerushalayim.
By Dr. Renee Nussbaum
Renee Nussbaum is a practicing psychoanalyst with training in Imago and EFT. She also facilitates a chavruta in cyberspace on the weekly parsha, edited by Debbie Friedman. She can be reached at [email protected].
