Baruch Hima B'Aim, Rabotai (my masters). We’re in Parshat Terumah. These parashiyot of Sefer Shemot—Terumah, Tetzaveh, Vayakhel, Pekudei—all talk about the Mishkan (Tabernacle). Every speaker, every rabbi who gives classes—maybe I shouldn’t say it, but you dread getting to these parashiyot because they’re very technical. What can you talk about? You’re talking about the construction of the Mishkan, how much gold and silver and work went into it, what they did, and how they built it. Then you have to speak for an hour and bring lessons from that. Not that Torah is lacking lessons, but it’s difficult. The stories are easier to talk about. And when you get to the halachot (Jewish laws), you want to talk halachically—what can you talk about? Baruch Hashem (Blessed be God), we stumbled on a nice story this week.
The pasuk (verse) says in the parashah, “You shall make me a dwelling place, a Mikdash, and I will dwell in you.” That means the Beit HaMikdash (Holy Temple) comes down to the world, but it does not dwell only in the Temple; it dwells in the heart of every Jew. Ve'asu li Mikdash—we know that we had Batei Mikdashot (two temples): the first Beit HaMikdash, built by King Shlomo, stood for 410 years and was later destroyed by the Babylonians. The second Temple was built 70 years later, after the exile in Babel. That was a 70-year gap. It was built under the guidance of Ezra, and it stood for 420 years before Titus and his Roman legions destroyed it. So again, the first Beit HaMikdash stood for 410 years, and the second Beit HaMikdash for 420 years.
Now watch what we’re going to say here: Ve'asu li Mikdash veshachanti, “and I will dwell.” Veshachanti, Taf Yud—how much does Taf Yud equal? Taf is 400; Yud is 10. Veshachan, “I will dwell,” 410 years. Take the same word and take out the letters that spell, and you’re left with letters that equal 420. So you see clearly that the word itself hints at the first Beit HaMikdash, which lasted 410 years, and the second Beit HaMikdash. The remaining letters are the Kaf and the Tav, which lasted 420 years. Unfortunately, we do not have it. But the pasuk says here, “He is standing behind the wall.” The Midrash (rabbinic teaching) says there is still a remnant, a remainder, and that is what we call the Kotel HaMa'aravi (Western Wall), the wall that surrounded Har HaBayit, which surrounded the Beit HaMikdash. The Midrash tells us that the Shekhinah (Divine Presence) never left. He is by the wall. The Shekhinah is everywhere, of course. But if you want to know the place in the world where it is most concentrated, where it is at its greatest strength, that is by the Kotel HaMa'aravi.
The Midrash says in another place that the Kotel HaMa'aravi will never be destroyed. So you have no fear, with all the Arabs and all the attacks and all the wars: that wall will exist forever. It is probably the holiest site Jewish people have in existence today. Those who have never been to Eretz Yisrael (Israel) should make it their goal to take a trip there—not to go to the places Israeli tourism tells you to go, like swimming with dolphins in Jordan, bungee jumping in Eilat, or going to a David Bowie concert in Tel Aviv. Whatever they tell you to do, don’t do it. That serves a purpose: you know exactly what not to do in Israel. Listen to that commercial and write everything down so you can tell the tour, “Don’t take me here.” But every person, of course, when he goes to Eretz Yisrael, has one of the focal points of the trip: going to see the Western Wall.
Some facts, just so we can get a little into the subject before we get into the halakha (Jewish law). We looked up some facts about the Western Wall. There’s a famous quote from Rav Kook. Rav Kook used to say, in Hebrew—or, paraphrasing what he says in English—“There are men with hearts of stone, and there are stones with human hearts.” These stones, of course, are the stones of the Kotel HaMa'aravi. Even if it weren’t a holy place—let’s say those stones weren’t holy—the mere fact that so many millions of Jews have gone to that wall, prayed to Hashem, cried, and gotten closer to Hashem through their prayers makes it holy. So you have a double compound Kiddushah (holiness) here: the Kiddushah that was there before anybody even got there, just because the wall of their God is there, and then a place where so many tefillot (prayers) have been said. That’s where the gates of Heaven are. If you go to the Kotel, you have a direct line. You don’t need an operator; you don’t have to dial a hundred numbers. You have a direct line.
The Kotel—we should not take it for granted. In 1948, the Jews had no access to the Kotel. You look at the old pictures in the books and see that the Arabs’ houses were right up against the wall. It wasn’t the open pavement you have today, where you can walk down and see the façade; it’s nice, you can pray, and it’s a bit air-bound. There’s a lot of space. In the old days, the Arabs lived there and hung their laundry and underwear right in front of the wall. That’s where they lived, and it went on like that for 20 years. On June 7, 1967, during the Six-Day War, we got back and recaptured the wall. A couple of days later was Shavuot, and that was one of the most memorable Shavuot celebrations at the Kotel. A quarter of a million people gathered to celebrate Shavuot at the wall, the place they hadn’t been able to go for 20 years.
I heard a tape, live audio of the people who were the first ones to recapture the Kotel, and the lunacy that was going on—the excitement of the people you hear when they finally got to the wall for the first time in 20 years. It’s amazing; they had it on tape. You hear them singing and dancing, and then you hear some rabbi in the background screaming at the top of his lungs. I’m not saying Allah is right or wrong for saying this, but that’s the emotion that drove him. It was an amazing thing. You listen to that tape and think, “Wow, how lucky are we?” We take it for granted. A guy lives in Israel and goes to the Kotel there once a second. It’s like the Empire State Building and living in New York. You ask someone in New York, “Did you ever go to the Empire State Building?” “No, I never went.” Tourists come, and that’s what they’re doing every day: going to every floor, stopping and looking out each window at every view and taking pictures. We don’t even know where it is. It’s not like that. The Kotel is a holy place, but sometimes you take it for granted. It is the holiest place we have today. Therefore, everyone should make it their business to go there.
What I’m reading here says that there are individual stones on the wall that weigh up to 100 tons. That’s a miracle in itself, that they were able to build the wall. How do you lift 100 tons? Today, there’s a question: how do you lift 100 tons? We have machinery and everything. In the old days, you needed a strong donkey’s back to carry a hundred tons. That’s a miracle in itself.
Side points. For all those involved in the computer age and with access to their computers, I found this week—as a matter of fact, today—that there is a site called Kotel Cam. Kotel Cam is on the Internet. They give you a live picture of the Kotel every two minutes. We took a picture just to get into the class. It’s marked February 11, 1997, 4.46 in the afternoon. This is what the Kotel looked like. Today, we have a live picture of the Kotel. It’s not the clearest picture on the screen; it comes out much clearer.
Tonight’s subject is the halachot that apply at the Kotel HaMa'aravi. What does someone going to the Kotel have to know? A lot: what he’s allowed to do, what he’s not allowed to do, and the potential problems that can come up when visiting the Kotel. This doesn’t apply to the north, south, or east side, just the west side—the other side, where the mosque is, the one you’re referring to, Richie. They just opened up a new site, I think it was the Bethesda West, maybe the South. As long as you’re not going up toward the mosque in that direction, you’re okay. But going above the place where they tell you to walk up the ramp to the mosque is asur (forbidden) for a Jewish person. A guy might want to go there to take a picture, but halakha says you can’t even fly a helicopter over the spot to take a picture. It’s asur for Jewish people. Today, we’re only limited to the wall itself, which was on the back side of where the Beit HaMikdash was. The Kiddushah was on the other side, where people were able to go beyond the Western Wall.
First of all, you have to remember that the Kotel has the status of a Beit Knesset (synagogue). It’s no less than a shul (synagogue), and therefore whatever respect halakha requires you to afford a Beit Knesset applies when you visit the Kotel. One is asur to go to the Kotel for a photo session. You can’t just walk up to the wall, take some pictures, put your hands on the rocks and make it look as if you’re praying and posing, and then say, “Okay, see you later,” and leave. It’s not a joke. It’s not a museum. This is a holy site. It’s like walking into a shul, taking a photo session with the heichal (ark). All the more so, you cannot do that at the Kotel. That doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to take pictures at the Kotel. If the guy went there solely to take a picture, we tell him, “Sit down first, pray, say some tefillah, get serious, and then, if you want to take a picture, you can take a picture.”
It is forbidden to smoke at the Kotel. Even though you’re outdoors, you might say, “Ah, what do you mean? I’m outside the shul; I’m not affecting anyone.” But you’re in an outdoor shul. Therefore, it would also be forbidden to eat at the Kotel. A guy walks up to the Kotel and they’re handing out borekas (pastries); you make a mezonot (food blessing), but you don’t do that at the Kotel, just as we don’t do that now in synagogues.
Furthermore, when a guy goes to the Kotel, everyone is interested in a souvenir. Sometimes people stick their hand in the wall, and you do find little pebbles. A guy says, “I got a pebble from the Kotel. I’ll take some dust, some earth from the Kotel,” and he brings it home. They say, “Segulah (protective charm), stick it on your pillow, put it on your mantle; you have an item from the remnants of the Beit HaMikdash.” Halakha says it’s asur to take any souvenirs from the Kotel, besides the fact that it’s not respectful. You wouldn’t go to your Beit Knesset—imagine everybody wanted to take a souvenir. Baha'i isn't. Everybody goes and takes a little particle, and after a few hundred years you’re wondering how come the shoes shrank 60 feet, and what happened to the left wing of the building? Everyone’s got a little piece of it on their shelf. The same thing would happen to the Kotel. Everyone chiseling away takes something. That’s just from a realistic standpoint. From a logistical standpoint, you’re not going to have a wall. And from a logistical standpoint, you’re not allowed to destroy a synagogue or a whole area. Therefore, it’s forbidden to take any mementos from the Kotel, whether stones or afar (earth).
When one is sitting at the Kotel, one has to sit with respect. When one sits in a synagogue, halakha says you’re not allowed to sit with your legs crossed, one leg over the other. Halakha discusses whether you’re even allowed to do that when you’re alone in your house, because the Shekhinah is in your house. You’re sitting with your legs crossed like you’re a big shot. All right, so halakha says that if you have to lean your book and don’t have a table or a lap desk, you can cross your legs and put the book there, and even that already… But at the Kotel, you’re standing in front of the Shekhinah. The guy sitting in front of the Kotel crossing his legs is out of line. Therefore, what is asur? As in a regular synagogue, it is forbidden to sit with your legs crossed at the Kotel HaMa'aravi.
Keri'ah (tearing one’s garment) is brought down in halakha. We won’t discuss it tonight because that depends on a minhag (custom). We have a law in the Beit Knesset, and this is important to say: it is forbidden to kiss someone in a Beit Knesset. When one is in synagogue, one’s love is supposed to be totally focused on Kadosh Baruch Hu (the Holy One, blessed be He). When one kisses someone in a Beit Knesset, it takes away from the love of Hashem. This is Hashem’s house. You don’t show love to anyone else by manifesting it through a kiss. Some people, after they get an aliyah (Torah honor), go around kissing everybody on the cheek. That is forbidden in the Beit Knesset. If you want to kiss your father on his hand out of respect, that’s permissible. However, kissing on the cheek in the Beit Knesset, as they sometimes do, is asur. The same thing applies at the Kotel HaMa'aravi. Even though there was no shul, no wall, and it wasn’t in a synagogue, you have to make believe you’re at the Beit Knesset. Even though it’s outdoors, you could forget yourself. It’s a war, and you see the Chinese man with his cardboard kippah (skullcap), with his Nikon camera snapping away, and that can take you out of the mood and make you think, “Oh, it’s a tourist site.” You have the army walking around with their guns, so you can get into the wrong spirit. You have to remember you’re in a Beit Knesset, and really, that is a disgrace. Some people take so much pride: “Oh, look at that, all the people coming.” To us, that’s what they’re doing to our holy site, the holiest site for us in the world: turning it into a museum piece. Therefore, kissing by the Kotel would also be asur. This applies in shuls, too.
The question is brought down, and this applies in particular to the summer months. We have the custom, let’s say, of always praying early. We always have the first minyan (prayer quorum) at 6.30 or 7 o’clock. It’s still light outside. By the Kotel, the Sephardim have the same minhag: they pray Mincha (afternoon prayer) at 6.30, let’s say, on a beach, or at 7 o’clock or 7.15, and they’re finished. It’s still light outside; sunset isn’t until 8.30. So the Sephardim and the Hasidim don’t want to go home. They stay and listen to the other minyanim taking place so they can answer Amen, Nakdishach (We shall sanctify You), Barechu (Bless [the congregation]), and Baruch Shemo (Blessed is His name). The question is raised: a guy prayed at the Kotel on Friday night, Shabbat, Shabbat Shalom. Is he allowed now to go to a minyan of Ashkenazim praying Mincha and sit with them and answer Nakdishach? Is he allowed to answer Nakdishach after he accepted Shabbat? What’s the logic on the two sides of the coin? Do we say, “Well, it’s night for you; you accepted Shabbat, so you have the status of night, and therefore we don’t say Nakdishach at night, so go home and don’t answer Nakdishach”? Or do we say no? Bottom line: it’s still day outside. Even though you accepted Shabbat, it’s still day, so you can say Nakdishach.
There’s a halakha brought down in the Shulhan Aruch. If a guy forgot to put on tefillin (phylacteries) on Friday, let’s say, and prayed Arvit (evening prayer) early, it’s Shabbat, but it’s still light outside. The Shulhan Aruch says you can’t put on tefillin. Why? It’s still light outside; it’s not sunset. But the law says that since you accepted Shabbat, it’s Shabbat for you now, and you can’t put on tefillin on Shabbat. Why? Because you prayed. Maybe you say the same thing here: once you pray, you’re in Shabbat mode; it’s night for you, so no more Nakdishach, no more Kadosh, Kadosh, Kadosh (Holy, holy, holy). Is that the law? No, it is not. The logic of the law is as follows: you do answer Nakdishach. Why? Because there’s nothing wrong with answering Nakdishach even at night. There is no issur (prohibition) against answering Nakdishach when it’s dark outside. Why don’t we say Nakdishach in Arvit? Of course, Arvit is only the reshut (domain); it’s lesser than the other prayers. The Rabbis did not want to make us toil through all the chazarah (repetition), so they did us a favor and said you don’t have to make chazarah; you don’t have to make Nakdishach. But intrinsically, there is nothing wrong with saying Kadosh, Kadosh, Kadosh, even at night.
The proof of the pudding is every Saturday night, after the Amidah (standing prayer), we say, “Ve'atah Kadosh, yoshev tehilot Yisrael” (And You are holy, enthroned upon Israel’s praises), “Ve'kara zeh el zeh ve'amar” (And one called to another and said): “Kadosh, Kadosh, Kadosh.” On Purim night, after we read the Megillah (scroll), we also say, “Ve'atah Kadosh, yoshev tehilot Yisrael,” “Kadosh, Kadosh, Kadosh.” On Tishah B'Av night we also say, “Kadosh, Kadosh, Kadosh.” So there’s no problem with saying those words, Kadosh, Kadosh, Kadosh, at night. Halakha tells us that a guy who prays Mincha at the Kotel—or, for that matter, in shul—and accepts Shabbat can still go answer Nakdishach. One rabbi goes really well. One rabbi says not only is he allowed, he should, because he’s going to run into problems. He’s not going to answer Nakdishach. What are the people going to do? They’re going to think he’s a kofer (heretic). They’re all saying Nakdishach. What is this guy doing? Everyone’s praising God, everyone’s saying how exalted Hashem is, and you’re just standing there not answering. So you’re going to run into problems. He says you’re going to look like a kofer. Therefore, halakha tells you that if you prayed, you could still answer all the Barechu, Baruch Shemo, and Amen.
A very common question by the Kotel is this: an Ashkenazi comes to pray late for his fadadi, for that he’s coming to pray mitzvah (commandment). He hears an early Arvit. The guy next to him has his minyan right there, two feet away; another minyan is praying Arvit. He’s praying his ketoret (incense offering) before Asher, whatever. He hears the Arvit minyan saying Barechu. Is he allowed to answer Barechu? We discussed this once, and we’ll say it again. It is forbidden. You should not answer Barechu before you pray Mincha on Friday night, because once you answer Barechu, it’s as if you accepted Shabbat. Once you accepted Shabbat, you’re not allowed to pray Mincha anymore. Typically, you pray Mincha on Shabbat, so a guy thinks he’s being a hero. He’s sitting at the Kotel, saying Ashrei, listening in the corner of his ear. He hears, “Oh, you got a Barechu there; Baruch Hashem, I’m not going to buy it.” Hold it, you’re out. You lost your Mincha. That’s a dangerous thing. In that case, we say, don’t answer Barechu.
Furthermore, this guy wants the best of both worlds. He wants to answer, but he has an idea: “I’ll answer and have in mind that I don’t want to accept Shabbat. I want to get the credit for answering Barechu, but I’ll have in mind that I don’t want to accept it.” What does halakha say? The things you’re thinking in your mind don’t count. Once the words come out of your mouth, it’s a kabbalah (acceptance). It’s already Shabbat. Even though you’re thinking as you say it, “No, this doesn’t count. I don’t want it to count. I want Shabbat to come later,” we have a rule that says, “Devarim shebalev einam devarim.” Things that are in your heart are nothing. The words speak louder than what’s in your heart. You’re saying Barechu, Barechu; your mouth is saying it’s Shabbat, but your heart is saying no. What beats Shabbat? The mouth beats the heart. Therefore, do not answer Barechu. If you did answer, your Mincha is lost.
On a weekday, good question: according to this logic, there’d be nothing wrong with answering Barechu. I’m praying Mincha, I hear a Barechu of Arvit, a regular Barechu of Arvit on an ordinary day. I’m not accepting anything upon myself, and therefore halakha is correct, and you’re right. On a weekday, if you heard Barechu before you prayed Arvit, you can answer Barechu and go back to praying Mincha. However, on Shabbat, Barechu takes on added significance. Barechu is a kabbalah of Shabbat, and therefore you cannot answer Barechu. If you did, you lost your Mincha.
Gentlemen, don’t take these halakhot lightly, because they’re going to come up the next time you’re at the Kotel HaMa'aravi on a Friday night or the next time you’re in a Beit Knesset. All the laws we’re saying tonight, we’re saying because it’s the Kotel, but they apply in a Beit Knesset, too.
The last question we’ll discuss tonight in our halakha portion of the class is this rule for Friday night: if the shul where you’re praying has already accepted Shabbat, you’re not allowed to pray Mincha in that synagogue, in that sanctuary. It’s Shabbat in there. You’re going to come into a place where it’s Shabbat mode and start praying Mincha? Get out of here. So what do we tell the guy? Pray in the hallway, pray outside the shul, and then, after you finish Mincha, go in. You have to be aware of that. You walk into your shtiebel (small prayer house) and they’re singing Lecha Dodi; see you later, Mincha’s in the hall.
A question is asked by the seat silly: you go to the Kotel, and the Sephardim are praying Arvit early. The first minyan of Sephardim has accepted Shabbat, and then another minyan comes to pray Mincha. How do you judge the Kotel then? Do we say that once the first minyan of Sephardim has accepted Shabbat at the Kotel, nobody else can pray Mincha there? You guys come at 6.30, and that’s it—the Kotel, they’ll step out now. This gathering at the Kotel… When they’re still there accepting Shabbat, can you come in and pray Mincha? You can’t do that?
“Each minyan is its own reshut.” “Oh, so Steve—Rabbi Shomula gives a logic. What’s his logic? I’m going to expand on what you’re saying. I’m going to say what you said. It’s short; I’m going to expand on what you mean.” What he means is like this: what gives these ten Sephardim the right to turn the Kotel into their shul? The Kotel is not private property. You can’t go to the Kotel, put a sign on it, put permanent chairs there, and start selling seats for the holiday. “I was here first. I called it.” It doesn’t work that way. Nobody has rights to the Kotel over the next shul. Everyone has equal rights when it comes to the Kotel. Therefore, there’s no din of “first come, first serve,” where you pray and that’s it. It’s open for everyone. Each minyan is a separate entity and does not make the whole Kotel its own. So just because the Sephardim pray in the hot 6.30, you can have a minyan from the hot 7.30 without a problem, right next to it. Meaning, you hear the guys accepting Shabbat, and you’re a foot away from them praying Mincha. In a regular shul you’d say, “It’s crazy, God, I need to get out of here.” But by the Kotel, it’s different.
Furthermore, the proof they bring is like this. There’s a Mordechai, and Mordechai says that the bricks they used to build the Kotel and the Beit HaMikdash, and all the maintenance of these holy buildings around Yerushalayim (Jerusalem), were not paid for by one tribe. They used the leftover money in the treasury of the Beit HaMikdash to buy, fix, and maintain these holy buildings and structures of Yerushalayim. Mordechai explains that it was for the sole purpose of making sure one tribe did not have rights over the others. We’re not building the Beit HaMikdash with the money of Yehudah, so Yehudah can’t come and say, “It’s my money; I paid for this.” The Beit HaMikdash and the Kotel are everyone’s property. That’s why, when they built it, they used mamon tzibbur—public funds. They used the money from the Beit HaMikdash.
Furthermore, there’s an interesting question brought down by the rabbi called Emek Berachah, the rabbi from Karlin. He says the dwellers of Jerusalem do not have a right to make major laws, takanot (enactments), and changes in the way the city is run without consulting the rabbis of Chutz La'aretz (diaspora). Just because they’re living in Yerushalayim, Yerushalayim is not theirs. Yerushalayim is in everyone’s heart. Just because they’re living in Yerushalayim, they don’t make all the decisions. We’re sitting in America tonight, but we have a chelek (share) in Yerushalayim, and therefore our opinion has to come into play when decisions are made about what’s going to be in Yerushalayim. Yerushalayim is public property for the Jew. Therefore, the Gedolim (great rabbis) of Chutz La'aretz have to be involved in decisions about the different takanot that are going to take place in Yerushalayim, because that affects everyone, and we’re partners in that building. The wall is no different. Each minyan is a separate entity. Just because they pray Mincha in one minyan, you’re allowed to pray Mincha right next to it, and in Beit you’re allowed to pray Mincha right next to it; you have no problem of one sitting on—
Let’s review the laws quickly, gentlemen. This part of the class is the comprehension part. We’re going to review the laws quickly to make sure everyone understood them and no one comes away with any mistakes. The first law we said: is it permissible to go to the Kotel solely for a photo session? No.
A parenthetical here: there are rabbis who are against even having photographers walk into the shul to do a bar mitzvah. It cheapens what a Beit Knesset is. I guarantee you—I don’t know this for a fact, but it’s a gut feeling—that when they build the third Beit HaMikdash, I doubt CNN will be allowed to walk into the Temple and start filming and getting footage of what’s going on when we’re praying in there. I think they’re going to have some kind of law: no media allowed. And even the Jewish guy with the big flashbulb and the white kippah, they’re going to let him in, too, because when they bar mitzvah the kid in the Beit HaMikdash, they’re not going to say, “Get out of here.” It’s not a joke here. It’s not a mockery of this Beit HaMikdash. This is the house of God. No videos, no cameras allowed. Really, in the Beit Knesset, surely when they’re praying, it’s not respectful. Besides, it takes the kavanah (intention) off the guy when he has a light shining in his face while he’s praying. It’s not the most conducive to kavanah. But surely one does not have to go for a photo session.
Next halakha: we said one should not eat or smoke at the Kotel. One should not take souvenirs from the Kotel. One should not sit foot over foot at the Kotel, crossing his legs. Kissing at the Kotel, just as it’s forbidden in the shul, is forbidden at the Kotel. We said that after you pray Arvit, you can still answer Nakdishach to a Mincha minyan. We also said that if you didn’t pray Arvit, don’t answer Barechu, because you’re going to get into trouble. Then we said that even though they prayed Arvit, you could pray Mincha because it’s not considered one shul; it’s considered many shuls, and therefore you follow the minyan you’re in.
At the beginning of the parashah, Hashem says to Moshe to tell the Jewish people to start collecting donations for the building of the Mishkan. The Mishkan cost a lot of money. The materials were expensive. There was a lot of gold and silver. Hashem says, “Take for Me.” Tell the Jewish people, “Take for Me.” Now Rashi says to tell the Jewish people, when they give the charity, “Take it for My name; take it for My name.” What is li lishmi (for My name) coming to teach you? Some of the mefarshim (commentators) say that tzedakah (charity) is a unique mitzvah (commandment), because when you fulfill the mitzvah the proper way, you’re spelling the name of God. The little coin in your hand is symbolic of the smallest letter in the alphabet, a Yud. It’s in your palm, which has five fingers; that’s the letter He. When you stretch your arm out to give it to the ani (poor person), your stretched arm is a Vav. Then, when the ani opens his hand—which is another five, the palm you’re putting it in—that’s also He. So every time you give charity, you’re really acting out the name of Hashem. Yud is the coin, He is the palm, Vav is the stretched arm, and the hand of the ani is He.
Rashi comes and says, “Take it for My name,” which means give tzedakah the way you would spell My name. If a guy’s a kamtzan (miser), if he’s stingy, the ani has to go to him and stick his hand out, so now you’re messing up Hashem’s name. The Vav comes first—the ani’s hand—then his He, and then you’re sticking your hand in your pocket. But the one who runs after the mitzvah generously, he runs after him and sticks his hand out first. They’re having a coming out me, Nishmi.
There’s a story told in the Midrash about Rabbi Akiva and Rabbi Tarfon. Rabbi Akiva was walking with his colleague, Rabbi Tarfon. Rabbi Tarfon seems to have some money, so Rabbi Akiva says, “Listen, Rabbi Tarfon, I want to buy an orchard, a business. Do you want to lend me some money for the deal?” Rabbi Tarfon says, okay, an orchard; Rabbi Akiva is smart, he knows how to invest, and he gives him some money. Rabbi Akiva takes the money and builds a yeshiva. He gets talmidim, students, opens up Talmud Torah, and they’re learning. A couple of months later, a bit later, one says, “Rabbi Akiva, where’s that orchard you bought? Show me where, where, where; I want to see the property.” Rabbi Akiva says, “Oh, you’re going to enjoy it.” He takes him to the yeshiva. He walks in and sees the guys sitting there learning Gemarot, halakha, kol Torah. Rabbi Tarfon looks around, startled. He says, “Akiva.” He says, “Akiva, I wasted my money. Does a person throw away his money for nothing?” Rabbi Akiva turns to him and tells him, “Ketiv—it says in Tehillim (Psalms), ‘Pizar natan la'evyonim.’” Rabbi Tarfon looks back and says, “Nichamtani (You have comforted me).” You consult me, okay, I’m very happy. What’s going on here? Rabbi Tarfon sees that Rabbi Akiva used the money to build the yeshiva. Rabbi Tarfon should be elated. You should have bashed Rabbi Akiva: “You built the yeshiva; you’re learning.” What is it good for? What’s his reaction? His reaction is like the old-timers when they walk by the kollel: “What a waste. What are you doing?”
All of a sudden, Rabbi Akiva finds a pasuk in Tehillim that talks about giving charity. He hears the pasuk from Tehillim as if we’re lacking pesukim in the Torah. There are so many pesukim that talk about giving charity. He finds a pasuk in Tehillim: “Pizar natan la'evyonim.” Literally, it means, “He scattered, he gave to the poor people.” He heard those words—“He scattered, he gave to the poor people”—pizad, nadar, “Oh, I’m happy, fine.” What’s going on?
The explanation is as follows. Rabbi Tarfon understood that when you’re doing a mitzvah, you have to have kavanah. You have to have intent when you’re doing a mitzvah. When Rabbi Akiva came to him, he said, “I’m building an orchard; I’m buying an orchard.” Rabbi Tarfon thought it was going into a business deal. So when he gave the money to Rabbi Akiva, he wasn’t thinking of tzedakah; he was thinking of business. He gave him the money and said, “No, scale him as well. You did a big thing.” He said, “I didn’t do anything. I wasted my money. I didn’t have to come out for this. It doesn’t count. I gave the tzedakah with the wrong intention.” Rabbi Akiva tells him, “No, you scattered, you gave it.”
What’s the story? There’s a guy walking with a hundred coins in his pocket. His wife, who was not the best tailor, was supposed to sew up the hole in his pocket. She didn’t do such a good job. All the coins started falling out of his pocket. He’s walking. All of a sudden, he gets to the store, sticks his hand in his pocket, and it’s empty. “My money, my wife, my name!” Oh, what a—hundred gold coins. Meanwhile, there’s an ani walking down the block. He sees what’s happening. All the coins are falling out of the guy’s pocket. He’s unbelievable. He starts picking up the coins. Yawm subhan al-yahudayn. He’s picking them up, picking them up, counting them. He calls all his friends. “I’m going to invite you to a seudah (meal).” He takes them to the pizza store. “Order what you want.” All the aniyim sat with him. He was a big shot that day. They all ordered pizza. They made it to Lajadayin. They came home happy. This fellow came home in mourning. He was all upset, screaming at his wife: “What did you do to me here?”
In Olam Haba (the World to Come), this guy goes up there for 120 years. They tell him, “You catered the whole seudah for 100 aniyim. I never gave money to the aniyim. I gave money to the seudah. I never made the—what do you mean? You took them to the pizza place; they all ate. What are you talking about?” “Remember that day you were walking, the money fell out of your pocket, and he picked it up?” “I was screaming; I was yelling.” So the Beit Din, the rabbinical court of Heaven, says, “Does the ani care what you were thinking? All the ani cares about is that he got the coin. What do you care what was in your mind when you gave it? Even if you weren’t thinking, even if you gave it while you were sleeping, the bottom line is that a benefit came through you.”
What do you learn from here? That for tzedakah, you don’t need kavanah. As long as the ani gets it, it’s okay. Rabbi Tarfon thought, “I didn’t have kavanah, so we don’t count.” So he picks up a Tehillim; he’s out. If your money got scattered, it’s like you gave it. There’s no difference between it falling out of your pocket and your going and giving it. Meaning, you don’t need kavanah. But it is nice to have kavanah when you’re doing a mitzvah, even though you don’t have to when it comes to the mitzvah of charity, because the ani doesn’t care either way. That’s why the pasuk says, “Give it.” Even though you don’t have to give it, give it with the intention of doing it the best way.
The question is, if you’re giving tzedakah, it should say “give a donation,” but the pasuk says “take.” When you’re giving, you’re not taking. So why does the pasuk say that? I should ask the famous question. We’re not saying anything earth-shattering; we’re asking the famous questions. A famous ma'aseh (story) is told about someone who once went to one of the wealthy Rothschilds. The man was wealthy, and the king’s advisors believed that this Rothschild was embezzling the king’s treasure. The king summoned the Rothschild to his palace and said, “I want to know exactly what you’re worth. How much money do you own? What’s your money?” The man makes a calculation and says, “For example, I’m worth $100,000.” The advisor says, “See that? He’s a liar. We know his net worth is a million, and he’s telling you $100,000? He’s a faker!” The king knew that. He was an honest fellow. He says, “I know you’re worth a million. How can you say you’re worth a hundred?” The wealthy Rothschild looks at the king and says, “I am worth a million dollars. Yes, on paper I have a million dollars, but that’s not my money. The king could take that money away from me tomorrow. The stock market could crash; I could lose it tomorrow. My business could go bankrupt; I could lose it tomorrow. That money isn’t guaranteed. I can’t call it my money. But here’s a book of all the charity I gave in my life, the 10% I gave, the ma'aser (10%) I gave. That’s mine. That’s a deposit in the bank of Shamayim (Heaven), receiving interest. Nobody could take away that money I gave. The only money you actually possess is the money you gave to tzedakah. When you give tzedakah, you’re really taking tzedakah. When you give to the ani, it’s like you’re filling out a deposit slip, depositing it into your bank account—not the ani’s, your account in Shamayim.” And, Rabotai, in Shamayim they don’t pay 2% interest or 3.5% interest. They have much better rates than they have over here. The Ramabar rates are compounded a millionfold.
So the pasuk says, “Veyikchu li” (a donation). I’m giving. Because your worth is the amount of charity you gave. The pasuk says, “If one lends money to a poor person.” The money you gave to the poor man is with you. What does that mean? The money you gave to the poor man is with you. Is that saying the money I gave is with him? No. The money you gave him boomerangs back to you. Whatever you give, you get. In a mashal, a parable, there was a father trying to make his kids sharp. He tells his son, “There were ten birds on the roof. A hunter came and shot four of the birds. How many birds are left on the roof?” The kid thinks for a second. “He shot four birds, so that means there are six left, Daddy.” The father says, “No, you didn’t think. There aren’t six left. First of all, when you shot the four birds, all the others ran away. The only ones left on the roof are the four dead birds. So there are four left on the roof.” What is the mashal trying to teach you? The money you spent is gone. The only money you trapped is the money left like the dead birds on the roof. That’s the money you gave to tzedakah. All the money you spent on your car is gone. All the money you spent on clothes, food, cars, and your house is gone, or it’s birds flying away. The only money you trapped is the tzedakah you gave. That is yours, and that’s your net value.
You know the pasuk? It says, “Venatnu” (to give). If you look at the word Venatnu backwards, how is it spelled? Venatnu: you give one way, and it comes back the other way. You’re giving to the hand of the ani, but it’s registering in your account.
There was a kamtzan, a miser, and the rabbi came to collect some money from him. He says, “Rabbi, I don’t give charity. Most people are fakers. I don’t like to waste my money.” He gave him a whole story about exactly why he was exempt from giving tzedakah. The rabbi looked at him and said, “Ashrecha (fortunate are you), you’re going to Olam Haba.” “What? Olam Haba? Why do you say that? Why am I going to Olam Haba? I told you I’m not giving you anything.” A fellow went up to Olam Haba, and they told him, “This fellow was also a miser, just like you, and they took him to Beit Din. Beit Din said, ‘Why don’t you give charity?’ He said, ‘People are fakers. I don’t want to give them anything. I don’t want to waste my money. They’re wasting their time; let them go get a job.’ All these excuses. I wanted to take all my money with me.” So they told him, “There was another guy like you. There was a guy like you named Korach. He did the same thing. He took all his money. He was buried with his money. We can’t bring you to Olam Haba unless we find another guy. If we can find three guys like you, then we can bring you to Olam Haba, because there’s already a hazard.” He said, “You’re the third guy. Welcome to the group: you, that, yo, yo, and Korach. Three guys who are misers. So you’re going to get to Olam Haba. Mubarak.”
The point is, Rabotai, one has to be very cheap at certain times and very, very generous at others. When it comes to Olam Hazeh, this world, and gashmiyut, material things, a person can be cheap: “No, it’s too expensive. No, I’m not.” Use your Yetzer (inclination) selectively. The Yetzer is going to get you to be stingy, so you might as well use that stinginess for things it’s a mitzvah to be stingy about: gashmiyut, the extras, the things you don’t need in this world. But don’t mix that stinginess into things you’re supposed to be generous about.
There’s a difference between well water and fountain water. What is a fountain? It’s a wellspring from underground that keeps flowing water and water. A spring—let me go to the hot springs of Tiberias—is constantly flowing from underground. What’s the difference? Well water is underground. If it doesn’t—you know, people are taking the water and you leave the same water there—the water gets mildew, starts to smell, and bugs start going in it. Fountain water from a spring is always fresh. Why? In my mashal, they say the well has walls around it. The well is stingy. The well holds on to every drop of water it has. And what happens to well water? It spoils. The fountain is generous. It keeps giving and giving. There are no walls around it. It keeps spitting out, and therefore its water remains sweet and fresh.
The Gemara says three words. You want to salt your money? Give it out. Salt is a preservative. If a guy wants to preserve his meat, he has to put salt on it. In the old days, they put salt on it to preserve it. The miser comes and says, “I’m going to put salt on the meat, and all the juice is going to come out. I’m going to lose the juice.” So he doesn’t want to salt it. What happens to the piece of meat after a couple of days? He loses the whole thing. The way you salt your money is chesed, kindness. Lose it. Give it out. Many people, when times are tough, close tzedakah right away. They don’t realize that by closing it, they think they’re saving. “I got the juice. I got the brine of the meat.” You lose the piece of meat. You lose the main thing. Therefore, if you want to salt your money and preserve it, give it out. You’re salting it, and it’s going to preserve the main thing.
How do we judge a person if he’s an ish? We want to be called an ish. Ish is somebody who’s hashuv, important. You know how we judge your level of ish? According to what you give. If a person gives more generously, he’s more of an ish. If he gives less, if he’s stingy, he’s less of an ish. Ish? How are you judged as a human being? According to what your hand gives.
One rabbi used to say, “When I walk into the house of a pauper, he has dirt floors, so I can spit on the floor. But when I walk into the house of a rich miser, the floor is made of marble, so I can’t spit on the floor. I’m forced to spit in his face.”
They tell a story about a fellow who lived in Yerushalayim. He was an ani, a peham; he used to work with coal-black soot, and he supported his family on the smallest amount. One Erev Shabbat (Friday afternoon), he comes home and his wife is sitting at the table crying. “We have no food for Shabbat. You didn’t give me any money this week. We can’t fast. Do you have anything to give me? I’ll go by side.” “I didn’t make any money. This would have nothing.” She says, “Please, you have to go collect. Go back. Go knock on the door.” “It’s not my way. It’s not my style. I can’t ask for a handout.” “What are we going to do? Starve the kids?” The fellow swallowed his pride. He said, “Okay, no wealthy man lives on the next block. I’ll go. I had a Shabbat to go visit him, maybe. He’ll give me a donation.” So he knocks on the door. A big sound, a hundred sounds from the bell. All of a sudden the maid answers the door and says, okay, come in. He comes in, and as he walks in, he leaves footprints of black coal on the marble floor, the white granite. All of a sudden the maid starts screaming, “What are you doing? Come on, you’re ruining the floors! You’re killing the floors! You’re making all these footprints!” The rich man is upstairs. He hears a ruckus going on in his living room. He says, “What’s going on here?” “Look what this guy’s doing! Look what he’s doing to the floor!” So the rich man goes downstairs. “You’re good for nothing, you hard-ass boor, miskin! Look what you did to my floor! You know how much marble costs? I paid so much money. I went to Italy, and you come in with disrespect! You walk in, you don’t clean your shoes, you dirty the whole floor, you kill the floor!” Hold the derashah (sermon) for 20 minutes on this floor!
So the poor man says, “I know who I don’t collect from.” He thinks for a moment and says, “You finished, Mr. Ashir? I’d just like to say one word.” He says, “Now that you’ve fulfilled the beginning of the pasuk, why don’t you finish the pasuk and fulfill the end of the pasuk?” He says, “What pasuk are you referring to?” He says, “You’ve already fulfilled the pasuk of Baruch Baruch Haim al-A'aris. Now fulfill the pasuk Baruch Baruch Haim al-Biriut.” Meaning, you’ve already had mercy on the ground, Baruch Baruch Haim al-A'aris. Now have mercy on the people. The rich man said, “Why?” He gave him some money and exempted him.
The last ma'aseh will tell you, gentlemen: you don’t want to go down as a kamtzan. You don’t want to die as a miser, because people are going to tell stories about you like this. This is the fate of a miser. You gather guys on Wednesday night, make fun of them, and tell funny stories about them.
There was a kamtzan who passed away. His children were at the funeral, and the rabbi was speaking. As the rabbi spoke, he looked at the children’s reaction: plain faces, no emotion, no tears, nothing. He was saying smiling words and very sad thoughts, and the children were sitting there as if nothing had happened, with their father’s coffin right in front of them. At the end of the hespedim, the eulogies, a pauper walked by with his charity box, right by the coffin, and started shaking it to collect money from the people. As he walked by their father’s coffin, shaking the charity box, all of a sudden the children burst out crying. They say, “Our father, he’s dead; we lost him.” So the rabbi says, “I don’t understand. What happened all of a sudden?” He says, “I’ll be honest with you, Rabbi. Even though we saw our father in the casket, we kept in the back of our minds that maybe he wasn’t really dead. Maybe he was going to come alive. But once this ani walked by him and he didn’t run away, then for sure we knew the guy was dead.”
The lesson in this week’s parashah that we have to draw out of it, gentlemen, is that there’s a mitzvah called ma'aser. There’s a mitzvah to give 10%. Of course, we try to be careful with it and try to do it, but one has to give ma'aser religiously. It says that giving ma'aser brings you to richness. The word shevil also means a road. Shevil is a path. Ma'aser—give your ma'aser on the road that makes you rich. A person who becomes rich has to work at it. He works long hours. He’s devoted. His mind is in his business, just as a wealthy man has to devote a lot of kohot, strength, to do what he does. Give your ma'aser, give your 10%, bishvil, on the road to richness. Give it with the same enthusiasm, the same koach, the same thought, and the same kavanah.
Veyikchu li terumah, li lishmi: give the tzedakah l'shem shamayim, for the sake of Heaven. Give the tzedakah, spelling the name of HaKadosh Baruch Hu (the Holy One, blessed be He). Give the tzedakah, take the tzedakah, and deposit these funds into your bank account in Shamayim. Ve'ezrat Hashem (with God’s help), it says, “Tziyon bemishpat tipadeh, veshaveha bitzedakah” (Zion shall be redeemed through justice, and her returnees through charity). Ve'ezrat Hashem, we talked about the Kotel. We want the Beit HaMikdash to be rebuilt: “Tziyon bemishpat tipadeh, veshaveha bitzedakah.” It says that in the zechut, the merit, of tzedakah, Tziyon will be rebuilt—the third Beit HaMikdash, which is going to last forever, not 410 years or 420 years. Le'olam va'ed (forever and ever), bimheirah beyameinu (speedily in our days), amen. Ve'asu li Mikdash veshachanti betocham. Baruch Adonai le'olam. Amen.