Today's class is dedicated by good, close friends of ours for a pretty long time. We've made events and things like that for our organizations, Jack and Sarah Carey. They're a wonderful couple with fantastic kids. The dedication is in honor of their parents, Joe and Trina Carey, and Sonny and Joyce Dweck. I hope our Torah gives more strength to their family and, B'ezrat Hashem, that they continue to raise their children in a beautiful way and do more and more good for our community. Amen.
Last week, I think we had a very nice class. I don't know about that. I always tell this story: The last time someone said something like that to me, I was speaking at their son's wedding, and I said, “You know, I'm a little nervous.” The person said, “No, Rabbi, you're good. You're always good.” Then I said alav hashalom (peace be upon him) about a grandma who was on the stage. So I don't know about good; we do our best. Imagine that. It's hard: your Rabbi has to remember all the names and all the people, who's alive, who's dead, who's married, what kids, the parents, both sides, all in four minutes. So it's hard. I'm making myself good.
A lot of the theme last week was that feeling of unity we have in our community, even if we have our differences. That inspired me to give this class. There is a downside to that unity, a downside that almost everybody feels. Maybe a little more when you're young, but I believe it's felt almost as much, almost no matter how old you are. When we all live together, pray together, vacation together, and go to Deal together, we have this need, or this feeling, that we need to be like everybody else. Our kids think they need to look, dress, and sound like everybody else. We think we need to go to the same places everybody else goes. We need to afford what everybody else looks like they can afford. I say “looks,” because many people can't; they just look like they can. We think we have to dress our homes the same way everybody else does. We think our kids have to look the same as everybody else's. We need to sound like everybody else. In one word, I think it's tragic.
Today I'd like to try to offer some thoughts on how to move away from this mentality and mindset. It feels like— I couldn't find it in my notes, but I feel like I've for sure given a class on this type of subject before. The content is definitely different, though. The theme may be similar; the content is not.
We're in Parashat Vayigash. Oh, I love this Parashah. A, because it's my vomit, it's a Parashah. But B, because it has a statement that is probably the most heartwarming and emotional statement in the entire Torah. At least, it inspires us.
I have my mother looking at me to find out if today is my birthday. Yes, it is my Hebrew birthday. Okay. My English birthday is when? I guess next week. Yeah, you're going to tell everybody when my birthday is? “When is the 80th?” It's next Tuesday. Okay, very good. Nice. Should I fast? Oh, it's a fast day. What am I going to do? Celebrate by breaking the fast with Sambusak (savory filled pastry). Anyhow, I love the Parashah because—what? Oh, I knew that question was coming. Okay. Mitzvah Hashem, everyone should be great. Good. Now let me get to the class. I can't even stay on the class. I'm not telling you how old I am. You can figure it out. It's not that hard. Good. Yeah, it's tough to get started today. Yes, open both doors, because we're going to suffocate it. You can't open that door? You're cold? I know, we need a little air. Maybe eventually we'll close the door. Are you ready for a class, or are we going to kid around?
Yosef finally reveals his identity to his brothers. Yehudah and he have been going back and forth. His brothers came down to Egypt last week. They needed food. They went back and came back with Binyamin. Yosef wants to take Binyamin. It becomes an intense dialogue, and finally Yosef can't hold back anymore. He says, “Ani Yosef, Ha'od Avi Chai”—“I am Yosef. Is my father still alive?”
I have a few questions about this statement. One is the most famous of them all. If Yehudah has just been discussing your father the whole time, saying that our father is going to feel bad, be sad, and be hurt if Binyamin doesn't come back, how can you then say, “Ani Yosef, Ha'od Avi Chai”? I am Yosef. Is our father still alive? Obviously, your father is still alive. What does he even mean by “my father”? As far as I know, it's our father.
My second question is about the next Pasuk (verse). He says again, “Ani Yosef, Achichem.” I am Yosef, your brother, that you sold down to Egypt. Why does he repeat it again: “Ani Yosef”? And finally, he says, “Don't worry, because go tell our father, ‘Ki samani Elohim,’” because God placed me as the king over all of Egypt. Why is that going to settle Yaakov, the fact that God placed Yosef as the king over all of Egypt?
So really, I'm asking three questions, but I mean it to be just one. My one question is: What message is he transmitting to his brothers when he asks, “Is my father still alive?” When he says “Ani Yosef” twice, and when he talks about being the king over all of Egypt?
It's going to take us a while to answer these questions. But I want to talk about the challenge I began the class with, because I believe this challenge is almost a disease. If you don't think it's so true, go anywhere and look at our cars. I'll bet that half the people who are driving the car are not driving the car. And I'll bet there's a whole other half of the people who can't, who just feel this need to drive the cars that are common in this community. There are many cars built by Toyota and Honda and Ford that many people in this community would never drive, never buy. It doesn't matter what their income is. They'd never buy them. They have to look like everybody else.
You can look at social media at any minute on any given day and see why the pressure is so intense. It looks like, “I need to go where you go. I need to celebrate the way you celebrate. I need to make my weddings the same way you make yours. I need to make my bar mitzvahs (sons of the commandment) the same way you make yours. You need to make your brit (circumcision ceremony) the same way I make mine. You need to live on my block. You need to send to the same school. You need to dress the way I dress. You need to eat where I eat. You need to do everything I do.” It almost seems like a disease.
I'll give you one example. This is about a young boy. He comes over to me. He's 15, 16 years old, a young man, a community boy. He says, “Rabbi,” and he's talking to me about having trouble with some friends or something. He says, “Rabbi, you see, I'm not like a normal kid. I'm not a sports fan. I like to play music. So I'm not really a normal kid.”
One second. You think you're not a normal kid just because you don't follow football? Is that really how it is? You feel a little different from the other guys you know, and therefore there's something wrong with you? He's a regular kid, a normal kid, with normal parents; everything is beautiful. He just doesn't follow sports, and he thinks there's something wrong with him because he sees his friends talking about football and fantasy football. He thinks there's something different about him. How crazy, how insane is that?
I believe one of the most important qualities a person can have is knowing how to be you, being fully comfortable being you completely. You know what it means to be you. You know your talents, your skills, and your weaknesses, and you're happy with them. You know your weaknesses and you're comfortable with them. You're fine. You know what you do, and you do it. You like doing it, and you're comfortable doing it, even when people around you don't exactly do it. To me, one of the most critical qualities a person can have is being comfortable in your own skin.
If you ever speak to someone who's comfortable in their own skin, they shake your hand differently. They carry themselves differently. They look at you differently. They're ten times more productive because they're not trying to fit into something else that they don't feel. They're being themselves; they're authentic, real, and honest. They just do it, and they flow. It's awesome to see. It's so hard to achieve.
Let's go back to where Yosef began. The Pasuk says, at the beginning of Parashat Vayeshev a couple of weeks ago, “These are the children of Yaakov.” It doesn't list 12 or 13 children. No. It just says, “Yosef.” Rashi says, “Why is Yosef the only child you're mentioning?” This is a very famous Rashi. Rashi says that Yaakov taught Yosef all the Torah he learned in the yeshiva of Shem V'Ever. All the Torah he learned in the yeshiva of Shem V'Ever.
My question to you is this: Why the emphasis on all the Torah Yaakov learned in the yeshiva of Shem V'Ever? Why the emphasis on Shem V'Ever? You know the story of the Torah Yaakov learned there. Yaakov left his father's house, as the rabbis famously say. He ran away from his father's house because he knew his brother Esav wanted to kill him. This goes even further back, before he was married, before he had any children. He ran away, and he ran to the house of Lavan. On the way, the rabbis tell us a very, very famous thing: He studied Torah in the yeshiva of these two great people, Shem V'Ever, for 14 years.
Well, I have a question about that. You just grew up in the house of Abraham and then Yitzchak. You need to study Torah in some random place with Shem V'Ever? You have Yitzchak as your father. I don't think you have Yitzchak as your prize mentor and rabbi. Is there anything else there is to learn? Why would you go to Shem V'Ever?
I'm going to answer all these questions based on a commentary called Emet Yaakov. I've shared this before. I just like it. I like it so much, so I share it often.
There are two elements of learning Torah. There's Torah study that works for you in your cocoon. If you lived in a cave and wanted to do the right and holy things, there's a Torah you can study. But there's another lesson you need to learn in Torah. That second lesson is the ability to deal with a challenging world and still stay steadfastly connected to your ideals. The Torah Yaakov learned from his father, Yitzchak, was the Torah you can learn when you're holy, when you're pure. Yitzchak was pure. He didn't go out much. He was pure. But now Yaakov is going into the wilderness. He's going to the house of Lavan. He's going to experience unbelievable chaos in the next few decades of his life. He needs to study the Torah of Shem V'Ever, because Shem V'Ever teaches you how to be out in the world and still be strong. Shem V'Ever themselves survived in tough generations, so they can teach that Torah. Are you following me? Yaakov learned both: the Torah of the home and the Torah of being out in the world and dealing with the world.
Now, when Yaakov has his son Yosef, he teaches Yosef the Torah of Shem V'Ever, because that's the Torah that's critical to being strong and to being out in the world while still staying strong. Yosef would soon be the son who would be sold out to Egypt, thrown into every test a man can be thrown into, and survive it because he had that Torah, that study of Shem V'Ever.
What is the skill, what is the Torah, that you learn when you have to go out into the world? To me, the answer is very simple: to be confident and courageous about being you, and to be comfortable fully doing what you do. Not insecure about it, not uncomfortable with it, not embarrassed by it. “This is me, and this is what I do. Take it or leave it.”
That means you sometimes have to be able to say no to things and say, “No, that's not me. I'm not going there. It's not me. I'm not doing that. I'm not doing that. It's not what I do. It doesn't fit me. I'm not going. It's a good project. It is a good project, but it doesn't fit me, so I don't belong there. I'm not going. I'm not getting involved. I apologize. I'm not—” “Oh, it's a scene; everyone's coming.” I don't care. It doesn't have to do with me. I am comfortable fully being totally me.
Yaakov said, “I need to teach this skill to my son Yosef,” because Yosef is going to be all over the place. He's going to be in jail. He's going to be in a foreign home. He's going to be in jail for a long time. He's going to be in Egypt. He's going to be a king. He's going to be running the world economy. “I need him to be fully comfortable being himself. Totally and completely.”
It takes a high level of honesty. It takes a high level of self-integrity. It takes a high level of looking at yourself, understanding yourself, and being comfortable with it. It takes the ability, strength, and courage to sometimes say no to some people. There are a lot of people. Because if you don't stand for anything until you're able to say no to something, what does your day look like? Is your day filled with a bunch of things people ask you to do, or with what you want to do, what you believe you should be doing? What's your day filled with? When you look at your to-do list, how much of it is, “This is me. I'm proud of this. I like doing this. I'm good at this. I was born for this”? How much of it is that? And how much is, “Someone wants me to be here. I'm supposed to be there. I feel guilty if I don't go here. I feel uncomfortable if I'm not there. I don't look like everybody if I'm not there, so I have to be”? How much of it is really you?
Let me give you a very good, I think very good, personal example. On Saturday night, I knew I was called to a long meeting on Sunday morning. I was talking to someone I'm close with, someone I go back and forth with, and he said, “Rabbi, you realize that that meeting is really just not for you. You realize there's nothing you should be involved in. Hashem didn't put you here to be involved in that meeting. It's just not for you. Your emphasis, your skills, why Hashem put you here, what the community is counting on you for, is to be focused here, not on that.”
I said, “I hear you. You're right. I know you're right, but it's just hard. These strong-minded people—I'm going to be sitting with them and telling them, ‘Excuse me, I'm leaving the meeting.’ It's just not—how am I going to do this?” We went back and forth, back and forth. I knew it wasn't for me. It wasn't a bad meeting in any way. God forbid, it was a very important one. But it was one I didn't belong at. It wasn't really me. It wasn't my skills. It wasn't what I was good at.
That night, I came home from shul (synagogue) and grabbed the mail. I almost never get a letter in the mail. I get plenty of text messages and emails with comments, appreciation, and things like that, but I never get a letter. On Saturday night, I got a letter in the mail with no name attached to it, no return address, just a letter in the mail. Okay, are you ready?
Before I tell you a little of what's in this letter, I need to tell you something I said in a speech earlier in the year, around Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. I mentioned a story about a father. I think it was a young man, or a father, who was close to the Steipler Gaon, or he met the Steipler Gaon. I may be telling this story a little wrong. I don't remember the details. I'm saying it now. Anyhow, he told the Steipler, “You're going back to the yeshiva where my son is. Please do me a favor and take this note to my son.” The Steipler Gaon, a great rabbi who was a young boy at the time, took the note and saved it in his pocket. He was going to take it to the man's son.
World War II broke out. He never got back to the yeshiva. Five, six, seven years passed. In the meantime, the father died in the Holocaust, and the Steipler kept saving the letter because he knew how much the son would cherish a letter from his father from back in the day. The war ended. The son got married and had a child, and finally the Steipler came to his town. This great rabbi, the Steipler, was the father of Rabbi Chaim Kanievsky. He said, “I'm coming to the town. I'm going to bring the letter from your father.”
The young man was so excited to see his father's letter. He brought his brother to the house, got dressed in Shabbat clothing, and set up a special picture frame for the letter. Finally, the rabbi came and delivered the father's letter to him. It was already ten years old. The young man opened the letter and read: “Hi, son. How are you? Please do me a favor: when you come home, don't forget to bring home the sardines. Love, your father.”
Imagine that's the legacy. Then I told another story about a father who had a son studying at a yeshiva somewhere in Europe. The father left a letter and sent it. The rabbi of the yeshiva had to look at the letter first. He opened it, and here's what it said: “Hi, son. How are you?” Almost the same as the other one. But then it changes. He says, “Every day, make the decision and live that day as if it's the last day of your life.”
That son became a rosh yeshiva (head of a yeshiva) at one of the biggest yeshivas in the world. The difference between two fathers: one says, “Bring home the sardines”; the other says, “Live every day like it's your last.”
Now I'm going to read you this woman's letter, though not the whole thing. It says, “Dear Rabbi, I know you don't have an easy job, but I'm writing to tell you that you're appreciated.” She talks about a struggle she had, a religious struggle, and you may pick it up from the letter. I'm trying to avoid it because that's not my point. My point isn't her struggle at all.
“I always thought it was right to change and hoped one day to do so, but didn't have a plan for how. It seems so daunting, so final, to say, ‘No more of that.’ So Rosh Hashanah came, and I decided during Aseret Yemei Teshuvah (Ten Days of Repentance) that I was going to dress differently just that one week. This is where you come in. I went to your class before Yom Kippur, as I'd like to get in the right frame of mind before the holiday. And you told the story of two fathers. One who tells his son, ‘Don't forget to bring home the pickles.’” She got it wrong. It's not pickles; it's sardines. “And the other one who tells his son, ‘Make each decision as though tomorrow is the last day of your life.’”
“That phrase became the forefront of my brain. On Yom Kippur, when the shofar (ram's horn) was sounding, and I like to think about what I want to do and grow that year, I thought of that line. I decided that if I woke up every morning as though it was the last day of my life, what would I choose to be, and where? The next day, without telling anyone, I went through my closet and started emptying it out.” I'm not going to give you her details; I'm skipping that part. “What always felt daunting to me was somehow coming very easily. Hashem was helping me get dressed happily every day. It didn't feel hard to do, especially when I thought of my new mantra: ‘Make each decision as though tomorrow is the last day of your life.’”
This letter would be beautiful if it ended right there. I don't know what gave this person—I don't know if she's 15 or 50 or 70—I don't know what gave this person the audacity to continue and write this. It says, “So now I'm saying to you: Make each decision as though tomorrow is the last day of your life. What would you tell us if tomorrow was the last day of your life? Would you sugarcoat things for fear of offending anyone? Know your truth and realize the one who gets offended by what you say is always going to get offended because he doesn't want to grow. The people who have any potential to grow, and that is all of us, need to know the truth, so at least when you are ready, they know what to do. So thank you. Maybe one day I'll tell this to you in person, but in the meantime, just know that you're appreciated.”
Imagine getting a letter in the mail that first of all thanks you, which is wonderful because, like I said, I never get one. I get text messages and emails, very nice, but letters—a printed letter. And then, at the end of the letter, the person says, “You, Rabbi, make sure you make every decision as if it's the last day of your life.” I don't know who she thinks she is. Who said? Who said? She may be naive enough and young enough to think she can say it. Either way, I read the letter, looked up to Hashem, and said, “Hashem, I hear You. I got what you're trying to say.”
The next morning, shaking, I called the people and said, “Listen, I know you're having a meeting. I know it's a very important meeting, but I don't believe I belong in this meeting, because I believe the community needs me to emphasize this, and you'll be happier when I'm emphasizing this.” The person was a little taken aback and still asked me to come for a few minutes, which I did. But there was an unbelievable feeling that I was being myself, authentic, and telling the people around me, “This is where my focus should be, and this is where it should not. I love you. I respect you. I admire you. You're doing great work. That meeting is important, but it's not where I belong.”
It wasn't like I said it was a good thing. It wasn't like God was meeting about something. It was a good thing, but it just wasn't exactly my skill set. I think it's so important to feel that I'm doing what I'm supposed to be doing the way I'm happy to be doing it. I sit down and do what I was born to do. I feel authentic doing this. It's awesome; it's a great feeling. The opposite is the worst feeling: when you sit through a meeting you don't belong at, or you're scared to say something, or you're at something someone dragged you to, or you feel you have to go somewhere or spend money just because you have to conform. You feel dirty by the time you're done.
Yosef says to his brothers, “Tell your father, ‘I am Yosef, your brother that you sold me down to Egypt.’” The Sefat Emet has a unique explanation. He says that when God told Moshe Rabbeinu, “Asher shibarta,” the Luchot (Tablets) that you broke, God was saying to Moshe Rabbeinu with the words “Yasher kochacha she-shibarta,” “I'm happy that you broke the Luchot,” says the Sefat Emet.
Yosef was saying the same thing when he told his brothers, “Asher mechartem oti,” this that you sold me down to Egypt, “Yasher kochacha.” Thank you, “she-mechartem oti,” thank you for selling me down to Egypt. What does that mean, “Thank you for selling me down to Egypt”? Because you sold me down to Egypt, I got a chance to really grow into myself. I was forced to look at myself and ask: Who am I? How do I relate to what my father taught me? How do I hold on to what my father taught me? How do I stay my father's son? How do I stay me? Do you know how awesome and thankful I am because you put me in that position?
I saw a little thoughtfulness from Rabbi Abraham J. Twerski. He said, “You know, a lobster is unique. A lobster is a really small, mushy creature, but it has a shell inside of it, a shell on top of it. Here's the problem: when it starts to grow, the shell stays the same size. So what does the lobster do? It's really uncomfortable. It's trying to grow, and the shell is the same size. Eventually it can't take it anymore. The lobster goes behind a rock to hide from predatory fish, removes its shell, stays there a little while, and grows a new shell that can now fit its new size. Then, after a little while, it starts to grow and becomes uncomfortable again. It goes behind the rock, removes the shell, and gets a new one. A few times in its life, it has to remove the shell in order to fit its whole body into a shell that fits it.”
He says, “You know what's awesome about that? This lobster only removed the shell because it felt uncomfortable, and being uncomfortable made it take steps to fit itself and find the shell that fits. If the lobster were around today, or if it had doctors, the doctors would give it a pill or some psychology. Instead,” he said, “the uncomfortableness made it become what it needs to be.” The same thing is true sometimes when you're in a situation and you're uncomfortable. It's good, because here's your chance to find out: Is this me? Is this what I want to be doing? Am I happy doing this? If not, shed the shell and get a new one. If not, find different people around you, different friends. That's what we're here to do: not sit and live in someone else's shell, or live in a shell that can fit us from when we're 15 years old. Life is about growing, finding new shells, and finding who you really want to be.
Can I give you a cute little story? This is totally just cute. We had a Chanukah party for my parents, so thank God my father's getting out a little more now. We had a really nice party, and they got a whole bunch of different things, like things where the guys would take pictures and blow things up. One of the things they got was someone who draws on a cap. They draw designs on the cap—you know, maybe they even sell them in Manhattan. A guy who sells them just draws designs on the cap with paint, characters, I don't know. Are you following me? Anyhow, they're doing different things for the kids.
I walk up to the lady selling the caps and say, “Do me a favor. Make me a cap.” I put R.J.H. on it, big R.J.H., for Rabbi Joey Haber. I take the cap, and my youngest brother David looks at me and says, “Joey, who made that?” I said, “I told her to do it.” He says, “You told her to put R.J.H.? That's very funny. Who do you think you are? You put R on it yourself?” I said, “David, relax. I'm just wearing this at home. I'm not even going to wear it outside, just for the laughs. Take it easy.” But next thing you know, all my brothers are cracking jokes, making fun of me: “He put an R in it himself. He did it himself.” Okay, good.
Half an hour later, the lady shuts down her stand and is leaving. My brother David's wife says, “One second, you're going?” She says, “Yeah, I'm leaving.” I said, “What do you mean? My daughter didn't get a cap.” She says, “I don't know what to tell you. I'm leaving. Sorry, ma'am, I'm really leaving.” She sees this and feels bad that her daughter didn't get a cap. I turn to my brother David and say, “Give your daughter this.” What's his daughter's name? Rachel Joy Haber. That's cool. No, how many girls are named Rachel Joy? How many girls have R.J. as their initials? It's not some kind of S.H. or something. It's crazy. But you know what? If I want to make that cap, I'm going to make the cap. I don't care what you think it looks like. I mean, a big shot I am, wearing it in my own bedroom. I wouldn't even take it outside. But still, you need to feel comfortable being that.
Our Rabbis make this statement that the day of judgment is frightening. One day, after 120 years, we're going to be judged, and that's frightening. It says, “You know why? Because when Yosef said to his brothers, ‘Ani Yosef,’ look how scared they became, look how embarrassed they were. When we're judged one day, look how embarrassed we're going to be. If they were embarrassed by their brother, how embarrassed are we going to be in front of God after 120 years? How scared are we going to be in front of God after 120 years?”
All the commentaries jump on this Midrash (rabbinic interpretive literature), on this statement, and ask, “What's the comparison? How are you comparing Yosef and his brothers to the day of judgment?” I saw an answer I hadn't seen before. The question is common, but this answer was a little different. The brothers were looking at this man the whole time, thinking he's Egyptian, thinking he's the king of Egypt, thinking he's evil, thinking he has crazy agendas. Then, in one word, he says, “Ani Yosef,” and now they know who he really is. They had no idea who he was this whole time. They were thinking a hundred thoughts, and they didn't know who the real me was.
After 120 years, Hashem is going to show us the real you. Are you living up to being the real you, to being fully you? Are you going to say, “No, I'm sorry, Hashem, I couldn't get that done. I had a to-do list that this person asked me to do and the other person asked me to do. I felt like I had to spend this money. I felt like I had to live in this shell and fit myself into it. I had to show this Instagram post. But where were you?”
Yosef said, “Ani Yosef.” I am Yosef. I stayed me, and I'm always me. I'm me, and I'm comfortable and happy being me. I want to be clear: This is not about me; it's not about you. I realize it's a little late, so I have to make this point clearly and conclude.
Yosef is saying, “I am Yosef,” in its full authenticity. “Ani Yosef.” I am Yosef. “Ha'od Avi Chai”—do you still see my father in me? Do you still see that my father is still alive? It's 20 years, and he's still my father because I didn't change. Then he said it again: “Ani Yosef asher mechartem.” I am the Yosef that you sold down to Egypt 20 years ago, and I'm the same Ani Yosef today because I haven't changed.
“Samani Elohim le'adon.” Hashem made me the master of Egypt. It doesn't mean that God made me the master of Egypt. It means that I made God the master of all Egypt, because I stayed authentic to myself, to what I'm supposed to be, and to what I was put here to be.
I don't know if this point is clear enough to you. Have you ever gone bowling? Lately, I took some students bowling. Have you ever gone bowling and realized that if the ball hits exactly the right pin, it's a strike? In a second, you're off by 3 inches, and maybe you knock down 3 pins. Literally, 3 inches makes the same difference for you. When you're really fully you, life flows, your marriage flows, your children flow, your involvement in the community flows, your productivity flows. It's perfect, like hitting the pin on a bullseye. It's a strike. When you're off, conforming, worried, and thinking, you get half the amount done, sometimes even a quarter of the amount done. Be comfortable being you.
We are blessed to be like the stars and like the sand. If Hashem wants to say how many people we are, just say one. Why the sand and the stars? The answer is that the sand is nothing without every other piece of sand; one grain of sand is nothing. So what we're saying is that our greatness comes from being unified, a full beach full of sand. And our greatness also comes from being individual stars. You'll never see one star touch another. I'm comfortable being my own star. I'm comfortable being my own self.
I have to give you one last story, and then I'm going to conclude. I like this story. A number of years ago, there was a young rabbi named Rabbi Abraham Berenbaum. You heard of his father? His father was Rav Shmuel Berenbaum, the Rosh Yeshiva of Mir Yeshiva, right over here on Ocean Parkway. Anyhow, Rabbi Abraham was raising money, going from house to house, raising a few dollars from one person to the next. He goes to one man's house, and the man sits him down and says, “How much was second seder (afternoon Torah-study session) learning in the afternoon worth to your father?” He says, “How much was learning in the afternoon worth to my father? I'll tell you how much it was worth. Let me tell you a story.”
Rabbi Berenbaum was known for his unbelievable devotion to learning Torah. His granddaughter was getting married. His family told him, “Grandpa”—or Zaydi (grandpa), whatever they call him—“she's getting married in Lakewood. In order for you to get there on time, you have to leave learning early in the afternoon and go to Lakewood.” He tells his children, “Why are you doing the wedding in Lakewood?” They said, “Well, Rabbi, it's a lot cheaper to do it in Lakewood.” He says, “Okay, how much cheaper is it?” They said, “It's five thousand dollars cheaper to do it in Lakewood.” He says, “It's a five-thousand-dollar difference between Lakewood and Brooklyn?” By the way, today it's much more than that. They said, “Yeah.” The rabbi pulls out a checkbook, writes a check for five thousand dollars, and says, “Here you go. Now make it in Brooklyn.” So the son says, “I know this. I know my father's afternoon learning was worth at least five thousand dollars.” Anyhow.
The man in the house gives a donation, puts it in an envelope, and hands it to the rabbi. The rabbi—this is Rabbi Berenbaum's son—goes outside to his car, opens the envelope, and sees five thousand dollars. Five thousand dollars. He goes running back into the house. He says, “Sir, why did you put five thousand? That's a lot of money.” The man says, “I knew you were going to come back. Let me tell you a story.”
“There was a young girl in the hospital. She was seventeen years old, a teenage girl. She was in the hospital at the same time that, actually, your brother was in the hospital. So Shmuel Berenbaum, who came to visit his son, came to visit this girl too, because the family said this girl was very down. She didn't feel like she was going to get better. She was very down, very depressed. Your father went into the girl's room, gave her a blessing, and said, ‘I'm telling you, you're going to get better.’ She said, ‘But even if I get better, no one's going to marry me.’ He said, ‘I'm telling you, you're going to get married, and I'm going to dance at your wedding.’ She said, ‘But even if I get married, I'm never going to have children.’ ‘You're going to get married, you're going to have children, and I'm going to come to the brit.’ That's what your father said. People around him said, ‘How are you making these guarantees?’ He said, ‘I'm confident she's going to be okay, and this is going to give her the strength.’”
The man says, “That girl got cured, left the hospital, got married, and had a child. Your father came to the wedding, and he came to the brit. I know because I am married to that girl. Your father came in the afternoon, in the middle of second seder, so I'm going to pay you back five thousand dollars.”
What I love about this story is a rabbi with conviction. It's his own granddaughter, and he says, “I want to get there at this time,” and he won't sacrifice his learning for anything. But when he realizes someone needs him, he gives up everything for that girl. How dynamic is that life? How powerful is life when you live it that way, when you're committed to what you're committed to, and you're comfortable with what you do? When you know you need to grow, you grow. No one's going to stop you. You shed the shell and get a new one if need be. You're ready to be you.
Yosef's statement wasn't just emotional; it was powerful. “I need Yosef. I'm still fully Yosef, still fully connected to my father, still fully connected to God. I am me, in all my authenticity,” because maybe he knew the most important lesson: to live every single day like it's the last day of your life. Thank you.