Stormy Preparations

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

There is an oft-repeated concept that tzaros transpire so that we should learn a lesson. This is rooted in the Gemara (Yevamos 63a) which states, “Rabi Elazar ben Avina says: Ein puraniyos bah le’olam elah bishvil Yisroel - Calamities only come to the world because of the Jewish people.”

Rashi (ibid.) explains that catastrophes occur so that the Jews will become fearful of what sin causes, and will repent and do teshuvah.

It is worth noting that it was during the month of Elul ten years ago that one of the greatest tragedies to ever befall this country transpired on 9/11. Four years later, one of the greatest natural disasters took place during the month of Elul, when Hurricane Katrina slammed into New Orleans. It is not for nothing that Hurricane Irene blew in as we were bentching Rosh Chodesh Elul.

The story is told of Rav Yisroel Salanter, who was gripped by trepidation from the beginning of Chodesh Elul through Yom Kippur.

“Is Elul a dangerous bear,” asked a simple Jew, “that you are so stricken with fright?”

Elul, replied Rav Yisroel, is much more fearsome than a bear, for Dovid Hamelech testified that he had been victorious over a bear: “Gam es ho'ari gam hadov hikah avdecha” (Shmuel I, 17:36). Yet, regarding Hakadosh Boruch Hu's din, said Rav Yisroel, the posuk in Tehillim (119:120) states, “Somar mipachdecha vesari umimishpatecha yareisi.” Dovid was consumed with fear due to Hashem’s judgment.

Dovid Hamelech, said Rav Yisroel, had far more respect for the force of mishpat than he did for a wild animal.

Hakadosh Boruch Hu gave us a gift right before Rosh Chodesh Elul, a gauge of our own with which to measure our feelings of awe at the impending Yom Hadin, and a reminder to properly prepare ourselves for the Day of Judgment.

He showed us that people react when they're scared. They scurry, scramble and grope for solutions, for in serious times, no one wants to be caught unprepared.

On Friday night, in Kabbolas Shabbos, we recite the chapter in Tehillim (96) that concludes with the words, “Lifnei Hashem ki va, ki va lishpot ha'aretz.” The meforshei Tehillim explain that the Ribbono Shel Olam's approach is gradual. He's coming closer. He's coming closer. Ki va. Ki va.

This week, we saw experts pinpointing the hurricane's approach with the greatest precision, identifying its path each mile, speculating as to how much longer it would take until it reached us.

Ki va, ki va...

The region’s elected officials rushed to fulfill their duties, holding press conferences and meetings and reassuring their constituents that no detail was overlooked. They were ready. No leader wants to fail in his responsibility, dropping the ball when it counts most, so they all worked overtime, cutting their own vacations short and sleeping on office sofas.

We may not be politicians, but each of us is charged with leadership over his own olam kotton, his own private universe, and he has responsibilities.

Are we as concerned with being prepared as they were?

There is a special brand of irritation reserved for those “relaxed” souls who insisted on disregarding the constant warnings and instructions to evacuate, the rafters who insisted on tempting fate and needed a special rescue, the ones who insisted on remaining on the beach until the last minute. The governor of New Jersey reprimanded those “more concerned with their tans than with their safety.”

Are we like that too?

The Associated Press reported about Charlie Koetzle, a 55-year-old man who has lived in Ocean City, Maryland, for a decade. “He came to the boardwalk in swim trunks and flip-flops to look at the sea,” reported the AP. “While his neighbors and most everyone else had evacuated, Koetzle said he told authorities he wasn't leaving. To ride out the storm, he had stocked up with soda, roast beef, peanut butter, tuna, nine packs of cigarettes and a detective novel.”

Can it be that we are as foolish as he?

The Brisker Rov would compare this stubborn refusal to react, to a fellow smuggling goods from one town to another over a border. If he is caught, his punishment will be harsh, and he is appropriately frightened as his journey approaches. He is consumed with the ramifications of being penalized and is unable to focus on much else. With each day, his trepidation increases, and on the day of the actual journey, he can barely speak.

The Brisker Rov would paint the picture of the traveler on his wagon approaching the border, his horse chugging along, totally unaware of the severity of the situation. The horse’s reality is unchanged, even as, a few feet behind him, his passenger is shaking with fear.

Di ferd veist fuhn gornisht!

The level of fear that one feels before the yemei hadin, taught the Brisker Rov, corresponds to his level of intellect and his appreciation of its significance.

Those silly people on the beach, laughing as they were rescued, showed the sophistication of the ferd in the moshol and let their immaturity serve as a lesson to us.

We have a process of preparing ourselves, beginning this week with the daily kol shofar, the wake-up call at the end of a year that featured so many other stirring calls .

A study of the hurricane preparations can help prepare us for the impending yemei hadin.

Take, for example, New York City Mayor Michael Bloomberg’s admonition, “Waiting until the last minute is not a smart thing to do. This is life-threatening.”

Speaking of the need to properly prepare for the storm, the mayor said, “I would think that the vast bulk will comply. Unfortunately, there's a handful who will not comply until it's too late. And at that point in time, you can really get stuck.”

He had one more admonition: “We do not have the manpower to go door-to-door and drag people out of their homes. Nobody’s going to get fined. Nobody's going to go to jail. But if you don't follow this, people might die.”

We have to take seriously the fact that Rosh Hashanah is fast approaching. Chazal have clearly laid out our obligations during this month of Elul. Our rabbeim and parents have drilled it into our consciousness since we were young. Sifrei mussar and machshavah that aid us in preparing for the Yom Hadin abound. We must avail ourselves of them and dare not wait until the last minute, for the consequences of neglecting to make ourselves ready can be catastrophic, chas veshalom.

In an op-ed piece in the New York Times, Frank Bruni writes about the summer that’s coming to a close:

“A ceiling defined the season, and there was no skylight in this one, no sunshine filtering through...

Economists talked ceaselessly of the ‘downturn,’ so prolonged that it has come to seem less a dip than the new normal. Then, of course, there was the ‘downgrade,’ courtesy of Standard & Poors, which rewarded our galling political constipation with an unprecedented demotion to AA+ from AAA. We could mock the inept arithmetic en route to it. We could quibble with the reasoning and motivations behind it. But none of that changed the symbolism - or the symbol. We were one vowel shy of what we used to be.

“And we were under siege, by not just the economy but also the elements. Extraordinary flooding gave way to severe drought. The earth trembled where it wasn’t supposed to. And then, to top it all off, a hurricane drew near, screaming toward some of the country’s densest population centers and threatening a magnitude of damage we were hard-pressed to afford. Nature hammered home the message that the Dow was sending as well: we had only so much control over our fates and better hunker down.”

In short, Bruni reiterated what we already know, but would do well to review: “Ein lanu al mi lehisha’ein elah al Avinu shebashomayim.”

We had a summer that began with the petirah of three gedolei Yisroel, in quick succession, followed by the brutal murder of a sweet young child. This was followed by an unprecedented assassination of a tzaddik and an upswing in attacks on Eretz Yisroel's defenseless border towns.

So to differ with the very-eloquent Times columnist, while we also hit a ceiling, our ceiling does have a skylight, a shaft of light that shines in and tells us, “Ki eisheiv bachoshech, Hashem ohr li” (Michah 7:8).

We reiterate this every day. Even if an entire encampment stands in our way, even if war comes our way, we will not fear. Because “bezos ani botei’ach.” We have a shaft of light that can break through any ceiling, a rock that can save us in any storm

Hashem ori veyishi, mimi ira.

These days are called the yemei harachamim. There is a well-known homiletical explanation of the term “Kel molei rachamim,” comparing Hashem’s compassion to a cup filled to the brim with water. One need only jostle the cup slightly to send water pouring over its edges. Hashem is molei rachamim. He is filled to the brim with mercy and love for us. We need only move Him ever so slightly to cause a shefa of His great healing rachamim to rain down on us.

We have the tools - teshuvah, tefillah and tzedakah. And we have the time - the thirty days of Elul.

This week, we were reminded to prepare, to respond to early warning signals, and to make sure that we are safe, sheltered and warm, yachbi’eini tachas Yado, in His embrace.

Get Inspired

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

This Shabbos we are mevoreich the new chodesh and herald the onset of the month of Elul. As we repeat after the chazzan, “Rosh Chodesh Elul yihiyeh beyom…,” we know that in short shrift, the summer will draw to a close and serious days will once again be upon us. We look for inspiration. We seek to be inspired, to rise to the occasion of Elul.

Where can we find inspiration? Why do we so often fall short when seeking to be inspired?

Perhaps we are looking for inspiration in all the wrong places. We look at things, people and ideas far from us, and we expect that, as we approach them, we will be inspired. We look for esoteric seforim, ideas, thoughts and speakers, and we are upset when they fail to work their magic on us, leaving us in the same stale and insipid state we found ourselves prior to our search. And we wonder why.

In the sefer Chiddushei Harim, in Parshas Re’eh, it is related that a man once approached the room of the Rebbe and stood at the door staring at the Rebbe. The Rebbe turned to the man and asked him what he was doing. He responded that he had seen in the sefer Ohr Hachaim on Parshas Re’eh that gazing at a tzaddik can bring one bracha.

The Chiddushei Harim responded, “The posuk states, ‘Ve’ameich kulam tzaddikim.’ Thus, you are also a tzaddik, a righteous person. You would be better off staring into your own soul.”

There are several ways to understand the Rebbe’s message, but for the purposes of this article, perhaps we can say that to be inspired, and to be blessed, it is not always necessary to seek out a great man and study him and his actions. There is something to learn from every Jew. Every Jew has the ability to inspire. You just have to know to look for it.

Of course, the works of Hashem supply mountain-loads of inspiration. Rav Elyakim Schlesinger, noted rosh yeshiva of Yeshivas HaRama in London, writes in his work Hador Vehatekufah about his years as a close talmid of the Brisker Rov. He shares a memory of accompanying the Brisker Rov to Switzerland, where the Rov had gone to rest. He writes of how he sat with the Rov on a bench looking out at a most glorious landscape. Snowcapped mountains rose majestically in front of them, their white peaks seeming to touch the sky. Rav Schlesinger turned to the Rov and remarked to him that sitting in front of those imposing mountains made him feel very small and insignificant.

The Rov looked at him in surprise. “Why do they make you feel small?” he asked. “They were created for your enjoyment. If there would be a full orchestra standing here playing music for your enjoyment, would you feel small and unworthy? You would simply enjoy the music!”

This story came to mind last week while reveling in the awe-inspiring scenery of the great Colorado Rockies. The posuk states, “Ein tzur k'Elokeinu.” Chazal explain this to mean, “Ein tzayar k'Elokeinu,” that there is no artist like the Ribbono Shel Olam. As you contemplate the fantastic view, you feel the Divine canvas spread out just for you. You drive through caverns more beautiful than any painting and are overcome by the awesomeness of the grandiose panorama in front of you, growing more inspired at every bend of the curvaceous road that winds its way up the mountain.

As the Brisker Rov commented, rather than make man feel small, such sights should embolden and empower man and remind him of his own centrality in the Aibishter's plan, for he is the audience of this magnificent show. You feel large contemplating that the Master Artist painted a breathtaking landscape for the enjoyment and appreciation of man. Those mountains inspire. The knowledge that they had to be placed there by the Creator inspires. The beauty that the One Above created for us to ponder demonstrates the consequence of man and inspires us to greatness.

While in Colorado last week, I didn’t just behold towering mountains, I also encountered towering people, and they were no less impressive. They were regular, plain, normal people, the type we regularly encounter without being inspired. But just as the soaring peaks provided much inspiration, so can these people, members of a nation that is comprised of “Ve’ameich kulom tzaddikim,” inspire, if our hearts are open wide enough to absorb their shine.

In Colorado, I met my dear friend, Rav Chaim Nosson “Nate” Segal, who had come directly from a long road trip through the American southwest. He, along with a group of five bochurim, had gone on a summer expedition to Albuquerque, New Mexico. They weren't after the state's famed flora and fauna, the mesquite or yucca grass. They were after neshamos.

Armed with little more than what Avrohom Avinu had in his time, they gathered forgotten souls around a campfire, offering Torah, the strains of a guitar, some charred hamburgers, and a connection with eternity. In Albuquerque, Aspen and Boulder, in rented hotel rooms and public parks, they drew people close.

This year, it was a kumzitz. Next year, in the larger city, it may be a Project Seed program. And then? Who knows? Maybe a shul with a minyan every Shabbos, and then a day school to educate the next generation, and then perhaps even a kollel.

This group of weary travelers came through Colorado for a night to rest and rejuvenate themselves at the KMR hotel where I was staying. They were flushed with the sense of accomplishment that comes from working lesheim Shomayim. We discussed where they had been, what they had done, and what had been accomplished.

While we were speaking, a waiter came and brought some food. One of the boys said to him, “You are an inspiration.” The waiter was very touched. They all smiled. I asked them what it was about the waiter that inspired him. More smiles. It was obviously an inside joke that I wasn’t getting. I asked them to explain.

They related that Rabbi Segal had trained them in how to succeed in opening the hearts of the people they would encounter. They met all sorts of people during their journey, and each person they met, they conversed with, connected to, and then closed their first conversation with the line, “You’re an inspiration.”

They said it to all those searching people who showed up at their events, drawn by curiosity, boredom, a natural inclination to connect to their Jewish roots, or perhaps something more. But each one had a story and each one was a source of inspiration. Here they were living in Albuquerque, with little or no connection to Torah, and they were attending a Shabbaton in the Sheraton. Nobody forced them to be there. That is inspiring.

It was truly inspiring for the boys from Brooklyn who grew up on blocks packed with Jews and basically only interacted with Jewish people. And the people who came were touched when told that they were setting an inspiring example.

When told that they were an inspiration, they became more attached to the group and their interest in pursuing their connection to Torah Judaism grew.

It worked because it wasn’t a glib sales pitch. They weren’t empty words void of feeling. The sweet, charming yeshiva bochurim had learned to perceive the inherent nobility in every Yid and to find the area in which each individual inspires. With their words of inspiration, they achieved great things.

They looked at each attendee at their classes and barbeques and expressed the impression that was made on them and how inspired they were by their guests. This comment was itself a catalyst for further inspiration, opening the hearts of their guests still wider.

In the famous tefillah composed by Rav Elimelech of Lizhensk, it says, “Shenireh kol echad maalas chaveireinu velo chesronam.” We ask that we merit seeing the positive attributes of the people around us and not their negative characteristics. Rav Elimelech understood that every person has maalos. If we just choose to see them, they’re there. Each and every person can be, and should be, an inspiration.

Yisroel Besser, who lives in Montreal where he learns, writes, and moderates the Yated’s Chinuch Roundtable, once told me the story of Aharon the shlepper, an elderly Holocaust survivor who was a familiar sight in Montreal, a steady at all local simchos. Aharon, stooped and unkempt, would fill his pockets and bags with whatever food he could salvage at a bris or bar mitzvah.

He would be seen walking the streets with his shopping cart at odd hours. He was a strange figure, inspiring more pity and derision than anything else. He would wander the dining room at the yeshiva, hoping for a bowl of soup from lunch or some leftover fruits from snack. When the children would see him coming, they would scatter, shouting in mock terror that the “scary man” was coming.

The menahel of the yeshiva at the time was Rabbi Dovid Engel, a member of our chinuch panel. Feeling that he had to do something to protect the respect and dignity of this harmless old Jew, he called a special assembly.

Rabbi Engel spoke to the boys about the Holocaust and the horrific events of more than half a century ago, and he described the spiritual heroism that was necessary to emerge with faith intact. He explained to the young Canadians that a generation suffered for us and that a debt of gratitude is owed to the kedoshim who perished and the kedoshim who survived, each of them sanctifying Hashem’s Name in different ways.

“Boys,” he said, “we here in Montreal have such a Jew among us, and we should honor him.”

Rabbi Engel turned towards the door and Aharon was led into the auditorium.

“Boys, please stand up for Reb Aharon,” said the menahel.

The boys rose as one and the elderly Yid was helped to a chair. Then, the entire student body lined up and passed this distinguished Jew, giving him “Shalom.”

Maybe, just maybe, Aharon, whose own childhood had been spent not running or laughing, but rather hiding and crying, felt a sense of peace and tranquility as he shook their warm hands and smiled back.

He had been sent a message: You are an inspiration.

Rav Eliezer Geldzahler, rosh yeshiva of Yeshiva Ohr Yisroel, was tragically killed at a young age as the bus he was riding in crashed near Meron in Eretz Yisroel. A few years later, his daughter was driving on the Garden State Parkway. She stopped for gas and noticed that the attendant was a midget. As he began to wash her windows, he caught sight of a large picture on the passenger seat. He became visibly excited as he pointed to it.

“How do you know that man?” he asked in a state of agitation. “I’ve been looking for him for more than two years. Where is he?”

The girl gently informed him that the man in the portrait was her father and that he had passed away from injuries sustained during a bus accident. The fellow stared at her, disbelieving, and then began to cry silently.

“You know,” he said, “I do this job day after day, morning after freezing morning. There aren’t many jobs available for someone like me. Cars pull in here every few moments, but everyone averts their eyes, feeling uncomfortable by my strange appearance.

“Then, one day, your father pulled in. He looked me straight in the eye, like no one else had ever done. ‘My friend,’ he said to me, ‘you are an inspiration. You were born with what might appear to be a great handicap, but you refuse to play the role of the victim. You get up in the morning, go to work, and earn an honest living. You are a role model. You teach that circumstances should not dictate the terms of a person’s existence.

“‘I am on my way to New York, where I have a large school. Today, I am going to tell my students all about you, so that they might learn from your example.’”

With his eyes glistening, the gas station attendant completed his tale. “Of course, I so looked forward to seeing your father. He made me feel tall.”

When we choose to look at people and perceive them as great, each in their own area, they respond accordingly. It’s the difference between the ayin tovah of the talmidei Avrohom Avinu and the ayin ra'ah of the talmidei Bilam Harasha. We inspire them and they inspire us.

One day many years ago, after davening, I saw my then-young son Dovid’l at the other end of the shul in conversation with an elderly Yid. It seemed to be a serious conversation. The man was clearly very emotional and Dovid’l was looking at him very intently. I was wondering what he could have done to the old man to make him cry. I was very worried. By the time I made my way over there, the man had left.

I approached Dovid’l and said to him, “What was that all about?”

“I asked him for a bracha,” my son told me. “I don’t know what happened, but he started crying as he was bentching me.”

“Why did you ask him, of all people, for a bracha?” I queried.

“You once told me that the Satmar Rebbe said that if you see a person with numbers tattooed on his arm, you should ask him for a bracha,” my son responded. “While that old man was taking off his tefillin, I saw that he had those numbers, so I waited until he finished and I asked him for a bracha. He bentched me and he began crying.”

So many of us have heard that memrah of the Satmar Rebbe, yet few of us have taken it literally enough to act upon it. However, if you are a young, innocent boy looking for growth and you see those hallowed numbers, you take advantage of the situation and you emerge from the interaction not only blessed, but also inspired. And if you are a Holocaust survivor and a precious little boy asks you for a bracha, you are inspired to recognize that you are an inspiration.

For if you want to be inspired, you can be inspired by ordinary people too. The inspiration is everywhere. We just have to ensure that our hearts are open wide enough so that we can find it.

We can be inspired by a midget and by majestic mountains, by Sholom Mordechai Rubashkin sitting in jail, locked up but retaining his faith, and by Jews of Albuquerque who are only now beginning to believe. We can be inspired by people who lived through the Holocaust and by those who are inspired by them.

And I say to my new friends, the yeshiva bochurim I met in Colorado, that each and every one of you is an inspiration.

With Elul upon us and Tishrei not far behind, now is the time to inspire and be inspired. As we usher in the month of Elul, we prepare to be scrutinized and pass under His gaze k’vnei maron. Let us try to view others the way we would want to be seen - shenireh kol echad maalas chaveireinu. We will thus be doubly blessed and emerge zakai bedin.

A Morning of Nechomah

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

It seems as if the words were written especially for us. Nachamu, nachamu, Ami. A healing balm for a suffering people. While the novi speaks about a people that had been hit twice, we weren't only lakah bekiflayim. We have been hit a lot more. As a people, we have been slammed so badly and so often that any other nation sustaining what we have would have long withered away by now.

Since the churbanos the novi spoke of, we have been beaten, stoned, burnt, locked in awful ghettos, deprived of every human need, and driven from country after country. The Holocaust took a terrible toll. Since then, bechasdei Hashem, we have bounced back and built burgeoning Torah communities around the world.

There have been ups and downs, victories and defeats, heroes and anti-heroes, but, by and large, we have been wildly successful. Lately, however, we have suffered a steady series of blows that makes us reach for words of nechomah as if reaching for oxygen.

Each year, when the baal kriah reads the opening words of the haftorah, you can feel the joy wash over the people in shul, as smiles form on their faces. It's like a ladder coming down, seven rungs of nechomah, giving us the means to climb upward in the yemei harachamim.

Each year, we experience emotions of loss and pain during these months, but this year we received an extra dose, with economic worries and calamitous tragedies one after another, in rapid succession.

So as we seek to become keilim worthy of nechomah, we ourselves need to become people of nechomah, comforting ourselves and comforting each other.

The call of the hour is to develop and strengthen our interpersonal skills, deepening our appreciation for each and every Yid we encounter.

Speaking last week at a kinnus to mark the completion of shivah for Rav Elazar Abuchatzeira, Rav Aharon Leib Shteinman remarked that a Jew who is desensitized to bein adam lachaveiro is capable of even bloodshed, Rachama litzlan. The rosh yeshiva traveled to Beer Sheva to share this message. The second five dibros are bound with the first five, he said. Bein adam lachaveiro is as fundamental as bein adam laMakom.

“We are in the last generations before Moshiach's arrival,” said Rav Shteinman, “and we need to be extra careful with the honor of our friends. It's forbidden to humiliate another person. We have to be careful to protect the kavod of each other…to pay attention to this issue of bein adam lachaveiro so that such incidents shouldn't reoccur.”

A friend of mine related a story that he heard from an elderly Munkatcher chossid who witnessed the incident and vouches for its authenticity.

In a town near Munkatch, there was a feud between the rov and president. The president was a learned fellow, and he announced that all shailos in halacha should be presented to him, rather than to the rov.

One Friday, the president's wife was cooking for Shabbos and a question arose regarding the kashrus of a chicken. The chicken had what appeared to the woman to be a broken, bloodied leg, and she knew that she had to ask a shailah to determine if the chicken was kosher. Her husband was out working, so, with no other choice, she went to ask the rov, who examined the bone and paskened that the chicken was kosher. She cooked it and prepared it for the Shabbos meal.

When her husband learned of her deed, he was furious. With his vast knowledge of halacha, he paskened that the chicken was treif and refused to eat it on Shabbos. He told his wife to put it on ice and keep it until after Shabbos. When Shabbos concluded, he stormed into the rov’s home and summoned him to a din Torah by the Minchas Elazar, the Munkatcher Rebbe.

The two men traveled to Munkatch and entered the Rebbe's room, placing the chicken before him.

“Look what an am haaretz we have for a rov,” said the rosh hakahal. “He told my wife that we can eat this obviously treife chicken.”

The Rebbe examined the chicken and then spoke.

“Boorich Atooh...shehakol nehiyeh bidvaro,” he said, and then broke off a small piece of the chicken and ate it.

The elderly Munkatcher chossid recounted how the president's face fell, with the Rebbe's actions serving as a louder condemnation than any words. He left in disgrace.

The chossid who repeated the story related that after they had left the room, one of the Rebbe's close talmidim asked him why he ate from a chicken that had been subject to question, even though it was kosher, in contrast to his usual practice of not eating from something that had a shailah.

The chossid finished the story: “The Rebbe pounded on the table so hard that the seforim jumped. ‘What? Un mentch fleish iz yuh glatt kosher? And human flesh is permitted for one to eat? How could I stand by and watch that man destroy the rov? I couldn’t.’”

When we judge others, and when we embarrass or speak disrespectfully to them, we are destroying them. We can disagree without getting personal. We can compete without seeking to drive our competitor out of business. We can chastise without embarrassing. And we can joke without being malbim pnei chaveireinu.

There are myriad opportunities to simply use words or actions to build people up, make people feel appreciated and worthwhile, and inject people with self-respect and dignity.

Take something as simple as the ubiquitous Israelis who come knocking on our doors with their hands outstretched. They are an easy target, they intrude, they don’t know us, and we don’t know them. All we know is that they want our money. “Go get a real job,” we can say disdainfully. “Sure, it’s easier to knock on doors than to work.” We all know the routine.

But let’s think about these very people for just a moment and use them as an example to make our point.

Our brothers and sisters in Eretz Yisroel are suffering greatly. Although they've always lived on lower economic levels, with large families crowded into small, two-bedroom apartments, people were content with what they had. The mothers and girls had one Shabbos dress apiece and the fathers and boys possessed one Shabbos suit each, yet they didn’t feel deprived. Now, things have worsened for thousands of our brothers in Eretz Yisroel. Their grinding poverty recalls previous generations, when people went to bed hungry.

We meet many people from these unfortunate families on this side of the ocean, as they work their way through our neighborhoods, knocking on doors and asking for a handout. We view them as intruding shnorrers. Perhaps some of them fit that description, but if we were to stop and speak to these people before handing them a dollar, we would encounter many wonderful, geshmake individuals who simply have no place to turn. Where they live, there is little economic opportunity, and bureaucratic conditions make gainful employment virtually impossible. So, with a sigh, they accept that they have no recourse other than to “go to chutz la'aretz.”

By the time they have joined the circuit of door-to-door begging, they are way past their last dollar and are heavily in debt. As a desperate last resort, they take out another loan and buy a plane ticket to New York.

They come here and travel from shul to shul, and house to house, some with sad eyes and some with hearts full of bitachon and simcha. They trudge about, waiting to find good Jews who will have rachmanus on them and treat them like human beings, not unwanted outcasts.

A fellow who recently knocked on my door had the trademark wide-brimmed hat of the Yerushalayimer Yidden. He had deep-set, coal black eyes and a brow furrowed with so many creases, lines telling a tale of debts mounting on top of debts. His gravel-voiced “Shalom aleichem” carried the flavor of Meah Shearim, hints of the Eitz Chaim cheder or perhaps Chayei Olam.

Far be it from me to speak about accepting collectors graciously. I am guilty of being too distracted to receive these Yidden the way they ought to be greeted, but one night, for some reason, I had the zechus to see my visitor for what he was - the same as me, a father trying to feed his family.

I let him in, sat down with him, and heard him out. He had a lot to say. He had so much bottled up inside of him. His feet hurt from hours of shlepping around, and he welcomed the opportunity to talk about Yerushalayim, its streets, and its people. He was collecting for an upcoming wedding of one of his many children. I asked him if, by any chance, he had a picture of the chosson.

It was as if I wrote out a check to him for $10,000. He pulled out a picture from his pocket, beaming with pride.

“Dos iz mein zun, der chosson,” he said. “Azah feineh chosson, nein? Ihr zet zein lichtigeh ponim?”

He was so touched that he was being treated like a person, like a father, and not like a shnorrer. He then said that he had a picture of his extended family taken at a recent family simcha.

“Would you like to see it?” he asked.

“Of course,” I answered.

It made his day to share the picture he carried with him. He pointed at each child and told me their names, their ages, where they are, and more. For a few precious moments, he felt human again. I gave him a donation and he danced out of the house, heading to the next door, praying it would open.

I never did that before and I am not saying that you have to. But we have become jaded and apathetic. There are so many of them, it seems, that we can’t possibly treat them all with kindness and patience. Do we ever stop to imagine ourselves in their place? Do we ever stop to contemplate the fact that if not for the Hashgachah that caused us to be born and raised in this land of plenty, we might easily be one of them? How would we feel going from door to door in a strange country, begging people we don’t know for a couple of dollars so that we can return home and have the electricity bill paid, the makolet bill paid, and make a decent simcha for our close ones?

In essence, we are them. We are in a place we don’t belong, knocking ourselves out to feed our families and meet our obligations. Though we don’t feel it as much as they do, we are dependent upon the mercy of our Father to find favor in the eyes of people we meet and those with whom we do business. We are fortunate that He showers us with kindness and gives us what we need and more, to enable us to lend a helping hand to relatives, friends, neighbors and Yidden from around the world who need assistance.

As I was writing these words, someone I know called me from Yerushalayim. Having read several articles in the Yated about Reb Ben Tzion Oiring, he decided to look him up while visiting Meah Shearim and deliver him some much-needed chizuk. He climbed the five flights of stairs on Rechov Shomrei Emunim and was welcomed into the very humble Oiring apartment. At that point, a little girl knocked on the door with a note from her mother. The Oirings did not know who the girl was.

The adorable little child held out the note for Reb Ben Tzion to read. The note said: “I have nothing to give my children to eat. Please give what you can.”

Can you imagine the scene? A family so destitute that they send out their child with a note to people who are poorer than poor for help. People who have nothing, appeal to people who have almost nothing for sustenance and a few crumbs of nechomah.

Imagine if this girl had come to your door. You no doubt have a pantry stocked with items to spare to feed a starving family. You no doubt have money in your wallet. But the Oirings had nothing in their wallets and the cupboard was bare. Mrs. Oiring gave the girl the only thing she had to spare: a bottle of ketchup.

Providentially, our American friend reached into his pocket and took out what he had, giving the girl 100 shekels to bring home to her mother. At least those precious children didn’t go to bed hungry one night this week.

Do we not have to be thankful for what we have? Do we not have an obligation to look at people like Reb Ben Tzion Oiring and his neighbors differently when they come knocking on our doors seeking out crumbs of physical, mental and spiritual nechomah?

And what about the people who come collecting for organizations that are floundering and barely holding on?

Last week, I was at a parlor meeting for Lev L’Achim. I stood there listening to Rav Uri Zohar make his pitch. He spoke about the 3,000 volunteers who go out and add to the level of kedushah in this world.

People think, “This is Uri Zohar’s job. He’s working for Lev L’Achim. He’s into kiruv. I’m not.”

What they don’t know is that he doesn’t get paid for his work! He doesn’t get paid to come here. He doesn’t receive a commission from the money he raises. Nobody pays him a dime to go trudging about like a shnorrer, begging for money to save souls from oblivion. And not only does he not get paid, but neither does his boss, Rav Eliezer Sorotzkin. He’s also a volunteer. He shleps around, begging people to contribute to the organization. Yet he doesn’t get paid for his work.

These special people do it because they care about Yidden. They see so many Jews out there with hands and hearts outstretched, waiting for someone to come and save them. They don’t know how to say no. They don’t know how to turn away and watch fellow Jews fall away from Yiddishkeit.

They are heroes for our time, as are people who get paid for their work, such as mechanchim, mechanchos, and those involved in every form of harbotzas Torah and gemillus chessed. How do we greet them when they come to us? Sometimes, a smile and acknowledging the importance of their mission are as important as a check.

There are people fighting to sustain Orthodoxy and Torah in cities and towns across the country. Take for example, Bnei Torah in Norfolk, Virginia, who are desperate for support to keep their yeshiva and Bais Yaakov afloat. The intrepid Yidden in Eugene, Oregon, would love nothing more than for their fledgling community to take shape. Rabbi Chaim Nosson Segal, our shaliach in supporting them in their vital mission for the growth of Torah, is traveling this week with a group of yeshiva bochurim to Albuquerque, New Mexico, to bring the beauty of Torah to a state that is almost devoid of it.

They, and others like them, are doing our work, the work of nechomah, bringing the words of Yeshayahu Hanovi to Jews everywhere. They are our shluchim.

While every person is different and we don’t have their talents and the ability to do what they do, we all have the capacity, in our own way, to bring the words of “Nachamu, nachamu” to “ami.” It is by becoming people of nechomah that we will merit nechomah of our own.

Do we ever stop to contemplate the pain of a father who’s been investing his energy, kochos and resources into his children's hatzlachah, and he is then informed that the yeshiva has no room for his son? What about the mother, whose tears flow freely each week during hadlokas neiros, when she hears that her child is on the outs?

Can we help? Perhaps we have the words to comfort them and reassure them that we're all in the same boat. Perhaps we can remind them that the Ribbono Shel Olam accepts everyone and that their wonderful child will find the place that is right for him or her.

In order for us to begin the march out of golus, which we so eagerly anticipate, we have to begin rectifying the way we view each other. It is not just the way we view people who come looking for a handout, but the way we treat our friends, neighbors, chavrusos, spouses and the people we work with and do business with. Until we treat other people the way we would like to be treated, we are doomed to remain in golus, far from our true home.

If, through our skewed way of dealing with fellow Jews, we rob others of their dignity and force them to demean themselves in order to be approved by us, we will not merit the rebuilding of the Bais Hamikdosh. As a splintered nation, with individuals and factions acting on their own and without having the greater good in mind, we delay the arrival of our final redemption. If we live life in attack mode, undermining honest leaders and seeking to destroy those who are trying to make our world a better place, we are in effect consigning ourselves to continued golus.

Chazal remind us that hateful and spiteful behavior between Jews is the one force that holds back the geulah more than any other. In the days of the alter heim, when life in the storied shtetlach was a daily struggle, Jews appreciated each other and didn’t seek to take advantage of one another. During the Holocaust period, when Jewish blood was made cheap, Jews knew to value one another. There were always internecine squabbles, but not to the degree that we experience today in our period of plenty.

Hakadosh Boruch Hu has blessed us with abundance. We have miraculously risen so high from the ashes of the Holocaust that we don’t fathom the miraculous nature of our revival. Nor have we sustained that love and appreciation for fellow Jews which survivors and victims felt.

The Talmud Yerushalmi (Yoma 1:1) teaches the following message about sinas chinom: “We find that the first Bais Hamikdosh was destroyed because there were those who were ovdei avodah zara, megalei arayos and shofchei domim. We know that the Jews during the period of the second Bais Hamikdosh studied Torah and observed the mitzvos, were punctilious in giving maaser, and had proper middos. Yet, they loved their money and hated each other for no reason, and sinas chinom is as great a sin as the three cardinal aveiros.” The Bavli in Yoma (9b) contains a similar limud.

The Vilna Gaon explains that the severity of sinas chinom stems from the fact that at the root of the hatred and jealousy lies lack of trust in Hashem.

Those who are jealous and those who resent other people’s successes in essence deny that Hashem runs the world and He decides what each person should receive. People who are consumed with accumulating wealth attribute their gains to their own talents. They don’t believe that Hashem decrees how much people earn. Anyone who surpasses them in business, career, talent, status or popularity becomes the object of their jealousy, resentment and hatred. When they see the size of another person’s house, they are overcome with anger. When they see someone else make money, they hate them. “How dare they! Who do they think they are?!” Were they to believe that all a person has comes from Hashem, they wouldn’t be so filled with jealousy and hatred.

That is the explanation of the words of the Yerushalmi. The Jews of the generation of the Bayis Sheini loved their money and therefore hated others with sinas chinom.

Since the Bais Hamkidosh has not been returned to us, it is an indication that we have still not overcome the sins of sinas chinom caused by jealousy. We are still consumed by these dark forces. We can’t stand to see other people succeed, and when they do, we endeavor to rip them down. We are constantly judging others negatively. We have our fingers on the trigger, waiting to catch someone making a mistake so that we can embarrass them and destroy them.

The Mishnah states that the epitome of strength is embodied by a person who controls his yeitzer. The truly rich person is one who is happy with his lot. The Maharal comments on this Mishnah that if one can defeat others, it is not necessarily because of his own personal strength; it may be because of his opponent’s weakness. However, if he triumphs over the evil inclination which seeks to entrap him, that is a true yardstick of strength. He is not strong because his opponent is weak. He is strong because he has beaten a strong opponent.

In the same vein, if one considers himself wealthy because of his holdings, then his wealth is determined by outside factors and is never secure. On the other hand, if a person is content with whatever Hashem assigns him, that kind of “merchandise” can never be diminished by outside circumstances and is thus the only real, enduring wealth.

We all seek wealth, comfort and happiness. We long for an end to our suffering and pray for the golus to end. Those blessings are contingent upon our determination to defeat the urge to believe in our own abilities and deny the Hand of Hashem.

Since sinas chinom ultimately flows from jealousy, and jealousy is a product of egotism, we have to work on the antidote: strengthening our trust and belief in Hashem, as well as our love of our fellow Jews. We must work on treating everyone with the dignity, respect and compassion - the way we ourselves want to be treated.

It's a Shabbos of nechomah and a season of nechomah. We are fortunate to be equipped with the tools of nechomah, such as patience, a smile, and a few extra minutes that can make the difference. There are so many broken people out there. Many of them seem to have it all, standing tall and proud, but when you look closely, you see that they are suffering too.

We can be people of nechomah. We can listen, empathize and encourage.

In Slabodka, Elul was a most intense period, a time of extreme focus. However, related a talmid of the yeshiva, one year was different. That year, even veteran talmidim of Slabodka, accustomed to the solemnity of the Alter of Slabodka and his message, felt frightened. That period was referred to as “The Shvartzeh Elul,” a reference to the darkness of the Alter’s words and the stark portrait he painted of punishment for sins.

During the year of “The Shvartzeh Elul,” the Alter spent the month before the yom hadin discussing sechar ve'onesh and the reality of the impending din. Slabodka was terrified.

But then, on Rosh Hashanah of that year, the Alter rose to speak on the first night, something he had never done before. He, who regularly wouldn't speak at all on Rosh Hashanah, rose and faced his talmidim. “We have spoken much about sechar ve'onesh and din, about the impending judgment and its implications, but there is one more thing you should know. There is a way to be found worthy, to emerge victorious in judgment.”

“How so? Mit ah gut morgen. By walking around with smiles on your faces. With warm words of greeting for your friends. With uplifting and encouraging comments to those around you. Then you will all be zocheh badin...”

We have the tools to be worthy of nechomah.

Mit ah gut morgen ken men zoche zein tzu ah guteh leben. With a good morning we can merit a good life and the nechomah we so crave.

In that merit, may we all be zoche to the true nechomah that Yeshayahu prophesized about and Jews have yearned for since the churban. May we all be transported to Yerushalayim Habenuyah speedily in our day.

A Morning of Nechomah

By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz

It seems as if the words were written especially for us. Nachamu, nachamu, Ami. A healing balm for a suffering people. While the novi speaks about a people that had been hit twice, we weren't only lakah bekiflayim. We have been hit a lot more. As a people, we have been slammed so badly and so often that any other nation sustaining what we have would have long withered away by now.

Since the churbanos the novi spoke of, we have been beaten, stoned, burnt, locked in awful ghettos, deprived of every human need, and driven from country after country. The Holocaust took a terrible toll. Since then, bechasdei Hashem, we have bounced back and built burgeoning Torah communities around the world.

There have been ups and downs, victories and defeats, heroes and anti-heroes, but, by and large, we have been wildly successful. Lately, however, we have suffered a steady series of blows that makes us reach for words of nechomah as if reaching for oxygen.

Each year, when the baal kriah reads the opening words of the haftorah, you can feel the joy wash over the people in shul, as smiles form on their faces. It's like a ladder coming down, seven rungs of nechomah, giving us the means to climb upward in the yemei harachamim.

Each year, we experience emotions of loss and pain during these months, but this year we received an extra dose, with economic worries and calamitous tragedies one after another, in rapid succession.

So as we seek to become keilim worthy of nechomah, we ourselves need to become people of nechomah, comforting ourselves and comforting each other.

The call of the hour is to develop and strengthen our interpersonal skills, deepening our appreciation for each and every Yid we encounter.

Speaking last week at a kinnus to mark the completion of shivah for Rav Elazar Abuchatzeira, Rav Aharon Leib Shteinman remarked that a Jew who is desensitized to bein adam lachaveiro is capable of even bloodshed, Rachama litzlan. The rosh yeshiva traveled to Beer Sheva to share this message. The second five dibros are bound with the first five, he said. Bein adam lachaveiro is as fundamental as bein adam laMakom.

“We are in the last generations before Moshiach's arrival,” said Rav Shteinman, “and we need to be extra careful with the honor of our friends. It's forbidden to humiliate another person. We have to be careful to protect the kavod of each other…to pay attention to this issue of bein adam lachaveiro so that such incidents shouldn't reoccur.”

A friend of mine related a story that he heard from an elderly Munkatcher chossid who witnessed the incident and vouches for its authenticity.

In a town near Munkatch, there was a feud between the rov and president. The president was a learned fellow, and he announced that all shailos in halacha should be presented to him, rather than to the rov.

One Friday, the president's wife was cooking for Shabbos and a question arose regarding the kashrus of a chicken. The chicken had what appeared to the woman to be a broken, bloodied leg, and she knew that she had to ask a shailah to determine if the chicken was kosher. Her husband was out working, so, with no other choice, she went to ask the rov, who examined the bone and paskened that the chicken was kosher. She cooked it and prepared it for the Shabbos meal.

When her husband learned of her deed, he was furious. With his vast knowledge of halacha, he paskened that the chicken was treif and refused to eat it on Shabbos. He told his wife to put it on ice and keep it until after Shabbos. When Shabbos concluded, he stormed into the rov’s home and summoned him to a din Torah by the Minchas Elazar, the Munkatcher Rebbe.

The two men traveled to Munkatch and entered the Rebbe's room, placing the chicken before him.

“Look what an am haaretz we have for a rov,” said the rosh hakahal. “He told my wife that we can eat this obviously treife chicken.”

The Rebbe examined the chicken and then spoke.

“Boorich Atooh...shehakol nehiyeh bidvaro,” he said, and then broke off a small piece of the chicken and ate it.

The elderly Munkatcher chossid recounted how the president's face fell, with the Rebbe's actions serving as a louder condemnation than any words. He left in disgrace.

The chossid who repeated the story related that after they had left the room, one of the Rebbe's close talmidim asked him why he ate from a chicken that had been subject to question, even though it was kosher, in contrast to his usual practice of not eating from something that had a shailah.

The chossid finished the story: “The Rebbe pounded on the table so hard that the seforim jumped. ‘What? Un mentch fleish iz yuh glatt kosher? And human flesh is permitted for one to eat? How could I stand by and watch that man destroy the rov? I couldn’t.’”

When we judge others, and when we embarrass or speak disrespectfully to them, we are destroying them. We can disagree without getting personal. We can compete without seeking to drive our competitor out of business. We can chastise without embarrassing. And we can joke without being malbim pnei chaveireinu.

There are myriad opportunities to simply use words or actions to build people up, make people feel appreciated and worthwhile, and inject people with self-respect and dignity.

Take something as simple as the ubiquitous Israelis who come knocking on our doors with their hands outstretched. They are an easy target, they intrude, they don’t know us, and we don’t know them. All we know is that they want our money. “Go get a real job,” we can say disdainfully. “Sure, it’s easier to knock on doors than to work.” We all know the routine.

But let’s think about these very people for just a moment and use them as an example to make our point.

Our brothers and sisters in Eretz Yisroel are suffering greatly. Although they've always lived on lower economic levels, with large families crowded into small, two-bedroom apartments, people were content with what they had. The mothers and girls had one Shabbos dress apiece and the fathers and boys possessed one Shabbos suit each, yet they didn’t feel deprived. Now, things have worsened for thousands of our brothers in Eretz Yisroel. Their grinding poverty recalls previous generations, when people went to bed hungry.

We meet many people from these unfortunate families on this side of the ocean, as they work their way through our neighborhoods, knocking on doors and asking for a handout. We view them as intruding shnorrers. Perhaps some of them fit that description, but if we were to stop and speak to these people before handing them a dollar, we would encounter many wonderful, geshmake individuals who simply have no place to turn. Where they live, there is little economic opportunity, and bureaucratic conditions make gainful employment virtually impossible. So, with a sigh, they accept that they have no recourse other than to “go to chutz la'aretz.”

By the time they have joined the circuit of door-to-door begging, they are way past their last dollar and are heavily in debt. As a desperate last resort, they take out another loan and buy a plane ticket to New York.

They come here and travel from shul to shul, and house to house, some with sad eyes and some with hearts full of bitachon and simcha. They trudge about, waiting to find good Jews who will have rachmanus on them and treat them like human beings, not unwanted outcasts.

A fellow who recently knocked on my door had the trademark wide-brimmed hat of the Yerushalayimer Yidden. He had deep-set, coal black eyes and a brow furrowed with so many creases, lines telling a tale of debts mounting on top of debts. His gravel-voiced “Shalom aleichem” carried the flavor of Meah Shearim, hints of the Eitz Chaim cheder or perhaps Chayei Olam.

Far be it from me to speak about accepting collectors graciously. I am guilty of being too distracted to receive these Yidden the way they ought to be greeted, but one night, for some reason, I had the zechus to see my visitor for what he was - the same as me, a father trying to feed his family.

I let him in, sat down with him, and heard him out. He had a lot to say. He had so much bottled up inside of him. His feet hurt from hours of shlepping around, and he welcomed the opportunity to talk about Yerushalayim, its streets, and its people. He was collecting for an upcoming wedding of one of his many children. I asked him if, by any chance, he had a picture of the chosson.

It was as if I wrote out a check to him for $10,000. He pulled out a picture from his pocket, beaming with pride.

“Dos iz mein zun, der chosson,” he said. “Azah feineh chosson, nein? Ihr zet zein lichtigeh ponim?”

He was so touched that he was being treated like a person, like a father, and not like a shnorrer. He then said that he had a picture of his extended family taken at a recent family simcha.

“Would you like to see it?” he asked.

“Of course,” I answered.

It made his day to share the picture he carried with him. He pointed at each child and told me their names, their ages, where they are, and more. For a few precious moments, he felt human again. I gave him a donation and he danced out of the house, heading to the next door, praying it would open.

I never did that before and I am not saying that you have to. But we have become jaded and apathetic. There are so many of them, it seems, that we can’t possibly treat them all with kindness and patience. Do we ever stop to imagine ourselves in their place? Do we ever stop to contemplate the fact that if not for the Hashgachah that caused us to be born and raised in this land of plenty, we might easily be one of them? How would we feel going from door to door in a strange country, begging people we don’t know for a couple of dollars so that we can return home and have the electricity bill paid, the makolet bill paid, and make a decent simcha for our close ones?

In essence, we are them. We are in a place we don’t belong, knocking ourselves out to feed our families and meet our obligations. Though we don’t feel it as much as they do, we are dependent upon the mercy of our Father to find favor in the eyes of people we meet and those with whom we do business. We are fortunate that He showers us with kindness and gives us what we need and more, to enable us to lend a helping hand to relatives, friends, neighbors and Yidden from around the world who need assistance.

As I was writing these words, someone I know called me from Yerushalayim. Having read several articles in the Yated about Reb Ben Tzion Oiring, he decided to look him up while visiting Meah Shearim and deliver him some much-needed chizuk. He climbed the five flights of stairs on Rechov Shomrei Emunim and was welcomed into the very humble Oiring apartment. At that point, a little girl knocked on the door with a note from her mother. The Oirings did not know who the girl was.

The adorable little child held out the note for Reb Ben Tzion to read. The note said: “I have nothing to give my children to eat. Please give what you can.”

Can you imagine the scene? A family so destitute that they send out their child with a note to people who are poorer than poor for help. People who have nothing, appeal to people who have almost nothing for sustenance and a few crumbs of nechomah.

Imagine if this girl had come to your door. You no doubt have a pantry stocked with items to spare to feed a starving family. You no doubt have money in your wallet. But the Oirings had nothing in their wallets and the cupboard was bare. Mrs. Oiring gave the girl the only thing she had to spare: a bottle of ketchup.

Providentially, our American friend reached into his pocket and took out what he had, giving the girl 100 shekels to bring home to her mother. At least those precious children didn’t go to bed hungry one night this week.

Do we not have to be thankful for what we have? Do we not have an obligation to look at people like Reb Ben Tzion Oiring and his neighbors differently when they come knocking on our doors seeking out crumbs of physical, mental and spiritual nechomah?

And what about the people who come collecting for organizations that are floundering and barely holding on?

Last week, I was at a parlor meeting for Lev L’Achim. I stood there listening to Rav Uri Zohar make his pitch. He spoke about the 3,000 volunteers who go out and add to the level of kedushah in this world.

People think, “This is Uri Zohar’s job. He’s working for Lev L’Achim. He’s into kiruv. I’m not.”

What they don’t know is that he doesn’t get paid for his work! He doesn’t get paid to come here. He doesn’t receive a commission from the money he raises. Nobody pays him a dime to go trudging about like a shnorrer, begging for money to save souls from oblivion. And not only does he not get paid, but neither does his boss, Rav Eliezer Sorotzkin. He’s also a volunteer. He shleps around, begging people to contribute to the organization. Yet he doesn’t get paid for his work.

These special people do it because they care about Yidden. They see so many Jews out there with hands and hearts outstretched, waiting for someone to come and save them. They don’t know how to say no. They don’t know how to turn away and watch fellow Jews fall away from Yiddishkeit.

They are heroes for our time, as are people who get paid for their work, such as mechanchim, mechanchos, and those involved in every form of harbotzas Torah and gemillus chessed. How do we greet them when they come to us? Sometimes, a smile and acknowledging the importance of their mission are as important as a check.

There are people fighting to sustain Orthodoxy and Torah in cities and towns across the country. Take for example, Bnei Torah in Norfolk, Virginia, who are desperate for support to keep their yeshiva and Bais Yaakov afloat. The intrepid Yidden in Eugene, Oregon, would love nothing more than for their fledgling community to take shape. Rabbi Chaim Nosson Segal, our shaliach in supporting them in their vital mission for the growth of Torah, is traveling this week with a group of yeshiva bochurim to Albuquerque, New Mexico, to bring the beauty of Torah to a state that is almost devoid of it.

They, and others like them, are doing our work, the work of nechomah, bringing the words of Yeshayahu Hanovi to Jews everywhere. They are our shluchim.

While every person is different and we don’t have their talents and the ability to do what they do, we all have the capacity, in our own way, to bring the words of “Nachamu, nachamu” to “ami.” It is by becoming people of nechomah that we will merit nechomah of our own.

Do we ever stop to contemplate the pain of a father who’s been investing his energy, kochos and resources into his children's hatzlachah, and he is then informed that the yeshiva has no room for his son? What about the mother, whose tears flow freely each week during hadlokas neiros, when she hears that her child is on the outs?

Can we help? Perhaps we have the words to comfort them and reassure them that we're all in the same boat. Perhaps we can remind them that the Ribbono Shel Olam accepts everyone and that their wonderful child will find the place that is right for him or her.

In order for us to begin the march out of golus, which we so eagerly anticipate, we have to begin rectifying the way we view each other. It is not just the way we view people who come looking for a handout, but the way we treat our friends, neighbors, chavrusos, spouses and the people we work with and do business with. Until we treat other people the way we would like to be treated, we are doomed to remain in golus, far from our true home.

If, through our skewed way of dealing with fellow Jews, we rob others of their dignity and force them to demean themselves in order to be approved by us, we will not merit the rebuilding of the Bais Hamikdosh. As a splintered nation, with individuals and factions acting on their own and without having the greater good in mind, we delay the arrival of our final redemption. If we live life in attack mode, undermining honest leaders and seeking to destroy those who are trying to make our world a better place, we are in effect consigning ourselves to continued golus.

Chazal remind us that hateful and spiteful behavior between Jews is the one force that holds back the geulah more than any other. In the days of the alter heim, when life in the storied shtetlach was a daily struggle, Jews appreciated each other and didn’t seek to take advantage of one another. During the Holocaust period, when Jewish blood was made cheap, Jews knew to value one another. There were always internecine squabbles, but not to the degree that we experience today in our period of plenty.

Hakadosh Boruch Hu has blessed us with abundance. We have miraculously risen so high from the ashes of the Holocaust that we don’t fathom the miraculous nature of our revival. Nor have we sustained that love and appreciation for fellow Jews which survivors and victims felt.

The Talmud Yerushalmi (Yoma 1:1) teaches the following message about sinas chinom: “We find that the first Bais Hamikdosh was destroyed because there were those who were ovdei avodah zara, megalei arayos and shofchei domim. We know that the Jews during the period of the second Bais Hamikdosh studied Torah and observed the mitzvos, were punctilious in giving maaser, and had proper middos. Yet, they loved their money and hated each other for no reason, and sinas chinom is as great a sin as the three cardinal aveiros.” The Bavli in Yoma (9b) contains a similar limud.

The Vilna Gaon explains that the severity of sinas chinom stems from the fact that at the root of the hatred and jealousy lies lack of trust in Hashem.

Those who are jealous and those who resent other people’s successes in essence deny that Hashem runs the world and He decides what each person should receive. People who are consumed with accumulating wealth attribute their gains to their own talents. They don’t believe that Hashem decrees how much people earn. Anyone who surpasses them in business, career, talent, status or popularity becomes the object of their jealousy, resentment and hatred. When they see the size of another person’s house, they are overcome with anger. When they see someone else make money, they hate them. “How dare they! Who do they think they are?!” Were they to believe that all a person has comes from Hashem, they wouldn’t be so filled with jealousy and hatred.

That is the explanation of the words of the Yerushalmi. The Jews of the generation of the Bayis Sheini loved their money and therefore hated others with sinas chinom.

Since the Bais Hamkidosh has not been returned to us, it is an indication that we have still not overcome the sins of sinas chinom caused by jealousy. We are still consumed by these dark forces. We can’t stand to see other people succeed, and when they do, we endeavor to rip them down. We are constantly judging others negatively. We have our fingers on the trigger, waiting to catch someone making a mistake so that we can embarrass them and destroy them.

The Mishnah states that the epitome of strength is embodied by a person who controls his yeitzer. The truly rich person is one who is happy with his lot. The Maharal comments on this Mishnah that if one can defeat others, it is not necessarily because of his own personal strength; it may be because of his opponent’s weakness. However, if he triumphs over the evil inclination which seeks to entrap him, that is a true yardstick of strength. He is not strong because his opponent is weak. He is strong because he has beaten a strong opponent.

In the same vein, if one considers himself wealthy because of his holdings, then his wealth is determined by outside factors and is never secure. On the other hand, if a person is content with whatever Hashem assigns him, that kind of “merchandise” can never be diminished by outside circumstances and is thus the only real, enduring wealth.

We all seek wealth, comfort and happiness. We long for an end to our suffering and pray for the golus to end. Those blessings are contingent upon our determination to defeat the urge to believe in our own abilities and deny the Hand of Hashem.

Since sinas chinom ultimately flows from jealousy, and jealousy is a product of egotism, we have to work on the antidote: strengthening our trust and belief in Hashem, as well as our love of our fellow Jews. We must work on treating everyone with the dignity, respect and compassion - the way we ourselves want to be treated.

It's a Shabbos of nechomah and a season of nechomah. We are fortunate to be equipped with the tools of nechomah, such as patience, a smile, and a few extra minutes that can make the difference. There are so many broken people out there. Many of them seem to have it all, standing tall and proud, but when you look closely, you see that they are suffering too.

We can be people of nechomah. We can listen, empathize and encourage.

In Slabodka, Elul was a most intense period, a time of extreme focus. However, related a talmid of the yeshiva, one year was different. That year, even veteran talmidim of Slabodka, accustomed to the solemnity of the Alter of Slabodka and his message, felt frightened. That period was referred to as “The Shvartzeh Elul,” a reference to the darkness of the Alter’s words and the stark portrait he painted of punishment for sins.

During the year of “The Shvartzeh Elul,” the Alter spent the month before the yom hadin discussing sechar ve'onesh and the reality of the impending din. Slabodka was terrified.

But then, on Rosh Hashanah of that year, the Alter rose to speak on the first night, something he had never done before. He, who regularly wouldn't speak at all on Rosh Hashanah, rose and faced his talmidim. “We have spoken much about sechar ve'onesh and din, about the impending judgment and its implications, but there is one more thing you should know. There is a way to be found worthy, to emerge victorious in judgment.”

“How so? Mit ah gut morgen. By walking around with smiles on your faces. With warm words of greeting for your friends. With uplifting and encouraging comments to those around you. Then you will all be zocheh badin...”

We have the tools to be worthy of nechomah.

Mit ah gut morgen ken men zoche zein tzu ah guteh leben. With a good morning we can merit a good life and the nechomah we so crave.

In that merit, may we all be zoche to the true nechomah that Yeshayahu prophesized about and Jews have yearned for since the churban. May we all be transported to Yerushalayim Habenuyah speedily in our day.