Pre-Covid seems like such a long time ago. In reality, it has
only been just over two-and-a-half years since the world was so much more
stable and seemingly normal. These days, it’s quite hard to remember what
normal felt like. We are living in such bizarre and unsettling times.
Ever since my teens, I’ve always had
a sense of foreboding as we entered the three weeks of mourning for the Beis
Hamikdash. That feeling would intensify from Rosh Chodesh Av through Tisha b’Av.
Then, after Shabbos Nachamu, my mood would improve, and I returned to enjoying
summer. This year the feelings of foreboding started many months before Shiva
Asar B’Tamuz.
Just
as I always knew that my feelings during the Three Weeks weren’t unique to me,
I know that, currently, many others are also struggling to maintain equilibrium
in an unbalanced and uncertain world. In these circumstances, I find solace
when I recall various exceptional people I’ve been privileged to meet, who have
grappled with and conquered some of life’s challenges. I call this the “Lerner
Replacement Theory” –
not to be confused with other “replacement”
ideas.
My theory is: When negative thoughts
are invading your sense of well-being, replace them with positive thoughts. It
seems simple, but in reality, it takes quite a bit of focused effort to put
into practice. Consider trying Lerner Replacement Theory. Replace the
counter-productive, negative thoughts, which we often ruminate over and which
drag us down, with pleasing memories. In fact, if you think about it, you will
be able to remember many good people who have positively impacted your life: family,
friends, even strangers.
As we emerge from the three week
period of Jewish communal mourning, I decided to share one (rather recent)
story that inspires me whenever I think about it. I have omitted very specific
information to respect the privacy of certain individuals.
* * *
I was in Yerushalayim in February of
2020, just two weeks before the official reports of Covid started appearing in
the global news. I had come to Israel in late January to be the mesader kiddushin (to officiate at a wedding) for a very wealthy British chassan (groom) with whom I had a warm
relationship starting a decade earlier. The wedding was held at an outstanding
world-class, five-star hotel in Jerusalem. The chassan picked up the tab for all of the wedding guests’ rooms from
prior to the chupa through the Shabbos
sheva brachos – seven days and
six nights. Although I have kids and grandkids in the Holy City who would have
loved to have hosted me, I must admit that staying at this luxurious hotel did
have its advantages. For instance, I didn’t cause four grandkids to be evicted
from their bedroom – and as odd as it may seem – not sharing a bathroom with
lots of (very sweet) grandkids rather appealed to me. Lastly, it was the first,
and possibly the only, time that I’d be a guest in this particular hotel, and
that’s not because the place fell short of my expectations.
The hotel has an excellent hashgacha (kosher supervision), and it
possesses all of the amenities a frum
Jew could ask for, including a shul, mikveh, and library stocked with sefarim. It also has top chefs, five-star
restaurants, and a breakfast fit for a king.
Over the years, I’ve noticed how the
people who work hard doing the “grunt work” – maids, housekeepers, janitors, cooks
(sometimes spouses) – performing many unpleasant tasks to make others more
comfortable, often go unnoticed and unrecognized. Recognizing the “hidden”
people who are the critical foundation of any organization, institution, or
business is very important. Actively demonstrating hakaras hatov (showing
appreciation) is a vital trait that sensitizes us and validates others. When did
the Jews in the desert appreciate Moshe Rabbeinu’s sister Miriam? When the well
ran dry! Such is the sad but universal truth for most of humanity. We
appreciate what we had when we no longer have it.
* *
*
On my first morning as a pampered
guest, following davening, I went to the lavish breakfast buffet. The hotel has
a large staff, all smartly attired in appropriate uniforms, which subtly denote
the “rank” of the wearer, from janitor to senior manager. While dining on
delicious food and delicacies, in a lavish setting, my eyes caught sight of a
middle-aged man in a janitor’s uniform. He was quickly cleaning up as people
left their breakfast tables. A little later I observed him, together with
other, much younger janitors, mopping and polishing the floor. The reason that
this seemingly normal scene caused me to pause and ponder was because the
middle-aged janitor had a long black and grey beard, long payos, wool tzitzis
hanging out of his uniform, and a large, black cloth yarmulke on his head.
Many years ago (in the days when TV
wasn’t toxic), there was a TV show called Sesame
Street. The show taught basic reading and math skills as well as moral
values to young children. (Yes! There was a time when America had moral values.)
A song featured on Sesame Street went like this: “One of these things is
not like the other – one of these things just doesn’t belong….” When the Muppets
sang that song, the kids watching were challenged to think logically about
things that match or complement each other, and things that don’t seem to fit. Observing
the janitors, I remembered that song. As I exited the hotel, I smiled and
thanked them all for their efforts. They looked up and smiled, and the bearded
man waved. I then hurried to an appointment.
In early 2020, I was in aveilus (mourning) for my mom. When you
are in aveilus – and away from home –
you are always thinking about the next minyan, like the poor man who worries
about his next meal. Because I knew for sure that the hotel’s shul davened
Mincha (Gedola) at 1 p.m. during the winter, I decided that would work well for
me. I didn’t want to risk being late, so I arrived at the shul 20 minutes early,
at 12:40, only to discover that there was a Daf Yomi shiur being given by a chashuve
(distinguished) Rav wearing a tailored kapota,
with a sharply pressed white shirt, which could be seen above the kapota lapels. The Daf had started at
12:15. Although I only caught the last half of the shiur, it was clear that this Rav, evidently appointed by the
hotel, was a talmid chacham. He was
concise and confident. He finished the Daf, and we recited a rabbonon (rabbi’s) kaddish. I then asked
the Rav if, as an avel, he would
allow me to be the Mincha shaliach tzibur
(leader). He immediately handed me a tallis and said, “Bevakasha (please go ahead).”
As I donned the tallis, I thought, I
know this man from somewhere, but I just couldn’t place him. Mincha ended, the
Rav shook my hand and wished me well, then slipped through a side door for
hotel staff and disappeared. As he left, a member of the wedding group
approached me, and we remained behind in the shul to discuss some wedding
logistics. A couple of minutes later, a man came through the side door where
the Rav had exited. It was the middle-aged janitor whom I had met earlier that
day. I was dumbstruck! The janitor was the Rav!
I didn’t want to embarrass him, so I
pretended not to see him. I was perplexed. I was sure that I wasn’t the only
one who noticed that the Rav was also a janitor. The incongruity was churning
in my head throughout that night. The following morning, I saw the Rav at
breakfast. He was cleaning up a mess left behind by some little kids. I came
over, put my arm on his shoulder, and having heard him speak English the
previous day, I said, “May I speak with the Rav for a moment?”
He smiled and said, “The Rav can
meet you in the shul at noon today, before the Daf.” I said, that’s great, and
quickly readjusted my midday schedule. I showed up at 11:55 for our meeting. I
arrived in time to see the janitor slipping into the staff closet. At exactly
noon, the Rav emerged, leaving the janitor in the closet. It reminded me of the
comic books from my childhood, when “a mild-mannered reporter” named Clark Kent
would become Superman.
* * *
The Rav offered me a coffee, and we
sat down in a semi-private alcove next to the shul. I said, “Please forgive me,
but can the Rav tell me a bit about himself? I understand if you don’t want to,
but I can’t seem to combine the two jobs in my head. I’m sorry, I hope you
don’t mind me asking; I’m sure that I’m not the first to ask.”
The Rav, smiling, said, “Actually
you are the first to ask. When I’m in my janitor’s uniform doing my job, I’m
pretty much invisible; most people never make the connection.”
The Rav told me that he was married
and had 10 children, b”H. He said
that his wife had worked diligently to maintain their home and raise their
children and to support him in his learning. “I could see that it was getting
to be too much for her and we couldn’t continue that way. We don’t have outside
support, and we were in debt and impoverished. I felt extremely grateful to my aishes chayil for doing all that she did
to support me in learning for many years. Nevertheless, I took the decision 18
months ago to leave my full-time learning and find employment. That’s when I
realized I didn’t possess what they call ‘marketable skills.’ As you know,
Yerushalayim is not short of rabbis. The meager salary that I could earn from
being a mechanech (teacher) was
insufficient for our needs. I made a decision that no job was beneath me and
that whatever I had to do I would do. I bought some secular newspapers in which
jobs were advertised. I went for many interviews but kept being turned down. I
was told that I was overqualified. I think that was a nice way of saying, ‘At
your age you won’t be able to succeed in an entry-level job working with people
20 years younger than you.’
“I saw an ad for a full-time cleaner
in this luxury hotel. I applied and was interviewed two days later by the
manager in charge of the maintenance staff. When the manager asked me what
experience I had as a cleaner, I told him I had worked under the direction of
an excellent cleaner for over 20 years. “He said, ‘Where?’ I said under the
supervision of my wife in our small but very clean apartment. He laughed and
said, ‘Any other skills?’ I said I’m a rabbi. He respectfully replied, ‘Rabbi,
how can I make you a janitor?’
“I told him that if he gave me the
job, I would work hard, and it would be about me ‘accepting’ the job, not him ‘making’
me accept the job. I told him that I very much needed, and wanted, the
position. He asked why I applied for this particular job. I told him that the
pay was good, the work was steady, the benefits were excellent, and the ad said,
‘an opportunity for the right candidate to advance within the maintenance
department.’
“He just stared at me. He said that
he wanted to check with the hotel ‘rabbi’ (i.e., the head of kashrus) to make
sure it was okay. The next day, I was called and told to report for (paid) training
the following week. At this hotel everyone must be trained for any job, even if
they think they know how to do that job. I was grateful, and I learned a lot in
the training – not just about mopping and vacuuming.
“After 13 months on the job, I was
cleaning the shul for Mincha one day when a group of men from New York came in
to study the Daf together. I overheard the leader of the group say that he
didn’t understand that day’s Daf. As a janitor I remained ‘invisible’ until the
leader looked at me and said, ‘Reb Yid, do you speak English?’ I replied yes.
He continued, ‘Do understand this page?’ I came over and spent 20 minutes
explaining it. The men were grateful and each handed me money and said, “Thank
you, this is for your kinder
(children).”
“The next day, my boss called me in.
He said, ‘I heard that you were the rabbi at Mincha yesterday.’ I apologized.
He said, ‘I’m commending you, not criticizing you. One of our most important
(and regular) guests was in that group. He spoke to the general manager and
suggested that in addition to your other duties, you should become the official
rabbi and gabbai for Talmud study and
Mincha everyday. Mind you, no such job ever existed here. He also suggested
that you be paid extra for that responsibility.’
“The next day the general manager
asked to see me. He told me about his meeting with the New Yorker. Then he gave
me an envelope with cash inside. He said, ‘We don’t have official hotel
uniforms for rabbis, and you cannot be a rabbi in janitor’s clothes. Please go
out and purchase proper rabbi clothing which you will keep in a special closet
for you to change into everyday at noon, except Shabbat. You will keep your
current job, but between noon and 1 p.m., Sunday through Thursday, you will be
the rabbi and gabbai for Talmud study
and Mincha in the shul. You will be paid an extra 600 NIS (shekels) a week.
Does that suit you?’
“I said that it most certainly did –
it was incredible! I also expressed my joy and gratitude. I knew this was a
gift min haShamayim (from heaven),
brought down to earth through a kind New Yorker. Every time he stays here –
which is often – he learns with me.”
* * *
I was touched by the story. I said,
“Rav, how do you do it?! You seem so happy and content in both of your jobs,
which are so dissimilar.”
He said, “I am happy and content! I am bringing home a parnassa, and I get to teach interested adults Gemara every day!
Could I ask for more?”
I said, “I am humbled by you.”
He continued, “Hashem has put me
where I need to be to serve Him. I’m an eved
Hashem. I’m besimcha because I’m
serving Him when I’m cleaning up or when I’m teaching.” He added (while broadly
smiling) “And next week I’m being promoted to be trained as a hotel engineer.
I’ll learn how to fix the common things that need regular maintenance and
replacement. It helps that I can speak English because that’s the primary
language of our guests, and I will still be the Daf and Mincha rabbi, except
I’ll be trading my vacuum cleaner for a wrench.”
For almost a week, I had
opportunities to observe and chat with this most unusual person. He exuded an
aura of peace and contentment. He was serving G-d with joy. He carried himself
with confidence and dignity. He didn’t covet the wealth or possessions of those
surrounding him. He was beshalom –
whole, at peace, and secure within himself, something which most of us aspire
to but fail to achieve. He wasn’t trying to impress others. His goal was to
honor G-d by being His loyal servant and to support his wife and children. His
essence was not defined by his job.
A month later, in late March of 2020,
because of Covid, hotels globally were forced to close. Having returned home to
Maryland, and in “lockdown,” I worried about how the Rav would support his
family. I didn’t have a way to reach him, and the hotel was closed. He was in
my davening. When the hotel eventually partially reopened months later, I asked
an Israeli friend to inquire about this special fellow on my behalf. I learned
that the gentleman from New York, who months before had spoken to the general manager,
had been in contact with him when the hotel had closed for Covid. That
gentleman saw to it that the Rabbi who had explained a complicated Daf to him
six months earlier would be properly provided for until the hotel reopened. I
was relieved and proud to be a member of klal
Yisrael.
* * *
In our davening we recite the words:
“Acheinu kol beis Yisrael…” This
prayer, which refers to the entire house of Israel being brothers, asks that Hashem
bring us all from darkness to light and to a speedy redemption. This prayer
reminds us that we are a unique and special people with a common destiny.
Sometimes we forget that we are a “light unto the nations.” Fortunately, there
are many Jews who never forget our holy mission. The baalabus from New York remembered his mission, and the Rav who
worked as a janitor understood his.
We learn from Shimon Hatzadik that
the world stands on three pillars: Torah, avodah,
and gemilas chasadim (Torah study, serving G-d, and acts of loving kindness). A
righteous baalabus met a righteous rabbi
in a hotel in G-d’s holy city. Their meeting was not by chance. The Rav, an anav (a humble soul), having done his hishtadlus (putting forth focused
effort) to do all he could to support his family was in precisely the right place
at the right time, as was the baalabus.
There are those who might say, “That’s an interesting coincidence.” Others have
an awareness that their meeting was hashgacha
pratis (divinely providential).
Rav Kook, zt”l, said that the Beis Hamikdash will be rebuilt because of ahavas chinam (love that has no ulterior
motive). The ahavas chinom necessary
to rebuild the Beis Hamikdash is further defined by “Ve’ahavta lerayacha kamocha (loving and caring for another as we
would for ourselves).” Each seemingly small, righteous action that we perform
contributes directly to bringing about the ultimate redemption and the
rebuilding of the Beis Hamikdash, while reminding us of the good that we can
each accomplish.
Instead of feeling helpless when
confronting the challenges of a world seemingly dominated by sheker (a lack of truth), we can, by
doing small acts of chesed (kindness and
charity), directly hasten the
redemption! In these times, I need to use Lerner Replacement Theory regularly
to remain mission focused. May Hashem redeem His children soon!
Nachamu,
nachamu, ami!
