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Erev Yom Kippur 5769: Tzedekah

A story.

In 1850, in the city of Krakow, there lived a very rich man named Yossele. He was considered the greatest miser in his community if not the entire world. He lies buried, not in the town’s cemetery, but outside the cemetery separated from the community. And on his grave is a tombstone, on which it is written: "Here lies Yossele, the Holy Miser."

Now, in 1850’s Krakow, everybody was poor. There was only one Jew who had money . . . but he was Yossele, the stingy miser. He wouldn’t give anything to anybody. And so he was not only unpopular, but hated by all. Even kids would throw stones at him on the street and call him names. No one would say Gut Shabbos to him. And even on Yom Tov, he was never given an aliyah, an honor such as opening the ark opening in synagogue, because he was so stingy.

One day, Yossele took sick, and the people of the community heard that he was dying. A representative of the leaders in the community mustered up his courage and went to Yossele’s bedside and said to him: "You know, Yossele, you can't take your wealth with you. You have never given a penny to 'tzedaka' all your life. Now, perhaps you will give us a thousand rubles. We can pay for your burial, and then have plenty left to give it to the poor. It will be your legacy – a gift to those whom you have neglected all your life."

Yossele responded quietly: "I'm sorry. I can not afford it. The most I can give you is twenty rubles."
The leaders of the community were disgusted with Yossele’s response, and they sent yet another representative: “Yossele, you know, you simply can't take it with you anyway, so, for once in your life, please give some money for the poor."

But again Yossele responded calmly: "I'm sorry. I refuse to give more than twenty rubles."
"In that case,” the leaders decided, “we refuse to bury you."

"I don't mind. I'll bury myself." Yossele retorted.

At that moment, just as they got up to leave . . . a fever came over Yossele. He recited the 'Shema' . . . and he died.

The community could not get past their disgust. He died on a Sunday night, and nobody buried him ... Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday. Finally, on Wednesday night, a neighbor said: "This is just not fair to his wife and children . . . I have to bury him." So late at night, in order not to be seen by the people of the community, he loaded Yossele onto a wagon, dug a grave for him . . . outside walls of the cemetery, beneath a tree, threw him in, covered him over with earth, and went home. He thought that the whole matter would be forgotten.

At that time, the Rabbi of Krakow was Reb Kalman, one of the great Jewish mystics of his time. Late on Thursday night, just one day after the buriel of Yossele, a poor man came knocking at his door. He said, "Reb Kalman, please give me money to buy food for my family for Shabbot." Reb Kalman said: "I'll be glad to . . . but how come today? I've never seen you come asking for charity before, is everything all right? What happened to you this week?

To which the man responded: "Reb Kalman, for twenty years now, I've been disabled and unable to make a living. But every single Thursday morning, when I opened the door to my house, I would find twenty rubles in an envelope under the door. 'Likoved ha-Shabbot.’ -- In honor of the Sabbath ' it would say. But not this morning. This morning, for the first time in twenty years - it wasn't there, and now I don’t know how I will feed my family this week.

Five minutes later, there was another knock on Reb Kalman's door. "Reb Kalman," said an elderly woman. "Reb Kalman, please, please give me some money so that I can have food for Shabbat." "I will be glad to," said Reb Kalman . . . " But, you’ve never needed help before, has something happened to you this week? Are you okay?

To which she replied: "Reb Kalman, the truth is, for ten years now, I have been unable to make ends meet leaving me unable to buy food for and celebrate Shabbat by week’s end. "But every Thursday evening, I would find ten rubles under my broken door. This week, for the first time in all of these years, it wasn't there."

Within hours, all of the poor people of Krakow had come to the Rabbi with a similar story . . . it didn’t take long before Reb Kalman realized who the anonymous giver must have been.

Can you imagine - how many people in that community that Yossele, the Miser, supported and helped with his money?

Reb Kalman began to question the people who came to his door:

"I don't understand it. How come, to one of you he gave twenty rubles, and to another one, he gave fifteen? How did he know what you needed, and how did he know where each of you lives?"
As he listened, the most unbelievable thing was revealed to him. It turned out that every poor person in town had the idea that maybe once in his life, he could get through to Yossele, the Miser, and get some help from him. And so, each one, at some time in his life, had come knocking at his door to ask for help.

Yossele, would open the door . . . graciously and politely. He would welcome the poor soul in to his home: "Come in, sit down, make yourself comfortable at my table," he would say. Then he would take a piece of paper and a pencil, and ask:

"What's your name, my friend? And where do you live?"

"My name is Chaim . . . and I'm a water carrier," one might say. "And I live at such-and-such address."
"Really?" said Yossele, and he would write it down.

"Tell me, how many children do you have?"

“How do you manage? "Tell me, how much money do you need to survive?"

To which the visitor would say: "If I only had so many more rubles a week, I could make it."

Suddenly, Yossele would go into a frenzy, pick up who ever came to his house, and throw him or her out: "Get away from here, and don't you ever darken my door again,"

The poor person would stand up, dust him or herself of, and say: "That man is a miser . . . and he is crazy too. I am sorry that I came."

But the next Thursday morning, and every Thursday morning afterwards, rubles, tucked in an envelope marked 'Lichvod ha- Shabbat' would be found at the door.

Reb Kalman heard the same story all day, from different people. They had all gone to Yossele, the miser, for money. They had all been thrown out. And they had all gotten a weekly stipend, anonymously, ever since.

When Reb Kalman heard the story, repeated in exactly the same details by every poor person who came to see him, he realized the enormity of what Yossele, the miser, had done. He said to himself, and to the people of Krakow:

"Do you realize what a holy man we had here? We had a man in our midst, one who did what God does. He gave with no desire for thanks, with no desire for praise, plaques, or monuments. He gave in secret, just as God does. And look what we did to him . . . we didn't even bury him in the cemetery amongst our community. How can we atone for the way we treated him?"

And, the Rabbi announced that there would be an emergency fast day on Sunday in order for the community to atone for the sins that had been committed against Yossele. All the people came, especially the poor people, whose children had thrown stones at him, and called him names. They all came, and they all prayed and atoned.

It was just about sunset, the fast day was nearly over. Reb Kalman felt that they hadn't really reached Yossele yet so he opened the Holy Ark, and he began crying, from the depths of his heart: "Yossele, Yossele, Yossele, answer me, Holy Miser. Yossele, answer me. Give me a sign that you forgive us."
At that moment, Reb Kalman fainted. – now remember, Reb Kalman was a great mystic – in his sleep, in front of the ark, he dreamed. And in his dream, he saw Yossele, the holy miser.

And in that vision, Yossele said to the Rabbi: "Reb Kalman, please tell all the people to go home, because there is no reason to fast, and there is no reason to be upset. This is the way I wanted it. I wanted to have the privilege of giving . . . anonymously, without anybody knowing. Please tell my friends, especially the poor people . . . that I'm here in heaven, in the highest place . . . I have everything I need here."

~~~~

I share this charming story about tzedakah on this eve of Yom Kippur in large part because of the dissonance so many of us feel at this moment in the service when one of our distinguished lay leaders stands on this bema, on what we consider one of the holiest days in our religious calendar, and asks for money. Let us respect the sacred work of her task, and support the efforts of our leadership as they strive to continually work to make Temple Emanuel a place where we can gather for prayer, study, and community.

We know that giving tzedakah is worthy, an act of righteousness, no less; necessary for the proper functioning of our community. Our tradition reminds us that “…pirke avot 4.2,” that we should run towards the opportunity to do tzedakah; but on Erev Yom Kippur? I, myself, have struggled with the reality of the customary, “Yom Kippur Appeal.” No question, this appeal falls on this holiday in large part because of efficiency – how often are so many present in order to be asked; but as uncomfortable as it is being asked for money in the midst of this holy worship, let us be reminded that it is not necessarily contrary to the spirit of the holiday.

The Talmud teaches us that “One who leads others to good is greater than the one who does good, for one who causes the giving of tzedakah, confers peace.” (Bavli Baba Batra 9a). Moreover, our Unetane Tokef prayer that we recited on Rosh Hashanah and will again tomorrow morning teaches us that tzedakah is one of three actions that has the power of overturning a divine decree: U’tshuvah, ut’fillah, u’tzedakah, but repentance, prayer, and charity can temper….” Tzedakah apparently gives us humans the power to change God. What an awesome responsibility we have in our hands.

Tzedakah. When I first told my daughters about the professional transition I was making here at Temple Emanuel, they asked, “what does that mean?” Seeking the most tangible change elementary school age children would recognize, I replied that the biggest change would be writing and delivering more sermons. To which my then 7 year old responded with one word: Tzedakah. At first I thought she meant we as a family, would have to give more tzedakah, but when I told her that our tzedakah choices didn’t have to necessarily change with the job change; she said: “no, mommy – your sermon, you should talk about Tzedakah.” In the wonderful way that children think, Rachel captured something significant (perhaps without her even knowing it) – that tzedakah has less to do with monetary measure and far more to do with how a community functions. Yes, our tzedakah choices are personal and individual and can be viewed as part of our personal teshuvah, but these same choices have the potential to impact and bind the community together. It is a public matter worthy of public discussion.

Biblically, the word Tzedakah is typically associated with weights and measures, which were critical for commerce, and the processes of government – recall a view weeks ago, tzedek tzedek tirdof. The pursuit of tzedakah, of “right-ness” was essential, foundational to the proper functioning of society. Tzedakah in Jewish tradition is not optional, it is obligatory for the survival of a community, of a people, depends upon it. Today, no less so than in the Biblical era, tzedakah is foundational to our society. As our Annual Yom Kippur Appeal highlights, our Temple Emanuel community – let alone the larger Jewish community beyond these walls – can not survive without the many tangible and intangible gifts offered by its members.

Ideally, the obligation of tzedakah should fall on the shoulders of the entire community, spread equitably so that no one person feels unduly burdened meeting all the needs of those less fortunate. Our Rabbinic sages demanded tzedakah regardless of financial standing – even the poorest among us are commanded to give according to their ability. A failure of Yossele in the story with which I opened was that by taking on this task single handedly; Yossele failed to allow others to partner with him in making things better for his community. He failed to share this mitzvah with others. His ‘miserly’ approach protected his anonymity, but it also hid the ongoing need that remained long after him.
Let us challenge ourselves to fashion for ourselves a Jewish pattern of giving for our lives which will not only empower us as individuals to fulfill our obligations and desire to give, but also to model for and enable our children, our grandchildren, our great grandchildren, to give of themselves so that our Jewish community including our beloved Temple Emanuel thrives for generations to come. Ken Y’hi Ratzon.

Cantor Silverman