![]() One of the first stories I ever heard R' Zalman tell was this one, about his initial meeting with Howard Thurman. Sara Davidson captures it beautifully in her book, The December Project. Sections of the following are also taken from Reb Zalman's First Steps to a New Jewish Spirit. I wish you Shabbat Shalom and a meaningful encounter at Sinai. See you there. Again. ************************** As a young rabbi in New Bedford, Massachusetts, in 1955, Zalman used to rise at four in the morning to drive to Boston, where he was taking graduate classes on psychology and pastoral couseling. Arriving at Boston University at seven, he needed to davven, but Hillel House was closed. Most buildings on campus were shut except for March Chapel, so he wandered through it, looking for a place to conduct his morning prayers. In one room he found a statue of Jesus, in another a large brass cross on the altar. At length he found a supply room that had no Christian symbols and did his davening there.
A tall black man - Zalman assumed he was the janitor - saw him one morning and asked, "Is there a reason you don't pray in the chapel?" Zalman said it was because of the Christian symbols. "In my guts and heart, it doesn't feel right." "Why don't you look tomorrow morning and see if you'd like to say your prayers there?" the man said. Curious, Zalman entered the chapel the next morning and found the brass cross had been taken off the altar and placed in a corner. He went to the lectern and saw the Bible open to Psalm 139, containing the words: Whither shall I flee from thy presence? If I ascend to heaven, thou art there... Of course, Zalman thought. When he finished davening, he turned the Bible to Psalm 100, a prayer of thanksgiving, then left the chapel and went to his class. In the days that followed, "this man and I were sending messages to each other through the Bible, and I still didn't know who he was," Zalman told me. In the spring, he wanted to take a course listed as "Spiritual Disciplines and resources, with Labs." Labs? What would that be? He requested an appointment with the professor "to see if he was going to try to make a Christian out of me. If he was, I didn't want to take the course." When Zalman walked into the professor's office, he saw the black man he'd assumed was a janitor. It was Howard Thurman, dean of Marsh Chapel, a legendary ecumenical leader who later would be a mentor to Martin Luther King Jr. Thurman offered Zalman a mug of coffee, and Zalman explained his concerns. "I want to take your course, but I don't know if my spiritual anchors are long enough." He put his coffee mug on his desk and began to look at his hands. He turned them palms up, then palms down. The backs of his hands were very dark, and his palms were very light. He turned them back and forth, looking at them, as if considering the light and dark sides of the argument. This lasted for several minutes, but it felt like hours to me. He did what he was doing with such a calm certainty that he seemed to possess great power. Suddenly he spoke, "Don't you trust the Ruach HaKodesh?" I was stunned. He'd used the Hebrew words for the Spirit of Holiness, something I had not expected from a gentile. And in so doing, he brought the question home to me in a particularly strong way. I began to tremble and walked out of his office without answering him. For the next three weeks I went through torment struggling with the question. Did I indeed trust the Ruach haKodesh, trust It enough to have faith in my self-identity as a Jew? Or was I holding back, fearful of testing my belief in an encounter with another religion, unnerved by the prospect of trusting my soul to a non-Jew? If I was fearful, it meant I did not truly believe. Finally I realized that his question could have only one answer. "Don't you trust the Ruach haKodesh?" Dean Thurman had said. I had to say "Yes, I do," and I signed up for his course. .....in the exchanges with Dean Thurman I learned an important lesson, which is still at the center of my thinking: Judaism and all the other Western religions are suffering from having become oververbalized and underexperienced. Someone else's description of ecstasy is not enough. I wanted to have the experience myself, and I'd like to help make it possible for other people to have it too. ****************** Thank you Reb Zalman - you accomplished your task. Have you enjoyed reading my posts? Only a few left to go before R' Zalman's first yahrtzeit. Please consider offering a tax deductible donation to support this project and the work of DC's Jewish Renewal community Minyan Oneg Shabbat. Thank you, R' Mark
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![]() R' David Zaslow told this story during the R' Zalman Legacy Shabbaton in Ashland, OR two weeks ago. Priceless. R' David: True story – Boulder, 2000. At a Friday morning service in Boulder, CO. Rabbi Twersky from Denver and his team were leading davvenen getting ready for a shabbaton they were leading that weekend. Reb Twersky and Rabbi Zalman were standing at the window and chatting during the early part of the davvenen. They were chatting and pointing outside while watching a gardener trim the overgrown hedges. Reb Zalman comes back to me and says, “Duvid Leibyn, do you want to know what we said to each other.” I replied, “Yes, of course!” Reb Twersky: Zalman, do you see those hedges after they have been trimmed? They look very bad, don’t they? That's what happens when you trim too much. Reb Zalman: Sure, for a while they won’t look so great, but do you see the hedges that haven’t been trimmed? Reb Twersky: Yes, I see them. Reb Zalman: Well, do you know what happens when they don’t get trimmed? They get so overgrown they choke themselves, and they won’t live much longer. Rabbi Twersky looked over at Reb Zalman telling me the story. He smiled at me from across the room, shaking his head, and shrugging his shoulders as if to say, “Reb Zalman’s got a point!” ****************** Have you enjoyed reading the stories? Please consider offering a tax deductible donation to support this project and the work of DC's Jewish Renewal community Minyan Oneg Shabbat. Thank you. Renée and I head to Portland, Oregon this Thursday for a Scholar in Residence Shabbaton at P'nai Or. Then we'll be in Eugene on Wednesday night at Temple Beth Israel for a concert. Our trip ends at Ashland's Havurah Shir Hadash for a Thursday night concert and Sunday Master Storytelling Workshop, all part of the Reb Zalman Legacy Shabbaton. Whew! This post is from a talk that was given in memory of Reb Shlomo Carlebach, tz"l that R' Zalman tz"l presented at the 92nd Street Y in New York City. I have not edited it in order to preserve the R' Zalman's unique way of telling. His voice shines through, yes? ![]() Once there was a woman who was very poor. Her husband died and she didn't have any children. Oy! She wanted to say kaddish. It was before egalitarianism, so she couldn't go to say Kaddish in shul. She took in an extra load of laundry, and would do that work and take that money to the shammes, and ask the shammes to say a kaddish, and somehow she felt that this was right. After a while she felt that there must be so many people who no one says kaddish for, so she worked still harder and got together another couple of coins and said to the shammes, "Will you say another kaddish for someone who has no one to say kaddish for him?" He agreed. One day she had to pay the rent, and she didn't have money, and she was really in tsores. She's walking down the road a little bit, and she's saying, "Dear G!d, I could use some help," when a carriage comes by and a man, well dressed, noble looking, invites her to sit in the carriage, and says, "Why are you so troubles? What's going on?" She tells him of her tsores, trouble, her travail, and he takes out a wechsel - a check, a note to the banker, saying, "Pay this woman ten thousand rubles." She didn't need that much, but she took the note and went to the bank and presented it to the teller. The teller says, "It's a big note, something I can't handle. I have to go to a higher up." He sees the note, and he too says, "No, the president of the bank has to handle that: we cant' handle it." They usher this woman to the president of the bank, and he says, "Where did you get tis note?" She looks around the room, and there were pictures, portraits of people and she points to one portrait and says, "This man - this is the man that gave me the note." The banker nearly faints. It's been eight years since his father, whose picture was there, has died, and he hasn't said kaddish for his father. This woman, who had hired, with her hard work, someone to say kaddish for someone who needed the kaddish, helped that banker, and so she got helped in return. *******
R' Zalman preceded his telling of the story with this: Reb Shlomo - what a storyteller! The way a thing came alive before our heart's eyes! He took us into virtuous reality, moving us into a place in which we felt that the ideal, the virtue, was more real than what we see with out eyes. He was a creative artist of story telling. He read the same stories as I did, but he told them as if he had seen it all happen, and yes, in his imagination he did wee it happen in a most vital and exciting way. Telling stories is a spiritual art form. The Ba'al Shem Tov said that Judaism is not a burden, it's a way to pamper your soul. Singing niggunim and telling stories were ways in which people did that. A rough table, a glazele with schnapps, people singing a melody. Outside it's cold and the wind is blowing, but a big pot belied stove is making it warm, and they're hanging out there: and they shmooze. "I want to tell you a story from my Rebbe!" - they would do a "Can you top this?" Have you ever seen a Tzaddik like he was? ******* From Kol Chevre, 14th Yahrtzeit Issue, Pg 68-69. Does anyone know if this is still published or if copies of any of the published issues are available for purchase? ******* Please consider offering a tax deductible donation to support this project and the work of DC's Jewish Renewal community Minyan Oneg Shabbat. Thank you. ![]() Renée and I are honored to be part of the Reb Zalman Legacy Shabbaton April 24-26 in Ashland, Oregon. Seems like a good moment to share a story of two Rebbes and close friends whose lives and teachings continue to inspire so many of us. Chag Sameach, R' Mark Shlomo Carlebach and Zalman Schacter, young rabbis in their mid 20s, are standing in a narrow, dimly lit hallway on the second floor of 770 Eastern Parkway, the three-story headquarters of the Lubavitcher Rebbe, waiting nervously, with their eyes fixed on the door in front of them. Even the fact that they are here together is a miracle in itself, a blessing from God. They had first met in Baden bei Wien, before the Nazis had taken over, when Zalman, then 11 years old, showed up on the Carlebach's doorstep, holding a dead chicken. Zalman's father had sent him to ask Rabbi Carlebach is it was kosher. Rabbi Carlebach examined the chicken and declared it kosher. Then he introduced Zalman to his sons, Eliyah Hayyim and Shlomo, who were 10 years old. The three boys ran off to play ping pong. Zalman's own family was not able to leave Austria by train as the Carlebach's had; but with the help of smugglers, the Schacters escaped on foot across the German border into Antwerp, Belgium. From there, they fled to France and would up in an internment camp for Jewish refugees, before eventually being released to travel to Marseilles. There, Zalman met a charismatic rabbi with whom he was very taken. After his family finally arrived in New York in 1941, Zalman learned that this rabbi was Menachem Mendel Schneerson, the son-in-law of the sixth Lubavitcher Rebbe Rabbi Yosef Yitzchak Schneerson, head of the great Hasidic dynasty. The Rebbe had also escaped from Europe and arrived in New York just a year before Zalman, setting up his home and headquarters in Brooklyn. Zalman soon became a Hasid of the Rebbe, and when Zalman and Shlomo found each other again in New York, Zalman learned that Shlomo and his brother Eliya Hayyim had already been to see the Rebbe. At first Shlomo was hesitant about becoming a Hasid. He was already studying at America's foremost Torah academy, Lakewood yeshiva, the intellectual center of the orthodox Jewish world. where he was recognized as an illui, a genius. It was rumored that Rabbi Aharon Kotler, the renowned head of the yeshiva, was grooming Shlomo to succeed him. But over time Shlomo came to realize the life of the mind, even in a community of brilliant minds, would not satisfy him. He needed something more. What the Rebbe offered him was a path with heart. So Shlomo left Lakewood to learn with the Rebbe. The door opens. An older Hasid, Berel Haskind, sticks his head out. In a soft voice, almost a whisper, he says in Yiddish: Die Rebbe ruft eich, "The Rebbe's calling you." They follow him into the Rebbe's mother's room where he held a small farbrengen (gathering). ![]() Wearing a black silk robe, the Rebbe sits propped up on an upholstered chair at a small table. Standing around the room are several old men with long, white beards, whom the young men recognize as the Rebbe's closest Hasidim. The Rebbe nods, and one of the old men fills three shot glasses on the small table with vodka, passing them to the Rebbe, Shlomo, and Zalman. They make a blessing and everyone says, "L'Hayyim!" making a toast to long life for the Rebbe. The Rebbe looks at Shlomo and Zalman. He takes one more sip of his vodka, and hands the glass to one of the Hasidim, who also takes the glasses from the two young men, and puts the glasses in the dresser. The Rebbe speaks softly in Yiddish. His voice is weak, but his eyes are filled with fire. "The time has come," the Rebbe says, looking first into Shlomo's eyes, then Zalman's. "You have been chosen. God has given you both great gifts. With great gifts come great responsibilities." The Rebbe coughs. Berel Haskind hands him a handkerchief, then a glass of water. After a moment, the Rebbe continues: "I am sending you both as my personal emissaries. I want you to go to college campuses. I want you to find the Jewish students there." The Rebbe takes a sip of water. "What do you want us to say to them?" Shlomo asks. The Rebbe looks at him. "I am sending you to reach out to them, "he says. "God will show you what to say. He will put the words in your mouth." The following week is Hanukkah. Shlomo and Zalman get hold of a car, an old Plymouth, and drive up to Boston to visit their first college campus, Brandeis University, When they get there in the evening, they discover a Hanukkah party in the student union, where students are dancing to 1940s swing music. The young rabbis walk in carrying the stuff they've brought with them: a tape recorder, with Hasidic music, a stack of handouts with Hasidic teachings, and a bag of tefillin. The room goes silent, and all eyes are on them. Shlomo walks over to a table on one side of the room; Zalman walks over to a table on the other side. As curious students wander over, Shlomo begins telling stories. One student says, "This sounds like Hindu mysticism." Shlomo keeps going from story to story as more students gather. Zalman talks aboutKabbalah and the Upanishads at his table, where students are also gathering. Pretty soon, everyone in the room is gathered around these two tables. The stories and discussions continue late into the night. ************ And the stories, and the discussions, and the songs, and the niggunim, and the Torah continue late into our nights, and days. Excerpted from Aryae Coopersmith's wonderful book, Holy Beggars. ************ Please consider offering a tax deductible donation to support this project and the work of DC's Jewish Renewal community Minyan Oneg Shabbat. Thank you. ************ Reb Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev ztz"l used to wish everyone "a kosheren Purim" and a "freiliche Pesach". Of course everyone else usually says the opposite: "a freiliche Purim- a happy Purim" and "a kosheren Pessach-a kosher Pessach". Someone asked Reb Levi Yitzchak to explain why was he reversing the blessings? And so he explained: "everyone knows that on Purim you have to be happy and to be sure we are even obligated to get drunk, but in the midst of the Purim festivities someone might forget that Purim also has to be kosher" - hence he would wish all "a kosheren Purim; "Pesach on the other hand, everyone is so busy cleaning and getting rid of their 'chametz', which is a very strict mitzvah in the Torah, and in the process some may forget the mitzvah of "v'samachtah b'chagechga" - you shall rejoice in your holiday - hence he would wish everyone a "freilichen Pessach". So ...let's bless one another with "A KOSHEREN UN FREILICHEN PESACH!" ************ ![]() My friend and colleague R' Leila Gal Berner shared this sweet story with me. R' Zalman tz"l brought so much joy to so many of us, what more fitting way to enter into the month of Adar. מרבים בשמחה Marbim B'simcha! May Our Joy Increase! When I was a student at the Reconstructionist Rabbinical College, I had the honor of spending a fair amount of time learning with Reb Zalman at the P’nai Or house on Emlen Street. During that time, Zalman and I would take walks in the neighborhood. Since Mt. Airy is an old neighborhood, the sidewalks were very uneven and it was always necessary to look down when walking in order not to trip and fall flat on one’s face. Simply strolling was impossible.
One day, walking and gazing down at the sidewalk carefully, Reb Zalman spotted a centipede. Bending down, he gently scooped the centipede up and placed it on his arm. As it undulated up and down Zalman’s arm, my rebbe spoke quietly, “Baruch HaShem, Leila leybn, that we can gain such wisdom from this little creature! Look at its many legs. You know, we are like the centipede. We each walk on hundreds of feet and it is only somewhere in our lives that we discover our genuine two feet. All the others feel inauthentic, unreal, like marshmallows, like pillows. We don’t really feel anything beneath our feet and we aren’t really connected to the vitality of the earth beneath them. But when we discover our ‘real’ feet, we begin to feel deeply connected to holy ground, just as Moshe Rabbeinu felt before the burning bush. With our real feet, we feel heat and cold, and pain. We feel softness and harshness, and sharpness — we feel Life! Make sure, Leila leybn, that you find your authentic feet and walk honestly and humbly on them. Years later, I reminded Reb Zalman of his words about the centipede. My rebbe smiled and simply asked me, “So, nu, have you found your feet yet?” When I answered that I thought so, he laughed and said, “Baruch HaShem.” Thank you Leila for sharing this with us. If you have a story or comment to share, please do so by clicking on the Comments section below ************ Please consider offering a tax deductible donation to support this project and the work of DC's Jewish Renewal community Minyan Oneg Shabbat. If you would like to be added to the growing list of "Year of Stories" followers, let me know at [email protected], with "Year of Stories" in the subject line. ![]() I recall times when as I child I lay sick in bed. My mother would gently rub Vick's VapoRub on my chest, and then cover it with a dry wash cloth. So warm, so soothing, so mentholated. Even now I can feel my mother's hand doing its magic. And when I look at my hands, I see hers - freckled, thin, and yes, aging. If only my hands could pass on comfort as my mother's did. This story took place in the north of Lebanon in the village of Hamadin. And the happening, as told, goes like this: In the village lived a widow and her beautiful daughter, an only child. One day the daughter became ill and was ordered to rest. And so she lay on her bed near the window and looked out at the only tree in the yard. Thus, days, weeks, and months passed, and the autumn came. But the girl's condition didn't improve. On the contrary, she grew worse. And so, one day, as she looked at the tree, she said weakly, "You see, Mother, see those leaves. When the last leaf falls, I will die." The mother's heart grieved, and she watched anxiously as the leaves fell. One cold night the wind howled, and the mother's heart was full of despair, as she saw the wind taking the last leaves. With every leaf her heart sank even deeper. At last there was only one leaf left. What could she do? So the poor woman ran outside, unaware of the cold, the gusts of wind, and the storm. She approached the wall in front of the tree, and there she painted, on the wall, a picture of the last leaf. So good, so accurate was the drawing, that it looked like the last leaf itself. When the girl awoke, she looked out the window, and there she saw one lonely leaf. Days and weeks passed. From time to time she looked out, amd always she saw that last leaf, still hanging on the branch of the tree, A new spirit entered the girl. Slowly, slowly she recovered, and at last she got well. But the mother, by going out on that windy night, had caught cold. She developed tuberculosis, and soon died. When the girl was able to leave her bed, she went outside to see the miracle that had occured: Why had that leaf not fallen? And what did she see? The painting, done by her mother, which had cost her her life for her child's sake. Then the girl realized her mother's great love, and grieved greatly for her mother who, in her own death, had given life to her. The Mother, a Lebanese Folktale, retold by Barbara Rush, from The Jewish Spirit: A Celebration in Stories & Art ººººººººººººººººººººººººººººº
My late rebbe, R' Zalman Schachter-Shalomi, zt"l, (זכר צדיק לברכה) was a master storyteller. He taught, in the name of Abraham Joshua Heschel zt"l: "a mayse is a story in which the soul surprises the mind". "A Year of Stories" is dedicated to his memory. I invite you to forward the link to these stories so that they find their way into the hearts of other listeners and tellers. ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ Please consider offering a tax deductible donation to support this project and the work of DC's Jewish Renewal community Minyan Oneg Shabbat. If you would like to be added to the growing list of "Year of Stories" followers, let me know at [email protected], with "Year of Stories" in the subject line. ![]() This Thursday I head off to Ohalah, what my wife Renée refers to as "a rabbis convention for unconventional rabbis." This will be the first such gathering since the death of Reb Zalman, tz"l, and will then take on special meaning. This post, A Year of Stories #26, marks the 1/2 year since his death on July 3. A few days ago I received in the mail a hardcover copy of Rebbe, the biography of Reb Menachem Schneerson written by Joseph Telushkin. I had not ordered it, so you can imagine my surprise when I discovered a note inside explaining that it was a gift to me from a pair of philantropists who had underwritten the mailing. Wow, that's a lot of bucks - "gimme loot, chasadim!" I immediately looked in the index for Reb Zalman's name, and of course, found a good number of references to him, as he was a musmach (he had been ordained) by the Central Lubavich Yeshiva in 1947. Through the subsequent years Reb Zalman had many interactions with the person who R' Telushkin calls "the most influential rabbi in modern history." Here is a story that Reb Zalman shared with the author about his Rebbe: When Rabbi Zalman Schacter-Shalomi was Hillel director at the University of Manitoba in Winnepeg, Canad, he brought a group of students to meet with the Rebbe in Brooklin. At the conclusion of the rebbe's opening remaks, one of the students, intending to be blunt rather than disrespectful, asked him, "What's a Rebbe good for?" To this day Reb Zalman remembers his feelings at that moment: "I could have sunk through the floor in embarassment." However, the Rebbe didn't seem offended at all and responded to the query directly: "I can't speak about myself, but I can tell you about my own Rebbe (his father in law). For me, my Rebbe was the geologist of the soul. You see, there are so many treasures in the earth. There is gold, there is silver, and there are diamonds. Bit if you don't know where to dig, you'll only find dirt and rocks, and mud. The Rebbe can tell you where to dig, and what to dig for, but the digging you must do for yourself." from Rebbe, by Joseph Telushkin, Pg 209 also, see Reb Zalman's book The Geologist of the Soul: Talks on Rebbe-Craft and Spiritual Leadership ººººººººººººººººººººººººººººº My late rebbe, R' Zalman Schachter-Shalomi, zt"l, (זכר צדיק לברכה) was a master storyteller. He taught, in the name of Abraham Joshua Heschel zt"l: "a mayse is a story in which the soul surprises the mind". "A Year of Stories" is dedicated to his memory. I invite you to forward the link to these stories so that they find their way into the hearts of other listeners and tellers. ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ Please consider offering a tax deductible donation to support this project and the work of DC's Jewish Renewal community Minyan Oneg Shabbat. If you would like to be added to the growing list of "Year of Stories" followers, let me know at [email protected], with "Year of Stories" in the subject line. ![]() It is now 3 weeks post burial. My chest is a little less heavy, my gait a little freer from the weight of sadness. My beard is sorely in need of trimming, but when I look in the mirror, it doesn't matter, evidenced by the tears that still flow easily as I write this. Luckily, I am frequently in a setting where no one asks about my three weeks of facial hair, I am where everyone knows why my outward appearance is less socially presentable. I am in minyan. As we know, a minyan is necessary for the recitation of certain prayers, among them the mouner's kaddish, an opportunity to sanctify life, and my opportunity to help the return of my mother's soul to its source. Traditionally known as "kaddish yatom", I understand that term more acutely personal now. It is the "orphan's prayer", and I am now without both my mother and father. Reb Zalman would say that I now wear the "white beard". I am the elder. In an interview that she gave after her father died, singer Roseanne Cash shared that, no longer having a living parent, she now felt that "the last barrier between herself and her own mortality had been removed." That powerful insight remained with me, bookmarked for a future date, and was one of the first things that came to mind when my mother Elsie died. This past Sunday morning, as worship began, we only had 9 people. Those of us who were there to say Kaddish were keenly aware of the lack of a quorum to do so. On a weekday someone would have gone across the hall to ask one of the secretaries to join us. But on a Sunday, not so. When we reached the moment to say Kaddish d'Rabbanan, the leader called out a page number that signaled we were skipping Kaddish and moving on to the next section of the liturgy. Immediately, one of the women called out, "Wait, let me see if anyone is coming." The leader paused, and the woman left the room. Those of us remaining sat in silence, and waited - 1 - 2 - 3 - perhaps 5 minutes, before the woman returned with good news in the form of several additional people who were joining us. There was something about the quality of those minutes of silence that deeply resonated within me and between those of us who had sat quietly waiting. Time seemed to stand still. In the stillness I felt held by G!d and community. Reb Zalman teaches a possible understanding for ברוך שם כבוד מלכותו לעולם ועד to be "Your glory shines through time and space." Indeed, in the stillness the glory shined through - so true, so real, so effortless, so comforting. That evening, I returned to shul for Ma'ariv. One woman was saying kaddish for her father. It was her last day, after 11 months, that she needed to do so on a daily basis. She was clearly very emotional, and cried openly. She later shared that it was the anticipation she had about the "last day" that had shaken her. She thanked us all for our presence. I recalled the Kotzker Rebbe's gentle reminder that "there is nothing so whole as a broken heart". I also recognize that there is nothing so whole as a minyan. Ten adult Jews relying on each other's presence - to pray, to remember, to rebuild, to dream awake, and to hold each other in sacred community. ![]() There was once a Swiss guard who worked at the border of Austria. He had worked there for many years and took a great deal of pride in his work. One morning an Austrian man arrived at the border, riding a bicycle. On the front of the bike was a basket filled with sand. The guard eyed the man suspiciously, and suspecting that the Austrian might be a smuggler, brought out a special comb he kept for just a purpose, and began to sift through the sand in the basket. He found nothing, only sand, and waved the man through the gate. The same thing happened the next month, as the Austrian arrived on a bicycle with the basket filled with sand. The border guard went through the same process, at first eyeing the Austrian with suspicion, then sifting through the sand with his special comb, and until, finding nothing, allowing the Austrian to again cross the border. The scene repeated itself month after month, year after year. During this time the border guard engaged the Austrian in small talk - learning his name (it was Yosef) learning about his family (he was married with a wife, who was a school teacher, and had 2 children), and of course his reason for crossing the border (to visit a favorite aunt and uncle). Each month they exchanged pleasantries, and as time passed the border guard still remained suspicious, and though he never found anything, he kept on looking... month after month...for 30 years! Finally, one day, the Swiss guard said to the Austrian man, "I must ask you a question that has been on my mind many years. This is my last day of work - I am retiring. After all these years, I still suspect you have been a smuggler, and it is driving me near mad. Now I ask you - I must know - are you indeed a smuggler?" The Austrian man hesitated, and the Swiss guard reassured him. "Do not worry - I give you my word of honor that I will not arrest you. But for my own peace of mind, I must know." "Very well," said the Austrian. "Then I will tell you - I am indeed a smuggler." "Ha ha," laughed the guard, relieved at last to know that his suspicions had not been unfounded. "I knew it!" He hesitated for a moment and then continued, "But each month I looked through your basket and found nothing but sand. Tell me, please, what have you been smuggling?" And with eyes smiling, the Austrian replied, "Bicycles." (Story re-crafted by R' Mark Novak) My late rebbe, R' Zalman Schachter-Shalomi, zt"l, (זכר צדיק לברכה) was a master storyteller. He taught: "a good story is one where the mind surprises the heart". "A Year of Stories" is dedicated to his memory. I invite you to forward the link to these stories so that they find their way into the hearts of other listeners and tellers.
∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ Please consider offering a tax deductible donation to support this project and the work of DC's Jewish Renewal community Minyan Oneg Shabbat. A shout out to Judy Young for her generous offering. ≠≠≠≠≠≠≠≠≠≠≠≠≠≠≠≠≠ If you would like to be added to the growing list of "Year of Stories" followers, let me know at [email protected], with "Year of Stories" in the subject line. ![]() My late rebbe, R' Zalman Schachter-Shalomi, zt"l, (זכר צדיק לברכה) was a master storyteller. He taught: "a good story is one where the mind surprises the heart". "A Year of Stories" is dedicated to his memory. I invite you to forward the link to these stories so that they find their way into the hearts of other listeners and tellers. ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ A man woke up in confusion every morning. He never remembered where he put his clothes the night before, and every morning he would spend a lot of time searching for the things he needed to put on. One night he hit upon a brilliant idea. He exclaimed, "I need a system! I must have an accounting for everything." And so that evening he made a list, writing down the exact location of each article of his clothing. He then pinned the note on his pillow, and fell asleep. When he awoke the next morning the first thing he saw was the list. He immediately reached for it and with the note in hand, he confidently rose from his bed and read the list aloud. "Pants - bedpost. Check. Shoes - under the bed. Check. Socks - in the shoes. Check." As he checked off each article of clothing, he put them on - one by one - until he reached the last of the items. "Cap - doorknob. Check!" With a final flourish, he placed the cap on top of his head, and smiled. "There, I did it, it worked!" In the next moment however his smile turned to concern, for as he checked the list one last time he realized that something was missing. "Hmmm....," he wondered. "Where am I?" ******************* Story re-crafted by R' Mark Novak from a version found in The Stories We Pray by Joel Luric Grishaver, who crafted his version from Chasidic Tales Re-Told, edited by Edith Samuel and prepared by R' Harvey Fields (out of print). A personal note: When a storyteller follows up a story by telling the listener what it means, my heart sinks and my mind withdraws. I leave it to you, gentle reader, to place these stories into the context of your personal journey, gleaning whatever meaning or interpretation resonates within. ***************** Let me know if you use the story and in what context. And......I'd love to hear YOUR stories! And if you are enjoying these stories/teachings and would like to support our work please consider offering a tax deductible donation to DC's Jewish Renewal community, Minyan Oneg Shabbat. Thank you. ***************** If you would like to be added to the growing list of "Year of Stories" followers, let me know at [email protected], with "Year of Stories" in the subject line. A Tale from India, China, or some say Stanislav
Re-crafted by R' Mark Novak from various sources There was a water-bearer who had two large pots, one hung on each end of a pole, which she carried on a yoke across her neck. One of the pots had a crack in it, while the other was as perfect as the day it was crafted. And each day the water-bearer would draw water from the stream and return up the long, narrow pathway to her mistress’s house. Each day as she made her steep climb. By the time she returned to the house the pot with the crack had leaked half its water . The other pot remained full, always delivering a full portion. This went on daily for days, months, years - with the water-bearer delivering only one and a half pots full of water to her mistress’s house. And then one day, as they stood at the edge of the river, the cracked pot apologized to the water-bearer for its imperfection. After years of arriving half-empty and feeling guilty, it spilled its heart out. "I am so very sorry, and I want to apologize to you.” “What do you have to be sorry for?” asked the water-bearer. “I am ashamed that I can’t accomplish what I was fashioned to do. I am ashamed because the crack in my side causes water to leak out all the way back to your mistress’s house. Look at your other bucket - he doesn’t leak. I don’t know why you didn’t use me for kindling a long time ago. What good is a bucket that leaks? With great compassion, the water-bearer replied, “Let us return to the house, and as we walk, you will look and see.” And so they did, and as they progressed up the hill, the water-bearer made a grand gesture toward the ground beneath the bucket, pointing out the same path that they had walked for years. “Look at your side of the path - the yellow daises, the red nasurtium, , the pink and purple asters.” The water-bearer then turned her body, so that the pot could see the other side of the path. “Now, look at the other side - it is nothing but gravel and dirt.” “I don’t understand,” said the cracked pot. The water-bearer smiled. “ I planted flower seeds on your side of the path, and every day as we returned from the stream, you watered them. The seeds sprouted and grew, and every day I return to pick beautiful flowers to adorn my mistress’s table. If you were not just the way you are, she would not have such beauty to grace her house.” ***************** Please let me know if you use the story and in what context. I'd love to hear YOUR stories. Enjoy a beautiful animated version of the story at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h9Z60Msvm3c ***************** My late rebbe, R' Zalman Schachter-Shalomi, zt"l, (זכר צדיק לברכה) was a master storyteller. He taught: "a good story is one where the mind surprises the heart". "A Year of Stories" is dedicated to his memory. I invite you to forward the link to these stories so that they find their way into the hearts of other tellers and listeners. ***************** And if you are enjoying these stories/teachings and would like to support our work please consider offering a tax deductible donation to DC's Jewish Renewal community, Minyan Oneg Shabbat. Thank you. ***************** If you would like to be added to the growing list of "Year of Stories" followers, let me know at [email protected], with "Year of Stories" in the subject line. ![]() There once was a Jew who went out into the world to seek justice. Somewhere, he was certain, true justice must exist, but he had never found it. So he set out on a quest that lasted for many years. He went from town to town and village to village, and everywhere he went, he searched for justice, but never did he find it. In this way many years passed, until the man had explored all of the known world except for one last, great forest. He entered that dark forest without hesitation, for by now he was fearless, and he went everywhere in it. He went into the caves of the thieves, but they mocked him, and said, "Do you expect to find justice here?" And he went into the huts of witches, where they were stirring their brews, but they laughed at him and said, "Do you expect to find justice here?" The man went deeper and deeper into that forest, until at last he arrived at a little clay hut. Through the window he saw many flickering flames, and he was curious about them. So he went to the door and knocked. No answer. He knocked again. Nothing. At last he pushed the door open and stepped inside. Now, as soon as he stepped inside that cottage, the man realized that it was much larger on the inside than it had seemed to be from the outside. It was filled with hundreds of shelves, and on every shelf there were dozens of oil candles. Some of those candles were in precious holders of gold or silver or marble, and some were in cheap holders of clay or tin. And some of the holders were filled with oil and the flames burned brightly, while others had very little oil left. All at once, an old man, with a long white beard, wearing a white robe, appeared before him. “Shalom aleichem, my son,” the old man said. “How can I help you?” The man replied, “Aleichem shalom. I have gone everywhere searching for justice, but never have I seen anything like this. Tell me, what are all these candles?”. The old man said, “each of these candles is the candle of a person’s soul. As long as the candle continues to burn that person remains alive. But when the candle burns out that persons soul takes leave of this world.” The man asked, “can you show me the candle of my soul?” “Follow me,” the old man said, and he led him through that long labyrinth of a cottage, which the man now saw must be endless. At last they reached a low shelf, and there the old man pointed to a candle in a holder of clay and said, “that is the candle of your soul.” Now the man took one look at that flickering candle, and a great fear fell upon him, for the wick of that candle was very short, and there was very little oil and it looked as if it any moment the week would slide into the oil and sputter out. He began to tremble. Could the end be so near without his knowing it? Then he noticed the candle next to his own, also in a clay holder, but that one was full of oil, and its wick was long and straight and its flame burned brightly. “And whose candle is that?” The man asked. “I can only reveal each man’s candle to himself alone,” the old man said, and he turned and left. The man stood there, quaking. All at once he heard a sputtering sound, and when he looked up, he saw smoke rising from another shelf, and he knew that somewhere, someone was no longer among the living. He looked back at his own candle and saw that there were only a few drops of oil left. Then he looked again at the candle next to his own, so full of oil, and a terrible thought entered his mind. He stepped back and searched for the old man in every corner of the cottage, but he didn’t see him anywhere. Then he picked up the candle next to his own and lifted it up above his own. At that instant the old man appeared out of nowhere and grabbed his arm with a group like iron. And the old man said: “Is this the kind of justice you are seeking?” ****************Note: This is where I end the story when I tell it. The story as written continues for one more paragraph. Which version do you prefer, and why? The man closed his eyes because it hurt so much. And when he opened his eyes, he saw that the old man was gone, and the cottage and the candles had all disappeared. And he found himself standing alone in the forest and he heard the trees whispering his fate. And he wondered, had his candle burned out? Was he, too, no longer among the living? (Story as crafted by Howard Schwartz in his must-have-in-your-library, Tree of Souls, Pg 43-45. Howard notes two verses from Tanach that resonate through this story: צדק צדק תרדוף (Deut 16:20) and נֵר יְהוָה, נִשְׁמַת אָדָם (Proverbs 20:27). Beautiful. ***************** My late rebbe, R' Zalman Schachter-Shalomi, zt"l, (זכר צדיק לברכה) was a master storyteller. He taught: "a good story is one where the mind surprises the heart". "A Year of Stories" is dedicated to his memory. I invite you to forward the link to these stories so that they find their way into the hearts of other tellers and listeners. ***************** And if you are enjoying these stories/teachings and would like to support our work please consider offering a tax deductible donation to DC's Jewish Renewal community, Minyan Oneg Shabbat. Thank you. ***************** If you would like to be added to the growing list of "Year of Stories" followers, let me know at [email protected], with "Year of Stories" in the subject line. ![]() There was once a great rabbi, the sage of his age. A more righteous person was not to be found in his generation. He gathered his disciples, looked at each in turn, smiled, and breathed his last. A few days later, his chief disciple has a dream. In his dream, the rebbe was returning to be recyled into this world. "Rebbe!" the disciple said in alarm, "why are you coming back? You lived the most perfect of lives! What is there that could possibly have been left undone?" The rebbe smiled at the disciple in his dream, and said, "Do you remember when I was dying and you and all of my finest students gathered around my bed? Do you remember when I looked at each of you, and then I closed my eyes and smiled? Well. in that moment, I reviewed my entire life, and I saw that any opportunity there had been to learn a word of Torah, I had learned. And any opportunity there had been to do a mitzvah, I had done it. With that I breathed a sigh of satisfaction and my soul left my body." The disciple asked, "So rebbe, where was the imperfection?" "In that moment of satisfaction" (Story from R' Mitch Chefitz's The Seventh Telling. Please share other citations) ******************* My late rebbe, R' Zalman Schachter-Shalomi, zt"l, (זכר צדיק לברכה) was a master storyteller. He taught: "a good story is one where the mind surprises the heart". "A Year of Stories" is dedicated to his memory. I invite you to forward the link to these stories so that they find their way into the hearts of other tellers and listeners. ******************* If you would like to be added to the growing list of "Year of Stories" followers, let me know at [email protected], with "Year of Stories" in the subject line. *************** A personal note: When a storyteller follows up a story by telling the listener what it means, my heart sinks and my mind withdraws. I leave it to you, gentle reader, to place these stories into the context of your personal journey, gleaning whatever meaning or interpretation resonates within.
One day the Baal Shem Tov sits at his table with his people. The weather is getting cold, but he says, "Get the wagon together, and make sure you bring some lekach and some bronfen (cake and spirits), and come with me." So they get into the wagon, and after a time they come to an inn. The Baal Shem says to the innkeeper, "Can you prepare for a wedding?"
And the innkeeper says, "Yes, of course. How many people?" "Not too many people, "the Baal Shem replied, "but we'll need a nice meal." "No problem," the innkeeper says, "I'll send over to another fellow who has a roadhouse a little further on, so he and his wife can come and help. I'm a little short-staffed right now," he explains. "I usually have a young woman and a young man here to help me, but they're off today, the two of them." "Where did they go?" the Baal Shem says. "Well, they're about to get married, and today they went to the town to buy what they need for their new home together. They've been saving up for years." "Very good," the Baal Shem says, "All right, start preparing." Meanwhile, the young couple are on their way to town. No sooner do they get to the market when they see a family being dragged through the streets in chains. The town crier shouts in front of them, "These people haven't paid their rent to the landlord! They are going to be put into the darkest jail until they rot there and die!" The couple are appalled. "How much do they owe?" they ask the town crier. "Three hundred rubles," he says. Three hunderd rubles! It is all they have. But he looks at her and she looks at him, and yes, they take off their money belts and give everything they have to redeem the family. Before the family have even recovered enough to thank them, the couple are gone. On their way back they agree: "We can't tell the people that we gave away all our hard-earned money: they'll call us fools! Let's rough each other up a little, and when we get back we'll say that robbers fell on us and took our money." So they came back bruised and empty-handed to find the inn in an uproar, preparing for a wedding as the Baal Shem had requested. The innkeeper rushes up and says, "Good, you're here! Quick, I need help setting up - oy, vey, what happened to you? Where's the furniture?" And they tell him the whole tale of woe. At this, the Baal Shem calls them both aside and says, "It's your wedding that we're preparing for, and I am here to marry you myself." And so they were married. Now it was the custom that the guests at a wedding would say a droshe geshank, a little speech announcing the present that each guest is giving to the couple. "I give a pair of handsome brass candlesticks," one of the innkeepers says. "I'm going to give a baking trough," says another. At some point they return to the Baal Shem. "What about you, Rabbi?" And the Baal Shem says, "To the groom I give the estate of Count Potptzki. To the bride, I give Countess Potozki's jewelry." All the guests laugh uproariously and they continue with their meal and the seven traditional blessings. Suddenly before dessert is on the table, the Baal Shem says to the couple, "You must leave now, right away. Get on your wagon and horse and go." "Where should we go?" "Into the forest. Go." In the meantine a snowstorm has started, a blizzard. The couple are in the midde of the forest and lose their way. All of a sudden, the horse rears up and refuses to go a step farther, When they peer ahead to see what the problem is, they see the body of a young boy lying in the snow. They dismount quickly and pick him up. He's still alive, and they rub him all over and give him some schnapps and the lekach that the Baal Shem Tov gave them for the way. "Who are you?" they ask the boy. "Where are your parents?" "I am the son of the Count and Countess Potozki," the boy tells the. I received a new horse for my birthday, but the horse threw me off and I don't remember anything after that." And he points them to the castle of the Count. Meanwhile the Count and and his wife are beside themselves with worry. The horse they'd bought for their son had returned without its rider. The Count's followers had been unable to find the boy in the worsening storm, and the weather was getting so bad that they were afraid to continue. Finally, in desperation, the count said, "I pledge my entire estate to the person who brings back my son." "And I pledge my jewelry as well!" says the countess. Just then the couple arrives with the boy on their horse. And that's how the Baal Shem's drosha geshank to that couple, who had given all their money away to redeem a captive family, came to pass. * * * * * * * * * * * * * In the book, Reb Zalman tells us that this is an example of a good story for a melaveh malka, a post-Shabbas Saturday night gathering. Why? Because he explains that "embedded in these tales was the message that any one of us, with no warning or preparation, may be presented with the opportunity to serve as the Holy One's instrument to improve the world - if we rise to the occasion. This vision, this mystic ideal, this high ambition, is what we take forward with us into the week" (Jewish With Feeling Pg. 74) * * * * * * * * * * * * * If you would like to be added to the growing list of "Year of Stories" followers, let me know at [email protected], with "Year of Stories" in the subject line. * * * * * * * * * * * * * A personal note: When a storyteller follows up a story by telling the listener what it means, my heart sinks and my mind withdraws. In this case however, I could not resist. It's a machaya to have been given the sod (secret) from Reb Zalman. * * * * * * * * * * * * * Question: Is the horse the same horse as in story #3? :>) The Optimist and The Pessimist ![]() My late rebbe, R' Zalman Schacter-Shalomi, zt"l, (זכר צדיק לברכה) was a master storyteller. He taught: "a good story is one where the mind surprises the heart". "A Year of Stories" is dedicated to his memory. I invite you to forward the link to these stories so that they find their way into the hearts of other tellers and listeners. ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ There once lived a king who had twin sons. Though they looked exactly alike, their personalities were different as night and day. One was a devout pessimist, the other an incurable optimist. When they came of age, the king decided it was time to open their eyes to the other side of life, and he planned to do so through the gift that he would give to each of them. For the pessimist, he went to the royal jeweler. "I would like him to have the finest watch ever made", he said. "Money is no object - jewels, diamonds, gold, platinum- the best. And I want it ready by his birthday." For the optimist, he went to the Palace Gardener. "When he wakes up on the morning of his birthday, I want him to see, at the foot of his bed, a huge pile of manure." The birthday arrived, and the king, with great anticipation, went to see his pessimistic son. He found him sitting glumly on his bed, holding a magnificent watch. "How do you like your gift?" asked the king. "It's all right," said the pessimist. "But it's really rather gaudy. And even if it wasn't, it's the sort of thing that will probably get stolen, or I might break it or worse, I might lose it." The king had heard enough and went off to visit the room of the sunny optimist. As he approached he heard singing and laughter teeming from the room, and when he entered, he found his son dancing with joy. When his father entered the room, the son ran up and hugged him. "Oh, thank you, father, thank you! It's just what I wanted!" Bewildered, the king asked his son, "Just what are you thanking me for?" "Why father", the son cried out with glee, "for the horse!" (Retold by R' Mark Novak - origin unknown - please let me kmow if you have a source) ******************* If you would like to be added to the growing list of "Year of Stories" followers, let me know at [email protected], with "Year of Stories" in the subject line. ******************* A personal note: When a storyteller follows up a story by telling the listener what it means, my heart sinks and my mind withdraws. I leave it to you, gentle reader, to place these stories into the context of your personal journey, gleaning whatever meaning or interpretation resonates within. ![]() My late rebbe, R' Zalman Schacter-Shalomi, zt"l, was a master storyteller. He taught: "a good story is one where the mind surprises the heart". With that in mind I hope to post some stories in the coming months, perhaps even some told by Reb Zalman, in which the mind surprises the heart. The following story is a folk tale. To the best of my knowledge Reb Zalman did not tell it. I share it with you on in honor of his memory. Make sure you read to the end, to see just how close to home a tale can be. Long ago in a village in northern China, there lived a man who owned a magnificent horse. So beautiful was this horse that people came from miles around just to admire it. They told him he was blessed to own such a horse. "Perhaps," he said. "But what seems like a blessing may be a curse." One day, the horse ran off. It was gone. People came to say how sorry they were for his bad luck. "Perhaps," he said. "But what seems like a curse may be a blessing." A few weeks later, the horse returned, and it was not alone. It was followed by 21 wild horses. By the law of the land, they became his property. He was rich with horses. His neighbors came to congratulate him on his good fortune. "Truly," they said, "you have been blessed." "Perhaps. But what seems like a blessing may be a curse." Shortly after that his son-his only son- tried to ride one of the wild horses. He was thrown from it and broke his leg. The man's neighbors came to say how sorry they were. Surely, he had been cursed. "Perhaps," he said. "But what seems like a curse may be a blessing." A week later, the king came through that village, drafting every able-bodied young man for a war against the people of the north. It was horrible war. Everyone who went from the village was killed. Only that man's son survived, because of his broken leg. To this day, in that village, they say, "what seems like a blessing may be a curse. What seems like a curse may be a blessing." Now the second story, which is eerily similar to this one. My son Zachary, 28 is an avid mountain climber, as well as a damn good skiier. He earns his living as an Israeli tour guide, shuttling back and forth between the US for his passions and Israel for his parnassa. This past winter he was climbing in Montana when a sudden avalanche swept him and his climbing partner off the mountain, tumbling who knows how many feet below. Zack was buried under the snow, still tethered, luckily, to his partner, who unharmed, managed to keep his wits about him. He dug Zack out of the snow, finding him drifting in and out of consciousness, having suffered a concussion. Two other climbers happened by, and the three of them packed Zack onto a set of skis and for 1 1/2 hours dragged him from the accident site to the car, where they then transported him tot he hospital. Zack spent a few days in recovery with a shattered his heel and damage to his elbow. For two weeks following, maybe more, my wife Renée and I walked around the house stunned, repeating out loud, "He could have been killed, he could have been killed." Zack is back in Israel. Three weeks ago we danced together at his brother Aaron's wedding. A few days ago Zack's phone rang. It was the IDF calling him up as part of the army reserves. Israel is at war. Zack told them, "I can't come. I was in an accident a few months ago, and I wouldn't be able to carry any gear nor move as I would need to." He was told to fax the army written documentation, which he did, and several hours later he received a follow up call - he didn't need to report to duty. I asked Zack how he felt about what all had transpired. He said to me that his feelings were conflcted, that he wanted to serve his country while at the same time felt relief that he would be out of harm's way. So, you see what I meant when I said that there were 2 stories with the same ending? Truly, what seems like a curse may indeed turn out to be a blessing. Note: Thank you Zack for giving me your permission to tell your story. I trust that you will fill me in with any important details that I either left out or got entirely wrong! |
Mark Novak is a "free-range" rabbi who lives in Washington DC and works, well, just about everywhere. In 2012 he founded Minyan Oneg Shabbat, home to MOSH (Minyan Oneg Shabbat), MindfulMOSH (Jewish mindfulness gathering), and Archives
June 2017
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