blogs/rabbi-huberman

When I was a boy, my grandfather told me a story about two scholars who lost track of time on their way to the study hall.

As they walked, they discussed the laws of giving tzedakah -- let's call it charity-- and, from time to time, they stopped to punctuate a point.

As they finally arrived at the study hall, they were approached by a gaunt young man with a distant look in his eyes. In a soft voice, he asked them, "Sirs, I wonder if you can find it in your heart to give me some assistance, so that I can get something to eat. I am starving."

The scholars smiled, and tapping the fellow on the shoulder said, "Yes, of course. But we are late to lead the study session. As soon as we're finished, we will help you out."

Some time passed: maybe an hour, maybe two. Finally, the two scholars emerged, just in time to observe the local burial society carting the man away on a stretcher.

"What happened?" asked one of the teachers.

"He died of starvation," replied the member of the burial society.

The men tore their clothing and cried out, "Oh God, what have we done?"

A similar story is told in the Talmud of a rabbi, in the aftermath of the destruction of Jerusalem, observing a once-proud woman begging for food.

"Aren't you the daughter of a wealthy merchant?" he asked. And, as the woman began to explain her situation, she collapsed and soon after died.

The link between these two stories, and many more in our tradition, rests within the lesson that when we observe someone in need, we must ignore distractions, ignore rationalizations, and act. Need isn't for us to cross-examine.

A couple of paragraphs up, I translated tzedakah as "charity," but that isn't really right. A lot of Hebrew words are mistranslated, and tzedakah is one of them.

Tzedakah is actually based on the word tzedek -- justice.

The truth is that there is no pure Hebrew word for charity, because charity as a principle doesn't exist within Judaism. When someone is in need, or in distress, helping that person isn't charity: it is justice. It works to re-balance the world.

There is a fascinating section of the Talmud which debates whether, when someone approaches you for food or clothing, you are permitted to say "no."

After a lengthy discussion, The Talmud concludes, "If someone comes to you with a request for food, you may not say 'no.' For without food, we die."

The Talmud also implies in matters of life or death, it is not up to us to act as judge and jury.

This is even more important when we are in the presence of our children or grandchildren. While it is important that we teach our children to survive within an often difficult and manipulative world, it is also vital to incline them towards optimism.

Indeed, the Torah teaches us repeatedly that, in spite of its flaws, the world is a good place.

In this week's Torah portion, as Moses continues his final words to the Jewish people, the issue of  

poverty and hunger emerges. The Torah implores us: "do not harden your heart and shut your hand...." when someone in need approaches us. (Deuteronomy 15:8)

So, how relevant is this passage in 2018? Is there a connection between the poor of Jerusalem and those who beg for assistance outside of Penn Station?

How often have we allowed our own cynicism to transfer to our children and grandchildren?

Last year, during a family visit to Toronto, I went for a drive with my grandson, Mason. While stopped at an intersection, a gaunt man tapped on my window asking for something to eat. I reached into my pocket and gave him what I could.

"Zaidie," asked Mason. "Why did you do that?"

I explained that it was not up to me to judge that person. If the man said he was hungry, I could not risk being wrong. And I told him the story of the two scholars.

It was my duty to teach to Mason, who is named after my grandfather Nissan, my primary teacher of justice, who told me that same story when I was Mason's age.

Next week, as we travel to Toronto to celebrate the engagement of our daughter Jessica, I will bring along a special gift.

It will be a tzedakah box. It is my hope that Mason will remember the lesson of justice, contribute to it every day, and in turn pass it on to his children.

For the lesson in the Torah, to soften our hearts, is not so much about whether we give an indigent person a dollar or five, or the number we inscribe on the check we write to a worthy institution, but about our attitude towards life itself.

How important is it for us each day to re-balance the world by helping to insert justice within. And tzedakah is a primary tool.

There are forces at work today that seem hell-bent on dividing us from one another, and this is how many justify keeping their wealth and God's blessings to themselves. Sometimes, all we can see are reasons to say "no."

But the reasons to say "yes" are so much more powerful.

The Torah tells us this week that every day we will face choices "between the blessing and the curse." We have the power in each of our interactions to choose the blessing, and to model that blessing within the example we set for our children and grandchildren.

There is so much more to tzedakah than the dollar we part with.

It is more about the future. And that investment is priceless.

Shabbat Shalom, v'kol tuv,

Rabbi Irwin Huberman