blogs/rabbi-huberman

the story of the hardened heart

It was exactly eight years ago this Pesach that I learned a meaningful lesson, both as a rabbi and as a human being.

Her name was Sharon. She has since passed into the world of souls.

She was a newcomer to our congregation. One day in 2009, she approached me at the close of Friday night services, and asked whether we could assist her through financially challenging times.

For many years, Sharon had worked as a clerk for a small local merchant, and after that merchant passed away nine years ago, the family decided to close the store, and that left Sharon without full-time employment.

The family had been very generous to Sharon, but after a few weeks, Sharon was running out of resources.

"Rabbi," she said. "I don't have enough to pay my rent this month. I'm starting work at TJ Maxx next week, but it'll be a few weeks before I get my first paycheck. Can you please find a way to lend me a thousand dollars? I promise to pay it back."

I told Sharon that I'd consider her request, and asked her to come and see me after Shabbat.  

Over the next twenty-four hours, many thoughts raced through my mind. I had only known Sharon for three or four weeks. Should I help her? Did it really matter if she paid the money back?

I decided to consult with a few congregational elders.

"You were raised outside of the United States," one told me. "With all due respect, Rabbi, you are naïve. You don't understand New York. Don't do it."

Another advised, "Understand that you are responsible to manage discretionary funds which congregants donate. Are you sure this is how you want to spend them?"

A day passed. And then another.

That Monday morning, as I entered the synagogue, one of our senior congregants was waiting at my door. A message had come to him in the middle of the night. 

"Rabbi,  I just remembered that there's a bank account  that's been lying dormant for many years. It has five thousand dollars in it," he said. "Some of it is there to take care of the grave of the man who donated the funds. He was a charitable man. So I'm wondering... what should we do with the rest?"  

I saw this as a heavenly sign. "Why don't we set up a loans fund for those in need, or for those looking to launch small businesses," I suggested.

The congregant agreed, and the president concurred. And later that day, when Sharon came to see me, she left our synagogue with grateful tears, and a check for a thousand dollars in her purse.

It was the last time I would ever see her.

As the months passed, Sharon did not return. I didn't think about it much, until a few months later, on the Sabbath before Pesach.

A second woman had begun to attend services, and she bore a remarkable resemblance to Sharon. She told me that she was living in a boarding house. As she began to edge her way towards me at the close of Friday services, I felt my heart began to harden.

Where was Sharon? Were the elders right? Was I naïve? Had I been manipulated? What if this woman makes a similar request of me? Would my support be less?

The newcomer never made it to where I was standing. A group of congregants enveloped her, trying to make her feel welcome, and brought her home for Shabbat dinner. And as it happened, later that week, she moved out of state.

But I thought to myself. What if she had asked? Would I have helped? Had I lost my faith in humanity? And if so, what kind of rabbi had I become?

These thoughts remained with me throughout that week as we approached the festival of Passover, a time when we share the story of our liberation from Egypt. We tilt our wine glasses, and count off the ten plagues.

And we tell of the story of Pharaoh's hardened heart.

I thought of that young woman, and how I'd reacted to her, and wondered if I was any different than Pharoah.

On the afternoon before the first night of Passover, I bid a Chag Sameach, a happy Pesach, to our staff, as they left the synagogue. I remained behind, fine-tuning some sermons, and preparing teachings for my own Seder.

Around four in the afternoon, the doorbell of the synagogue door rang. It was the mail.

As the letter carrier handed me a tightly bound pile of envelops, I noticed that the top letter was addressed to "Rabbi Irwin Huberman and Cantor Gustavo Gitlin."

I peeled the envelop from the bundle and turned it in my fingertips. I tapped it in my hand, and then slowly opened the flap. I pulled a letter from the envelop, unfolded it, and began to read.

"Dear Rabbi Irwin and Cantor Gustavo. You may have noticed I haven't been at services for a number of months. I want to tell you why.

"After you showed so much faith in me, I decided to work extra hard. I got a second job. Every day, after I finished working at TJ Maxx, I went to a family's home, and looked after their aging father, until his daughter and her husband returned home from work.

"Each week, I put fifty dollars away from my pay in an envelope. Enclosed is a bank draft for one thousand dollars, plus a fifty dollar donation to the discretionary fund. Thank you for saving my life."

My eyes filled with tears and a blanket of warmth surrounded me.

As I slowly exhaled, I felt all of the mistrust, the cynicism, the hardness of heart -- the chametz of my soul --evaporate.  And I entered that first night of Passover with a humbled heart. 

And to this day, each year just before the beginning of Pesach, I remember Sharon, and the life lesson she taught me.

How easy it is to lose faith in each other, and perhaps towards all of humanity! How easy to shut our hearts to those who need us.

How often do we walk by someone on the street with their hand extended, and turn the other way? How often do we rationalize, averting our eyes, not reaching out?

How often do we harden our hearts?

Our Sages tell us that if someone asks us for money for food, we may not say no, especially not with a child or grandchild at our side.

For what if we are wrong? Is it incumbent upon us to model optimism and hope, or to succumb to suspicion and cynicism?

As the Talmud reminds us, Tikun Olam -- healing the world -- is what we are meant to do. The Talmud also teaches that "the Torah begins with kindness and ends with kindness."  Indeed, we can never lose hope and faith in each other. 

Perhaps that is what the plague of darkness is all about.

As we approach the first night of Passover, let us inspect our hearts for chametz -- the bloat of our souls -- and ask, How can I soften my heart?

Sometimes it is so hard to be kind. The odds of disappointment are so high.

In giving, though, it is not for us to look for personal gratification, or to look for signs that those we help are 'worthy' of what we give. It is not for us to be disappointed. It is for us to do what we can.

And friends, if we lose our sense of hope and kindness towards each other, what do we have left? How many needy souls have been lost, turned away by the hardened hearts of others.

As we gather for the Festival of Passover, let's talk to our children and grandchildren about ways to inject more kindness into our treatment of others -- whether they be family, friends or strangers.

Five years ago, I received a phone call from the Jewish Community Center in Austria telling me that, after a brief illness, Sharon had passed away. She had been working as an elder nanny in Vienna.

She had been earmarked for cremation by municipal officials. As the daughter of Holocaust survivors, this seemed like an unthinkable end.

The family who owned the store, some of our congregants, and others raised funds and two days later, Sharon was given a full Jewish funeral.

She is buried in the Jewish cemetery, and maybe, if you ever visit Vienna, you can place a stone at her grave.

Each year at this time, I honor and bless her memory. Years ago, she did me a great service. She reminded me not to lose hope in others.

As we approach the first evening of Pesach let us consider what chametz truly means. It means having the courage to soften our hardened hearts. That's where true freedom lies.

Let us bless Sharon's memory, along with all those who taught us the meaning of hope and kindness. Parents, grandparents, spouses, sisters, brothers, teachers and friends.

Let us remember our guides and teachers. For me, Sharon is one of these.

May her name always be for a blessing. May she rest in peace.

Sharon -- who reminded me how to believe.

Shabbat Shalom, v'kol tuv.

Chag Sameach, Happy Pesach.

Rabbi Irwin Huberman