blogs/rabbi-huberman

Matthew's Dollar Bill -- A Lesson In Tzedakah 

This past week, I was entrusted with an incredible responsibility by an twelve-year-old member of our congregation.

While fishing for something in his pocket, Matthew abruptly pulled his hand out and sent a dollar bill drifting into the air. It landed at my feet in the synagogue hallway.

I bent to pick it up, and handed it to Matthew, who then said something remarkable.

"Hang on to it, Rabbi. Give it to someone who needs it."

I was taken aback. "Are you sure?" I asked.

"Yes, I don't need the dollar today," said Matthew. "Maybe there's someone you know who does."

So I slid the folded dollar bill into my wallet, conscious of the tremendous responsibility Matthew had entrusted to me.

For indeed, the giving of tzedakah, loosely translated as "charity," is a sacred responsibility within Judaism. Central to this commandment is the root word tzedek, meaning "justice."

Each time we assist another person, or donate to a cause, or -- as Maimonides reminds us -- project another human being along the road to self-sufficiency, we bring this broken world a bit closer to completion.

Indeed, tzedakah does not mean charity: it is more accurately related to "justicing" the world.

For two days I carried the dollar bill in my wallet, considering my options.

It was an awesome responsibility, made still more meaningful by the focus of this week's Torah reading, Behar/Bechukotai which, within Leviticus 25, delivers a series of commandments regarding the rights of the poor and the downtrodden: the justice due to them, the honor they must be afforded, and the care that must be exercised to help liberate them and their children from the cycle of poverty.

We are told to leave part of our fields untouched, so that the poor and the disadvantaged can feed themselves.

We are told to respect both a neighbor and a stranger who "is in straits," never taking advantage of their vulnerable position.

And, perhaps more importantly, when a family is forced to turn over its property to pay off a debt, in the forty-ninth year of the calendar cycle, the land should be returned to its original owner.

So concerned is the Torah about families living in perpetual poverty.

Matthew's dollar bill sat neatly folded in my wallet until last Tuesday, when I took the train into Manhattan to meet a colleague.

As I stepped off the escalator onto Broadway, there were many options. As usual, homeless men and women dotted the streets with various signs.

"I am a veteran."

"I am recently homeless."

"I want to go home."

Some were smoking. Some were asleep. Some had pets. They came from all backgrounds. Some were clean; some were not.

In more than a decade of living here, I have been lectured many times regarding New York's homeless.

"You don't know how it works around here," some have told me. "Your money will go straight towards alcohol or drugs."

That may be so. And yet embedded in my soul are the words of my grandfather Nissan, of blessed memory, who taught me perhaps one of the most important lessons of my life.

As we walked the streets of Montreal one evening in 1962, we were approached by a disheveled man on Boulevard de Maisonneuve. More than fifty five years later, I remember this fellow and his crumpled grey suit.

"Can you help me out?" asked the man. I could smell the alcohol on his breath. My grandfather pulled out two dollars, and with a kind smile slipped it into the palm of his hand.

My grandfather wished the gentleman well, and we continued on our journey.

"Zaidie," I said. "I think that man is going to buy beer with your money."

To which my grandfather replied, in words I can still hear:

"Zin -- my dear grandson. If five people come to me in need, how do I know which one really needs it? How can I live with myself knowing that I have shut my hand to someone whose belly is empty?

"I would rather risk a few dollars to make sure that those who are hungry are fed. God has been kind to me that I have a few dollars in my pocket. Let us take a chance and do some good.

"Okay?" he asked.

"Okay, Zaidie," I replied.

Years later, while riding a Manhattan subway having just arrived in New York, I observed as a fellow passenger suddenly rose and began performing Michael Jackson songs between stations.

When it came time for him to begin shaking his donations cup, I turned to a fellow passenger wearing a colorful yarmulke and asked, "What's the story on these subway performers?"

And she replied, "You don't want this guy's job. Give him the damned dollar."

And so Tuesday evening, as I left my meeting and began working my way back to Penn Station, I thought about the nature of tzedakah within Judaism and the modern world.

So many of us have been taken advantage of. We never really know whether our donations really make a difference.

Yet I am still moved by the words of my Zaidie Nissan, which remind me to this day that cynicism is not the answer.

This week, the Torah portion reminds us -- sometimes against our worldly instincts -- to perform the mitzvah of tzedakah. And how do we know that our donation or contribution will be used for good?

Well, we don't.

Our Sages remind us that we never know how a mitzvah performed today will ripple into the future.

I thought of Matthew as I squatted on the curb on the corner of 34^th and Broadway next to a couple in their mid-20s. I handed Matthew's dollar to the woman.

"We're just trying to get a train ticket home to Virginia," said her partner.

"This is a gift from a friend of mine," I said. "Use it any way you think is right."

And inspired by Matthew's kindness, I performed a few more mitzvoth, and listened to a few stories.

The Torah in its wisdom understands that the giving of tzedakah is a complicated matter. Perhaps that's why the Torah this week instructs us to guarantee dignity and kindness to those in need. And from there, we put matters in God's hand.

Next month, a group of thirty-one representing our congregation will fly to Tel Aviv, and embark on CTI's fourth Israel trip since 2008.

In what could potentially be one of more uncomfortable moments, as we approach the Western Wall, we will be surrounded by beggars asking for shekels.

It is unsettling. After having travelled 5,709 miles, it is perhaps the last thing we want to experiece.

Yet, somewhere in my heart, I will thank God that we can see them. We need reminding of how fortunate we are. And we need to see them, and understand their need, to perform the mitzvah of justice.  Indeed, performing mitzvoth  nourishes our souls.

As we place a few shekels into a few hands, I will think of my Zaidie Nissan, of a past generation, and of Matthew, and of future generations.

For the Torah reaches us that it is not so much charity which is enduring but rather the tzedek - the justice contained within.

For the Jewish people, that journey is eternal.

It is this tradition of justice which we inherit from our parents and grandparents, which we entrust to our children.

We call this the living Torah. And you are part of it.

From hand to hand. From heart to heart.

L'Dor Vador:

From generation to generation.

Shabbat Shalom, v'kol tuv (with all goodness)

Rabbi Irwin Huberman