Rabbi Bender
Is the rebbi always right? Is the morah always right?
What about parents — do they make mistakes?
I think that success in chinuch de-
pends most of all on a single word.
Balance.
At the shores of the Yam Suf, as the
Bnei Yisrael cry out for help, Hashem
tells Moshe: Why do you cry out to
Me? (Shemos 14:15). This is surpris-
ing, because the pesukim before this
tell us how the Bnei Yisrael were saved
from Mitzrayim specifically because
Hashem heard their heartfelt prayer.
Yet here, Rashi explains that
Hashem said, “Now is not the time for
lengthy prayers.”
The Torah is teaching us a pro-
found lesson here. There is a time for
everything, and understanding the
difference between the right time and
the wrong time is the difference be-
tween construction and destruction.
One of the questions we will be
asked in the Next World is “Ka-vata
ittim laTorah?” which literally means,
“Did you establish fixed times for Torah
learning?” The Sfas Emes, however,
says that this refers to the pesukim in
Koheles that tell us about the different
times that make up life (Koheles 3:1-8):
Everything has its season and its time...
a time to weep and a time to laugh... a
time for war and a time for peace.
The Torah calls for different behaviors
in different situations. There is a time for
joy and a time for mourning, a time to do
battle and a time to seek peace.
Kavata ittim laTorah — did you live
according to the “times” set by the Torah?
Chinuch has changed. We have
evolved, and that is not necessarily a
bad thing.
I once spoke in an out-of-town
community, and after the speech,
there were some people waiting to ask
chinuch questions and discuss differ-
ent issues. There was an older gentle-
man there, close to eighty years old,
and I wondered what could possibly
be concerning him. He clearly did not
have children at home.
It turned out that he wanted to
share his story, a story dating back
decades.
He had been a child of eleven years old
when his rebbi had been teaching them
about chametz, in advance of Pesach. The
rebbi pointed out that chametz is also
referred to as the yetzer hara, the aveiros
that cause damage on the inside.
Then the rebbi continued. “And
right here in this class,” he said, “we
have a shtick chametz,” and he pointed
to this boy. Then he concluded, “So
after Pesach, we will be rid of this cha-
metz as well.”
The child had gone on to grow up,
building a family of his own. He was
elderly and frail. But his voice was
heavy with emotion and pain as he
remembered the story.
He had no question. He had simply
wanted to share the story with me and
that is why he had come to my speech
and waited.
There was no answer I could give
him. Instead, I told him I understood
his pain. I agreed that it was an act of
cruelty by the rebbi.
So, no, rebbeim are not always right.
Insulting is never in place. Abuse is
never okay. Labeling is never permitted.
And words of reproach? Only in
their right time, never before the cor-
rect moment, and never after.
Chazal (Sanhedrin 102b) tell us
that the yemin, the right hand, should
always be mekarev, it should draw
close; while the smol, the left hand —
the weaker one — should be docheh,
push away. The secret to synthesizing
the two is timing.
Rav God’l Eisner was a revered
mashgiach in the Gerrer Yeshivah be-
fore the Second World War, an inspir-
ing figure to hundreds of talmidim.
Then came the war and destruction,
and he lost his own family along with
the bulk of Polish Jewry.
There were years of devastation,
and then this tzaddik was part of the
rebuilding, beloved as the mashgiach
in the Gerrer Yeshivah in Tel Aviv.
One day, just a few years after the war,
an unfamiliar young man approached
the mashgiach.
He asked if the mashgiach remem-
bered him, and Rav God’l conceded
that he did not. The young man was a
former talmid, a Gerrer chassid from
home, he said, and he reminded the
mashgiach of his name. Once, he had
been a chassidishe bachur, but now,
he looked so very different. The peyos
and sincere, serious eyes were gone.
Instead, he was dressed in the fashion
of the street, his hair long and his head
uncovered.
He was engaged, he said. To a
non-Jewish girl.
The mashgiach was silent for a long
moment, and then he looked at this
young man, this former talmid, meet-
ing his gaze. “Mazel tov,” the mashgi-
ach said, “mazel tov.”
And then he added. “Ubber fort
es past nisht fahr a Gerrer bachur,
still, it is not appropriate for a Gerrer
bachur...”
That was all he said. The bachur
stood there, frozen.
For a few minutes, he could not
move, and then finally he approached
the mashgiach with tears in his eyes —
the first tears to have fallen in years.
“Please lead me back home,” he said.
A few words, delivered at the right
moment. Yemin mekarev, with a bit of
smol docheh.
It is an art.
Rebbeim, moros, and parents
should aspire to learn it. Not all of
them do, but all of them can.
I once went to visit a wealthy
man on behalf of our yeshivah. I was
surprised that he had given us an
appointment so easily, but when we
entered, he immediately explained.
“You are here because of your father,”
he told me.
He had been a child sitting in class
one day when the rebbi had punished
him. He had to stand in the corner of
the room, a miserable punishment.
He was an eighth-grader, a big boy,
forced to stand there holding an open
Gemara, burning with shame and
humiliation.
As he stood there, the door opened
and another rebbi came in to speak
with his rebbi. The visiting rebbi com-
mented on the fact that there were
punished boys in all three corners, and
the rebbi said, “Wait, you missed one,
there is a fourth one behind the door
as well,” pointing to this boy.
It was too much for him. He
dropped his Gemara and fled, his feet
moving faster than his mind, just try-
ing to escape the shame and agony of
that dark corner of the classroom.
He tore down the block, running
through the neighborhood and con-
tinuing into unfamiliar streets. He
went on and on, only stopping when
he realized that he was in a rough part
of the city. He found a phone booth,
and as a crowd of locals approached,
he quickly called his father.
The father was astonished to hear
the name of the street, since it was in
Bedford Stuyvesant, a crime-ridden
area at the time. The father was work-
ing in Manhattan, so he could not get
there fast enough. He quickly called
the yeshivah, where the menahel — my
father — was apprised of the situation.
My father did not waste a moment,
hurrying to his car and driving to the
street corner where the frightened
young boy stood in the phone booth.
The small crowd dispersed as my fa-
ther approached, and he welcomed the
boy into his car.
“Come in,” he said warmly to the boy
who was suddenly terrified, who real-
ized what he had done, and processed
the fact that he was with his menahel.
He wanted to apologize, but he
could not even find the words. He was
too scared and too traumatized.
“Don’t feel bad,” my father said to him.
“If I were in your place, I would have
done the exact same thing that you did.”
That was it. That is what my host
told me that evening. He had not
forgotten.
In vaadim to the avreichim in our
kollel, I mention this, for it is equally
relevant when it comes to shalom bay-
is. Do not say words that will linger
long after you forgot you said them.
A person has a right to be honest and
helpful, but never to cause pain.
In the right time, honest words
can be heard. In the wrong time, they
will create pain that will not soon
disappear.
We have a Torah. It fills our every
moment, and each juncture has its
specific avodah. If you master the se-
cret of timing, then your words are so
much more impactful.
Be kovei’a “ittim,” times, accord-
ing to the Torah, and you will always
inspire.
