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That's Life!
Gateways lecturer, Hamodia columnist & renowned educator Rabbi Y.Y. Rubinstein leads an extraordinary world tour of inspiring lessons & real-life stories, with wisdom, wit & Torah perspective.
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The Engagement
The lengths we go not to hurt someone’s feelings
Not too long ago I was struggling with a problem. I wanted to point out to a bachur, who was really a very good boy, that he had done something very wrong, very wrong indeed.
I had arranged for him to meet one of my students on a shidduch. As always, I had made it a condition that he meet the young lady at least twice, even if he thought that the match had no prospects of success. He agreed, met her once, and then reneged on his undertaking. He refused to meet her a second time. Of course I tried to force him, but without success.
This instant rejection naturally upset the young lady. I assured her that any faults lay with the boy, as proven by him breaking his promise, and that I would not have wanted to carry on meeting such a fellow anyway. She was not consoled. “There must be something wrong with me,” she said, “if he doesn’t want to meet a second time.”
So that was what I was struggling with, how to get the boy to realize how painful were the consequences of his thoughtlessness and that he must never repeat it again.
Rav Yechezkel Levinstein, zt”l, points to the Torah’s record of the princes’ gifts to emphasize how careful the Torah is not to cause even the minutest slight to someone’s feelings and dignity. The Torah records the gifts and sacrifices that the princes of the tribes brought for the Mishkan (Bemidbar 7:1). They had all agreed to bring the same offering, and they could have brought them together on the same day. The Ramban explains why they didn’t:
To do so would have inevitably meant that one brought his offering before the rest. Hashem wanted that each one be recognized by name and that his gift be acknowledged on a day set aside for it specifically. The Torah would not record, “This is the sacrifice of Nachshon ben Aminadav... and each of the princes brought the same on each subsequent day.” That would have diminished the honor of the others.
The Torah records each gift in exact detail on each separate day, despite the fact that all the gifts and sacrifices were identical, so that not one would not feel his honor was in any way slighted.
Before he moved to Eretz Yisrael from Manchester, my brother-in-law spent a month there in preparation for his aliyah. One day he was in Bnei Brak. Coming toward him on the other side of the street were two Jews from Manchester.
After greetings were exchanged, my brother-in-law asked his two landsmen if they had been to see the Steipler Gaon for a berachah. They looked distinctly uncomfortable and shook their heads. My brother-in-law pointed out that they were standing right outside the Steipler Gaon’s apartment. “Why not go in for a berachah?”
Again the two friends shook their heads, and my brother-in-law, genuinely perplexed by this refusal to seize such an opportunity, asked them why not. The reply astonished him.
“He sees things!"
The two Mancunians did not, of course, elaborate on what it was that they were worried he might see. My brother-in-law thought it ironic. It was Elul. In a few days’ time these same two would inevitably be standing before Someone who doesn’t just see some “things,” but everything, and that didn’t seem to worry them.
I once heard from Rav Baruch Rappaport, shlita, an example of the sort of thing that the Steipler “saw.”
Once, a bachur who had been learning in Bnei Brak came to the Steipler for a berachah. The young man had just become a chasan and he wanted his engagement blessed.
The Steipler looked at the young man and, instead of giving a berachah, told him to go and bring his rosh yeshivah. The boy was obviously distressed and shortly returned as requested. He was instructed to wait outside while the Steipler Gaon spoke to the rosh yeshivah.
The rosh yeshivah was astonished when the Steipler asked him, “Vi macht ir a shidduch mit a Yiddishe meidel and a goy? How do you come to sanction a match between a Jewish girl and a non-Jewish boy?”
The rosh yeshivah was dumbfounded. He protested that the boy was a Jew. He had personally known the boy’s parents in America for many years. They, like him, were very fine people. The boy was a talmid chacham possessed of good middos.
The Steipler was unimpressed and insisted that the young man was not Jewish. Inquiries were made, and indeed the Steipler was proved right. There had been a conversion that was in reality no conversion at all. The conversion occurred three generations before, through the maternal line. The parents were unaware of it, as was the bachur.
I never heard the conclusion of the story, but if he was as exceptional as his rosh yeshivah described, it would be easy to assume that an authentic conversion followed.
I did, however, hear of the question that the much surprised rosh yeshivah put to the Steipler Gaon after the truth had come out.
“How did you know?”
That was a very reasonable question indeed. The boy’s “genetic” makeup was overwhelmingly Jewish. He looked Jewish. He spoke Hebrew, Aramaic, and probably Yiddish, too. He learned well.
The Steipler was perplexed by the question and replied, “Er hot nicht gehat a neshamah! He had no neshamah.”
The word neshamah is usually translated as “soul.” That is not accurate. Every human being has a soul. A neshamah might be best translated as “super-soul.”
When I am teaching my students, I always draw an analogy with a truck. When the truck is empty, you will see one of the double sets of wheels at the back, raised off the road. When it is fully loaded, these extra wheels are lowered to help carry the heavy weights the truck has to transport.
Since Jews have an extra spiritual burden to carry - more mitzvos than non-Jews - they are given an extra spiritual component to bear it. That is a neshamah. The Steipler “saw” that the bachur who had come to seek a blessing did not have one.
When Rav Rappaport saw my astonishment at that tale, he told me another.
The day of a young couple’s wedding was rapidly approaching. Suddenly, and for no discernible reason, the chasan announced that he could not go through with the marriage. Arrangements had been made, caterers had already prepared food, you could almost hear the music coming from the hall. The chasan’s rosh yeshivah tried to get the bottom of the problem and effect a solution but to no avail. The young man was brought to the Steipler Gaon, but nothing would move him.
After the Steipler had dismissed the “chasan,” he turned to the rosh yeshivah and inquired, “Are there any other bachurim, good bachurim in your yeshivah, who are at the stage where they are ready to get married?”
The rosh yeshivah replied that there were several.
“Go and bring me one,” instructed the Steipler.
A young man arrived and the Steipler told him what had occurred and then told the young man, “I want you to marry this young lady! And if you do, I promise you, di welt and yener welt! This world and the World to Come!”
Such a promise from someone who “sees” neshamos would be quite a dowry!
The bachur did not have to worry about whether he would like or get on with the girl or she with him; otherwise, how could he have “this world”? Combine that with the promise of the next one, and it is not hard to imagine what the bachur decided.
When the Steipler made his promise, he explained why such an enormous reward awaited the bachur if he agreed. “Far nicht tzu schmezachin a Yiddish meidel. For saving a Jewish girl embarrassment.”
The sefer Lekach Tov cites an interesting story that happened once very late at night in the home of Rav Isser Zalman Meltzer. He was learning with his chavrusa, Rav Dovid Finkel. Despite the lateness of the hour, there came a knock on the door. A young man was standing outside asking to speak to Reb Isser Zalman.
Both Reb Dovid and Rebbetzin Meltzer were surprised that someone should call so late, but Reb Isser Zalman welcomed the young man and took him into a separate room to hear his question. After a few moments the door flew open, and Reb Isser Zalman came out clearly distressed and upset. He seemed not to notice his wife or his chavrusa.
He was speaking agitatedly to himself. “How could such a thing be? How is it possible to be lenient in such a matter?”
Reb Isser Zalman went into a different room and closed the door.
This provoked great concern in his wife, and she asked Reb Dovid to go and inquire what was wrong. When he entered, he found Reb Isser Zalman sitting on a bed, totally absorbed in thought. Reb Dovid asked what was the matter. He received a reply that was utterly out of character for Reb Isser Zalman.
“Please, leave me alone!”
The uncharacteristic nature of this reply only served to compound Reb Dovid’s concern, and he repeated his question a second time. This time the reply was even more direct.
“Please, I beg you, leave me on my own.”
Reb Dovid had no choice but to comply. After a short while, Reb Isser Zalman emerged from the room still utterly absorbed and rejoined the young man. Outside, Reb Isser Zalman’s raised voice could be heard as well as a noise that sounded as though someone had banged on the table. Reb Isser Zalman was saying, “Such a thing is simply unthinkable. It is unthinkable to spill the blood of a Jewish girl. Under no circumstances...never!”
Soon the two came from the room. Reb Isser Zalman was smiling as the young man asked, “Nu! If the Rav is sure?”
“Certainly!” came the reply. “There is not the slightest doubt in this matter. Mazel tov! And, b’ezras Hashem, in the coming year you will invite me to a bris!”
Reb Isser Zalman returned to the table, and at last his rebbetzin and Reb Dovid heard the explanation of the dramatic events.
The caller was engaged to a fine Jewish girl. Afterward it emerged that there was a possibility that the young woman might not be able to have children. The question Reb Isser Zalman was asked was should the chasan break off the engagement. He was, after all, obliged by the Torah to become a father.
Reb Isser Zalman considered the matter, and the answer struck him as inescapable. This was a safek d’Oraisa, a possibility of a Torah prohibition. The engagement would have to be broken.
Still, the rosh yeshivah wanted more time to ponder, which is why he went into the other room. There he came to the exact opposite conclusion. Under no circumstances must the shidduch be broken.
To his two listeners, he explained why. “If the shidduch was broken, that would cause the kallah tremendous embarrassment and great pain. Chazal say that to embarrass someone is equivalent to killing them, to spilling blood! That is a vaddai d’Oraisa - not a possible Torah prohibition, but an actual Torah prohibition.”
The young man went ahead with his wedding, and within the year Reb Isser Zalman was invited to be sandek upon the birth of his first son.
The Torah goes to the utmost degree to protect people’s feelings and ensure that they do not suffer embarrassment. The gifts that the princes brought for the dedication of the Mishkan were brought for a structure that itself taught that lesson.
The Torah instructs that there should be no steps leading to the Altar, but instead there should be a ramp (Shemos 20:23). This was so that there would be no nakedness displayed while approaching it. Rashi explains that steps cause a person to lengthen his gait. The kohanim wore a long dress-like outer garment. Steps would cause them to bend their legs as they climbed. That would lift the hem of their garment and reveal their legs. Of course, kohanim wore trousers underneath the outer garment, so really no nakedness would ever be seen. Still, it would have the “feel” of nakedness to it, so the Torah forbids steps. The Altar would be reached by a ramp. The purpose of this requirement, says Rashi, is to allow us to construct a kal vachomer:
The stones of the Altar have no feelings that they would be offended by a hint of nakedness. Still the Torah insists that since these stones perform a necessary function, there should be no suggestion of nakedness near them. A human being, who is made in the image of Hashem and does have feelings that could be distressed — how much more should you be careful not to cause him embarrassment.
I thought about telling these stories to the young man who had reneged on his promise to meet the girl a second time. Then a friend told me another tale about someone I know.
He was twenty-five and had been on many shidduchim. On “paper” everything was fine. When he met the girls, everything was fine.
Inexplicably, in every case, despite every signal flashing green, he had not become engaged.
He went to discuss his situation with Rav Aharon Leib Steinman, shlita. Immediately Rav Aharon Leib asked him if he had ever asked a girl to marry him but had not done so.
The young man smiled. Rav Aharon Leib asked what had caused him to smile. He replied that a long time ago, when he was a little boy of eight or so, some children were playing chasan and kallah at a chasunah. He had said to a little girl who lived across the street, “When I grow up, I will marry you!”
That was why he was smiling, but obviously that silly incident could not be what the rav had in mind. Rav Aharon Leib insisted that he ask the girl for forgiveness for not marrying her.
“Rebbe,” came the reply, “she is already a married lady with three children.”
Rav Aharon Leib insisted. A letter asking mechilah had to be written to the woman and her parents. This was done, and two weeks later the young man met someone and became a chasan.
I could have told all this to the young man who had treated my student so poorly. On reflection, I came to think about the message contained in these stories. In doing so, I reminded myself how concerned the Torah is about hurting people’s feelings. Then I thought about those whose feelings I may have hurt in different ways and the consequences that may have flowed from that hurt.
I still think I need to tell all this to the young man, if only to make sure that someone who is, after all, a good boy realizes his mistake and never does anything similar again. I am sure, though, that it will be easier to convince him if I have been able to convince myself that I, too, will try never to do anything like this again either.