וַיֹּ֖אמֶר הִקְשִׁ֣יתָ לִשְׁא֑וֹל אִם־תִּרְאֶ֨ה אֹתִ֜י לֻקָּ֤ח מֵֽאִתָּךְ֙ יְהִֽי־לְךָ֣ כֵ֔ן וְאִם־אַ֖יִן לֹ֥א יִהְיֶֽה׃
It certainly was a hard request to fulfill! What did Eliahu mean, that the only chance it will come true would be if Elisha saw him taken away?
I believe the idea was that we don't truly understand and certainly do not fully appreciate what we have until the moment before it is taken away from us.
Eliahu told Elisha that to be truly inspired by him, by Eliahu, to the degree that his heart and mind would open up to siyata dishmaya of such great ruach hakodesh and nevuah, he would need to witness Eliahu being taken away from him.
We see that to understand and appreciate our fellows, we need to face the imminent reality of their going away, and that will give each side the opportunity to be inspired by the other's middos tovos.
The third is ... that you don't need a makor for a seudas preida because it is a kal vachomer from halvoyas orchim. As one small example of the importance of levoyas orchim, see Rambam Aveil 14:2
שכר הלויה מרובה מן הכל. (!) והוא החק שחקקו אברהם אבינו ודרך החסד שנהג בה. מאכיל עוברי דרכים ומשקה אותן ומלוה אותן. וגדולה הכנסת אורחים מהקבלת פני שכינה. שנאמר וירא והנה שלשה אנשים. ולוויים יותר מהכנסתן. אמרו חכמים כל שאינו מלוה כאילו שופך דמים:
If being melaveh orchim is so vitally important, that its schar is "Merubah min hakol," that one who does it is keeping him alive, and one who fails to do so is like a rotzei'ach, then kal vachomer that applies to an individual that lived in your community and who is now leaving. If you do it for some tumbleweed orei'ach, how much more so must you do it for a member of the community that is moving away!
Part II
I just had the honor and privilege to make a Kiddush to mark a member of our community leaving Chicago. He was born and raised here, his parents came as infants, and his great grandparents came here in 1912. The Kiddush was on Parshas Tazri'a Metzora. We found a perfect connection of being melaveh our friend with the parsha of Tzaraas, as odd as that may sound.
The Alshich in Vayikra 12:1 asks, the appellation "Adam" for the Metzora seems inappropriate. Adam is the term used for an elevated human being, and here it is used for a hateful despicable person.
ועל פי דרכנו נשית לב אל מלת אדם. כי הוא לפי האמת התואר המשובח שבתוארי המין האנושי כנודע מספר הזוהר ולמה נתייחד באשר שנא ה'.
Rav Galinski answered the question with the story of the Beilis trial in 1911. Harav Galinski says the story his way, but I will tell it as my father did, which is much better.
The prosecutor enlisted an alleged religious expert in Judaic rituals, a notoriously anti Semitic Catholic priest, Justinas Pranaitis. While the defense had emphasized that Judaism famously abhorred the taking of human life, Pranaitis said that this was a lie, and he could prove it from the Talmud. The Talmud says that the Jews consider the Gentiles as not human. True, a Jew would never kill a fellow human being, but the Jews consider Gentiles as animals, and no more care about their lives than they would about a cat, or a chicken. They would kill a Gentile for even the most trivial reason, or for no reason at all. After all, the Talmud says in Yevamos 60b
ניא, וכן היה רשב"י אומר: קברי גוים אינן מטמאין באהל שנאמר: 'ואתן צאני מרעיתי אדם אתם', אתם קרויין אדם ואין הגוים קרויין אדם
Clear. The Jews view the Gentiles as subhuman, and would kill them with absolutely no mercy or pang of conscience.
This accusation struck fear in the Jewish community. Pogroms were being prepared, priests were preaching against the deicide Jew, and a repeat of the Khmelnytsky massacres was imminent.
The defense desperately sent a message to Rav Meir Shapiro. What should we do? How can we answer this accusation??
Rav Shapiro told him exactly what to say, and this was the defense.
The Talmud means something entirely different. The Jews have forever been pacifists who never shed blood.. Only the blindly antisemitic would misunderstand the Gemara, because its meaning is very clear.
When a Gentile looks at the newspaper, and he sees that thousands of people are starving in China, and if he reacts at all he will sigh, and shake his head, and then turn the page. But if a Jew finds out that there is a Jew in China that doesn't have Matza for Pesach, he will be at the Chinese embassy the next morning with a box of Matza. The Gentile may pity the distant stranger, but the Jew feels the pain of a fellow Jew as if it were his own, even though he never met him, and will never meet him.
This is what the Gemara means. We, the Jewish People, are Adam, in the singular. We are not separate individuals with a common religion. We are all like one, all parts of one organism. That is what אתם קרויין אדם ואין הגוים קרויין אדם means. We are all like one.
And if you deny this, I will prove that not only is it true, but that you yourselves know that it to be true.
If you open the newspaper, and there is a story about Ivan, who murdered his neighbor, you will say, "Terrible! Ivan is a murderer." But if you open the paper, and you see a story about Yankel Kohen who murdered his neighbor, you won't say "Yankel Kohen is a murderer." You will say "Terrible! The Jews are murderers!" Why? What's the difference between Ivan the murderer and Yankel the murderer? The answer is that you yourselves know, you yourselves believe in your hearts, that all the Jews are Adam, one person, but the Gentiles, each one is separate from the other.
This response struck like a bolt of lightning. It hit at both the priest's misinterpretation of the Gemara, and also spoke directly to the tens of thousands of Russians that were sharpening their knives, waiting to kill the Jews because of one Menachem Mendel Beilis.
This answers the Alshich's question. A Jewish neshama is not separate from other Jews. We are all one, and we mourn each other's pain and celebrate each other's happiness. If a Jew does not act like that, if he is a ganov and a holeich rachil and az ponim, that means that he is like a limb that is cut off of a body. This spiritual disease manifests itself in Tzaraas, where the person loses his own limbs. Davka because we are Adam, because our neshamos are all interconnected, a man who behaves in the opposite manner has a deadly and mortal spiritual affliction.
When a person is a member of the community, he is not just one person by himself. He is an integral part of everyone else that lives there. When he has the opportunity to do good for others, he takes advantage of the moment. If he has a snow plow, all the neighbors have clear sidewalks. If he has left over from Shabbos, he makes sure it is delivered to someone that might not have enough to eat. When some people came to Chicago from South Africa, he made sure that they would become part of the community, and he shepherded them along until they found their land legs. These are only small chasadim that I happen to know about, but the point is that this person is a vital part of the entire community, or each and every one of us. The connection is mutual and indivisible. On the one hand, that means that with his leaving, we all are losing an important part of our lives, but on the other hand, wherever he goes, he remains part of what and who we are.
Part III
Robert Fulghum
The Barber
Hair grows at the rate of about half an inch a month. I don't know where he got his facts, but Mr. Washington came up with that one when we were comparing barbers. That means that about eight feet of hair had been cut off my head and face in the last sixteen years by my barber.
I hadn't thought much about it until I called to make my usual appointment and found that my barber had left to go into building maintenance. What? How could he do this? My barber. It felt like a death in the family. There was so much more to our relationship than sartorial statistics.
We started out as categories to each other: "barber" and "customer." Then we became "redneck ignorant barber" and "pinko egghead minister." Once a month we reviewed the world and our lives and explored our positions. We sparred over civil rights and Vietnam and lots of elections. We became mirrors, confidants, confessors, therapists, and companions in an odd sort of way. We went through being thirty years old and then forty. We discussed and argued and joked, but always with a certain thoughtful deference.
After all, I was his customer. And he was standing there with his razor in his hand.
I found out that his dad was a country policeman, that he grew up poor in a tiny town and had prejudices about Indians. He found out that I had the same small-town roots and grew up with prejudices about Blacks. Our kids were the same ages, and we suffered through the same stages of parenthood together. We shared wife stories and children stories and car troubles and lawn problems. I found out he gave his day off to giving free haircuts to old men in nursing homes. He found out a few good things about me, too, I suppose.
I never saw him outside the barber shop, never met his wife or children, never sat in his home or ate a meal with him. Yet he became a terribly important fixture in my life. Perhaps a lot more important than if we had been next-door neighbors. The quality of our relationship was partly created by a peculiar distance. There's a real sense of loss in his leaving. I feel like not having my hair cut anymore, though eight feet of hair may seem strange.
Without realizing it, we fill important places in each other's lives. It's that way with a minister and congregation. Or with the guy at the corner grocery, the mechanic at the local garage, the family doctor, teachers, neighbors, co-workers. Good people, who are always "there," who can be relied upon in small, important ways. People who teach us, bless us, encourage us, support us, uplift us in the dailiness of life. We never tell them. I don't know why, but we don't.
And, of course, we fill that role ourselves. There are those who depend on us, watch us, learn from us, take from us. And we never know. Don't sell yourself short. You may never have proof of your importance, but you are more important than you think.
It reminds me of an old Sufi story of a good man who was granted one wish by God. The man said he would like to go about doing good without knowing about it. God granted his wish. And then God decided that it was such a good idea, he would grant that wish to all human beings. And so it has been to this day.
Mr. Fulghum's story strikes me as a very good reminder of the real and true interconnectedness of every member of the Jewish community, of the preciousness of every Jewish soul and its drive to do tzedaka and chesed, and how important it is to remember that it is not the great and feted philanthropists and tzadikim that make us who we are, it is those quiet heroes with shining souls that live next door to us.
