Daily Bitachon

Learn Bitachon daily with Rabbi David Sutton

Introduction: The Psychology of Giving and Taking Welcome to our daily character refinement. We previously discussed the distinction between being a giver and being a taker. Even when a taker gives, he is ultimately taking, because his underlying motive is to receive something in return—he gives only to get back. Conversely, when a true giver takes, he is still giving, because his ultimate intention is outward-focused. For instance, if he does not eat, he will not have the strength to care for others. Why We Resist Saying "Thank You" Let us explore another dimension of taking in order to give. In Alei Shur (Volume 2, Page 21), Rav Shlomo Wolbe explains one of the root psychological causes of ingratitude: when I receive a favor or good deed from someone and acknowledge it, I become indebted to them. I feel an obligation to be grateful and to say thank you. Why is that so difficult? Expressing genuine gratitude involves a subtle form of submission. After all, they provided for me, and I now owe them—a state of delicate vulnerability and humility. Even against this subtle submission, human nature tends to resist. We see this vividly in small children: when handed a piece of candy, they often snatch it and run away, avoiding the vulnerability of saying thank you. Furthermore, the recipient of a favor is not merely expected to say thank you; they also become beholden to society, knowing that in time, they may be called upon to reciprocate when that person is in need. No one willingly seeks out such burdens. Consequently, human nature inclines a person to downplay the favor and act as though nothing was ever received. The True Meaning of Kefirat Tovah This is the deeper meaning of kefirat tovah ( כפירת טובה )—literally "covering over the good." It is like placing a lid over a benefit so it remains hidden from view. That is why such a person is termed a kofer b'tovah ( כופר בטובה ), one who denies the good. It is comparable to a borrower who denies a loan: he knows he took the money, yet he refuses to repay it and claims he never borrowed at all. This reveals a fundamental insight into our nature: we feel an instinctive discomfort with being beholden. That discomfort is often why people refuse to recognize goodness—they cannot bear the debt. While denying a favor entirely is not the path of a righteous person, the underlying aversion to indebtedness is universal. Bestowing a Burden-Free Favor Now let us consider the person who is not a kafui tovah . He recognizes and acknowledges the good, but he still carries the uncomfortable burden of receiving—especially if he is fundamentally a giver, because givers inherently dislike being on the receiving end. To address this, Rav Wolbe cites Rav Yerucham Levovitz, who taught that whoever wishes to bestow a complete, untainted favor should ask the recipient for a small counter-gesture at the very moment of giving. For example, imagine you are giving someone a gift or an extra piece of furniture, and they come to your home to collect it. If you happen to be building your Sukkah and say, "Could you help me carry this plank up?", you relieve their sense of indebtedness. By asking for that small assist, you allow them to feel: "I just reciprocated in some way; the debt is lifted." The recipient immediately feels that the act was balanced and that they no longer carry an unpaid obligation. The Midrash of the Sighted Guide The foundation for this principle is found in the Midrash on Parashat Beha'alotcha . Hashem instructs Moshe that the Jewish people should bring pure olive oil for the Menorah—not because Hashem has any need for it, but "so that you may light for Me just as I lit for you." The Midrash illustrates this with an analogy of a sighted person and a blind person walking along a road together. The sighted person says to the blind person, "Please, hold this lamp and guide me with its light, so you will not feel indebted to me for escorting you along the way." In this parable, the sighted guide represents Hashem, and the blind person represents the Jewish people. Hashem illuminated our path and led us through the wilderness. Yet, when it came time to construct the Mishkan, He instructed Moshe to bring olive oil so the people could kindle the light. Hashem interacted with the Jewish people in a manner that bestowed a complete, burden-free kindness. By asking them to kindle the perpetual lamp, He allowed them to feel as though they were actively reciprocating His benevolence. Here, the "taker" is actually the ultimate giver. The only reason Hashem "takes" the oil is to spare us the feeling of being helplessly beholden, thereby making His gift complete. Similarly, when a host giving away a sofa asks the recipient to help carry a plank of wood, that act of taking is not self-serving—it is an act of giving, engineered entirely to preserve the recipient's dignity. Why We Were Created as Interdependent Beings Rav Eliyahu Eliezer Dessler builds upon this dynamic of giving and taking, explaining that this is the very reason Hashem created human beings as social, interdependent creatures. We are not self-sufficient islands. If we were entirely independent, we would never face the moral choice between giving and taking, because there would be no one to give to and no one to receive from. Hashem deliberately designed the world so our spiritual growth and ultimate purpose hinge upon navigating this balance. This concept connects directly to Rav Chaim Shmuelevitz's explanation of the Talmudic statement that three categories of people are considered "as if dead": one who has no children, an impoverished person, and a blind person ( chashuv k'meit ). Rav Chaim explains that the common thread among them is the severe restriction on their ability to give; circumstances compel them primarily into the role of a receiver. A person without children lacks the natural outlet to pass life and wisdom forward to the next generation. An impoverished person is constantly placed in the position of receiving charity. A blind person is often reliant on others for basic navigation. They are likened to the deceased because their circumstances hinder them from easily fulfilling life's core purpose: the active choice to be a giver rather than a taker. The Reciprocal Dignity of Receiving Rav Dessler addresses an obvious question: if society is inevitably split between those who have and those who need, does that mean half of humanity is doomed to be takers? He clarifies that receiving does not automatically make someone a taker. A person can receive without taking. The genuine giver, even when forced by circumstances to be a recipient, does not possess a taker's mindset. How does he reciprocate? Through hakarat hatov ( הכרת הטוב )—an overflowing, genuine sense of gratitude. He repays his benefactor with heartfelt appreciation. This truth is reflected in Megillat Ruth (2:19). When Naomi asks Ruth where she gathered grain and who extended kindness to her, Ruth responds: "The name of the man with whom I worked today is Boaz" ( ham-ish asher asiti imo hayom Boaz ). Commenting on this verse, the Midrash Lekach Tov notes: "More than the homeowner does for the poor person, the poor person does for the homeowner." By accepting the charity, the poor person affords the benefactor the merit of doing a mitzvah and earning a portion in the World to Come ( Olam HaBa ). Thus, even the recipient is actively giving back. The Two Givers and the King's Verdict A well-known Midrash in Bereishit Rabbah (33:1) relates a story of Alexander the Great visiting a remote kingdom to observe how its king administered justice. Two citizens came before the court with a dispute. One man had purchased a plot of land from his fellow and subsequently discovered a hidden treasure buried within it. The buyer pleaded: "I bought the land, but I did not purchase the treasure; it rightfully belongs to the seller." The seller argued back: "When I sold you the land, I sold it with everything in it, from the depths of the earth upward. The treasure is yours." The king asked the first man, "Do you have a son?" He answered yes. He asked the second, "Do you have a daughter?" She answered yes. The king then ruled: "Marry your children to one another, and let the treasure belong to both of them." Alexander stood amazed. When the king asked how such a case would be resolved in his empire, Alexander replied, "I would execute both men and confiscate the treasure for the royal treasury." The Midrash highlights an exceptional principle: when two genuine givers interact, neither is willing to unfairly benefit from the other. The righteous king recognized this dynamic and joined them as partners. When givers unite, they harmonize their giving and receiving, creating an ideal world. Great Leaders and the Sensitivity to Ingratitude Because the righteous cannot bear the thought of being mere consumers, Jewish history contains extraordinary accounts of gedolim (great Torah leaders) and their extreme sensitivity to hakarat hatov . A personal encounter illustrates this vividly. During the final week of the life of Rav Michel Yehuda Lefkowitz, one of the premier sages of our generation, I was privileged to enter his room. He said to me words I will never forget: "Ani chayav lecha hakarat hatov" — "I owe you a debt of gratitude." Why would a revered sage in his nineties say this to me? It was because our synagogue had supported Kollel Taharot , an institution he championed to study the neglected laws of ritual purity. Even at the end of his life, he viewed that assistance as a personal favor for which he remained indebted. A similar sentiment is found in a famous incident involving Rav Elazar Menachem Man Shach. On a freezing, rainy winter day, Rav Shach insisted that his grandson call a taxi to take him to a funeral in Tel Aviv. Concerned for his failing health, his grandson protested the harsh weather. Rav Shach was unyielding: "If you do not take me, I will take the public bus." Upon arriving at the cemetery, Rav Shach walked behind the casket of an elderly woman in the pouring rain, holding an umbrella against the biting cold. When his grandson inquired about his connection to the deceased, Rav Shach explained that decades earlier, as a destitute yeshiva student during a harsh winter, he had no coat. This woman's late husband owned a garment shop, and following his passing, she brought coats to the yeshiva to distribute to needy scholars. Rav Shach had received one, allowing him to stay warm and immerse himself in Torah study. Decades later, he braved the winter storm to escort her to her final rest. He told his grandson that he deliberately went out into the cold so he could physically recall what it felt like to freeze, ensuring his hakarat hatov to her was felt with the utmost authenticity. The Ultimate Litmus Test Ultimately, the litmus test for whether a person is truly a giver or a taker lies in how they feel when they receive: The taker views every benefit with entitlement, thinking: "Of course I received this; it was coming to me anyway." The giver feels fundamentally humbled, thinking: "I am not entitled to this favor, and I remain forever indebted with gratitude."

The Innate Spark of Giving Welcome to our daily lessons on character refinement. We are citing the Michtav MeEliyahu in his Kuntres HaChesed (page 35 / chapter 4), where he explains that every human being possesses an innate spark—a natural desire to give. For each person, this desire manifests in different ways. Ideally, one raises a family, has children, and gives devotedly to those children. People who do not have biological children often adopt because of that deep internal need to give. Others care for a pet, channeling their drive to nurture and provide through that relationship. He explains further that Hashem implanted this spark of giving within everyone—and decreed that it would never be extinguished—because without it, the world could not endure. People would neither marry nor raise families. Therefore, Hashem ensured that this impulse to give would permanently remain part of human nature. Expanding the Circle of Love However, because it is initially only a small spark, people naturally choose to give only to those who find favor in their eyes. They provide for them, benefit them, and love them, viewing these individuals as extensions of themselves: their immediate family, relatives, close friends, and neighbors. Others are viewed as strangers, toward whom they apply the trait of taking—competing with them and taking whatever they can. Yet Rav Dessler points out that the very act of giving generates love. A person is a stranger to you only because you have never given to him. When you give to someone, you begin to love him, because you now have an invested portion of yourself in him, creating a genuine connection. He was considered an outsider only because that interaction had not yet taken place; once you give, he feels like kin, and love develops. Through giving, your circle of love expands outward. Giving Precedes Loving This leads to his fundamental principle: we do not give to people because we love them; rather, we love them because we give to them. He illustrates this principle through the story of a young couple who cherished their small child. When war broke out and chaos ensued, the family was separated: the father and the young boy escaped in one direction, while the mother was forced in another. For many years they remained parted, with the mother spending that entire period longing for her child. When the war finally ended and they reunited, there was an unmistakable disparity between the father's bond and the mother's bond. Although both were devoted parents, and the mother had yearned for her child throughout the years of separation, he was no longer the child she had actively nurtured and raised day in and day out. The father, having carried the daily burden of giving and care throughout those formative years, possessed a far deeper emotional connection. This concept aligns with the teaching in Masechet Derech Eretz Zuta (Chapter 2): "Im chafetz ata lidbok b'ahavat chavercha, hevei nosei v'notein b'tovato" (If you desire to attach yourself to the love of your friend, engage actively in his welfare). Giving and Taking in Marriage On a deeper level, how does love develop within marriage? The Midrash ( Bereshit Rabbah , Chapter 17) teaches that an unmarried person is considered half a body; a husband is not complete without his wife, nor a wife without her husband. When they marry, they give to one another by filling the void and providing what the other lacks. Over time, however, this initial harmony can erode. While marriages typically begin with genuine concern for one another, the default human tendency toward self-centeredness can reassert itself. When partners stop being givers and revert to takers, they begin viewing the relationship through a lens of entitlement: "You owe me; you have responsibilities toward me; you must satisfy my needs." When that happens, the bond steadily weakens. For this reason, Rav Dessler notes: "I always tell a couple under the chuppah: if you want a successful marriage, your constant focus must be to give satisfaction and joy to your spouse. Once you shift to making demands, the beauty of marriage dissipates." Those who refuse to marry often do so because their urge to take is so dominant that it overrides the natural human drive for union. The same dynamic often explains the hesitation to raise a family. Hakarat HaTov: The Hallmark of the Giver Rav Dessler also applies this distinction to the foundation of hakarat hatov (gratitude). What is the true root of gratitude? The Giver: A giver desires solely to bestow goodness upon others and avoids receiving favors or handouts. When someone does extend a kindness to him, he feels a strong urge to reciprocate or pay for it. If he is unable to do so, he feels deeply indebted—and that authentic sense of indebtedness is what motivates his heartfelt "thank you." The Taker: A taker constantly seeks to draw everything toward himself, whether through manipulation, taking advantage, or simply taking gifts without appreciation. Deep down, he feels that everything belongs to him by right. Consequently, when something comes his way, he feels no genuine obligation to acknowledge it. This is the root of kefiyat tovah (ingratitude). Even when a taker offers a polite "thank you," it is often mere flattery—an empty gesture designed simply to keep the gifts coming. He wraps himself in the garment of hakarat hatov , but beneath it lies merely another strategy to take. Hakarat hatov is an outgrowth of giving, whereas kefiyat tovah stems directly from taking. Because authentic appreciation requires the humility of a giver, our entire service of Hashem is founded upon hakarat hatov . One can only attain this foundational middah to the extent that he transforms himself from a taker into a giver.

Introduction: The Search for the Core Principle Welcome to our daily middot character refinement class. Rav Wolbe, in his sefer Alei Shur (Volume II, page 180), points out that in many places, our Rabbis give us fundamental principles upon which all the mitzvot are built. For example, the Gemara in Berachot 63a tells us that Bar Kappara taught: What is a short passage upon which the entire Torah depends? "B'chol derachecha da'eihu, v'hu yeyasher orchotecha" — Know Him in all your ways, and He will straighten your paths ( Mishlei 3:6). In other words: "Kol ma'asecha yihyu l'shem Shamayim" — all your deeds should be for the sake of Heaven ( Pirkei Avot 2:12). Another Gemara states: "Ba Chavakuk v'he'emidan al achat" — Chavakuk came and established the entire Torah upon a single pillar: "Tzaddik b'emunato yichyeh" — the righteous man lives by his emunah ( Makkot 24a). Living with active emunah . Furthermore, Bereishit Rabbah (24:7) notes: "V'ahavta l'rei'acha kamocha" — Love your neighbor as yourself ( Vayikra 19:18). Rabbi Akiva said: "Zeh klal gadol baTorah" — this is a great, all-encompassing rule of the Torah. We see a consistent theme here: our Sages sought foundational, all-inclusive rules. Why couldn't we simply have 613 distinct mitzvot ? Why do we need an overarching principle? The answer is that without one, you lose the forest for the trees. You see individual details, but you miss the broader purpose. You fulfill the specific commandments, but you miss what Hashem fundamentally desires from you. There is an ultimate goal, and to reach it, we must peel away the surface details and identify the core essence. The Fundamental Drive: Giving vs. Taking Rav Wolbe notes that this search for the core principle is not limited to early sources; later thinkers also identified fundamental foundations. Among the primary approaches cited is that of Rav Eliyahu Dessler in Michtav MeEliyahu , which roots the entirety of the Torah in a single point: God created man and endowed him with two opposing capacities—to be a giver ( noten ) or a taker ( notel ). The quality of giving stems directly from the attributes of God: Hashem acts with absolute mercy and gives unconditionally, expecting neither repayment nor gain. We do not "do" anything for God when we serve Him; rather, He graciously allows us the privilege of serving Him. Everything exists because He bestows benevolence upon us. Man was created b'tzelem Elokim (in the image of God) to emulate this quality: to show mercy and actively do good for others. In contrast, the power of taking stems from the desire to control, consume, and hoard. This is what we call ahavat atzmo —self-love, the unbridled ego—which is the root of all destructive traits. Therefore, Rav Dessler explains that the koach hanetinah —the ingrained drive to give—is the bedrock of all good middot combined. The Outlook of the Giver vs. the Taker Consider how this plays out in everyday life: The Giver: When a giver meets someone, his instinctive thought is: "How can I help this person?" If that is your approach to life, you become a genuine ba'al chesed . You become patient, tolerant, capable of shouldering another's burden ( nosei b'ol im chaveiro ), and deeply empathetic. You are naturally content with less for yourself. The Taker: When a taker meets someone, his immediate calculation is: "What can I get out of this person? Can I extract honor, free advice, a loan, or a gift?" A taker is driven by the pursuit of money, status, and physical gratification. He inevitably becomes arrogant and quick to anger, because he cannot tolerate anything that impedes his desires. He falls victim to jealousy, bitterness, and animosity. All refined character traits coalesce into one central identity: being a giver . When a person consciously trains himself to be a giver, he reconstructs his middot , elevates his perspective, and develops an entirely transformed tzurah —a higher spiritual stature. Society and the Restraint of the Taker With that foundation, Rav Wolbe directs us to study Michtav MeEliyahu deeply, specifically pointing to page 204 in Alei Shur (Volume II). In Michtav MeEliyahu (Volume I, pages 32–51), Rav Dessler presents his renowned treatise, Kuntres HaChesed (The Pamphlet of Lovingkindness). There, he explains why human civilization, left to its own devices, remains inherently untrustworthy. Our elaborate judicial systems, law enforcement agencies, and societal codes are merely external measures designed to keep the taker in check. They are a facade. This reflects the teaching in Pirkei Avot (3:2): "Ilmalei mora'ah shel malchut, ish et rei'ehu chayim bala'u" — Were it not for the fear of the government, a person would swallow his fellow alive. Selfish desire is natural to the unrefined person; without external fear and accountability, civilized restraint collapses. That is why the moment a state of anarchy arises, rioting and looting instantly erupt. Stripped of boundaries, raw human nature reveals the taker. Taking manifests in varying degrees: Extreme takers: Those who rob, murder, wage wars of conquest, and rule as despots. Subtle takers: Those who constantly crave gifts, seek windfalls, exploit opportunities for unearned profit, and look to gain at the expense of others. This is why Shlomo HaMelech, the wisest of all men, taught in Mishlei (15:27): "Shonei matanot yichyeh" — He who hates gifts shall live. Mixed Motives: Giving to Take vs. Taking to Give Every human being contains both forces within himself: the drive to give and the urge to take. The real question is: how do these two forces interact in daily life? A person can perform an act of giving that is actually disguised taking, or engage in an act of taking that is fundamentally an act of giving: 1. Giving in Order to Take (Disguised Taking) A person pays his employees fair wages or behaves cordially toward associates, but his sole underlying motivation is what he receives in return. He pays his workers only to extract their labor; he is polite only to ensure cooperation. This resembles the concept of making "emotional deposits" in interpersonal relationships: one invests kindness purely to build up credit for future emotional withdrawals. Under the surface, the other person is merely a personal bank account. That is not genuine giving; it is calculated investment for personal return. 2. Taking in Order to Give (Sanctified Action) Conversely, there are individuals whose outward participation in worldly matters—even acts that involve taking a fee or wage—is elevated into genuine giving. Rav Dessler and our Sages illustrate this through two classic accounts: Chanoch the Shoemaker: The Torah tells us: "Vayit'halech Chanoch et HaElokim" — Chanoch walked with God ( Bereishit 5:22). The Midrash Talpiyot records that Chanoch was a cobbler by trade, and with every stitch he made, he formed sacred unifications ( yichudim ) to his Creator. At first glance, this sounds like esoteric, Kabbalistic meditations. However, Rav Yisrael Salanter explains that this is not what Chanoch was doing. Had he been lost in mystical abstractions while on the job, he would have been guilty of shortchanging his customer! He was hired to make shoes. Rather, Chanoch's "unifications" were grounded in pure chesed : with every single stitch, he focused entirely on making the seam strong and durable so that the customer would receive a reliable, comfortable pair of shoes. Even though he earned a livelihood for his work, his inner orientation was entirely godly: he sought only the genuine benefit of his fellow man. (Consider a modern parallel: many enter professions like medicine primarily for financial security and high compensation rather than an authentic desire to relieve human suffering. The difference between taking and giving lies entirely in one's core inner focus.) The Chafetz Chaim's Grocery Store: The Michtav MeEliyahu personally witnessed the conduct of the Chafetz Chaim, Rabbi Yisrael Meir HaKohen. Unwilling to accept a rabbinic salary for his Torah scholarship, the Chafetz Chaim opened a small grocery store to support himself. He made sure everything he sold was of the highest quality and deliberately gave generous measures on all dry goods. Consequently, customers flocked to his shop. Seeing this, the Chafetz Chaim grew concerned: "If everyone shops by me, how will the other shopkeepers in town earn a living?" He decided to open his shop for only one or two hours a day—just long enough to cover his basic daily necessities—and then close so that other merchants could earn their livelihoods. Yet even during those two hours, customers continued to overwhelm his shop. Recognizing that his presence was still diminishing the livelihood of others, he closed the store entirely. Conclusion: The Source of All Character As Rav Wolbe emphasizes, our discussion of chesed is not merely an analysis of an isolated virtue. It is the taproot of all human character: Are you fundamentally a giver, or are you a taker? In our upcoming classes, we will continue to explore this profound, inexhaustible foundation of personal refinement.

Learn Bitachon daily with Rabbi David Sutton

True Chesed: Giving What the Other Person Needs Welcome to our daily class on character refinement. Today, we are exploring the concept of chesed (loving-kindness), and specifically what it means to give another person what they truly need. Sometimes, what a person needs most is actually the opportunity to do you a favor. By doing that favor, they feel better about themselves. Consider a dinner guest who offers to make a cake, bring a salad, or help with preparations: participating allows them to feel far less beholden. In Alei Shur (Volume 2, Page 281), Rav Yerucham Levovitz explains that if you want to perform a complete act of kindness for someone, you should ask the recipient to do something small in return. That way, they feel they have reciprocated and will not walk away burdened by a sense of indebtedness. The Menorah and the Parable of the Blind Man This principle originates in a Midrash that explores why Hashem commanded us to light the Menorah in the Beit HaMikdash (Holy Temple), given that He is the ultimate Source of light. Hashem explained that the command to prepare and kindle the oil was not out of personal need, but out of love: "I want you to light for Me, just as I lit the way for you." The Midrash illustrates this with a parable of a sighted man guiding a blind companion along a journey. When they finally arrive home, the sighted guide turns to the blind man and asks, "Please, light a candle for me." The blind man is puzzled: "Why would you need me to light a candle when you were the one leading me the entire way?" The guide's intention was entirely benevolent—to give his friend the dignity of contributing, so he would not feel completely dependent. In the same way, the Jewish people are symbolized by the blind traveler, and HaKadosh Baruch Hu is our guide. He asks us to light a candle for Him so that we feel like active participants. This mashal extends to our entire existence. Hashem structured the world so that it feels as though our actions matter to Him, as the verse states: "Tenu oz L'Elokim" —give strength to God. He framed our service and prayers as essential needs, not out of any lack, but out of ultimate kindness: so that after 120 years, a person enters the World to Come without the pain of eating the "bread of shame" ( nahama d'kisufa ). Hashem allows us to feel necessary, capable, and involved. When Giving Means Receiving Sometimes, offering someone a favor means asking them for one. If an individual in shul feels unfulfilled, without direction or purpose, you can do them an immense service simply by saying, "Could you help organize these books? Could you take care of this task?" Offering someone a volunteer responsibility—even one without pay—restores their sense of dignity and purpose. Giving is often receiving. We see this dynamic in the laws of Kiddushin . Under standard circumstances, a woman must receive an object of monetary value—such as a ring or a coin—to effect betrothal, accompanied by the declaration, "Harei at mekudeshet li" ("Behold, you are sanctified unto me"). However, the Gemara notes an exception involving an adam chashuv (an eminent, distinguished person). If a woman presents a gift, such as an etrog , to an adam chashuv , the fact that he graciously accepts it provides immense satisfaction and honor to the giver. Because the pleasure she derives from his acceptance has genuine value, the adam chashuv can say, "Behold, you are sanctified unto me through the benefit you received by my accepting this from you." The betrothal is valid because his willingness to receive was itself a gift of real value. The Vizhnitzer Rebbe: Anticipating the Unspoken Void Discerning what another person truly needs requires a keen, sensitive eye. Two stories—one regarding the Vizhnitzer Rebbe and another about Rav Shach—illustrate this beautifully. The Vizhnitzer Rebbe, Rav Moshe Yehoshua Hager, once attended the wedding of a follower and stayed much longer than usual. When he prepared to leave, he instructed his gabbai (attendant) to inform him the moment the wedding ended. The festivities concluded in the early hours of the morning, after the mitzvah tanz . At 4:00 AM, the gabbai notified the Rebbe. The Rebbe reached out to the father of the bride—either by phone or in person—and spent twenty minutes asking detailed questions: "How many guests arrived? Who came later in the evening? How was the photographer?" Seeing this, the gabbai could not contain his curiosity. The Rebbe explained: "This chasid just married off his tenth and youngest child. Usually, when parents return from such a milestone, husband and wife sit together and reminisce over the band, the guests, and the celebration. But this chasid is a recent widower. Imagine the pain of returning to an empty home with all his children grown and married, with no one to relive the wedding with. I wanted to be the one to listen." Rav Shach: Listening Beyond the Question Rav Meir Tzvi Bergman shared a related incident in his weekly leaflet, Shaarei Orah (Parashat Lech Lecha), marking the yahrtzeit of his father-in-law, Rav Elazar Menachem Man Shach. Late one night, Rav Shach stayed awake as though waiting for a visitor. Eventually, there was a knock at the door. Rav Bergman stepped forward to answer, but Rav Shach went himself, gently saying, "Step aside; this matter concerns me personally." A young woman stood at the doorway. Rav Shach stepped outside into the hallway and spoke with her privately for some time. When he returned inside, noticing Rav Bergman's curiosity, he explained: "That young woman lost both of her parents. She studies at the Or HaChaim seminary under Rabbi Pardo and was recently presented with a shidduch proposal. Having no parents to consult, she came to ask me whether she should proceed. I answered her question, and the meeting was arranged. However, after every date, a young person returns home to discuss the encounter with their parents—what went well, what caused concern, and how they felt about the prospect. She has neither a father nor a mother to return to. Therefore, I told her, 'After your date, come back here and tell me how it went.'" Reflecting on the encounter, Rav Bergman observed that Rav Shach did not stop at answering the technical question. He perceived the underlying void. The young woman did not simply need guidance; she needed a listening ear, a home to return to, and a parental presence to soften the absence of her parents. Seeing Beyond the Surface True chesed means looking past what is visible on the surface. When someone approaches you, look with open eyes to identify what they genuinely need—not merely what you wish to give them. Cultivating that level of perceptiveness requires genuine selflessness and an authentic concern for the emotional well-being of others. Would you like me to adapt this cleaned-up version into a specific format, such as speaking notes, a study guide with discussion questions, or a source sheet with Hebrew citations?

Your Face Is a Public Domain Welcome to our daily character refinement. We've been talking a lot about giving someone a smile, and there is always more to explore. As we've mentioned, Rav Wolbe related that his father-in-law, Rav Avraham Grodzinski, spent two years working specifically on this trait. We also noted Rabbi Yisrael Salanter's famous maxim: Your face is a public domain; your heart is a private domain. What you feel inside your heart is your own business, but what you project on your face belongs to everyone else. In Sefer Ohr Yisrael —written by his prime disciple, Rav Yitzchak Blazer, in the Netivot Ohr section—it is noted that one of the questions asked of a person after 120 (not cited in the standard Gemara list, but recorded in the Reishit Chochmah ) is: Did you crown your fellow as a king over you in a state of pleasantness? Rav Blazer explains that this means showing him a shining, radiant face ( he'arat panim ). Even in Times of "Elul Anxiety" He points out that this is especially difficult when you are weighed down by personal worry and anxiety, carrying what is called panim zo'afot —a sullen, troubled countenance where your heart simply isn't in it. Sometimes, this inner tension is actually spiritual in nature—what we might call "Elul anxiety." He gives the example of the High Holiday season, when one is overwhelmed with yirat Shamayim (awe of Heaven), trembling before the Day of Judgment. Even so, that inner state cannot be allowed to negatively impact how you treat your fellow man. You still must crown him like a king with genuine warmth. We see this concept in Nechemiah (2:2). King Artaxerxes looks at Nechemiah and asks: "Why is your face sad, seeing you are not sick? This can be nothing other than sorrow of heart." In other words: There is grief in your heart, but that is not how one appears before a king. This is precisely what Rav Yisrael Salanter teaches: your friend is royalty, and when you stand before a king, you must present a welcoming countenance. The Catalyst of the Mussar Movement Rav Yisrael Salanter recounted that one of the seminal experiences that moved him to establish the Mussar movement occurred on Erev Yom Kippur. He was walking to the beit midrash for Kol Nidrei when he passed an exceptionally pious, God-fearing individual whose face was pale with dread and streaked with tears. Rav Yisrael approached him with a time-sensitive question—perhaps asking where to locate a machzor . Lost in his own religious dread, the man ignored him completely. Rav Yisrael later remarked: "As I walked away, I thought to myself: Why should I suffer because he is a God-fearing Jew? Just because he is gripped by fear of the Day of Judgment, what does that have to do with me? He is still obligated to answer another person with gentleness (b'nachat ruach). " This insight became a cornerstone of the Mussar movement: regardless of a person's inner turmoil, stress, or even noble religious angst, it must never spill over to darken the face presented to others. Hospitality and Halachic Countenance The Chafetz Chaim elaborates on this extensively in Sefer Ahavat Chesed (Part III, Chapter 2) regarding the mitzvah of hospitality ( hachnasat orchim ), emphasizing how crucial a warm smile is to a guest. He cites the verse in Yeshayahu (58:10), which we read on Yom Kippur: "Ve-tafeik la-ra'ev nafshecha" — "And offer your soul to the hungry." The Chafetz Chaim explains that nefesh here does not merely mean "soul"; it means will and goodwill ( ratzon )—just as Avraham Avinu says to the children of Chet in Bereishit (23:8), "Im yesh et nafshechem" ( "If it is your will" ). You must feed the guest's spirit by showing him that you genuinely desire his presence. Similarly, King Shlomo teaches in Mishlei (15:17): "Better a meal of greens where love dwells, than a fattened ox served with hatred." Rashi explains that a simple dish of herbs served with love and sever panim yafot (a pleasant demeanor) is far greater than serving a fattened bull with panim zo'afot (a sour, scowling face). It's Not Just What You Do, But How You Do It This principle runs throughout practical halachah: Honoring Parents ( Kibbud Av Va'Em ): The Shulchan Aruch ( Yoreh De'ah 240:4) outlines that honoring parents involves providing them with food, drink, and clothing, and escorting them in and out. Yet, everything must be done b'sever panim yafot —with a gracious smile. The Talmud ( Kiddushin 31b, drawing from the Yerushalmi) warns that one who feeds his parent fattened poultry with a scowl incurs punishment, whereas another person who was forced to send his father to work at a mill—to protect him from a harsh military draft—comforted him with loving, respectful words and earned a share in the World to Come. The deed alone is not enough; the attitude defines the mitzvah. Giving Charity ( Tzedakah ): The Shulchan Aruch ( Yoreh De'ah 249:3) rules that one must give tzedakah with a radiant countenance ( b'sever panim yafot ), with joy ( b'simcha ), and with a good heart ( b'tuv levav ), commiserating with the poor person and speaking words of comfort. If one gives a donation with an angry face ( b'panim zo'afot ), the halachah states: Hifsid zechuto —he forfeits his reward. Letting the Soul Break Through Why is he'arat panim (radiating warmth) so essential, and why can a sincere smile feel so difficult to summon? Rav Wolbe explains that the essence of the neshamah (soul) is light. The physical body is an opaque vessel, while the soul is pure illumination and clarity. The Ben Ish Chai notes that Adam was originally created with kotnot ohr —garments of light (with an aleph )—which only after the sin became kotnot ohr —garments of skin and leather (with an ayin ). When a person genuinely smiles, that inner light of the soul breaks through the opaque physical barrier. Achieving this requires inner work. We must cultivate mastery over our inner world so that the light of the soul can shine outward. A smile is not an empty commercial grin, nor is it mere superficial cheer. While the practice of "faking it until you make it" has real behavioral value as a starting point, we must keep the ultimate goal in mind: to cultivate an authentic inner radiance that naturally shines upon everyone around us. This is not merely an extra stringency or a high-level piety ( chassidut ). It is required to fulfill the mitzvah of tzedakah ; it is required to fulfill kibbud av va'em ; and it is required to answer that ultimate question after 120: Did you treat your fellow man like a king? And when standing before a king, one must always greet him with a smile.

Introduction: The Chamber of Silence Welcome to our daily character refinement class. Continuing with the concept of performing chesed (loving-kindness) in a discreet way, this practice is rooted in a Mishnah in Shekalim (Chapter 5, Mishnah 6). The Mishnah describes that in the Beit HaMikdash (Holy Temple), there was a chamber known as the Lishkat Chasha'im —the Chamber of Silence (or Chamber of the Secret Givers). What was the Chamber of Silence? God-fearing individuals would deposit contributions into it in secret, and impoverished individuals would come and take sustenance from it in secret. A Modern Parallel: The German Community's Shivah Box How exactly it operated on an honor system back then, I am not entirely certain. However, I can share a modern-day example. My father, Rabbi Nosson Scherman, related how the German-Jewish community historically maintained a discreet charity system when someone passed away, lo aleinu (may it not happen to us). The community gabbaim (trustees) or the Chevra Kadisha (burial society) would set up an open charity box in every house of mourning throughout the community—regardless of whether the family was wealthy, middle-class, or destitute. Because it was placed in every home universally, its presence carried zero stigma. Visitors would arrive to comfort the mourners and discreetly drop money into the box. At the same time, if the mourning family suffered from lost wages during the shivah , medical bills, or funeral expenses, they were explicitly permitted and encouraged to quietly take whatever cash they needed. At the end of the day, when only the family remained, they could withdraw any funds needed. No one ever knew whether the mourning family was putting money in or taking money out. The box sat quietly in an area of the home where people could access it without scrutiny, and the money was never counted or audited during the week. As a result, no one ever knew how much was deposited or withdrawn, or whether the family contributed funds or received them. At the end of the week, the Chevra Kadisha collected the box so it could be placed in the next house of mourning. Scriptural and Halachic Foundations Interestingly, we began our study of this topic with the verse: "Dei machsoro asher yechsar lo" ("sufficient for his need which he lacks"). A subsequent verse states: "Naton titein lo" ("You shall surely give to him"). The first verse quoted is in Devarim (15:8): "Pato'ach tiftach et yadcha" ("You shall open your hand"). In verse 10, the Torah commands: "Naton titein lo." On the word lo ("to him"), Rashi comments: "Beino u'veincha" —it should remain strictly between you and him. The Sifrei on that verse continues: "From here the Sages said that there was a Chamber of Silence in Jerusalem." This verse serves as the source for the Chamber of Silence mentioned in the Mishnah in Shekalim . The Rambam codifies this le'halachah (as binding law), and the Vilna Gaon (Gra), in his commentary on Shulchan Aruch ( Yoreh Deah 249:9), cites a Tosefta asserting that every city should establish a similar chamber. This Tosefta in Shekalim (2:16) states that just as there was a Chamber of Silence in the Beit HaMikdash , every town had one as well, underscoring its role as a vital communal institution. Levels of Charity: Protecting Human Dignity Rambam, in Hilchot Matanot Aniyim (Laws of Gifts to the Poor, 10:8), writes that one of the highest tiers of charity occurs when a person gives without knowing the recipient, and the poor person receives without knowing the benefactor—making it a pure mitzvah lishmah (a commandment performed purely for its own sake). As the prime historical example, Rambam cites the Chamber of Silence in the Beit HaMikdash , where the righteous placed funds anonymously and the poor drew from them anonymously. Rambam adds that "karov le'zeh" (close to this level) is contributing to a communal charity fund ( kupah shel tzedakah ). While the donor does not know the ultimate recipient, a communal trustee ( gabbai ) still serves as an intermediary. Although the benefactor and the recipient do not know each other—which protects the recipient's dignity—someone in the middle remains aware of their identity. The Chamber of Silence represents the ultimate ideal because it eliminates all intermediaries, ensuring zero stigma and zero embarrassment. Public Giving vs. True Discretion The Perisha on Yoreh Deah explains why donating to a communal fund is only "close to," rather than identical with, the Chamber of Silence: donating to a kupah often occurs publicly. In a synagogue setting, others observe you dropping money into the collector's box. Even though the Perisha notes that an onlooker cannot tell whether you are putting in a single penny or ten dollars, your act of giving remains visible. By contrast, the Mishnah describes the Chamber of Silence with the phrase: "Yirei chet notnim letochah bechashai" —the God-fearing would place funds into it in complete secrecy. No one saw them approach, and no one saw them deposit the funds. While certain readings of the Perisha suggest an administrator might still have overseen the Chamber of Silence, the German-Jewish custom related by my father-in-law stands out as a modern embodiment of the pure Lishkat Chasha'im : a setup where deposits and withdrawals occurred in total privacy, operating strictly on an honor system, with complete anonymity for both givers and recipients. That concludes our lesson for today.

Introduction to Chesed and Everyday Acts of Kindness Welcome to our daily character refinement. We are discussing the concept of chesed (lovingkindness). For the past eight classes or so, we have focused on noticing when someone lacks something, offering a necessary smile, and focusing on the obvious next step: looking for small, manageable actions that require minimal effort. Rav Wolbe provides practical examples: If someone arrives late for a meal in yeshivah, save them a portion. If someone is searching for a sefer (book), help them locate it. If someone misses a class, review the material with them. If someone looks downcast, give them some chizuk (encouragement). We have transitioned into the realm of action, which is relatively accessible for most people when approached with the right intentions and emotions. However, the author introduces another dimension within chesed : genuine kindness requires chochmah (wisdom). Ashrei Maskil El Dal : Preserving Human Dignity There is a pasuk (verse) in Tehillim: "Ashrei maskil el dal" —"Fortunate is the one who considers the poor with wisdom." What does this mean? It means performing an act of chesed in a manner that preserves the recipient's dignity and avoids causing embarrassment. This connects back to the foundational verse in Devarim 15:8: "Pato'ach tiftach" —"You shall surely open your hand." In that discussion, the Torah instructs that you should lend to him. Rashi explains that if the person refuses to accept a direct gift, you should offer the assistance as a loan. What happens if the person refuses even a loan? In that situation, you must use wisdom to find creative alternatives. Rav Wolbe shares a story of a benefactor whose friend had fallen on hard times. The friend refused to take any handouts or loans. To resolve this, the benefactor devised a plan. He sat down looking noticeably distressed. His friend approached him and asked, "What is bothering you? You look deeply stressed." The benefactor replied, "I just received a telegram regarding an elderly relative who passed away. In his last will and testament, he named me—the nephew who visited him regularly—as the executor of his estate. He instructed that the funds be distributed to someone in need, and I simply do not know what to do with the money." His friend responded, "If that is your problem, I can help you out. I am marrying off a child and need financial assistance." The friend took the money without shame. This dynamic mirrors the Talmudic parable of Achashverosh and Haman: one man had a mound of dirt, the other had a ditch, and each solved the other's problem. Here, both felt relieved—the benefactor appeared to solve a dilemma, and the friend received the support he needed with complete dignity. Sourcing the Concept: Talmud Yerushalmi and Bavli The concept of "Ashrei maskil el dal" is traced to the Talmud Yerushalmi (Peah 8:8). The Yerushalmi notes that regarding the Amora Rabbi Yonah, the verse states maskil (one who acts with insight or intellect) rather than ashrei notein l'dal (fortunate is the one who gives to the poor). Rabbi Yonah applied his intellect when dealing with a formerly wealthy person who had lost his fortune. He would say to him: "I heard you have a large inheritance coming your way. Because it will take time to arrive, let me advance you some money against it, and you can repay me when the funds clear." A well-known Gemara in Masechet Shabbat (156b) illustrates this principle further: Shmuel and Avelat were sitting together observing the morning stars. Avelat, a non-Jewish astrologer, looked at the constellations and pointed to a group of woodchoppers entering the forest, predicting that one specific man would not return alive. Shmuel responded, "We shall see; if he is Jewish, he may return, for ein mazal l'Yisrael (Israel is not bound by planetary fate)." Later that day, the man returned unharmed, leaving Avelat astonished. They inspected the bundle of wood on the man's shoulders and discovered a venomous snake chopped in half within the logs. They asked the man, "What did you do today that was out of the ordinary?" He explained their daily routine: "We have a group of woodchoppers who head into the forest together. Every day, each person brings an ingredient—bread, tomatoes, cheese, or condiments—and we place everything into a shared pot to divide lunch equally. Today, I noticed that one member of our group had nothing to contribute because he is destitute. To avoid embarrassing him, I volunteered to collect the food from everyone. When I came to him, I pretended to take his contribution as well. Then I divided the food evenly, gave up my own portion so there would be enough, and fasted for the rest of the day." Regarding this, the Sages declared that tzedakah tatzil mimavet —charity saves from death. The Alshich comments that this incident exemplifies "Ashrei maskil el dal." The woodchopper acted with tremendous insight. Instead of publicly asking the group to cover for the poor man, he shielded his dignity entirely. The impoverished man did not even realize that his peer had skipped a meal on his behalf. Practical Wisdom in the Lives of the Gedolim Numerous accounts are told of great leaders throughout Jewish history who devised discreet methods to perform chesed without the recipient ever realizing it: Rav Chaim of Volozhin and the Winter Coat A destitute scholar in Volozhin owned an overcoat that was frayed to threads, leaving him freezing in the bitter Lithuanian winter. Because the scholar was too proud to accept charity, Rav Chaim devised a discreet solution. In the coatroom, Rav Chaim switched his own high-quality winter coat with the worn-out one. When the scholar discovered the mix-up, he consulted Rav Chaim for a ruling on what to do. Rav Chaim informed him that if someone accidentally leaves behind an item of superior value and takes your inferior one, you are permitted to use it until the rightful owner steps forward to reclaim it. Rav Chaim, of course, never came forward, enabling the scholar to stay warm without feeling like a recipient of charity. The Chafetz Chaim and the Currency Consultant A down-on-his-luck businessman firmly refused to accept any financial handouts. Recognizing his pride, the Chafetz Chaim approached him under the guise of needing commercial expertise: "There are many counterfeit bills circulating, and people frequently present them to me. I need to understand how to distinguish a genuine note from a fake." The Chafetz Chaim presented a $100 bill and asked the man to examine it. After the man inspected the bill, confirmed its authenticity, and explained the distinguishing marks, the Chafetz Chaim said: "Thank you for your time. You are an expert appraiser, and your advice has saved me significant distress. Here is your professional consulting fee." He handed the businessman the $100 note, which the man accepted proudly as earned income. The Ben Ish Chai and the Silk Merchant The Ben Ish Chai learned of a prominent Baghdadi fabric merchant whose warehouse had been looted, stripping him of the working capital needed to restart his trade. Understanding the merchant's pride and deep industry knowledge, the Ben Ish Chai summoned him: "I require a very specific, rare textile to craft a parochet (curtain) for the Aron Kodesh (Holy Ark), and you possess unique expertise in this field. I have not been able to find anyone else capable of sourcing it. I need you to lead an acquisition search for me, wherever it takes you. A wealthy benefactor has committed funds for this project. Here is an advance of $10,000 to cover your travels and operational costs to secure the material." Armed with that advance, the merchant had the liquidity required to restart his operations and rebuild his business independently. We will pause here today on this dimension of chesed ; to be continued.

Welcome to Our Special Shabbos Series Rav Wolbe, in Sefer Alei Shur (Volume II, page 832), explains that Shabbos is fundamentally different from all other mitzvot. A standard mitzvah is defined by tzivui —a commandment. Shabbos, however, is not merely a commandment; it is also, and primarily, a matana —a gift. As the Gemara ( Shabbos 10b) records, God said to Moshe Rabbeinu: "I have a precious gift in My treasure house, and its name is Shabbos." Rav Wolbe clarifies why it is termed a matana . Shabbos is an exalted spiritual reality drawn from deep within God's hidden storehouse, where the most sacred treasures are kept. It represents an elevated plane of holiness and inner spirituality that completely transcends ordinary human reach. By definition, a gift of this magnitude is something unearned and inherently beyond us. We can readily relate to standard mitzvot through physical performance, but establishing an intimate bond with such sublime holiness is possible only because God bestowed it as a gift. The Gift and the Bride: Torah and Shabbos We find an identical principle regarding the Torah. In Shemot 31:18, the verse states: "Vayiten el Moshe kekhaloto…" ("And He gave unto Moshe, when He had finished speaking with him…"). Rashi notes that the word kekhaloto ( כְּכַלֹּתוֹ ) is written with the letters of kallah ( כַּלָּה —a bride), teaching that God gave the Torah to Moshe as a gift, just as a bride is given to a groom. Furthermore, Midrash Rabbah ( Shemot 41:6) expounds on this verse: during all forty days Moshe spent on Mount Sinai, he would learn the Torah and forget it, until Hashem finally granted it to him as an outright gift ( matana ). Both Torah and Shabbos are called a matana (a gift), and both are called a kallah (a bride). Each represents a lofty spiritual existence that lies far beyond human attainment. God granted them to us as gifts—much like a groom who feels he could never truly be worthy of such an extraordinary bride. The Unique Bracha of Shabbos Rav Wolbe highlights a subtle yet profound distinction in our liturgy that often goes unnoticed. On Friday night during Kiddush, we make a birkat hamitzvot over Shabbos: "…asher kideshanu bemitzvotav." When putting on tefillin, a man recites: "…asher kideshanu bemitzvotav vetzivanu…" —God sanctified us with His commandments and commanded us. When a woman lights Shabbos candles, she recites: "…asher kideshanu bemitzvotav vetzivanu lehadlik ner shel Shabbat." Yet in the Kiddush itself, we do not say vetzivanu . Instead, we say: "…asher kideshanu bemitzvotav veratza vanu, veshabat kodsho be'ahava u'veratzon hinchilanu " ("…Who sanctified us with His commandments, desired us, and granted us His holy Shabbos as a cherished inheritance in love and favor"). Shabbos is celebrated not primarily as a command ( tzivui ), but as a legacy of love and an unearned gift. We encounter this same distinction in the morning blessings over Torah study ( Birkat HaTorah ). Alongside the standard formula ( "…vetzivanu al divrei Torah" ), we recite: "…asher bachar banu mikol ha'amim venatan lanu et Torato , Baruch Atah Hashem, notein HaTorah " ("…Who gave us His Torah; Blessed are You, Hashem, Giver of the Torah"). Both Shabbos and Torah originate from the highest celestial realms, bestowed upon us through Divine love. Torah as a Living Reality This brings us back to the concept of the kallah : Torah is a living spiritual reality. It is not merely an abstract body of wisdom or an academic text; it possesses an authentic existence in the upper worlds. The Chassid Yaavetz, in his commentary on Pirkei Avot (5:16), recounts a well-known incident regarding Tractate Chagigah: There was once a simple man who knew only Tractate Chagigah. He reviewed it constantly throughout his lifetime, never ceasing even for a brief moment, quietly reciting its words while engaged in his daily labor. When he passed away, no one was present in his home. Hashem sent an angel in the guise of a woman, who raised a bitter cry, weeping: "My husband! My husband!" until the entire town gathered around her. She said to them: "This husband of mine, who honored me and never abandoned me all his days—honor him and bury him with great dignity." When they asked her name, she replied: "Chagigah." Once the burial stone was set in place, she vanished. The community was astonished, and upon investigating his life, they discovered that he had devoted his entire existence to reciting that single tractate. All the people rejoiced, declaring: "This was from Hashem; it is wondrous in our eyes." Similarly, the Ramchal writes in Derech Etz Chaim that the Torah ( Kodesh Hashem ) possesses a profound, elevated reality ( metziut ) in the highest celestial realms. When a person immerses himself in Torah down below, a radiant light illuminates his soul and connects him to the innermost treasure houses of the Creator ( ginzei HaBoreh ). The phrase Torah Ohr ("Torah is light") is not a figure of speech; it is ohr mamash —a literal, palpable spiritual light. Because the Torah is a living reality, the Gemara ( Sanhedrin 99b) teaches: "Hu amel bimkom zeh, veTorato omelet lo bimkom acher" —a person toils down here in this world, and his Torah toils on his behalf in the upper world, beseeching the Almighty to unlock its deepest secrets for him. The Parable of the King's Daughter In Sefer Seder HaYom (authored by Rabbi Moshe ibn Makhir, one of the great 16th-century kabbalists of Safed and the earliest source for Modeh Ani ), a magnificent parable is presented in his commentary on Aleinu LeShabe'ach : A king placed his daughter inside a fortress tower, completely secluded, attended only by her faithful maidservants. The entrance to the tower was concealed so well that it could be discovered only after arduous effort, and even once located, it required a succession of specialized keys to unlock chamber after inner chamber. The king proclaimed that he would not grant his daughter's hand on account of wealth, beauty, or noble lineage, but only to one who demonstrated genuine devotion. The suitor had to earn her affection so that she would look down from her window and guide him to the hidden entrance, and he had to possess the wisdom and perseverance to unlock every door until he reached her inner chamber. Suitors arrived from across the world. They circled the tower morning and evening, singing serenades, fasting, and braving the scorching heat by day and freezing cold by night. Yet none succeeded, because they lacked endurance. They expected immediate results, and when the maiden remained hidden, they gave up in despair. Finally, one discerning man resolved: "It is impossible that a tower was built without an entryway. I will remain here for forty days and forty nights until I find a way to reach her, or I will perish in the attempt." He persevered through obscurity, circling the walls until he discovered a tiny aperture. He scraped away the dirt and stones until a small opening appeared. Day after day, he called out to her with sincere devotion, pleading for her favor. Seeing his genuine yearning, her heart was moved. She spoke to him from within, encouraging him and assuring him that his efforts would be rewarded. Guided by her voice, he uncovered the sealed entryway, unlocked every subsequent door with patience and wisdom, and entered her presence. Recognizing his unwavering love, the king embraced him with joy, granted him his daughter's hand, entrusted him with the keys to the entire palace, and appointed him viceroy over the kingdom. Embracing the Relationship The Seder HaYom explains that this parable depicts our relationship with the Torah—and, by extension, with Shabbos. The inner secrets and transcendent holiness of both Torah and Shabbos are guarded behind layers of concealment. They cannot be acquired through superficial enthusiasm or fleeting inspiration; they require genuine exertion, patience, and devotion. When we approach Torah and Shabbos with sincerity, demonstrating how deeply we cherish them, they open their innermost chambers and reveal their hidden brilliance to us. Ultimately, we must not view our observance of Torah and Shabbos as a burdensome checklist of rules and restrictions. Consider the perspective of a bride and groom entering marriage: a husband does not look at his wife and lament the financial obligations of food, clothing, and shelter; a wife does not view the marriage simply as a commitment to household chores. Rather, both enter a loving partnership with complete devotion, and the natural responsibilities flow seamlessly from that commitment. So too, Shabbos is not merely a list of prohibitions—what we cannot carry, cook, or ignite. Shabbos is an intimate relationship. When the bond is central, the halachic details are embraced naturally as the expressions of love and respect due to a royal bride. Both Torah and Shabbos invite us into a relationship with the Divine, offering us the privilege to toil with love, transcend our limitations, and merit this priceless gift.