Chassidish Stories and Great Rabbis

At present, Rachel the Matriarch continues to offer supplication on behalf of her children, Israel. Though they have returned “from the land of the enemy,” they have yet to returned to their borders. Rachel is weeping, and her children weep with her.

The holiday approached and Rosh Hashanah arrived. Rabbi Amnon of Mainz asked his relatives to bring him to the synagogue with all of his dismembered organs and to place him by the prayer leader. We can well image the atmosphere in the synagogue.

A merchant goes to the market to do business. Man comes into the world in order to observe the Torah and its commandments. What can we say about a person who reaches a certain location with a said purpose, yet abandons that goal for something else?

Rabbi Tzvi Yehuda Kook served as Head of the Merkaz HaRav Yeshiva for thirty years. During these years, an entire generation of students was nurtured upon a philosophy which combined the Torah of Israel, the nation of Israel, and the land of Israel.

R' Tzvi Yehuda taught us that the State of Israel is not just some formal body designed to preserve the nation. Rather, the very existence of the State has divine worth; it embodies a significant stage in the redemption as envisioned by the Prophets.

When R' Elimelekh would recite “Kedusha” on the Sabbath, he would take out his watch and look at it. The sweetness of the moment threatened to consume his soul. By looking at his watch he was able to anchor himself firmly in the physical world.

“What you wish to attain,” explained Rabbi Menachem Mendel, “is a very high state of perfection which only a few individuals in each generation merit attaining: you wish to learn all of the secrets of Kabbala, and then to pray like an innocent child.”

A Hasidic parable teaches us that there are two faculties at work in a person's character: on the one hand, there is a forward-pushing, dynamic ingredient; on the other, a fixed and constant ingredient. One must know when and how to use each trait.

God plays hide-and-seek with man. This state of Divine concealment, with all of the vicissitudes it involves, nevertheless possesses profound meaning as far as man's nearness to God is concerned; God's absence evokes a longing to draw near to Him.

The Chozeh of Lublin senses that the bed which has been prepared for him by the carpenter is not a rejuvenating bed but a bed of lugubriousness and anxiety. From such a bed it is impossible to rise invigorated with a thirst for renewed creativity.