Gratitude 

When Rabbi Yonason Eibeshutz left his community to become the chief rabbi of Prague, nobody tried to stop him. He used that opportunity to teach them a powerful lesson from our parsha.

Don’t be a Shnorrer

Several years ago, a top surgeon from the world-renowned Cleveland Clinic was flown to Israel to perform surgery on a prominent rabbi.

He was treated almost like a visiting head of state. During his three-day stay in Israel, he met with the Prime Minister and other high-ranking dignitaries.

This doctor, who wasn’t Jewish, said he didn’t want any payment for the surgery. He was happy to do it as a mitzvah. But the organizers weren’t sure what to do, so they consulted another rabbi for guidance. The rabbi told them they must pay him—it’s simply not appropriate for a non-Jewish doctor to walk away thinking that Jews are beggars. Here they had a rabbi who was extremely important to them, and they flew in a world-class surgeon from the U.S.—and he shouldn’t be paid?

Out of basic respect and recognition, the rabbi ruled, they should give him his usual and customary fee. And so, they paid him $20,000.

This lesson—don’t be a shnorrer—is found in our parsha too:

Mixed Messages

In this week’s Torah portion, Vaeschanan, Moshe warns the Jewish people about the dangers of idol worship: “And you shall watch yourselves very well, for you did not see any image on the day that the L-rd spoke to you at Horeb from the midst of the fire” (Devarim 4:15).  He reminds them that when G-d spoke to them at Har Sinai, they saw no image. Because of that, he warns them not to make any carved forms—whether of a man, a woman, an animal, or anything else.

A few verses later, in 4:19, he adds another warning: when you look up to the heavens and see the sun, moon, and stars, don’t be drawn after them and bow to them: “And lest you lift up your eyes to heaven, and see the sun, and the moon, and the stars… and be drawn away to prostrate yourselves before them and worship them.” 

Then, suddenly, in verses 21–22, Moshe shifts and talks about himself. He says that G-d became angry with him because of the people, and swore that he would not cross the Jordan. “And G-d was angry with me because of you, and He swore that I would not cross the Jordan… For I will die in this land.” 

Immediately afterward, in verse 23, he returns to his earlier theme: “Be careful not to forget the covenant of Hashem your G-d… and not to make for yourselves a graven image.”

It’s a surprising interruption. Earlier in the portion (Devarim 3:23–27), Moshe already described how he pleaded with G-d to let him enter the land, and how G-d refused. Why bring it up again now—right in the middle of a warning about idol worship?

To explain, let’s step back and take a look at European Jewish history. 

The Rabbi Is Leaving…

Everyone’s heard of Prague. It’s a city with a rich Jewish history. Today, hundreds of thousands of tourists visit each year to see the old Jewish ghetto, the historic synagogues, and other famous sites.

But over 300 years ago, Prague wasn’t just a tourist destination—it was one of the largest and most important Jewish communities in all of Europe, maybe even the entire world.

Around that time, there lived a great rabbi by the name of Rabbi Yonason Eibeshutz. He was serving as the rabbi of a small town.

One day, a delegation arrived at his home with an official rabbinical contract from none other than the Jewish community of Prague. They had come to invite Rabbi Yonason to take the prestigious position as chief rabbi of their city.

Rabbi Yonason thanked them and said he was honored by the offer—but that he would need a few days to consider his decision.

This surprised the delegation. After all, it seemed obvious: who wouldn’t want to leave a small-town pulpit to become the rabbi of Prague? Still, they respected his request and returned home.

Meanwhile, news spread quickly that Rabbi Yonason had received an offer to become the chief rabbi of Prague. A few days later, he notified the community that he had accepted the position—but he would need a few weeks to prepare for the move.

Three weeks later, three wagons with drivers showed up to help transport the rabbi, his family, and their belongings to Prague. Rabbi Yonason began packing up his books and furniture, but the drivers noticed something odd—he wasn’t in any rush. Everything was moving slowly and deliberately.

Three full days went by like this.

Finally, the wagon drivers approached him and said, “Honored rabbi, it’s time—we really need to get going.”

“You’re right,” the rabbi said. “We’re leaving today. I just need to say goodbye to my community first.”

He announced he would be delivering a farewell sermon in the synagogue. The entire town gathered to say goodbye to their beloved rabbi.

Rabbi Yonason Eibeshutz began his farewell sermon.

He opened by saying that since he was leaving town, he wanted to ask the community for something: that even after he was gone, they should continue coming to shul.

The crowd was stunned.

He went on: Please don’t stop buying kosher meat. Please continue lighting Shabbos candles.

People started looking at each other, confused. What was the rabbi getting at?

Finally, one of the townspeople couldn’t hold back. He stood up and said, “Honorable rabbi, forgive me for interrupting—but does the rabbi really think that if he leaves, we’ll stop coming to shul? We’ve been your community for years. Does the rabbi suspect we’ll stop keeping kosher?!”

But that was exactly the response Rabbi Yonason had been waiting for.

The Explanation

Rabbi Yonasan quoted the same verses we read earlier—where Moshe Rabbeinu interrupts his warning about idol worship with something personal: that G-d had become angry with him and would not allow him to enter the Land of Israel (Devarim 4:21–22).

And Rabbi Eibeshutz asked the classic question: why does Moshe bring this up in the middle of such an important subject?

“I’ll explain what happened,” he said.

“When G-d first told Moshe at the Burning Bush to go save the Jewish people, Moshe wasn’t in Egypt. He hadn’t lived through the slavery. He was in Midyan, safe and comfortable. Not only that, he was a wanted man in Egypt. He had killed an Egyptian who was beating a Jew, and Pharaoh had sentenced him to death. Moshe had fled for his life.

“Now, Moshe could’ve said to G-d, ‘How can I go back there? It’s dangerous! The moment Pharaoh sees me, I’m done!’ But he didn’t say that. He went.

“And then came everything that followed: the showdown with Pharaoh, the Ten Plagues, the Exodus, the splitting of the sea—even though the people complained—Moshe still led them. He brought them the manna, the quail, water from a rock… what didn’t he do for them?

“When they made the Golden Calf, who defended them? Moshe. He even said to G-d, ‘If You won’t forgive them, erase me from Your Book.’ He stood with them. Again, when the spies caused disaster, Moshe held the community together.

“And then—after forty years in the desert—G-d tells Moshe he won’t be going into the Land of Israel.

“Moshe assumed that when the people heard this, they would rise up and protest. He thought they’d say, ‘What?! Our rebbe, our leader who gave everything for us—he’s not coming? That’s impossible!’ He imagined they would pray, beg, protest, cry. That they’d say, ‘If Moshe doesn’t go, we’re not going either.’

“But what happened? Nothing. Not one Jew said a word. No one objected. No one begged. The Torah doesn’t record even a single voice of protest. It was completely silent. Life just went on.

“So,” said Rabbi Eibeshutz, “Moshe realized something painful: if they could forget what he had done for them, they might forget what G-d did for them too. That’s why, right after he brings up his personal story, he goes back to warning them about idol worship. He reminds them: at Sinai, you saw no image—so don’t start chasing idols.”

Concluding his speech, Rabbi Eibeshutz turned to his community and said:

“When the leaders of Prague came and offered me the position of chief rabbi, I told them I needed a few days to decide. In the meantime, I made sure word got out around town. I expected there would be an outcry: ‘How can the rabbi leave us?!’ I thought the heads of the community would come knocking on my door: ‘Please stay! We’ll raise your salary, give you a bit more vacation… whatever it takes.’

“But three weeks went by—and nothing. The wagons arrived three days ago, right outside my home—and still, no one said a word.

“I was embarrassed. I imagined the wagon drivers showing up in Prague and being asked, ‘So, what was it like when the rabbi left? I bet the whole town came out, blocking the wagons, begging him to stay!’ But what actually happened? Nothing. It was quiet.

“And if you could forget everything I’ve done for you—all the years I gave you, all the families I helped, the marriages I mended, the business disputes and financial troubles I spent days trying to resolve—if you could forget that so quickly, then I’m afraid you might one day forget the good that G-d does for you, too.

“That’s why I reminded you earlier: keep coming to shul. Keep buying kosher meat. Don’t forget to light Shabbos candles. Not for my sake—but for yours.”

Hakaras Hatov

The point Rabbi Yonason was making was not to toot his own horn but to underscore a foundational idea at the heart of all mitzvos: hakaras hatov, recognizing and appreciating the good.

In plain English, this means being grateful for everything that G-d gives us. 

This idea runs through both ethical mitzvos and ritual ones. Think about it: when you pause and remember how much your parents did for you, how hard they worked to raise you, then the next time they ask for something, you’re not annoyed—you’re happy to help.

And if that’s true with our parents, how much more so with G-d.

A Jew wakes up in the morning and says Modeh Ani—“I acknowledge before You”—thanking G-d for returning our soul, for giving us a new day. A day filled with life, health, family, income, purpose. And what does G-d ask in return? A few mitzvos. To put on tefillin. To light Shabbos candles. To keep His commandments.

If we were truly in touch with that gratitude, no one would need to remind us. We’d do the mitzvos naturally, joyfully.

We’re always reminding our kids to say “Thank you!” But gratitude isn’t just about the words—it’s about truly feeling it. That’s what hakaras hatov is really about.