Leadership of Love

The power of empathy in Jewish leadership.

This week, we are all witnessing a historic agreement, whose purpose — G-d willing — is to bring all the hostages home.  It is a moment that fills the heart with hope, yet at the same time stirs deep concern within many hearts.

This agreement has many gaps and raises difficult questions about what will happen the day after:  What will be the situation in Gaza?
Will Hamas truly lay down its weapons?
And what will be the consequences for the people of Israel — both within and beyond our borders?

Many are unhappy with the agreement.  Some say that the Prime Minister signed it only because the President of the United States pressured him to do so.
Others claim that perhaps Netanyahu himself asked the President to persuade him to sign — so that he could later say it wasn’t a decision made of free will, but rather the result of political pressure, even though it does not align with the promises he made to the people of Israel.

I thought to myself — where can we find an example of something like this in the Torah?
Perhaps there is a parallel in the story of the Golden Calf!

On Shabbat Chol Hamoed Sukkot, we read about the aftermath of the Golden Calf. In the story itself we read how Moshe Rabbeinu was on Mount Sinai, and on the fortieth day, just as he was about to descend, G-d placed in his hands the Tablets of the Covenant and then told him the news of what was happening below:

“And the L-rd said to Moshe: Go, descend, for your people have acted corruptly…
they have made for themselves a molten calf… and they said,
‘These are your gods, O Israel, who brought you up from the land of Egypt.’
Now therefore, leave Me alone, that My anger may burn against them and that I may consume them, and I will make of you a great nation.”
(Shemot 32)

G-d’s words to Moshe following the sin of the Golden Calf — “Leave Me alone” — raise a fascinating question:
Was Moshe somehow restraining G-d, that G-d needed to tell him to “leave Me alone”?
(As phrased in Shemot Rabbah, Parashat Ki Tisa, section 42.)

The Gemara explains:
“Rabbi Abbahu said: Were it not written explicitly, it would be impossible to say such a thing.
It teaches that Moshe seized the Holy One, blessed be He, as a person seizes his friend by his garment, and said before Him: ‘Master of the Universe, I will not let You go until You forgive and pardon them.’” (Berachot 32a)

In other words, G-d Himself, so to speak, was signaling to Moshe that He wanted Moshe to stand up for the Jewish people — to prevent Him from punishing them.

The Midrash explains how Moshe managed to “restrain” G-d — for clearly this was not a physical act. Rather, from G-d’s very words, Moshe understood that what G-d truly desired was for him to defend the Jewish people and speak on their behalf.

“Immediately,” says the Midrash, “Moshe began to advocate for Israel and said:
‘Why, O L-rd, should Your anger burn against Your people, whom You brought out of the land of Egypt?’” (Shemot Rabbah 42)

The question arises: Why did Moshe specifically mention the Exodus from Egypt in his plea?
The Midrash answers:  “Moshe said, ‘Master of the Universe, You ignored the rest of the world and chose to enslave Your children in Egypt — a nation that worshiped lambs.
Your children learned from their ways, and therefore they too made a calf.
That is why I said: “whom You brought out of the land of Egypt” — remember where they came from.’” (Shocher Tov 22)

In other words, Moshe argued that the people could not be fully blamed — their behavior stemmed from the environment in which they had been raised.

From this, G-d taught Moshe an eternal principle of leadership:  When there is anger — even divine anger — directed toward the Jewish people, a true leader of Israel must never join those who accuse or condemn them, even if that anger comes from Heaven itself.
Rather, he must stand with his people, find their merit, and plead their case — for that is the will of the Holy One, blessed be He.

In contrast, the Midrash points to another example — the prophet Hoshea — who did not act in this way and was therefore rebuked by G-d.  As the Midrash continues:

“Not as Hoshea son of Be’eri did. When the Holy One said to him, ‘Hoshea, My children have sinned — what shall I do with them?’
He replied, ‘Master of the Universe, the entire world belongs to You!
Let them be wiped out for having sinned against the sanctity of Your Name — You can create another nation instead.’”

G-d said: “A human being can be so cruel — let Me test him.”
Immediately it is written: ‘And the L-rd said to Hoshea, Go, take for yourself a wife of harlotry.’
(After she bore him three children…) G-d said to him: “Now, send her away!”

Hoshea began to weep and plead before G-d, saying,
‘Master of the Universe! After I have built a home with her — shall I now send her away?’

G-d said to him: ‘Let your own ears hear what your mouth is saying!
If you have pity on a woman of harlotry and her children — children who may not even be yours — then how could I not have compassion for the children of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob —
My beloved, My chosen ones, My dear ones, My children, a kingdom of priests and a holy nation?’

Immediately Hoshea realized that he had sinned.  He stood up and began to beg for mercy — for himself and for the people of Israel.”

A Lesson in True Leadership

A wonderful example of how a true leader should act can be found in the following story about Rabbi Yitzchak Dovid Grossman of Migdal HaEmek.

When Rabbi Grossman first arrived in Migdal HaEmek, he discovered that many of the city’s shops remained open on Shabbat. It pained him deeply to see Jews entering cafés, pubs, and restaurants after Shabbat had already begun.  He resolved to do everything in his power to change this reality.

In a shopping center not far from his synagogue, there was a popular restaurant called “Kima.”
One Friday evening, on his way to synagogue, the young rabbi stood at the entrance of the restaurant, from which he had a clear view of everything happening inside.  The room was full of people sitting, eating, and enjoying themselves.

As he stood and observed, Rabbi Grossman suddenly recalled a story from his childhood — a story about his own teacher, Rabbi Aryeh Levin, of blessed memory.

Rabbi Aryeh had a habit of walking through the Machane Yehuda Market in Jerusalem on Friday afternoons.  His mere presence there served as a gentle reminder to the shopkeepers that it was time to close before Shabbat began.

One Friday afternoon, Rabbi Aryeh passed by a store that was still full of customers. He could have approached the shopkeeper, rebuked him, and given him a stern moral lecture. He could have stood outside and protested loudly.  But instead, he chose a different path.

He quietly entered the shop, sat inside for a while, and simply watched the people — the movement, the commerce, the bustle — the beauty of honest livelihood.  He sat there silently for about twenty minutes.  Eventually, his calm presence began to make the shopkeeper uncomfortable.

Finally, the shopkeeper approached him and said,  “Honored Rabbi, may I help you with something?”

Rabbi Aryeh replied,
“No, I just wanted to tell you one thing.  I sat here and watched how many customers you have on this Friday afternoon.  To tell you the truth — I don’t know if I would have been able to withstand such a test. I completely understand you, because your temptation is truly great.”

After saying these words, Rabbi Aryeh stood up, kissed the man on his forehead, and quietly left the shop.

On Motzaei Shabbat, the shopkeeper came to the rabbi’s home and said,  “Honored Rabbi, I came to tell you that I closed my shop this Shabbat — and I will never open it again on Shabbat for the rest of my life.”

The rabbi asked him, “How did you do it? How were you able to withstand such a difficult test?”

The man replied,  “I was able to close the shop because you were the first person who truly understood me. You didn’t shout at me, you didn’t threaten me, you didn’t rebuke me.  You understood me. You had compassion for me. You showed me that you really understood what I was going through. And because I felt that someone finally understood me and the struggle I was facing — I was able, at last, to close the shop.”

This story reminded Rabbi Grossman that the right approach is not through moral lectures or harsh words. He decided to act differently.

He entered the restaurant, walked to the center of the room, raised his voice as if he were a cantor in a Sephardic synagogue, and proclaimed the final words of Ashrei—the opening of the Mincha prayer in a warm Sephardic melody and accent.

Without waiting for any reaction, he immediately began to say the Kaddish that follows Ashrei:

“Yitgadal v’yitkadash shmei rabbah…”

All the people in the restaurant suddenly called out together: “Amen!”

He continued reciting the Kaddish.  No one spoke. The entire place fell silent. Everyone was frozen in place, hardly breathing—stunned by the unexpected scene unfolding before them.

“V’yatzmach purkanei v’yekarev meshicheiha…”  “Amen!”

He went on, raising his voice even more:“B’agalah u’vizman kariv, v’imru amen!”

And the entire restaurant responded in unison with the traditional reply:

“Yehei shmei rabbah mevorach…”

When he finished the Kaddish, Rabbi Grossman began to pray the Amidah, while everyone in the restaurant looked at him in awe.

When he reached the Chazzan’s repetition and it was time for Kedusha, the entire room rose to their feet and said every word together with him:

“Kadosh, Kadosh, Kadosh…”

In place of the food, laughter, and gambling that usually filled the restaurant every Friday night — there was now a public prayer, a real minyan.  The entire restaurant joined in.

When Rabbi Grossman finished the final Kaddish of Mincha, he looked around at the people for a long moment and spoke from his heart.  Within minutes, the restaurant emptied completely — and from that week on, the “Kima” restaurant was closed on Shabbat.
(From the English biography of Rabbi Grossman, p. 62)

Good Shabbos in Warsaw

A different, yet somewhat similar story took place nearly ninety years ago, in the city of Warsaw, Poland.

Rabbi Hendel of Montreal, of blessed memory, was born in Poland. In 1932 when he came to Warsaw, he was accepted into the Tomchei Tmimim Yeshiva. On one of his first Shabbats in Warsaw, Rabbi Hendel witnessed a scene so remarkable that it remained etched in his memory for the rest of his life.

On Shabbat morning, after the prayers, Rabbi Hendel was astonished to see a “black river” of people flowing down the street — hundreds of young men, all dressed in their Shabbat best, walking quickly in the same direction.

He stopped one of them and asked, “Where is everyone going?”

The man replied, “The Radzhiner Rebbe left the synagogue after the prayers and said he needs to go somewhere in Warsaw — and whoever wishes may come along with him.”

Curious to understand the reason behind this unusual procession, Rabbi Hendel decided to join the hundreds of men walking behind the Rebbe.

After a long walk, they reached the center of Warsaw.  There, on the main street, stood hundreds of Jewish-owned stores selling fine and high-quality merchandise.  Everyone — even the non-Jews — knew that if you wanted genuine goods, not counterfeits, you had to shop at the Jewish stores on that street.

In those years, the Jewish community in Warsaw still took great care to honor Shabbat publicly — every shop was closed, and the whole street appeared like a ghost town.

Yet, among the long row of locked and shuttered shops, one single store stood open.
It was a barbershop, owned by a Jew who had chosen to abandon religious observance and publicly defy the sanctity of Shabbat. The shop was empty, except for one Jew sitting in the chair, getting a haircut. The barber had managed to cut only half of his client’s hair when suddenly the Radzhiner Rebbe appeared at the doorway.

The Rebbe looked at the two men with eyes full of love. Then he approached the barber, gazed deeply into his eyes, and said softly but firmly:  “A Gut Shabbos!” — “Good Shabbos!”

After that, he turned to the man sitting in the chair, his head half-shaven, and said again, in his deep and gentle voice: “A Gut Shabbos!”

Hundreds of the Rebbe’s chassidim, who witnessed their master’s actions, immediately understood that they too must follow his example. One by one, they entered the barbershop and each wished the two men inside a heartfelt “A Gut Shabbos!”

Minutes passed, yet the steady stream of chassidim entering and blessing them did not stop.
Eventually, the two men understood the message.  The customer with half his head shaved stood up and hurriedly left the shop in shame.  The barber quietly put down his scissors on the counter, locked the shop, and from that Shabbat on — never opened it again on Shabbat or on any Jewish holiday.
(A Chassidisher Rebbe, p. 14)

This is the kind of leadership that our Rebbe taught us at all times — that the role of every Jew is to see the good and speak in defense of another Jew, whoever he may be.
Only through such compassion and understanding can we truly bring closer the coming of Moshiach — speedily in our days.