A Lesson in Sensitivity: The Mistake This Rabbi Never Forgot

Today, I am a kollel student and a father. Fourteen years ago, I was studying at a large yeshiva, one where those fortunate enough to learn there benefit not only from an enriching environment, but also from the warmth and genuine care of the yeshiva staff.

I know that when people hear the words “warm and caring,” they may think of something therapeutic. That says something about the cynical world we live in, not about our yeshiva. It is an institution that is extremely difficult to get into, yet its rabbinic staff invests tremendous effort in connecting with the students and helping shape their character. That means setting an impeccable personal example, showing dedication, and taking a genuine interest in every single student.

While this approach came from the entire staff, one of the heads of the yeshiva stood out in particular. At the time, he was around 32 years old: a brilliant Torah scholar, an extraordinary genius, and someone with rare sensitivity who cared deeply about his students. I have remained deeply connected to him and love him dearly to this day, as do most of my friends. I believe this rabbi is an example from whom people everywhere can learn.

The Story That Changed a Rabbi's Life

Once, during seudah shlishit, at the time of raava deraavin, after we had sung emotional, soulful songs together, the rabbi spoke about how people should treat one another.

At one point, someone gathered the courage to ask him, “What made the rabbi care so deeply about every single student, in a way we have never encountered before? Perhaps the rabbi could tell us. It might inspire us too.”

The rabbi thought for a moment and said, “There is a story that happened to me. I am hesitant to tell it, but now that you have raised the subject, I think it will be okay if I do. But you should know that this is something that has weighed on my heart for a long time, and I may become very emotional as I tell it.”

It was a dramatic announcement.

Silence fell over the dining room as we waited for him to begin.

“I was your age then, 18 or 19. As you know, I was born in Switzerland. I was raised with a German Jewish education, attended a good yeshiva, and was considered a good student. I had never fought with anyone, and I had never hurt anyone."

“At that time, my older sister became engaged. Naturally, my parents began planning the wedding. Because we were an organized German Jewish family, they made a list of all the guests, sent invitations, and asked everyone to confirm whether they would attend."

“Since the synagogue where we prayed was also German Jewish, naturally all the congregants confirmed within a few days. My parents called those who had not confirmed, who generally were not German Jews, and asked whether they planned to come. Some confirmed, while others said they could not attend."

“In the end, my parents managed to reach nearly every guest. Based on the responses, they ordered the meals and arranged the seating. There were a few people they could not reach, perhaps because in those days not everyone had a cell phone. Two tables were set aside for them, one for each side, which was far beyond the norm for a German Jewish celebration."

“The wedding arrived. Everyone sat in the assigned seat marked with their name because, if you are German Jewish, you go all the way. As for those who arrived despite not confirming, two additional tables were opened. The hall was completely full."

“Around the time of the first course, Shaya, a pseudonym, suddenly appeared. He was a 60 year old bachelor who prayed with our minyan."

“Shaya lived with his elderly parents and was an extremely unusual person. He did not study or work. He had no friends and was fairly disconnected from the world. The one thing connecting him to the outside world was our synagogue."

“He was responsible for the wimpels. For those unfamiliar with the custom, in synagogues of German Jewish origin, Torah scrolls are wrapped with a wide, very long cloth band that circles them several times. Every self respecting German Jewish synagogue has an impressive collection of wimpels."

“Shaya was responsible for having them laundered and deciding which would be used and which would be stored with dozens of others at the bottom of the Holy Ark."

“He was also responsible for seudah shlishit: buying the groceries, preparing the food, and serving it."

“In our German Jewish synagogue, seudah shlishit also meant responsibility for the psalm traditionally sung after the meal, shortly before Maariv: Psalm 144, ‘Of David. Blessed is Hashem, my Rock, who trains my hands for battle, my fingers for war.’"

“Shaya would lead the singing while everyone joined him in the traditional melody."

“Naturally, his circumstances did not make it easier for Shaya to marry. His chances of finding a match only declined as the years went by, particularly as he became increasingly attached to his German Jewish roots. The children of German Jewish immigrants had, almost without exception, integrated into Israeli society. As they did, the German accent faded, along with several other German Jewish customs."

“In any case, Shaya walked gently into our wedding wearing an old fashioned bow tie, matching vest and pants, a flower in one hand and a gift in the other."

“My father immediately went to greet him, accepted his good wishes, and thanked him for coming. But he also joked, ‘It is a shame you did not confirm that you were coming. We will have to seat you at the head table.’"

“Of course, my father had no intention of seating Shaya at the head table. It was simply a joke. A German Jewish joke, but still a joke."

“And what did Shaya do, if not walk straight toward the head table?"

“The whole incident might have ended there if he had found an empty chair. But every chair was occupied by rabbis and public figures who had confirmed their attendance in advance. Next to every chair was a place card bearing the guest’s full name and title."

“Shaya looked at me and said, ‘I think perhaps the card with my name on it fell down.’"

“‘Um... I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘We did not receive confirmation that you were coming, so a card with your name was not printed.’"

“‘Ah, right!’ Shaya said. ‘I indeed did not confirm because of my many responsibilities connected to the synagogue. So what do you suggest we do?’"

“‘Don’t worry,’ I told him. ‘I’ll find you a place.’"

“I rushed between the tables, hoping to find an unused place belonging to a guest who had confirmed but failed to show up. But miracles like that do not happen in Switzerland. There, people confirm and arrive on time."

“Then I had an idea."

“Two tables had been designated for the groom’s friends. Those tables were not marked with names because even German Jewish precision has its limits. I went over and quickly found an empty place, complete with a clean plate and shining silverware."

“I ran back to Shaya. ‘I found you a place!’"

“He happily came with me, and with a flourish, I pulled out the chair for him."

“But he suddenly stopped. He looked at the young men seated around the table and said loudly, ‘Aren’t you ashamed?! I could be your grandfather!’"

“I didn’t understand."

“‘It’s okay, Shaya. This is an empty place. No one is sitting here.’"

“‘I saw that it was empty. Aren’t you ashamed?! I could be your grandfather!’"

“With that, he turned around and stormed out of the hall."

“I ran after him. ‘I apologize. Maybe I can find you another place.’"

“But he replied, ‘I do not accept your apology, and you should be ashamed of yourself!’"

“And he disappeared.”

Seeing the Situation Through Someone Else's Eyes

Naturally, the incident ruined the rabbi’s mood, both at the wedding and throughout the sheva brachot. He told his father what had happened and admitted that he was upset. He had tried so hard to help Shaya, only for Shaya to seemingly turn on him for no reason.

But his father explained something he had failed to see.

“I believe he was hurt because you seated him at the young men’s table,” his father said. “He did not understand that it was simply the only empty place. He thought you saw him as an unmarried young man and therefore believed that was where he belonged. That is why he said, ‘I could be your grandfather.’ What he meant was: Why are you humiliating me by seating me at the young men’s table?”

The rabbi paused in his story, sighed, and continued.

“Since I was studying at a yeshiva in Israel, I returned there, but not before trying once again to ask Shaya’s forgiveness. He refused to forgive me. My father told me that since I had asked three times, I was no longer obligated to continue. But he also told me that the way to repair what had happened was to learn something from it about other people’s sensitivities and to become even more sensitive than I had been before."

“That story taught me something fundamental about life: Every person sees the world differently. Everyone has their own feelings and sensitivities. Sometimes what seems like a compliment to one person can feel like an insult to another. Without realizing it, you can deeply hurt someone even when you never intended to."

“I began putting that lesson into practice as a student. In every situation, I tried not to see only my own perspective. I trained myself to look at things through the eyes of the other person."

“After I married and became a ram at a yeshiva, I continued trying to live this way, seeing every student as an individual with personal sensitivities that someone else might not share."

“Your question now may be an opportunity to teach you to become that way as well."

“People who are sensitive to others live differently. Their marriages are better, and their relationships with neighbors, coworkers, and everyone around them are different. So thank you for asking. There is your answer. Do with it what you think is right.”

Naturally, the talk created a major stir in the yeshiva. Everyone discussed it for a long time, and we all became more conscious of how we treated other people.

But the story was not over.

An Unexpected Meeting Years Later

Several months passed, and the bein hazmanim break for Passover arrived.

That year, my parents traveled abroad for medical reasons, and my brother, who was also studying in yeshiva, and I were essentially left without family.

Our rabbi invited us to spend the Seder night at his home, and we happily accepted. He sensed our distress and concern and gave us warmth and love just like a father.

During Chol Hamoed Passover, several of the rabbi’s brothers called for a family conference call. The rabbi’s parents, who still lived in Switzerland, were caring for his grandfather and grandmother, who were essentially living in their home.

His parents were no longer young, while his grandparents were very elderly and largely unable to care for themselves. Looking after them required tremendous strength.

The family wanted to give the rabbi’s parents a weeklong vacation so they could rest while one of the grandchildren cared for the elderly couple. During the call, it became clear that the only person able to do it was our rabbi.

When the call ended, he turned to us.

“Listen, you’re coming with me to Switzerland. I’ll take care of my grandfather and grandmother, and meanwhile you can enjoy your bein hazmanim break. If I can, perhaps I’ll even join you here and there.”

Given our mother’s medical condition and the loneliness we were experiencing, his offer felt like light in the darkness.

He bought our tickets at his own expense, and within two days we were on our way to Switzerland.

It was an incredible vacation, exactly what we needed. It gave us emotional strength during an extremely difficult time. Our rabbi could not join our outings, but we were old enough to manage on our own, especially because he planned everything for us in true German Jewish fashion, complete with train and bus times, ticket prices, and every other detail.

On Shabbat, we spent time together at his parents’ home.

After the Shabbat morning meal, we went for a short walk with our rabbi. We passed a construction site and noticed an elderly man who appeared to be in real distress. He was bent over and vomiting.

The man wore a white kippah and Shabbat clothes, so we understood that he was Jewish.

Our rabbi crossed the street, and we followed him. The elderly man vomited again and then lifted his head. He was extremely pale.

Suddenly, we realized that our rabbi recognized him.

“Shaya!” he exclaimed.

We looked at one another. It couldn't possibly be that Shaya. It was too bizarre to be real.

“Shaya, do you need help?”

“Everything is fine,” the elderly man replied. “I just didn't feel well.”

“Come, I’ll walk you...,” our rabbi offered.

“Tell me... who are you?” Shaya asked.

“You don't recognize me? I’m the son of...” The rabbi gave his parents’ names and then his own.

There was a moment of tense silence.

“I have bad memories of you,” Shaya said.

“Still?!”

“Of course! I may be old, but I don't forget anything. At your sister’s wedding, you wanted to put me at the young men’s table just because I was a bachelor and had not managed to get married. I shouted at you that I could be your grandfather.”

“I remember,” the rabbi replied, “and I asked your forgiveness several times. You should know that I never thought about the fact that you were unmarried. It was simply the only empty place.”

Shaya waved his hand dismissively.

“Maybe now you will forgive me?” the rabbi asked.

The elderly man thought for a while before asking, “Who are those people beside you? Your children?”

“Not exactly. They are my students. Like my children.”

“Then the three of you should come to seudah shlishit at the synagogue. You know I am in charge of it. I need a minyan for the psalm I sing after seudah shlishit and for Maariv, and I am not sure I will have one. Complete the minyan, and then we will talk.”

Naturally, we arrived on time.

Shaya stood there like a groom on his wedding day and began singing like a cantor, glancing in our direction throughout to make sure we were listening.

We ate seudah shlishit, and afterward he rose with great ceremony and sang the psalm in the traditional German Jewish melody.

Then he hurried over to us.

“How was it?”

“Listen, it was something very, very special.”

“Wonderful!” he said, and announced “He is merciful” for Maariv.

After Maariv, the rabbi approached him again.

“Do you forgive me?”

We could see that Shaya was torn.

And then I decided to step in.

“Listen,” I said. “We are his students, and you should know that he treats every single one of us wonderfully. Once, when we asked him why, he told the entire yeshiva this story. He told us that he had hurt a dear person because he had not been sensitive enough to the fact that he was a bachelor. He said that experience was the reason he learned to treat his students with such sensitivity. I think it would be to your credit, and he deserves for you to forgive him.”

That convinced him.

“If that is so,” Shaya said, “I forgive you completely, and I hold nothing against you in my heart.”

Our rabbi began to cry, and we cried with him.

“Thank you,” the rabbi whispered. “You should know how important your forgiveness was to me.”

We said goodbye, but then Shaya called the rabbi back.

“Tell me, do you forgive me for yelling at you at the wedding?”

“Of course,” the rabbi replied. “I was never angry with you. I understood that I was the one at fault. I forgive you completely.”

“Wonderful,” Shaya said.

We parted ways and walked home in silence. No words seemed appropriate. Reality itself was more powerful than anything we could have said.

Forgiveness Before It Was Too Late

But even then, the story was not over.

Two days later, shortly before the end of our visit, we prayed Shacharit and suddenly received the news that Shaya had passed away.

It turned out that he had not simply been vomiting. He had been ill for some time. On Saturday night, he was hospitalized, and on Sunday night, he passed away.

We attended his funeral together with a sizable group from the local community who knew him. It was an especially painful funeral for a lonely man who left no family behind.

And we were stunned because we knew that something extraordinary had happened.

It was no coincidence that our rabbi happened to be in Switzerland, caring for his grandparents. He had needed Shaya’s forgiveness, and his good deeds and the profound change he had made in himself merited that Divine Providence bring him to the right place at exactly the right moment, before it was too late.

On the way back, I told the rabbi that perhaps it had also been an important opportunity for Shaya. He too had needed forgiveness from the rabbi, whom he had yelled at and humiliated, even though the original hurt had been unintentional.

We returned carrying something profound that has remained with us ever since.

Fourteen years have passed. Today, I am a kollel student and a father. Rabbi Eliyahu Mordechai Lang is now one of the heads of the large yeshiva in Afula and is known for his remarkable character and rare connection with his students. Although his story is known to generations of yeshiva students, I believe it deserves to be known far more widely.

The Lesson of Compassion and Forgiveness

Beyond the extraordinary Divine Providence woven throughout this story, it is ultimately a story about compassion and forgiveness.

True compassion means being considerate of another person, and consideration is impossible without trying to understand another person’s sensitivities. We ask Hashem to forgive us, to have compassion on us, and to understand our souls, our struggles, and our feelings.

But when we ask Hashem to treat us this way, we must strive to treat others the same way.

We need to recognize the complexities of the people around us and have compassion for them. Then we can forgive them, not only by saying the words “I forgive you,” but by accepting that other people have their own struggles, sensitivities, and limitations and may not always live up to our expectations.

This applies between parents and children, teachers and students, neighbors, coworkers, friends, and everyone we encounter.

If we strengthen ourselves in understanding the motivations and sensitivities of others, may Hashem treat us with that same compassion and understanding.