The recent hullabaloo in front of Gottlieb’s Restaurant in Williamsburg had all of America’s rabbeim on a high. In an era when the concept of kings and queens visiting villages is nothing but an anachronism, the Dubno Maggid’s moshol of Elul sprung to life.
After all, everyone in town, each in his own way, was preparing for the arrival of the president! They were scrubbing windows, washing floors, cleaning the sidewalks, preparing the freshest deli, and, of course, marinating that kishka in the classic and iconic Gottlieb’s cholent. Naturally, Mr. Trump would probably not encounter too many unwanted guests during his visit to Gottlieb’s, especially the pesky ones we often swat away while enjoying the kneidel-laden (now termed matzah ball) soup.
And then, unfortunately, it was all for naught. The tragic passing of Reb Shalom Yosef Gottlieb z”l once again reminded the world that the honor of the deceased surpasses the honor—and, of course, the deli order—of a would-be president.
Truth be told, in the normal world—or better yet, the world at large, as the world we live in is not normal—the death of a restaurant proprietor’s father would surely not be a reason to cancel a visit from a former president, and very possibly a future one. Everyone out there wants their day in the limelight, and in the secular world, people don’t push off events that would thrust them into the spotlight because of a funeral.
In the absurd world, where every joke holds half a truth, they tell the story of the fellow who had two season tickets, one for him and one for his wife, to watch his favorite football team. After a few weeks away, the team is back home and facing a decisive game, yet the man goes alone. A fellow season ticket holder, who always sits in the same row, sees the empty seat and asks, “Where’s your wife?”
The man sighs and replies, “Oh, she passed away.”
The other asks, “These are expensive seats. Why didn’t you ask a friend or relative to come with you to the game?”
The man shrugs and says, “I couldn’t. They’re all at the funeral.”
To most of us, the absurdity of the tale makes it unworthy of even the slightest chuckle. But for those who understand the world we live in, the joke is not a joke.
Priorities are skewed, and the most important events in life can be superseded by the most mundane. The world saw our priorities last week.
No, Mr. President, we are sorry. No, Secret Service. No, press, pundits, and all the world. We have respect for our parents in a way that is greater than any respect for a president and his entourage. We have our priorities.
It was the talk of the world and the wonder of the ignorant. But it was a statement of conviction.
Truth be told, when it comes to honoring and being preoccupied with a niftar, even the Master of the Universe is put on hold, kevayachol. No brachos, no tefillin, no davening during one’s aninus. The greatest respect occurs when the tzelem Elokim is being prepared for its final resting place and the neshomah is returned to its place in Heaven.
It got me thinking. Indeed, we put the president on hold, or even had him cancel his visit. The political opportunity was replaced by a greater one.
But do we always have our priorities straight? Are we putting the King on hold for less important events?
Indeed, the King is coming. As the mekubolim write, “Hamelech basodeh,” He is in the field. He is approaching. Unfortunately, it takes much less than the tragic passing of a family member to put the visit on hold.
Every action we take toward Rosh Hashanah that brings us closer to the Ribono Shel Olam is a preparation for that visit.
But unfortunately, we stop preparing, and the celestial and proverbial secret service agents who are awaiting our final preparations are stymied.
A certain shul decided to blow shofar in one of its early minyanim not after the Yom, but right after Tachanun, before Ashrei. Those who left early to catch the train to Penn Station did not want to miss shofar.
A visitor, who did not know the reason for the switch, asked a congregant, “Why are they blowing now?”
The answer was simple: “Oh, they blow to announce that you have five minutes to catch the 7:03 to Penn Station!”
I am not sure if L’Dovid is said on the train, or if the Ribono Shel Olam comes along for the ride, but the focus of the avodah can clearly get lost in the hullabaloo and rush of the mundane lives we may lead.
There are so many different minhagim leading up to Rosh Hashanah, and so many throughout the Yemei Hadin Veharachamim.
Even on the holiest day of the year, the actions and performances can transform into the mundane. I can’t remember the first time I experienced korim. To a little boy, it’s very confusing to see an entire room of grown men prostrating themselves on the ground.
A fellow once told me about something that happened at a large yeshiva in Brooklyn. The bais medrash was packed from wall to wall. Bochurim, yungeleit, and baalei batim were packed together like sardines. A five-year-old child who had come for tekias shofar and stayed for Mussaf watched in awe. Suddenly, the chazzan began Aleinu, and then it happened. The chazzan began the words, “Va’anachnu korim,” and all at once, the entire bais medrash dropped to their knees and pressed their faces to the floor in a quiet murmur.
And then a loud—a very loud—five-year-old voice shouted over the hushed prayers: “WHAT’S EVERYBODY LOOKING FOR DOWN THERE?!”
What are we looking for? We should be seeking to live with the feeling of awe and holiness, like the Kohanim hearing the name of Hashem. That is the theme that reverberates throughout the Yamim Noraim.
Indeed, we are all looking for something, but let’s not forget the end goal. We are looking for the King.
