The Jewish Man a German Town Never Forgot - Rabbi Hillel Eisenberg

I want to tell you a great story. A few shabbos ago, I spent it with my wife's grandfather, Rabbi Hopfer from Baltimore. Now, Rabbi Hopfer's family comes from a little town in southern Germany called Rexingen. And not long ago, he went back there to visit the kvarim of his grandparents. >> [music] >> And the old Jewish cemetery is still there. There's a non-Jewish caretaker who's hired by the town to [music] take care of it. And so, Rabbi Hopfer's walking around through the space of kvarim looking for his family's kvarim. And all of a sudden, the caretaker says to him, "You know, I'm not sure you realize this, but this town is actually a miracle." And my grandfather says, "Really? What do you mean it's a miracle?" And the caretaker says, [music] "During World War II, almost every town and city in this part of Germany was bombed by the allies. Everywhere around here was completely flattened and destroyed. But this town, nothing. It was completely left untouched. And you want to know why?" the caretaker says. Listen to what he says. He says, "We believe it's because of a Jewish man named Simon Hafrumer." Who's Simon Hafrumer? So, the caretaker points to one of the kvarim and he says, "He's buried right there. He lived about 200 years ago. But the people of this town say that he was such a kind, decent, righteous man. He treated everyone with such respect that they believe his merit protected [music] the entire town from destruction." Think about that for a second. Here is a man who must have been so humble and so kind and loving and compassionate that 200 years after he died, the non-Jews are still attributing their success and their salvation to his righteousness. But here's what's amazing. Have you ever heard of Simon Hafrumer? Do you know anyone who knows Simon Hafrumer? Do you know anyone who knows anyone who knows Simon Hafrumer? Do you know any star written by Simon Hafrumer? Do you know any [music] niggunim composed by Simon Hafrumer? Do you know stories of miracles performed by Simon Affrime? I didn't think so. Because Simon Affrime was just like you and me, perhaps. [music] Maybe he wasn't some famous Talmud chacham. Maybe he didn't write any sefarim. Maybe he went to work every morning and worried about [music] money. Maybe he had struggles. Maybe he had days where he was tired and frustrated and overwhelmed. Maybe he never had thousands of people listening to him. Maybe he never had talmidim or chassidim. Maybe by every measure we use nowadays to define greatness, he was just an ordinary guy. But maybe you know who he was? Maybe he was just a really, really, really good guy. Maybe he was a gadol in kindness. Maybe he was a gadol in being genuinely compassionate. Maybe he was a gadol in making people feel respected. Maybe he was a gadol in makdim shalom l'chol adam, afilu nafrie b'shuk. Maybe when someone walked into a room, he noticed them. When someone needed a smile, he gave them one. Maybe when someone was embarrassed, he knew how to make them feel important. Maybe when someone needed someone to care, he was the one who cared. And maybe he became a gadol in something we've somehow forgotten belongs on the list of things that count as greatness, and that is being [music] a really good person. And maybe that's exactly where we need to stop and question the way we define greatness. Because somewhere along the way, we've created this unofficial godless Hall of Fame. You want to be a gadol? So become a famous Rosh Yeshiva, or be an unbelievable baal tefillah, or become a philanthropist and give away millions of dollars. And don't get me [music] wrong, those things are incredible. They're pillars of avodas Hashem. No one is downplaying that. But here's the problem. We started acting [music] like those are the only categories that count. We've created these invisible power rankings in our heads. Who's really a gadol? The biggest Rosh Yeshiva, the biggest baal tefillah, the biggest askan, the biggest baal tzedakah. And then we look at ourselves and say, "Well, I'm not any of those. So, without even realizing it, we walk around feeling like we're somehow second-tier Jews. Like, maybe we're good people, but we're not great people. No, no. Not us. But maybe we're asking the wrong question. Maybe the question isn't am I a godol? Maybe the question is in what area can I become a godol in? Because maybe Hashem never asked you to compete in someone else's category. Maybe he gave you a category of your own. Because every person was given a different neshama, a different personality, different [music] strengths, different struggles, different opportunities. And maybe Hashem wants you to become a godol in your category. [music] You're a father, become a godol in fatherhood. You're a mother, become a gedolah in motherhood. You're a businessman, become a godol in honesty. Not decent in honesty, a godol in honesty. You're a friend, become a godol in loyalty. You're naturally warm, become a godol in warmth. You have the ability to make people laugh, become a godol in bringing people joy. You have the ability to notice the person standing alone, become a godol in noticing people. You have the ability to be patient when everyone else has lost their patience, then become a godol in patience. You're the person who can walk into a business meeting and immediately sense that someone's being left out, so become a godol in including people. You're the person who can make your spouse feel appreciated for the thousand things that nobody else sees, well then become a godol in gratitude. We need [music] to stop acting like God was a private club with only three [music] approved categories. It's not. There are endless ways to become an adam godol. And maybe the greatest mistake that you can make is spending your entire life trying to become impressive at something Hashem never asked you to be good at, while ignoring the greatness he already put inside of you. You don't need a different neshama. You need to take the one you have and take it seriously. Obviously, Torah is connected to olam. Obviously, tefillah is what keeps us alive, [music] not taking anything away from that. But I think that sometimes because those things are so great, we accidentally make everything else feel small [music] and insignificant, and that's a mistake. Our avodas Hashem has so many different dimensions, and we have to take [music] every one of them seriously. We should become a godol in our dimension, and if the world never gives you a title for it, who cares? Who cares that the person sitting next to you has no idea how hard you fought to control your anger. So what? So what that nobody else will know how many times you swallowed your pride? So what that nobody else will know how many times you [music] chose kindness when you could have chosen cruelty? So what that nobody will ever know about your shmiras einayim battle? So what that nobody will ever write a book about it? But you know who does know about it? Hashem knows. And maybe one day long after we're gone, there will be people whose lives are different because we were here. Maybe entire towns will be saved because of your godliness. That's what happened [music] to Simon Affrimer. He didn't become famous. He didn't become a world-renowned godol, but the people who knew really knew. He was no joke. He was an adam godol. That's our avoda, to take whatever Hashem put inside of you and refuse to be ordinary with it. We may never know who Simon Affrimer was, but one thing we do know, there is no good reason that the next Simon Affrimer cannot be you. Yehi zichro baruch.