Rabbi Peretz Chen | Saving the world is important! But there's something only you can save!!

00:00 The message of today’s class is incredibly important. We’re good people, people who love to help: to help a friend who’s gotten into trouble, to help a relative, to devote ourselves to them even at inconvenient times, at all hours. But where we fall short is that sometimes we truly devote ourselves to others—after all, “Love your fellow as yourself” is a great principle of the Torah—yet we often don’t show that same devotion to those closest to us, our children, who are our life’s mission. Today’s class came about because of something I experienced this past Shabbos. Like on many recent Shabbosim, I had a chavrusa. A man in our community decided he wanted to start learning Gemara. He didn’t study in yeshiva, and he wants to get a taste of Gemara. A dear Jew, a truly sweet and special person. So a while ago we agreed to become chavrusas. Every Shabbos, on Friday night after davening, we sit for a few minutes and learn a little Gemara. We’ve already covered more than a page. This past Shabbos, after davening on Friday night, I felt we hadn’t learned much. So I told him, “Listen, maybe tomorrow, on Shabbos, there’s a halachah class at six in the evening. Let’s meet a few minutes before it and learn a little more Gemara.” We agreed, and then on Shabbos afternoon I suddenly found myself at home, with the household busy around the children and all sorts of things I had to do—Shabbos tasks, and learning I wanted to fit in. I was preoccupied with all of it, and I noticed that what was bothering me, what was stressing me out, was that I had to get to my chavrusa at a certain time. I was anxious about finishing my tasks and getting there on time. And then it suddenly hit me. Wait a minute—what’s going on here?

02:15 What exactly is going on? One of my children is at home, and next year he’s starting a new grade and a new Gemara. A while ago, he told me he wanted us to start learning that Gemara together in preparation for next year. So we started. Every Shabbos we sat and learned it, but this past Shabbos it slipped my mind. I said to myself, “How can that be? I’m so concerned about learning with another Jew, but my son—if I just go over and say, ‘Let’s learn together,’ he’ll agree, he’ll want to, and he’ll enjoy it too. He loves it; baruch Hashem, he loves it. How is this not on my mind?” Then my conscience went into overdrive. I said to myself, “No, this won’t do. With my chavrusa, we’ll learn, G-d willing, but I need to learn with my son.” So I stopped what I was doing and called my son. I said, “Come, let’s learn.” He said, “Of course, Dad, of course!” He ran to the bookshelf, brought the Gemaras, and we sat and learned. I learned with him longer than I’d planned. He enjoyed it, he understood it, and I felt so good about it. But I said to myself, “How could something like this happen?” And that’s the background to this class. That’s when I realized that sometimes we lose sight of our priorities. It’s very important to learn with another Jew. The chavrusa I’m talking about is a dear Jew, a sweet person. It’s simply a pleasure to learn with him. But under no circumstances should my son see me learning with someone else when I haven’t learned with him. What would he feel? What would go through his

03:53 mind? What would sink into his subconscious? That he’s less important? That I don’t have time for him? This is something we need to think about. So in today’s class we’ll tell a few stories about this—moving stories. When I recently read one of them, my eyes did not stay dry. We’ll also look at what research has to say about situations in which children feel and see that their parents devote themselves to other people but don’t devote themselves to them to the same extent. And we’ll see that the Torah itself shows us the way: our children come before the rest of the world; they come before everyone else. So there’s a story about a man who came home from work after an exhausting, demanding day filled with tasks. He came home tired and hungry. All he wanted was to get home and lie on the couch, have a little quiet with a good cup of coffee. That was all he wanted. As soon as he walked in, one of his children, a young boy, came up to him and asked, “Dad, how much do you earn an hour?” His father, who had just come home irritable, said, “What? What kind of question is that? How much do I earn an hour? What business is that of yours? Why are you even asking me? Bring me a glass of juice—a cold glass of soda. What do you mean, how much do I earn an hour?” The father was angry at the question. But the boy kept pestering him. “But Dad, how much do you earn an hour?” So, to get his son off his back, he said, “I earn a hundred shekels an hour.” The boy smiled and said, “Dad, can I have fifty shekels?” His father said, “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? You

05:49 aren’t ashamed? You want me to give you fifty shekels for your silly toys? For some unhealthy sweets? What do you want from me? What are these requests? What are these questions?” The father snapped at him and said, “Listen, please go to your room. Go on, it’s late; go to sleep. I need some peace and quiet now.” The boy, being a good, obedient child, went to his room. His father sat on the couch, had a drink, calmed down a little, and began to feel bad. “How could I speak to my poor son like that? What did he do? He asked me for fifty shekels. So what?” The father felt awful. To ease his conscience, he took fifty shekels out of his wallet, went to the boy’s room, knocked, and asked, “Are you awake?” The boy said, “Yes, I’m awake. I’m still wide awake.” His father came in and said, “Here, take fifty shekels. If there’s something you want to buy, here’s fifty shekels for you.” Fine. Then the father saw his son lift up his pillow, pull out a crumpled banknote and some coins, and count them. His father said, “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?” Suddenly his anger came back. “You asked me for money when you have money right here—I can see it. Why did you ask? Do you need that much money?” The father was all worked up. But the boy kept counting. He had exactly another fifty shekels there. Then he held his own fifty and his father’s fifty in his hand—a hundred shekels altogether. He said to his father, “Dad, here, take it. I was just fifty shekels short. Thank you so much for giving it to me. Here, take it

07:26 A hundred shekels. “What do you earn, a hundred shekels an hour? So here, Dad, could you come home an hour early from work tomorrow? Here, take a hundred shekels for that hour. Please have dinner with me.” When the father heard this, he hugged his son tightly. He understood that all his son wanted was his dad. Dad works, Dad runs around, and Dad has no time for his son. The boy wanted to have dinner together with him. Apparently, he had understood that what drove his father to work was the amount he earned per hour. So he started collecting money. He managed to get fifty shekels to give his father, to buy an hour together with him, because he wanted to feel that his dad was there with him. It’s a somewhat extreme story, but its message reaches deep inside us and makes us say: Master of the Universe, we run around and devote ourselves to everyone and everything. But what about our children, our own flesh and blood, our life’s mission? Where are they in all this? A few years ago, I heard a story that was… shocking, moving—I don’t know what to call it. You can tell me afterward. It’s about a rabbi, the rabbi of a distinguished community, who decided to organize a communal Seder for his community. Of course, that took a great deal of preparation. He began organizing it and thinking about the menu. He also had a young son, perhaps ten years old, and he wanted his son to be part of the preparations for that Seder. So this father, very wisely, decided to involve his son in the whole production. When you involve someone in an activity, he

09:34 feels part of it. He said to his son, “Come with me to the store for disposable tableware. You can help me choose the colors of the tableware and the tablecloths.” They sat together over the menu, and the father consulted him about what should go on it. That way, the son really felt part of the whole production. Again, this was a very wise thing for the father to do. If you want someone to feel involved, you involve him. As the event drew closer, the son eagerly awaited it, because he felt as though it was his own event. The time came for the Seder, and they set out the tables, chairs and cutlery and got everything ready. The boy took his own chair and placed it beside his father’s. He wanted to sit next to Dad. After all, they were hosting this Seder together. He had looked forward to it so much, and he was proud of himself, happy about his part in it and about his wonderful father doing these things together with him. The guests began streaming in. They had arranged the room for exactly the number of people who had been invited, and now every place was taken. There wasn’t a single spare chair. His chair, of course, was next to his father’s, and he was proud of himself and of the huge event they had put together. Suddenly, another person walked in, someone who hadn’t registered or reserved a place. The father hadn’t known he was coming, and there was no chair for him. The father saw this and didn’t know what to do. Another Jew had arrived. Of course, you don’t send him away; he had come to celebrate the Seder. So the father thought about what to do, and then said to his son, “You know, my dear, my darling, you know how

11:32 important it is to be considerate of others and to show Ahavas Yisroel. You see, another Jew has arrived, and I have nowhere to seat him. Only if you agree—if you don’t, that’s fine—but if you agree, give him your place, and I’ll find you somewhere to sit. You won’t be left without a chair. Just give your place to this Jew who’s arrived without a reservation.” The boy was obedient; he listened to what his father said and didn’t argue much. In his heart, of course, he didn’t want to. He wanted to sit next to his father. But Dad had asked, so he did as he was told. He said, “Dad, okay. All right, Dad.” The father immediately called the man over and seated him beside himself, and the boy got up. The father began the Seder. It seems he may even have forgotten to arrange another chair for his son, or perhaps he found him a seat in some other corner. By then, the boy had lost all enjoyment of it. He wasn’t sitting next to Dad; it wasn’t what he had thought would happen. He began wandering around, going out and coming back in, walking to the dining room to look around, then going in and out again. The Seder ended, and it had been very successful. People enjoyed it and praised it; everything had gone wonderfully. But that boy hadn’t really been part of it. Some years passed. The boy grew up and left the path. He didn’t follow in his father’s ways. One day, when the son opened up and shared what was on his mind, it became clear that the moment his decline had begun, at least beneath the surface, was when his father had said, “Show Ahavas Yisroel; give your place to another Jew.” At that moment, when his father

13:26 put someone else’s comfort ahead of what his son wanted, something took hold inside the boy, at least subconsciously—and later consciously too: that he mattered less, that someone else mattered more than he did. That was the moment that started his decline. We sometimes don’t realize… Of course, had that father known all this, perhaps he would have acted differently. He certainly didn’t want to do anything harmful, especially not to his son. There was no malicious intent here, and it’s no use criticizing someone who was confused at that moment and genuinely didn’t know what to do. But this story offers us guidance. With all due respect to everyone, with all the care we must show others and all the dedication we must have for them—and that is how it should be; we were raised to devote ourselves to others—our own children come before everyone else. Everyone. We must never sacrifice their welfare for someone else’s sake, under any circumstances. They are our mission. They are the ones Hakadosh Boruch Hu entrusted to us most directly, so that we can help them grow and educate them. We must give them abundant love and make them feel that they are dearer to us than anyone else on earth. There’s also a lovely story about an interesting letter that Rebbetzin Klein once wrote to the Rebbe. Rebbetzin Klein was the wife of one of the Rebbe’s secretaries, Rabbi Binyamin Klein, a"h. Once, Rabbi Klein’s wife wrote to the Rebbe that she had been asked to oversee the dormitory at Beis Chana. Beis Chana is an institution for girls, and there was a dormitory there, and there was

15:33 There were many things there that needed strengthening, improving, and moving forward, and she was just the right woman to do it. But the request meant that in the afternoon, when her children came home from school, she would have to be at the dormitory, taking care of all its needs and the needs of the girls there. And if she did it, she really could advance things there tremendously. She was good at it, she was talented, and she knew how to do the job in the best possible way. But of course she hesitated, because her children were at home. She didn’t know what to do or what the right thing was. So she wrote to the Rebbe. You can still see the letter today. She wrote that she had been asked to do this, but those were the hours when her children came home, and she was unsure what to do. In response, the Rebbe wrote on the very page where she had written her question. The Rebbe put a question mark, followed by an exclamation point—as though the question itself was surprising. And the Rebbe told her that it had already been discussed several times: a mother’s energies must go first and foremost toward educating her children. This had already been spoken about. A mother’s strength, energy, effort, and devotion must go first to her children. So yes, it really could be that her work there would bring about remarkable improvements. But if it came at the expense of her children, it was simply out of the question. It had already been discussed that a mother must invest her energies first and foremost in her children at home. The Rebbe was, in effect, stating clearly what the

17:20 priorities are: who comes first. First come our children at home—our mission in this world—and only then can we devote ourselves to the rest of the world, but not at their expense. We have to be careful not to fall into that trap, and to know that they come before everyone else, because they are our primary mission in life. A great deal of research has been written on this subject, describing things that can happen when children feel that they matter less than others, that our attention is directed toward other people more than toward them. For example, when a child feels that a parent devotes more of themselves to someone else, it hurts the child’s self-confidence. He thinks, “Am I less important to my parents? Look how much my parent gives to that person, while investing less in me and paying less attention to me. It must mean there’s something lacking in me, something wrong with me. That person gets attention and I don’t get the same attention. Why aren’t I treated equally?” That automatically lowers a child’s self-confidence. Another thing it can cause is for the child to start looking elsewhere. Everyone wants attention; everyone wants to be noticed. Getting less attention from parents will lead a child to seek it in other places. “They don’t pay attention to me, so I’ll look for attention elsewhere.” And we certainly don’t want our children looking for attention elsewhere, because who knows who will give it to them there? If it isn’t us, who will it be? Heaven forbid—we don’t want things to reach that point. So if we don’t give them attention, they will look for it

19:26 elsewhere, in ways we can’t control. We don’t want that to happen. Another thing: when we invest less in them, it can cause emotional confusion. That means frustration, a feeling of dissatisfaction with themselves. The child doesn’t understand what’s happening. He doesn’t understand: “Wait, why don’t they pay attention to me? What’s wrong with me? What am I lacking?” It can lead to frustration, dejection, or a kind of depression, and to confusion about what’s going on. He doesn’t understand what he’s feeling inside. “Why? Why do I matter less? Why do they get attention? What am I lacking? But I’m their son. What exactly is going on here?” Emotionally, this can be very, very confusing for a child. So, to keep our children from feeling these things, we need to make sure they never feel second-class, that they never feel they matter less, or that someone else is more important to us than they are. If we look in the Torah, it tells us about the tribes of Gad and Reuven. When Moshe Rabbeinu was bringing the Jewish people—all the tribes—into Eretz Yisroel, the tribes of Gad and Reuven asked to receive their inheritance on the eastern side of the Jordan, outside the borders of Eretz Yisroel. At first, Moshe Rabbeinu criticized them: “What do you mean? You don’t want to help your brothers in the war? Everyone else will fight while you sit here?” So they explained that they simply had a great deal of livestock, and that they would go and fight—even leading the way in battle. In the end, Moshe Rabbeinu agreed, of course, and they received the land east of the Jordan,

21:24 but they went out to help their brothers, the other tribes, conquer Eretz Yisroel. That is what the Torah tells us. In their conversation with Moshe Rabbeinu, when they asked for their inheritance east of the Jordan, they said, “We will build sheepfolds for our flocks here, and cities for our children.” Again: “We will build sheepfolds for our flocks here”—a place for the sheep—and only afterward, “cities for our children.” They put the sheep before the children. First, they would build a place for the sheep, and afterward, cities for their children. When Moshe Rabbeinu heard how they phrased their request, he criticized them for it. Moshe Rabbeinu told them, “Build cities for your children”—first build a place for your children—“and sheepfolds for your flocks.” Only afterward should you build a place for the sheep. Then go and help your brothers in the war, as you promised. Moshe Rabbeinu was telling them: No, the way you spoke wasn’t right. It isn’t right to put the sheep before the children. Now, there are many explanations for this. Some explain, for instance, that they were so strong they wanted to show that their children, too, were strong and had no fear of enemies. If they didn’t build an enclosure for the sheep, the sheep would run away. But their children were strong; there was no urgency, and they could build for them afterward without the children coming to harm. It was a way of showing their strength. Others explain it according to the mystical dimension of Torah: sheep represent lofty spiritual levels, so putting the sheep first means putting certain spiritual matters first. But none of that takes away from the plain meaning. On the simple level, they put the sheep—their possessions—before their children. Moshe Rabbeinu did not accept that. Moshe Rabbeinu

23:34 He criticized them for this and said, “No, no, no, that’s not how you do it. First build cities for your children, and only afterward build pens for your flocks.” Torah comes from the word hora’ah, meaning “instruction.” The Torah tells us this not just as a story about what happened then, but as a message for us today: we, too, need to pay attention and recognize that our children come before everything else, even the most important things in the world. They are what matters most. They are the most important. We see throughout history, too, that the children are the most important. When the Jewish people left Egypt, the children had a central place. When Hashem was about to give the Torah to the Jewish people, He looked for guarantors that they would keep it. And who were the guarantors? “Our children will be our guarantors.” The children were the guarantee on the basis of which Hakadosh Boruch Hu agreed to give the Torah. Hashem asked, “Who will guarantee that you will keep the Torah?” The Jewish people offered the holy forefathers, but Hashem did not accept them. Only when they said, “Our children will be the guarantors that we will keep the Torah,” did Hashem say, “If so, you will receive the Torah.” “Our children will be our guarantors.” Take the story of Purim, for example. When Mordechai the Jew wanted to annul the decrees, he gathered all the children around him. The children joined together and said they were ready to give their lives to continue learning Torah until the decree was annulled. And that is what they did. Throughout history, our children have been at the forefront, at the center. And that is how it needs to be in the way we raise them: they must take center stage. Moshiach is coming very soon, with Hashem’s help. When Moshiach comes, we will need to show him

25:33 everything we have done—all the good things we have done, all the tasks we have carried out. The main thing we will probably need to show him is our children, the ones we have raised, and say to him, “Moshiach, look at what we have raised.” We will show him the children we invested in. It is up to us to make that investment. The results require a great deal of Hashem’s blessing, a great deal of help from Heaven, but the investment has to come from us. So the message of today’s lesson is to pay much more attention to our children and their needs. We need to help everyone. We need to invest in everyone. We need to live by “Love your fellow as yourself.” Of course we must do everything we can to help other Jews, and that is a supreme value. But our children come before everyone else. It cannot be that we expend endless energy on the whole world and less on our children. They see it. They notice. They see what is going on. We should not need to be paid a hundred shekels an hour to give them attention. Nor should we need them to come and say something, because they will not say it. We need to use our heads, give it some thought, and pay attention to these things. We need to know that they should sit in the chair beside us. They come before all the guests—all of them. They are the most important. May we not lose sight of that. Let us pay attention to these things and give them the care they need from us. With Hashem’s help, may we have much, much nachas from them, and may we merit the complete Geulah very soon. Amen, may it be so. Thank you very much. Once again, much nachas and the complete Geulah. And if you feel this message is important, that it is a true message for life—I certainly think it is—share this lesson. Send it to a friend. Send it to a friend. Send it to other parents, too. It is important that they hear this message

27:47 as well. Thank you very much! Good news and the complete Geulah. All the best.