In a small city on the road to Jerusalem, to hardworking parents of modest means, a lovely child was born. A soft and tender boy, purity resting upon his face. He was circumcised on the eighth day, and his name was called in Israel: Yitzchak Elchanan.
His parents poured out prayers and nurtured dreams that he would grow into a true ben Torah, turning his nights into days in the beis midrash; that he would become the pride of his yeshivah, a prince of Torah from whose waters the flocks would drink.
Yitzchak Elchanan grew and was weaned, completed preschool, and soon enough was entering first grade. His parents enrolled him in the “best” cheder in the area, where he would learn Torah in sanctity and purity, drawing from the pure flask of oil.
The years passed. Third grade arrived. Eilu metzios: “These are the lost objects that belong to him, and these he is obligated to announce.” Yitzchak Elchanan, a good boy as he was, went searching for lost objects, though not specifically within the classroom walls. His interest was in what was taking place outside. He helped the cheder caretaker fix things. His hand was stretched out in assistance to everyone around him. His heart was a heart of gold, his hands the hands of an artist. He had a rare practical sense, a deep understanding of people, and a powerful desire to mend the world.
Yeshivah ketanah came next. Yitzchak Elchanan passed through it adequately. He was not the masmid of the yeshivah, nor was he the brilliant one. He was not known among his peers as a top-tier scholar, but everyone knew he was a yerei Shamayim. His prayers were recited carefully, like one counting coins. His good heart led him to the kitchen keys and to the electrical cabinet, and perhaps the beis midrash also needed a new bookcase built.
The years flew by, and Yitzchak Elchanan became a tall young man, cheerful, beloved by those around him. Baruch Hashem, he was accepted to a good yeshivah gedolah. By his fourth year, Yitzchak Elchanan was barely holding on. First seder was obligatory. Second seder was somewhat difficult. Third seder was when the interesting things were happening outside.
In shidduchim, people spoke well of him. He was no ilui, to be sure, but any young woman who married him would be happy. And of course, he was a ben Torah worthy of the name. He would continue occupying the benches of the beis midrash for many years, with Hashem’s help. And so, grapes of the vine with grapes of the vine, Yitzchak Elchanan married his intended in a good and auspicious hour.
In kollel, everyone knew that Yitzchak Elchanan understood much about everything. He arranged municipal tax discounts for friends, organized daycare approvals from the government ministry, and secured suitable loans from the best Gemachim for children’s weddings. Yitzchak Elchanan did not abandon the kollel bench for a moment. It was not easy. The financial strain threatened to overwhelm him, and it left its mark on his wife, may she live and be well. But Yitzchak Elchanan did not abandon his post. He was a ben Torah, and a ben Torah he would remain.
Yitzchak Elchanan reached a ripe old age, his sons and grandchildren like olive shoots around his bed, and his soul departed with “One.”
Yitzchak Elchanan ascended to the World of Truth, joyful and good-hearted. With a light step, he followed the sign directing him toward the Heavenly Court, carrying with him many hours of Torah and good deeds, and the merit of upright and blessed generations.
And more: in his satchel he also carried many hours of Torah studied in toil and pain. And we have received from Chazal that one act done in pain is worth a hundred done without pain. Had he not sacrificed his life? Had he not given up all his dreams in order to sit in the tent of Torah?
The sign read: To Gan Eden, right.
He stepped to the right, a broad smile on his lips, opened the gate, and sought to enter Gan Eden.
Suddenly, the herald thundered above him: Yitzchak Elchanan, left!
He stopped. For a moment he hesitated. Left? Surely there had been some mistake. But an awesome force seized him by the back of his neck. The herald did not relent, his cry shaking the worlds: Yitzchak Elchanan, left!
Yitzchak Elchanan lost his smile. His face turned pale. Why left? he cried. I never left the beis midrash! I sat within the walls of the yeshivah for decades. I gave up all my desires so that I could remain bound to the shtender!
The herald answered him in a voice that chilled the blood: Indeed, you sat within the walls of the beis midrash. Indeed, we knew your suffering. But Yitzchak Elchanan, you murdered.
Yitzchak Elchanan recoiled in horror. Whom did I murder? I? I never harmed a soul!
But they, the judges above, were unmoved: Yitzchak Elchanan, you murdered. The Holy One, blessed be He, gave you good hands and a creative mind. You murdered the mighty baal chesed you could have become. You murdered the great Kiddush Hashem you would have brought into the world had you gone out into the marketplace as an honest Jew, about whom Chazal say: “Greater is one who benefits from the labor of his own hands than one who fears Heaven.” The Holy One, blessed be He, planted sublime talents within you so that you might find your unique portion in the world. And you, out of weakness and fear, buried those talents deep in the earth.
Under the weight of social pressure, almost without pausing to ask what Hashem demanded of you, you chose mediocrity within the beis midrash over the completeness of a person who benefits from the labor of his hands and merits the blessing granted by the Sages: “Fortunate in this world, and good for you in the World to Come.” You murdered the great Yitzchak Elchanan that you could have been.
The Gemara in Chagigah (5b) states: “The Sages taught: There are three over whom the Holy One, blessed be He, weeps every day: over one who is able to engage in Torah and does not engage in it; over one who is unable to engage in Torah and nevertheless engages in it; and over a leader who behaves arrogantly toward the community.”
We can understand why the Holy One, blessed be He, weeps over one who is able to engage in Torah yet fails to do so, over one who remains distant from the word of Hashem when he could have cleaved to it. But how are we to understand the tears shed over one who does engage in Torah, precisely when he is unable to do so? How can the two cases be compared?
This difficulty caused some commentators to depart from the plain meaning and press the words of Chazal into strained readings. Yet the Yaavetz, in his siddur, explains the matter with simplicity and sharpness. There are people, he writes, whose nature is not suited to the occupation of Torah study. They were created to engage in commerce and support the world of Torah. When such people force upon themselves a burden unsuited to their nature, they not only fail to ascend spiritually; they also necessarily cause Torah to be diminished. Over this, the eye above sheds tears. A young man remaining in the beis midrash for all his days, against his nature, causes sorrow in Heaven, just as one who could engage in Torah and fails to do so.
So too we find in Pardes Yosef (Bereishis 22:25): “Each person must recognize his place and not enter the domain of his fellow. The role of Zevulun is to engage in commerce, to provide the material and the bricks for the building of the House of Israel, while Yissachar is to be the builder, as Chazal taught: ‘Do not read your children, but your builders.’” He explains the above passage in Chagigah along the same lines.
In the introduction to Mesillas Yesharim, the Ramchal likewise defines the foundation of piety as a person clarifying “what his obligation is in his world.” The emphasis is on “his world,” within the talents, inclinations, and sphere assigned to him personally. The Holy One, blessed be He, does not produce human beings on a uniform assembly line.
The demand that every person remain within the walls of the beis midrash, even when his nature and abilities direct him toward the world of action, stands in deep contradiction to this principle. It contradicts the words of the Sages in many places, which stress the unique role of each and every person. And it contradicts the tradition of Israel throughout the generations, in which the overwhelming majority merited to fulfill within themselves the virtue of “When you eat the labor of your hands, fortunate are you and it is good for you” (Tehillim 128; see Berachos 8a).
There are precious young men walking among us. Many of them. Chaim, David, Yitzchak, Yanki. The Holy One, blessed be He, created each of them with a mission, and the Torah has many faces. It is upon us to nurture the greatness within them, the particular path they were meant to walk. Only when they take their talents and illuminate the world through them, only then will the herald declare:
“Yitzchak Elchanan, to the right!”
