שרולי בעססער אין משפחה די וואך שרייבט א בריוו צו שלום אז ער זאל זעהן אז ס'זאל טאקע זיין א קידוש השם.
צווישן די שורות ברענגט ער ארויס זייער גיט וויאזוי היינט ארבעט עס אז יעדע זאך וואס מ'האלט דערפון און מ'האט הנאה איז א קידוש השם, און יעדע זאך וואס מ'האט נישט ליב איז א חילול השם...
ער ברענגט דארט למשל ווי דער מענטש וואס געבט צוריק א עיר קאנדישען צו ןןאל מארט נאכן נוצן צוויי חדשים און דערנאך האלט ער די טיר פאר א גויטע ביים ארויסגיין און ער האט געמאכט א קידוש השם...
דא האט איר די גאנצע ארטיקל:
Dear Shulem
So is it a kiddush Hashem or a chillul Hashem?
Wednesday, July 25, 2018
About three months ago, I was one of thousands in a massive tent spread over the Outremont neighborhood in Montreal, watching a historic tish take place. At the center of the tish sat the Belzer Rebbe, flanked by family members, rabbanim within the chassidus and Montreal’s other rabbanim.
Overlooking the sea of people, on a raised podium off to the side, stood a kapelya, a chassidishe choir. The choir gave music to the feelings of the crowd: the longing and hope and thanksgiving.
Within the small group, a slim, young man stood out. He had eyes like burning coals and a voice mellow and full and soft and powerful, reaching to the far corners of the huge marquee, into the hearts of a people come from Eretz Yisrael and Europe and America, into the lives of people struggling with parnassah and chinuch and health, hoping to access the Rebbe’s blessing.
It was a special voice.
In its lilt, one heard the journey of a chassid, the odyssey of highs and lows, moments of uplift and daunting spiritual challenges.
It was Shulem.
The same Shulem who’d released a song with that motif — the quest to hold on to the sacred music of the Rebbe’s court in a noisy, distractive world — just a few months earlier: Yetzt bin ich einer alein, oy mein hart es benkt, yetzt bin eich einer alien, ubber deim tniyeh, ich gedenkt (Now I am all alone, oh my heart it yearns, I am all alone, but I do remember that blessed note…).
The Belzer Rebbe had just recited Havdalah, the purple wine extinguishing the flame of the large candle. A wisp of smoke rose as a new week was ushered in, the perpetual challenge of trying to grasp holiness and carry it into days without light suddenly very real. Bein ohr lachoshech.
Barely two months after that state visit came to an end, a friend of mine called, so excited he could barely articulate the words.
“Did you hear?”
I hadn’t heard. It was historic, he said, the first time a mainstream chassidic singer had been discovered, cultivated, and finally signed by a secular music label. What a kiddush Hashem. What an opportunity.
Did I want an exclusive with Shulem Lemmer for the magazine?
I thanked him, told him I was happy for the singer, happy at the chance he was being given, but I wasn’t convinced it was a kiddush Hashem.
Within the next few hours, the story became what I like to call “frum viral,” shooting through the network of frum groups, chats, sites, and discussions like a teenage camp counselor plunging into the pool after the Nine Days.
Chillul Hashem! Kiddush Hashem!
The usual color war of differing opinions, everyone convinced they’re right.
A word about chillul Hashem and kiddush Hashem: I’ve observed that to the layman, the term kiddush Hashem means “anything that I agree with and makes me feel good,” while chillul Hashem means “anything I find irritating.”
There are also subgroups and differing contexts: When my chassidishe neighbor double-parks it’s a chillul Hashem but when I do it, it’s something I never do, but I’m just grabbing the prescription, it’s for my daughter’s eye drops, she needs them badly.
In this every-person-for-themselves world of the kiddush Hashem/chillul Hashem police, someone can ostensibly leave Walmart after having returned an air conditioner he used for two months, then, on the way out, hold the door open for a Hispanic woman and smile at her children — and feel proud at having made a kiddush Hashem.
I wondered about this scenario — Shulem’s story.
A gifted, sincere chassidishe young man is being given a huge stage. There’s his potential impact on slumbering neshamos that might be touched, the opportunity to be an ambassador for Torah Jews, the reminder to wider society that we — with our chadarim and yeshivos — hone, encourage, and celebrate talent like no other community.
And yet. Why? Why venture out of the beis medrash, singing the shir neichar al admas neichar?
I asked those wiser than me. One of them looked at me pointedly. “Sruli, if the New York Times called and asked you to write for them, offering more money and more influence than anything Mishpacha can give you, wouldn’t you consider it?”
(That’s just a mashal. Firstly, I’m not convinced about the influence or the money. And besides for that, Mishpacha does mazel tov ads for us when we make simchahs. Also, Trump never called us fake news.)
To be honest, who among us hasn’t dreamed of it? Which creative person doesn’t want be able to create in conditions where his or her gift can shine?
Besides, parnassah is holy. Feeding the family, buying gefilte fish for Shabbos and paying tuition and tipping your child’s rotating lifeguard in camp adds up. And Yiddishe gelt, the rebbes taught us, is filled with kedushah.
Why is this different than a plumber or accountant or baker who wants to share his wares with as many clients as possible so that he can make a living?
So is it a kiddush Hashem or a chillul Hashem?
A great man gave me some insight. I’m pleased to share it with you, sweet, talented Shulem.
Dear Shulem,
You’re taking steps forward now — out of the shtibel and into the marketplace.
You’re not the first and you’re not the last. It’s what Jews have often done, always with a prayer on their lips and a desperate hope in their hearts.
What are your own words?
Ess kumt a shvere tzeit, nisyonois oif yedder zeit…
But you can do it. You have a great rebbe, great role models, and friends.
Others in your industry have tried and failed. The temptation was too great: Yiddish sounds charming, chassidim are delightful, swinging peyos are adorable, the genre’s a quaint throwback to a time when the Yiddish theater was popular. It’s a great show.
So they accommodated the critics, becoming chassidic mascots. That isn’t a kiddush Hashem.
If, dear Shulem, in three years from now, you look the same, act the same, think the same, sing the same, then it will be a kiddush Hashem.
Aim not, as Rav Hutner famously wrote, for a double life, but a broad life.
Shulem, we’re rooting for you. Be successful, do a great job, make us proud —
But Shulem, remember the holy tniyele….
And then, we would be so honored to write the article.
Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 720. Yisroel Besser may be contacted directly at
besser@mishpacha.com