A Story for Shabbat: The Rabbi’s Tea: A Story of Kindness and Loss

One of the senior rabbis at the Porat Yosef Yeshiva let out a quiet sigh. Through the window of his study, he saw a familiar figure slowly climbing the yeshiva’s stairs, one of Jerusalem’s unfortunate souls.

Just last week, this man had entered the rabbi’s room and, for two full hours, poured out a monologue of personal hardships and daily suffering. His story was long, wandering, and at times repetitive, yet it stirred real pity. And now, here he was again.

The man stepped inside, unpacked his bundles and bags with a heavy sigh, sat down in the first chair he saw, and said without a trace of embarrassment, “Make me a cup of tea.”

He began speaking again.

“Rabbi, last week I had a big argument with my wife. I can’t even remember what it was about. But after a few hours, I calmed down and came home.”

He paused for a breath and continued.

“Just when we made peace, the neighbor knocked on the door. He reminded us about the loan we borrowed from him a long time ago and never paid back. Rabbi, I need that money for my medications. I can’t live without them.”

“After the neighbor left, my wife started yelling again that I’m not bringing home any income, that the kids go to bed hungry. But she didn’t get far. One of the children came in with a note from his teacher. The boy’s falling behind in school, and the teacher wants to meet both parents first thing tomorrow. If not, he won’t be allowed in class.”

“And what should I do, Rabbi? How can I scold that poor child? He goes to bed hungry. His clothes are torn. And I have two grown daughters at home. No one wants to marry them. How long will they stay unmarried in my house?”

The man would have kept talking for hours, if the rabbi hadn’t gently interrupted him. Without a word, the rabbi reached into his jacket, took out a bundle of bills, and pressed it into the man’s hand.

“I’m late for a class,” he said simply.

If the man had known that this was a quarter of the rabbi’s monthly salary, he might have been moved to give some back. Then again, maybe not. The hardships of life had hardened him.

The following week, the man came again. And again, he began pouring out his woes. But this time, before he could get too far, the rabbi stopped him.

“Tell me,” he asked kindly, “has something unusual happened in your home recently? Something new that might have brought all these troubles at once?”

The rabbi was struggling. In his heart, he thought, It’s not fair. Every week he comes, talks for hours, takes a large share of my salary and leaves. I have a family too. I have children who depend on me.

The man looked surprised. “New troubles? Rabbi, I’ve had nothing but troubles for twenty years! Every week it’s something else.”

“So why,” asked the rabbi gently, “have you only started coming to me now?”

The man shrugged and answered casually, “Until three weeks ago, Chacham Yehuda Tzadka was alive.”

Rabbi Yehuda Tzadka was one of the great Torah scholars of his generation and a leader at Porat Yosef Yeshiva. His yahrzeit is on the 12th of Cheshvan.

“For twenty years,” the man continued, “every single week, he listened to me patiently for as long as I needed. He gave me tzedakah (charity) with a warm heart. But now… he’s gone.”

And with that simple answer, the room fell quiet.

The righteous often serve quietly, without fanfare. Their greatness lies not just in their Torah, but in their compassion, their patience, and their ability to see the pain behind another’s words even when the world no longer listens.

Rabbi Yehuda Tzadka was one of those rare souls. And when he passed away, it wasn’t just his family and students who felt the loss but also those who depended on his quiet kindness, week after week, for twenty years.