A Shabbat Story: A Match in Exchange for Forgiveness

“Rabbi, with Hashem’s help, my daughter is getting married soon,” said a Jewish man from Vilna. “I need a loan from the free loan fund.” The fund was overseen by the city’s respected rabbi, Rabbi Shmuel Strashun, who managed it to help community members in need.

The rabbi agreed and lent him a generous amount, as long as the man signed the standard loan form, promising to repay it by a set date.

Time passed, and the due date came. The borrower, a truly honest and upright man, arrived with the full amount in hand. He found the rabbi sitting in his study, deeply immersed in a Talmudic discussion. Without interrupting too much, he explained he was there to repay the full amount.

The rabbi nodded, still engrossed in his learning, and slipped the envelope of money into the volume of Talmud before him. He didn’t pause to write it down in the fund’s ledger. And when the study session ended, the repayment completely slipped his mind. He had no memory of receiving the money, and it was never marked as returned.

Some time later, while reviewing the loan fund’s records, Rabbi Shmuel noticed that this man’s name still appeared among the debtors. There was no record of repayment. So he sent for the man and asked when he planned to return the money.

The man was stunned. “Rabbi, I returned the money months ago,” he said gently. “I brought it to you myself. You were learning at the time, maybe that’s why it wasn’t recorded?”

The rabbi listened carefully. But since the money belonged to the community fund and not to him personally, halachah (Jewish law) required that the borrower either take an oath affirming that he had repaid the debt or pay it again to avoid swearing.

The man, who feared Heaven deeply, refused to swear even if he knew he was right. He would rather pay again than speak an oath. And so, he paid the full amount once more.

But word got out. People whispered in the streets, “What kind of person pays a debt twice? If he really returned the money, why didn’t he just swear and be done with it? Something’s fishy.”

Gossip spread. The man was labeled a thief. People questioned his honesty. His heart broke from the shame, but he stood by his principles and didn’t waver.

As Passover approached, Rabbi Shmuel began cleaning his bookshelves. While dusting off a volume of Talmud, a sealed envelope of money fell out, exactly the amount from that earlier loan. The rabbi’s face turned pale. His memory returned. He suddenly saw clearly the moment the man had returned the money and how he had tucked it into his book mid-study.

Without a moment’s delay, Rabbi Shmuel rushed to the man’s house.

“Please forgive me,” he said, shaken. “You were right. I was so deep in learning, I forgot what you gave me. I should have stopped and recorded it. I caused you such pain.”

But the man didn’t immediately forgive him. “Who will fix my reputation?” he asked, eyes full of hurt. “Who will make a match for my children now? People think I’m a dishonest man.”

Rabbi Shmuel offered to publicly announce that the man was completely innocent and the fault was his. But the man shook his head. “Even if you say that, people might think you’re only doing it out of kindness or pity. It won’t undo what’s been done.”

The rabbi paused. “Then tell me, what would bring you peace? What can I do so you’ll truly forgive me?”

The man took a deep breath and spoke from the heart. “If the rabbi gives his son, Mattityahu, to my daughter in marriage, then I’ll know you truly believe in my innocence. Then everyone will know that I am not a thief.”

Rabbi Shmuel agreed. Though the man was of simple means, the rabbi gave his son’s hand in marriage to his daughter, just to restore the man’s good name and receive his full forgiveness.

Sometimes the greatest acts of justice are born from humility, love, and the deep understanding that a person’s dignity is priceless.