From Complaint to Connection: A Journey Back to Torah

One day, Rabbi Yaakov Galinsky received a surprising phone call from a police station in Jaffa. “Rabbi,” said the officer on the line, “a complaint has been filed against you.” Rabbi Galinsky, known for his sense of humor and sharp mind, was puzzled. “A complaint? Against me? In Jaffa? I don’t even drive, I haven’t built any illegal balconies… Are you sure it’s not a mistake?” But the officer was serious. “No mistake. The Cohen family says you’re interfering with their right to send their children to a Christian mission. They call it harassment.”

Rabbi Galinsky was shocked. “I’m sorry to hear that, but I don’t even know the family,” he said sincerely. “I’ve never met them.” The officer replied, “Then come down to the station. We’ll bring them in too. If you truly don’t know them, we’ll close the case.”

Rabbi Galinsky agreed, and they scheduled a meeting for Friday afternoon. But when he arrived, neither the officer who’d called him nor the Cohen family showed up. “What’s going on here?” he asked the duty officer. “You called me here to resolve this!” The officer responded apologetically, “I’m sorry, they didn’t come.”

Still wanting to clear his name, Rabbi Galinsky offered to explain the situation. The officer listened and then handed him a form to sign that read: “I, the undersigned, do not know the Cohen family and have no claims against them.” But the rabbi paused. “No claims? That’s not true. I absolutely have a claim! They are leading their children away from Judaism. That’s a terrible thing. Our sages say someone who causes another to sin is worse than someone who kills them.” The officer tried to wave it off, but Rabbi Galinsky stood firm. “Change the wording to say I don’t know them—nothing more—and then I’ll sign.” The officer agreed.

As the meeting wrapped up, the officer asked with curiosity, “So… what do you actually do all day?” “I study Torah,” said Rabbi Galinsky. The officer scoffed. “You’re all the same—always studying! What is there to study so much?” The rabbi smiled and asked, “Do you like wine?” “Of course!” the officer said enthusiastically, rattling off names of different types. Rabbi Galinsky then asked, “And what does it taste like?” The officer looked confused. “What do you mean? Every wine tastes different. You can’t explain it—you have to taste it!”

“Exactly,” said the rabbi, his eyes shining. “That’s Torah. It’s the wine of the soul. The verse says, ‘He brought me to the house of wine, and His banner over me was love.’ Torah isn’t something you can explain—it’s something you experience. Come to one seminar. Just one. Taste it for yourself.”

Two weeks later, Rabbi Galinsky’s phone rang again. It was the same officer. His voice was different. “I’ve started putting on tefillin,” he said simply. The rabbi’s heart swelled with joy.

Rabbi Galinsky later reflected, “The officer came to the house of wine. Just like Yitro, who truly listened. The whole world heard about the miracles in Egypt and at the Red Sea—but Yitro acted. That officer also heard. Really heard. And he merited both this world and the next.”