It was a cold wintry Friday night as a group of young people crowded around a Shabbos table enjoying a delicious meal. They were talking about many things, from politics to religion. Most of all, they challenged the validity of faith beliefs and traditions in today’s society. They threw out questions like weapons, preparing for battle: How can you believe in G‑d when science has proven . . . ? Why keep kosher in an age of government inspection and refrigeration? Isn’t it racist to speak of the chosen people? How come the religious teachings are against LGBT…?

Sitting at the table was an older rabbi with a ginger beard listening to everything. He began to speak.

“The questions you are asking are good questions, but for this, you don’t need to come to a Shabbos table. Many people who have learned Torah (Scriptures) can tell you these answers. Sadly few can speak or communicate in a language you can understand; now let me tell you why you came.”

Everyone, there was surprised the old rabbi could understand their asked and silent questions. The rabbi looking at the flickering Shabbos candles began telling a story:

“A young boy was walking with his father down a steep hill in the heat of the day. They saw a man coming up the hill towards them, sweating, with a heavy sack on his shoulders weighing him down. When the man reached them, the little boy asked what he had in his sack, why he was going up the hill, why he was working so hard.

The man told the little boy that his oven had broken, and he had to come down to the valley to get more stones to build himself an oven.

“Why not get more stones,” asked the little boy, “and build a bigger oven that will keep you warmer, and you can have more food? There must be more stones still in the valley.”

The man took a deep breath, wiped the sweat off his brow and answered “little one, you are used to people making things easy for you so you don’t yet know what it means to have to work, how hard it is to schlep.” He put his free hand on the little boy’s shoulder. “When you grow big and strong like me, you’ll be happy with a little oven too.”

The little boy and his father continued down the hill.

They saw another man coming up the hill towards them. Same size man, same size sack, but this man didn’t seem so weighed down.

“What have you in the sack,” the young boy wanted to know. “Is it stones? Are you going to build yourself a small oven?”

“Oh no,” the man smiled broadly, “no oven building for me! See, I was down in the valley digging for turnips, and I found a treasure. Diamonds! Rubies! Pearls! I have two daughters, two weddings to make. I’m going to open a store and stop peddling from town to town, build myself a house with wooden floors and . . .”

“Why not get more diamonds?” interrupted the boy. “There must be more left in the valley.”

“Son,” said the old man, putting his free hand on the little boy’s shoulder, “believe me, I searched the valley clean. I don’t think there is another diamond down there.”

The little boy and his father continued down the hill.

The father turned to his son and explained, “You see when you’re carrying diamonds, they’re never too heavy. The first man may have had diamonds too, but he didn’t know what they were.”

The old rabbi with the long ginger beard looked at the young people around the Shabbos table and continued:

“You see what the father was telling the boy? A mitzvah (a good deed done with spiritual purpose) is a diamond. Every mitzvah that we do is a precious, precious thing. This is why you come to the Shabbos table, not just to learn a mitzvah, but to learn that it is a diamond. When you know they are diamonds, then most of your questions will be answered.”

Some years later, at a Shabbos Table filled with so many different foods, and surrounded by many young people talking of many things from politics to religion. Most of all they challenged the validity of faith beliefs and tradition in today’s society. The questions were a little different, but one key question was, why do we need mitzvahs when we can meditate instead?

A man got up and told this story that he had heard on a cold wintry night a few blocks from where they were now. He told the story well, and ended with the words, “It’s been a number of years since the old rabbi with the ginger beard told that story. I could tell you of many experiences I have had since then, but to you, it would be meaningless.”

It is said that the old rabbi with the ginger beard still tells stories during Shabbos, on holidays and at gatherings. He tells stories that touch the heart, mind and soul. The stories are filled with wonder, mystery, and holiness.

Listen to the stories and learn valuable lessons and get direction. You can’t be Jewish out of a sense of duty without feeling or warmth. An “observant Jew”? Such an unsatisfying label. Like an obedient child, a dutiful husband, a law-abiding citizen, an “observant Jew” accepts obligations—yet keeps on trudging. The question is do they really live Jewish?

Duty and diligence are not calculated to inspire; they’re heavy rocks. However, when duty and diligence are born of passion, they are tough as steel and as brilliant diamonds. A heavy load? Maybe, on the scales; but not on my back.

The stories show me the beauty around me every day. They give purpose to my life and teach me tolerance for the many people around me. All of this is possible because of an old rabbi, dressed a little strange and a ginger beard who tells stories.

Each story is a diamond.

May all your tales end with Shalom (peace)

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 Tell it to your children, and let your children tell it to their children, and their children to the next generation. (Joel 1:3)

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