There's an old Chassidic story about a poor man with a big heart.
He didn't have much, but whatever he had, he shared. So when a Rebbe and his followers once passed through his town, this poor man threw open his doors and hosted them all with everything he could scrape together. The Rebbe, moved by such open handed generosity, blessed him with wealth.
The blessing came true. The man grew rich, and then richer. But a strange thing happened along the way. As his fortune grew, his generosity shrank. The bigger his bank account, the smaller his open hand.
Word of the change reached the Rebbe, who decided to pay a visit.
The now wealthy man was delighted to see him and proudly walked him through his grand home. In the living room, the Rebbe stopped at a large window looking out onto the street. "Tell me," he said, "what do you see?"
"I see people," the man answered. "There's Yankel the water carrier, and Chaim the tailor."
The Rebbe then led him a few steps over to an ornate mirror on the wall. "And now what do you see?"
"Now?" the man said. "Now I only see myself."
"Notice," said the Rebbe, "that a window and a mirror are made of the very same glass. The only difference is a thin coating of silver on the back of the mirror. And yet that little bit of silver changes everything. The moment the silver gets in the way, you stop seeing other people. All you can see is yourself."
Wealth, the Rebbe was teaching, is that layer of silver. It isn't bad, but it has a way of slipping between us and everyone else until the whole world reflects back nothing but our own face.
Here's the part that reframes everything. The Rebbe reminded the man that his wealth had come with a condition. "You were given these blessings," he said, "so that you would share them."
This is one of the quiet themes of the month of Elul that leads up to Rosh Hashanah. Our Sages say the name "Elul" hidden as the initials of the verse "ish l'rei'eihu u'matanos la'evyonim" (Esther 9:22) "each person to his fellow, and gifts to the poor." Elul is the season of giving.
Look closely at how the Torah describes the giving. It doesn't say we hand our things to the poor. It says ish l'rei'eihu, "each person to his fellow." Not a benefactor above and a beggar below, but two equals. Because when you give tzedakah charity, you're not really giving away something that's yours. You're returning something that was placed in your hands to pass along. As the early Chassidim used to put it, "The piece of bread I have is yours as much as it is mine", and they would say "yours" before "mine."
Which means the poor man at your door, or the organization you support isn't the one who owes you thanks. In a real way, you owe them. Our Sages said it plainly: more than the wealthy man does for the poor man, the poor man does for the wealthy man. He's the one giving you the chance to become a window instead of a mirror.
And this isn't only about money. Every one of us has something to give, a kind word, a listening ear, an hour, a bit of encouragement, our knowledge, our patience. The very fact that G d arranged for you to cross paths with someone who needs something is itself the sign that you were the one meant to give it. Nothing in this world happens by accident.
It's no coincidence that we read Parshas Nitzavim, with all of Elul's themes gathered into it, right before Rosh Hashanah. Look at how the parsha opens: "You are standing today, all of you, before G d your L rd" (Deuteronomy 29:9). And then the Torah spells out who "all of you" means "the heads of your tribes, your elders and your officers… down to the one who chops your wood and the one who draws your water." The greatest and the simplest, shoulder to shoulder, standing on exactly the same ground before G d. No one above, no one below. Everyone simply there, as one.
On Rosh Hashanah we're going to stand before G d and ask Him to be generous with us, to grant us a good and sweet year that goes beyond what we've strictly earned. The way we open that door is by learning, this month, to give beyond what feels like it's "ours."
So this week, catch yourself at the mirror. Look for one small chance to turn it back into a window, to see the person on the other side of the glass and give something, anything, without keeping score.
Give a little more than feels comfortable. That's exactly how we ask G d to do the same.
May this year be, for all of us, a year of the test of wealth may G d bless each of us with such abundance that our only real challenge is deciding how much good to do with it.
Wishing you a wonderful Shabbos and a sweet, blessed year to come,
Rabbi Kushi Schusterman
P.S. Let me share something more personal. Every year, in the weeks before Rosh Hashanah, Fraida and I sit down together and commit to a minimum amount of tzedakah we will give over the coming year. Then, before the next Rosh Hashanah comes around, we make sure we've fulfilled that pledge in full. I won't pretend it's always easy. Sometimes the account is tight right before the holidays, and the practical part of me hesitates, but we go through with it anyway. And every year it brings me back to the very question this story asks: am I really giving something away? Or am I simply passing along something that was entrusted to me to send forward? The answer, every year, is the second one. It was never only mine to begin with.
