Chag HaShavuos 5786
- Torah Tavlin
- May 22
- 3 min read
אתה נגלית בענן כבודך על עם קדשך לדבר עמם מן השמים השמעתם קולך ... (נוסח למוסף ראש השנה)
Chazal note that the Torah uses the singular form, "ויחן שם", to describe an entire nation gathered at Har Sinai. It was a moment when hundreds of thousands stood together as one heart, one mind, one purpose. The mountain trembled, the heavens opened, and the world held its breath. It was the moment of supreme revelation, when a Nation saw the word of G-d.
There was once a devoted chassid of the Maharid of Belz, R’ Yissachar Dov Rokeach zt”l, a man who had traveled faithfully to his Rebbe for every Yom Tov, every tish, every moment of elevation that the Belzer Rebbe offered. His journeys were long, often difficult, but he made them with joy, for he felt that each visit brought him closer to the light of chassidus. Yet one year, as the Yom Tov of Shavuos approached, a thought entered his mind. He remembered the enormous crowds that gathered in Belz during the holiday - the crush of people, the noise, the endless stream of visitors who came from every corner of the region. He recalled how difficult it was to find a place to stand, how the air grew thick with heat and anticipation, how the Rebbe was surrounded on all sides by those seeking a blessing or a word of guidance. He reasoned with himself. Why must he travel when the crowds were at their peak? Would he not be able to receive more, understand more, and connect more deeply if he came a week later, when the tumult had quieted and the Rebbe could give him more focused attention? He convinced himself that this was not laziness or avoidance; he could be a more refined vessel to receive the Rebbe’s Torah. With this thought, he remained in his own town for the holiday, davening with sincerity, learning with diligence, and imagining the moment when he would soon stand before his Rebbe in a more peaceful setting.
One week after Shavuos, he set out on his journey. The roads were familiar, the inns unchanged, the wagon wheels steady and reassuring. When he finally arrived in Belz, he felt a quiet satisfaction. He had made the right decision, he told himself. Now he would be able to receive the Rebbe’s words without distraction, without the pressure of the holiday crowds.
When he entered the Rebbe’s room, the Maharid greeted him warmly, as he always did. After a few moments, the Rebbe asked gently, “And how was your journey for Yom Tov? We did not see you among the chassidim this Shavuos.”
The chassid answered honestly, explaining the reasoning that had guided his choice. He spoke of the crowds, of the difficulty of approaching the Rebbe during the festival, of his desire to be a more worthy vessel for the Torah he hoped to receive. He concluded with confidence that coming after the holiday had surely been the better path.
The Rebbe listened quietly, his eyes resting on the chassid with a mixture of patience and something deeper, something the chassid could not yet name. When the man finished speaking, the Maharid leaned back slightly and said, almost to himself, “Yetz ich farshtay der rabbanim vos ken nisht lernen - Now I understand why there are rabbis who cannot learn.”
The chassid blinked, startled. The Rebbe continued, his voice soft but he sighed as if carrying the weight of generations. “At the time of Matan Torah,” he said, “when our ancestors stood at the foot of Har Sinai, the mountain was surrounded by a vast multitude. The air was filled with thunder and flame, the sound of the shofar, the trembling of creation itself. And among that great crowd were some who looked around and said in their hearts, ‘Why should we push ourselves into this crush of people? Why should we stand in the heat and the noise? Would it not be better to wait until the giving of the Torah is over, until the crowds disperse, and then we will come to the mountain? Then we will receive the Torah in peace and quiet.’
“And so they waited. They told themselves it was smart, the right thing to do. But when they finally came to the mountain, they found nothing. The revelation had passed. The fire had faded. The voice had ceased. The mountain stood silent.”
The room was still. The Belzer chassid felt the words settle over him like a heavy cloak, though the Rebbe had offered no rebuke, no explicit lesson. He had told a simple story, one that ended with a quiet truth that echoed across centuries, from Sinai to Belz, from the thunder of revelation to the soft creak of a wooden floor beneath a chassid’s feet. (Translated from Sefer Imrei Dvash)