Rabbi Rael Blumenthal

Three times in the past week, I have merited a glimpse into the Secret Society of People Who Get It. I have decided to work on joining, and I'd like to invite you to do the same.

You might ask, how does one join? And what is “it” that we are trying to get? It's difficult to describe what “it” is, but you know it when you see it. I saw it last Shabbos, when my family spend the weekend with Chai Lifeline at the Team Lifeline Shabbaton.

Rabbi Moskowitz, Rabbi Broide and myself coordinated a team of members from BRS and BRS West to raise money and run for Chai Lifeline. Some had run before, some were running for the first time.

I was asked to attend the Shabbaton to spend time with our team members, and speak to the other teams and participants about running, weight loss, and the Torah that might be learned from dedicating ourselves to overcoming challenges. Whatever small insights I taught, paled in comparison to the lessons I learned from the people there.

I met a couple whose son has been in a wheelchair his whole life. His father described him as a “living mesilas yesharim”, as he explained how much he learned from his son's middos daily.

I spoke with a mother who lost her son almost a decade ago, and described that during the last few months of his life in the hospital, she spent every moment asking herself “what does Hashem want me to do now?” She told me that she still tries to live her life this way; simply asking “What does Hashem want from me in this moment, right now?”

I was approached by a woman whose teenage son is now, thankfully, in remission. She explained that she can now see how everything was for the good, but her son is still angry with Hashem. She asked if I had any advice for her son. I told her that there are few questions more humbling; there is no way I can understand his struggles, and I certainly cannot answer for Hashem. She pressed me, so I explained that all I can offer is admiration for his strength, and hers. Perhaps she might share with her son that without doubt, Hashem needs him to have overcome these struggles; that one day, he will be able to help someone in a way that no one else can. (I daven that this boy might find this meaningful and helpful.)

There were many others, telling stories of their diagnosis, describing hospitals and treatments so casually that it almost seems insensitive. But these people get it. They understand each other. These are people that have moved beyond the technicalities of their circumstances to a place where the only thing that really matters are people, and how we treat them.

The superficialities of judging people by dress lengths and headwear melt away; along with the values of bank accounts, homes and cars. That's not to say that people are irreverent, irresponsible or don't still enjoy nice things – they most certainly do. But their identities are not tied to vehicles or vacations. Those things are simply relegated to the bottom of the priority lists as means, not ends.

The only thing these families seem to care about is time, and spending it wisely, meaningfully, with people we love. It was overwhelmingly humbling to be surrounded by such a basic and profound understanding.

This is the “it”, that they get. The unspoken truths of people who have been forced to focus on what matters most in life. In this place, voyeurism and curiosity fades into empathy, and words do not need to be spoken.

It was this same feeling that I felt attending the annual Zayin Adar dinner, honoring the quiet heroes of our Chevra Kadisha. I sat in a room surrounded by people who get it. They get each other, they understand the fragility and beauty of life. Somehow through sharing difficult Taharos, painful moments and draining late nights, the scope of life expands to make pettiness a little less relevant, taking up less space in the big picture.

Here too, people are trading empathy and vulnerability.

Finally, though it sounds silly in comparison, I felt this feeling towards the end of the Miami marathon last Sunday. I share it with you here, because I experienced it first hand, and it changed my outlook on how to “get it”.

There were parts of the race that were brutally hot, with little to no shade, and miles still to run. Nearing the finish line, neither myself, nor those around me were feeling the strength to push through.

By mile 23, with only three miles to go, runners, unsolicited, began offering encouragement to strangers on the course. “You can do it!” “Just a little more to go!” There was a feeling in that moment that no one was competing; and the only thing enabling us to put one foot in front of another was the encouragement from people who got it.

Someone caught up to me and yelled “You got this! Breathe!” I took a deep breath and began to laugh. My Apple Watch tells me to breathe all the time. I never listen it. But this random stranger knows just how hard it is to breathe right now, he get's me. I can do this.

It was at that point I realize that we all could become people that get it a little more. We don't all need to be suffering through a tragedy to have properly placed priorities. “Getting it” begins with empathy; simply being willing to carry each others lives and pain in our own hearts.

Rabbeinu Bachya tells us this perspective was prescribed to Aharon HaKohen whenever he would enter into the Mishkan. One of the special garments he wore was the Choshen. The base was gold, which was inlaid with twelve stones. Each stone was engraved with the name of a tribe.

The structure of the Choshen was designed to convey a simple and profound truth: Gold is valuable, precious stones ever more so. But on top of it all, are the letter of Hashem's Torah, which form the names of the Jewish people.

וְנָשָׂא אַהֲרֹן אֶת שְׁמוֹת בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל ... עַל לִבּוֹ בְּבֹאוֹ אֶל הַקֹּדֶשׁ לְזִכָּרֹן לִפְנֵי י״י תָּמִיד. Aharon shall carry the names of the Children of Israel on the Choshen, on his heart when he goes in to the Mikdash, so that they can be remembered before Hashem continually.

Aharon carried the entire hierarchy of life's priorities; beauty, wealth, prestige and honor. But the highest value is thinking of another Jew. That's what he needed to carry on his heart. This was not a tehillim list and Aharon wasn't reading out the names. It was far deeper than that: When Aharon walked into the Mishkan, all of Klal walked in with him – he was them, and they him. He carried them on his heart. When he stood before Hashem, we all did.

Aharon became the Ohev Shalom – the lover of peace – who restored unity in marriages, brought friends back together, inspired compassion and taught empathy. “Getting it” means carrying someone else name on our hearts. It's being there with them, whether we're there or not.

This is the Avoda of the Choshen: To be there for each other, to learn how to share more in silence than in words, so that when we see someone who needs to Breathe, we'll know how to say it. And when we need it, we'll be open to hear it as well. Hashem should help us all to become a part of The Secret Society of People Who Get It.