Kol Nidre - October 1, 2025

Gmar Hatimah Tovah.  I like to tell stories on Kol Nidre because when I am always anxious as I enter Yom Kippur, maybe more anxious this year given the state of the world, and a good story always helps to compose me.  When we are calm it is easier to get down to the business at hand, which tonight is to confront and begin to chip away at the facade that we work so hard to create all year long; the illusion that we are the best we can be.  This is hard work.  Because we do not like to consider the fact that we are far from perfect, we do not like to look at all our inner ugliness.  But I have a story tonight about a person who was the exact opposite.  His ugliness was on the outside but not on the inside.  And then there is a second part to the story that as Paul Harvey would say, “And now the rest of the story”, which involves Notre Dame.

 The story was told by the late Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach the Jewish troubadour, whose many melodies we sing during worship.  But he was also a story teller and this is one of his more famous stories: 

In 1850, in the city of Krakow, there lived a very rich man named Yossele.  He was the greatest miser in the whole world.  He lies buried, not in the cemetery, but outside the cemetery.  And on his grave is a tombstone, on which is written:  "Here lies Yossele, the holy miser."  In 1850, the Jews lived in a ghetto in Krakow.  Everybody was poor, everybody was depressed.  There was only one Jew who had money . . . but he was such a miser.  He would not give a penny to anybody.  And the people hated him.  Kids would throw stones at him on the street and call him names.  No one would say ‘Good Shabbos’ to him.  And on Rosh HaShanah, the honors committee never even gave him an ark opening in 'shul', because he was so stingy.

One day, the people of the community heard that Yossele was dying.  So the leader of the community went to his bedside, and said to him:  “You know, you can't take it with you.  You have never given a penny to 'tzedakah' all your life.  Give us a thousand rubles, and that will be the money for your grave, and for your burial, and we will give it to the poor, whom you neglected all your life.”

And Yossele just looked at the man with a smug grin on his face and said nothing.  Frustrated, the leader of the community walked out, muttering to himself.

The people were disgusted.  They sent a second delegation: “You can't take it with you anyway, so, once in your life, give some money for the poor.”

Yossele refused to respond and the community said fine, in that case, we refuse to bury you.”

At that moment, just as they got up to leave . . . a fever came over him.   He said the 'Shema' . . . and he died.

And the people walked out of the room as he lay dead.  He died Sunday night.  Nobody buried him Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday.  Wednesday night, a neighbor said: “It's not fair to his wife and children . . . I have to bury him. So late at night, in order not to be seen by the people of the community, he loaded Yossele onto a wagon, dug a grave for him outside the cemetery, beneath a tree, threw him in, covered him over with earth, and went home.

At that time, the Rabbi of Krakow was Reb Kalman, a kabbalist.  Late Thursday night, a poor man came knocking at his door, and said, “Reb Kalman, please give me money to buy food for my family for Shabbos.”

Reb Kalman said:  "I'll be glad to . . . but how come today? I've never seen you come asking for charity before.  What did you do last Shabbos? And the one before?”

The man said: “Reb Kalman, for twenty years now, I've been crippled and unable to make a living. But every single Thursday morning, when I open the door to my house, I find ten rubles in an envelope under the door. ‘Likoved Shabbos.’  In honor of the Holy ‘Shabbos.’ But not this morning.  This morning, for the first time in twenty years - it wasn't there.”

Five minutes later, there was another knock on Reb Kalman's door.

“Reb Kalman,” screamed an old Jewish woman.  “Reb Kalman! There is a thief in our neighborhood!”

“A thief ? Among our people? How could it be?”, responded Reb Kalman.

“But it is true”, shouted the woman.  “I am a poor widow.  I can barely put food on the table each day but every Thursday for years I have found an envelope with 20 rubles under my door.  This morning there was no envelope.  Someone must have taken it from me!”

Within hours, all the poor people of Krakow had come to the Rabbi with similar stories.  This family missing 10 rubles, this one 20 rubles.  Money they had been given for years and had come to expect was absent.

And Reb Kalman realized who the secret giver must have been. All these years the poor people in the city of Krakow had been supported by Yossele the miser?  And nobody knew about it!

Reb Kalman said to the poor people: “I don't understand it. How come, to one of you he gave twenty rubles,  and to another one he gave fifteen? How did he know where each of you lives?”

As he questioned the poor people, the most unbelievable thing was revealed to him.  It turned out, that every poor person in town had once approached Yossele, the Miser, hoping to get some assistance from him.

They would knock on his door trembling and Yossele, the Miser, would open the door ever so politely but say in a slightly suspicious tone, “Who are you and where do you come from”.

"My name is Chaim . . . and I'm a water carrier," the man would say. "And I live at such-and-such address.”

“Really?” said Yossele, and he would write it down. “Do you have children?”

“I have six,” the man would say.

“Six children?  It must be difficult for you to provide for so many”

The man would say: “Yes it is.  If I only had 20 rubles more a week, I could make it.”

And Yossele the miser would write that down too.  And then mumble, “And I am sure you could make it too”.  At which point he would slam the door in the man’s face without even saying good bye.

And the poor man would be left standing empty handed alone at the door to Yossele the miser’s house, saying bitterly to himself, “The man is a miser . . . and he is crazy too. And I am sorry that I came.”

But the next Thursday morning, and every Thursday morning afterwards, Chaim, the water carrier, would find 20 rubles in an envelope outside his door. ‘Likoved Shabbos.'

Reb Kalman heard the same story all day, from different poor people. They had all gone to Yossele, the miser, for money.  They had all been turned away without even so much as “I’m sorry I can’t help”.  And they had all gotten a weekly stipend, anonymously, ever since.

And when Reb Kalman heard the story, repeated in exactly the same details, by every poor man who came to see him, he realized what Yossele, the miser, had done.  And he said to himself and to the people of Krakow, “Do you realize what a holy man we had here?   We had a man in our midst who did what God does.

“He gave with no desire for thanks, with no desire for praise, who gave in secret, just as God does.  And look what we did to him . . . we didn't even bury him in the cemetery.  How can we atone for the way we treated him?”  He announced that there would be an emergency fast day on Sunday, to atone, for the sins that the people had committed against Yossele.

And all the people came, especially the poor people, whose children had thrown stones at him and called him names.  They all came, and they all prayed, and they all fasted.  And they all cried out with one voice: “Yossele, Yossele, please forgive us . . . wherever you are, please forgive us.”

It was just about sunset, the fast day was nearly over.  Reb Kalman felt that they hadn't really reached Yossele yet.  So he opened the Holy Ark, and he began crying from the depths of his heart: “Yossele, Yossele, Yossele, answer me, holy miser.  Yossele, answer me.  Give me a sign that you forgive us.”  At that moment, Reb Kalman fainted.

They put him down on the floor, in front of the open ark.  And in his sleep, in front of the ark, he dreamed.  And in his dream, he saw Yossele, the holy miser.  Not the way you see him in this world, but the way he looks in heaven.  For that is where he was.

He was in the heights of heaven, in the place where only the holiest are allowed to dwell.  Yossele said to Reb Kalman: “Reb Kalman, please tell all the people to go home because there is no reason to fast, and there is no reason to be upset. This is the way I wanted it.  I wanted to have the privilege of giving the way God gives - anonymously, without anybody knowing. Please tell my friends, especially the poor people that I'm here in heaven, in the highest place I have everything I need here.

But then his voice stilled to a sigh and he confided to Reb Kalman. “And yet . . . there's just one thing I miss so much . . . I would give up heaven, and everything in it if I could, for just one more Thursday morning to place one more envelope under one more broken door. For the privilege of being able to give one poor family ten rubles, ‘Likoved Shabbos,’ in honor of the holy ‘Shabbos.’”

That is Reb Shlomo’s story of Yossele the Holy Miser.  What is the message of this story?  Maybe that like the poor people in Krakow we all become accustomed to the anonymous gifts bestowed upon us in life?  And that after a while one forgets they are gifts and begins to take them for granted.  Maybe this night we can plumb the depths of our lives and uncover each of our blessings, recognizing what truly wondrous gifts these are. 

I think for Reb Shlomo the story shows us that there are more good people in the world than we think. That there are people in the world who do God's work, in God's way . . . who do it anonymously, secretly, without looking for praise or for publicity.

You don't know who they are?  They might be sitting next to you at this moment.

And finally, I think this story teaches that goodness and holiness are often hidden from us.  Our task as Jews is to uncover the holiness that resides in this world, that resides in our fellow human beings, that resides in each of us.  And these last few years when the world seemed to dim its light, perhaps this year we begin to uncover more of its true light.

And now for the rest of the story…

This part of the story was told by Rabbi Jack Riemer who knew and met Reb Shlomo a number of times.  He heard Shlomo Carlebach tell this addition to the story.  Before my time in South Bend, Shlomo Carlebach was invited to South Bend to speak at an ecumenical conference at Notre Dame.  It was a week-long conference.  There were representatives of all the great religions.

And every night, a different religion hosted the dinner, and presented the program.  Since we Jews are the oldest living religion . . . we were given the honor of going first.

And so, Shlomo was the speaker.  And he told this story, that I have just told you. There was a young man there, who was the Assistant to the Bishop. His name was Joe.  And he seemed to be especially moved by the story.  He came up to Shlomo after the program, and hugged him. And he said: “Thank you for that story.  What a story!"

The next night, it was the Bishop's turn to host. And Shlomo was just sitting there, at one of the tables, when Joe, the Bishop's assistant, came up to him, and said: "Would you do me a big favor?  Would you please tell that story again?”

And he did.

That night, after the program, Joe came up to him, and said: “Will you please go for a walk with me?” 

And on the way, this is what he told him: "Nobody knows this, nobody . . . But my name isn't Joe.  My real name is Yossele. And I am named after my grandfather, who was named after his grandfather, who was named for Yossele, the holy miser.”

 And then he told Shlomo the story of his life. It seems that his mother was Jewish.  She barely survived Auschwitz.  She was found there, by an American soldier, who was not Jewish. He rescued her, and married her. But he made her promise that she would give up being Jewish, and that she would never tell the children that they were Jewish. “And so,” Joe said, "I grew up as a devout Catholic and I became an assistant to the Bishop. But last week, when my mother was dying . . . on her deathbed .. . she told me who she was, and who I was . . . and she told me this story, the story that you just told the other night . . . the story of Yossele, the holy miser . . . and she told me that Yossele was my great, great grandfather. She died last week, and ever since, I have been trying to decide what to do.  Should I stay here?  And be an assistant to the Bishop?  Or should I go back to my people?  Should I be Joe?  Or should I be the great, great grandson of Yossele, the holy miser?

“And then, when you came to the conference . . . and you told that story, that story, that only my mother had ever told me before, the story that she told me the day she died . . .When you told that story . . . Can you imagine how I felt ? ? ? "

Shlomo told how he cried, and Joe cried, and he had the sense that all of Joe's ancestors . . including Yossele, the holy Miser, were on the Notre Dame campus that night, and they were crying too.  They talked all night.

And that night, Joe left a note for the Bishop.

It said:  "I have to leave.  Don't ask me why, don't ask me where."

And he left the next morning . . . for Jerusalem.

That was the story as Rabbi Riemer told it. I don't know whatever became of Joe, or Yossele.  To be honest I do not even know whether the story really happened.  But whether it happened or not I do believe that the story is true.  Because the story is all about being caught up in events beyond our control and getting lost.  But within each of us lies a compass that is ready to direct us home.  And we all want to return, to return to the One Who is the Source of our blessings.  When we come to shul on Yom Kippur that is what we are doing.  We are all looking to find that compass.  Each one’s compass is different from the next and each search is a unique one yet the paradox is that we can each only find our own way by joining together with others to help them find their way back.   

 This holy night begins the journey and we hope that God gives us the strength to carry this journey through a whole year until next Yom Kippur.  May this year lead to a successful path each of us finding our way to return and each of us helping each other through our efforts.