The Short Vort by Rabbi Eisenman

It was a cool, crisp, clear day in Washington, DC.

I was joining the largest gathering of Jews in the history of American Jewry.

I joined the throngs of Jews gathered together in unity to show our support for our Jewish brethren in Israel.

The Passuk danced in my mind from Yeshaya, “L’chu V’Naaleh…” “Let us go up (to Capital Hill).”

Suddenly, political, philosophical, and organizational differences disappeared.

There was one cause and one purpose: support of the Jewish people.

There were Chassidim in full Chassidish Levush.

Chabadniks were carrying Tefillin, finding eager volunteers to don the precious Mitzvah.

There were Bais Yakov girls in their modest uniforms and many Bnei Torah, keen to organize Mincha Minyanim.

Yet, most of all, there were those Jews who we had forgotten about.

Jews who we thought were Chas V’Shalom lost to the Mesorah.

It was they who impressed me the most.

They came in the tens of thousands.

They arrived in droves from Norfolk and New England, from Detroit to Denver.

They boarded planes in Los Angeles and busses in Buffalo.

They came for one purpose only: to identify as Jews.

As the saintly Mashgiach Rav Yerucham Levovitz ZT”L writes (Daas Torah, Parshas VaYigash), “Nothwithstading all of the Hester Ponim (Hiddeness of Hashem and His ways): “Am Yisroel Chaim V’Kayam!”

The reverberating echo of Rav Yerucham’s message that no matter how difficult the situation seems, the Jewish Nation is alive and will live forever- was heard loud and clear.

It was a gathering like no other.

A demonstration through action and words that proves once again the ultimate truth that much more than divides us unifies us.

I did my best to interact, mingle, connect, and bond with my brothers and sisters, especially those not residing in our insular enclaves of Lakewood, Passaic, Brooklyn, and Monsey.

I attempted to be part of “amcha.”

I approached a Jew who was bareheaded yet tattooed from his torso to his wrists.

 “Excuse me. Where do you come from?”

He named an out-of-town city about a nine-hour drive from Washington.

I asked in amazement, “You traveled nine hours just to be here today?”

He told me that he and other Jews had hired a bus for the rally.

Soon, it became clear the bus company was not willing to transport Jews to a Jewish rally.

He said matter-of-factly, “So we grabbed an Uber and paid $900 to get here!”

“You spent $900 to be here today?”

He looked at me with equal disbelief. “It’s not worth $900 to save a Jewish child?”

I spontaneously said to him, “Can I hug you?”

He said, “You can hug me, but first, I want something from you.”

“What is that?”

“I want you to bless me that I marry a Jewish girl. I come from a place where there are few Jewish girls. I am done with the non-Jewish world. I want to marry a Jewish girl and raise a Jewish family. I want to light the Chanuka candles with her.”

“I am not worthy of giving Brochus,” I told him.

 However, he was insistent.

“Rabbi, my great-grandfather who passed away when I was five, told me that if I ever needed a Blessing, I should look for a Jew that looks like you, and he will bless you. I remember he used the word, “He will “Bensch” you. So, you look like that person, Rabbi, please “Bensch me”!

I could not deny his request. I Bensched him that he should find a Jewish girl to marry.

As he walked ahead, he turned and asked, “By the way, what’s your name?”

“Eisenman, from Passaic.”

I never saw him again at the rally.

This morning, I noticed an email from a name I did not recognize.

I was tempted to press “delete”; however, something piqued my interest.

I opened my email.

There was a picture of my tattooed friend standing beside a Jewish girl before a Menorah.

Under the picture, the words were written:

“Her name is Miriam, and she is from Tel Aviv.

I met her at the rally.

She is as Jewish as they come.

Rabbi, you were wrong, and my great-grandfather was right; you  (did) “Bensch me,” and it came true!