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Classic chassidic tales. There's no better way to make a point than to tell a story...

Chassidic Stories

Chassidic Stories

There's no better way to make a point than to tell a story...

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Like every eligible male in Czarist Russia, Peretz Chein eventually received a letter stating that he was required to show up at a conscription office.
Although the villager was a simple Jew, he hoped that his children would one day surpass his meager knowledge of Torah.
As the Siberian winter deepened, Chanukah came, and a group of young Jewish prisoners convened for a short meeting.
Besides his day job, he had another duty, one that he carried out secretly and with great devotion . . .
The landlady on the floor wailing hysterically. Her only son, she sobbed, had agreed to convert to Christianity, and was being held in a locked room in a monastery.
Though people in the synagogue pitied him, he felt no shame.
"When you are approached by a villager who offers to sell you something, buy it at once."
“But the magnate is a simple man, not a Torah scholar!” interjected the rabbi. “How can I allow this match to happen?”
The suddenness of the rebbe’s appearance in his city caught the chassid, along with his wide-open mansion, off guard. Left with no choice, he reluctantly surrendered his house so that it could serve as the rebbe’s accommodation.
It was winter, and as they set out on their journey, snow began to fall, and strong winds pushed them from the snow-covered road.
"Tell them that you are ready to offer a dowry of 2,000 silver rubles, as long as the groom is a Torah scholar and from a respectable family.”
One Simchat Torah, a group of boisterous villagers burst through the entrance in high spirits . . .
How did the shoemaker lay his hands on the precious artifact? No one knew.
The messenger approached a traveler and asked him whether he was carrying an etrog . . .
To the czar’s horror, the soldier tugged his curved sword out from its sheath and presented it to the innkeeper . . .
Overcome by grief, the poor man barely managed to process the news before he passed out . . .
A simple, uncouth individual, dressed in the attire of ignorant and coarse men, came to his home.
The students spread out, scouring all paths leading to the field for a gentleman who might lend them a pipe.
The innkeeper lived modestly, but he offered his guests his best rooms and did everything he could to make their stay comfortable.
“The community is too poor, and cannot shoulder the financial burden of this endeavor. And as for the local gevir, it is a waste of time even to approach him . . .”