Chassidic Stories

But now he was about to do the unthinkable. He was going to ask his Rebbe to bless him that G-d should send him a comfortable livelihood...

When the two neighbors would pass each other in the yard, the scholar would throw the crass materialist a look of contempt and hurry on to his holy pursuits

Finally, the great moment arrived. It was the morning of Rosh Hashanah, and Rabbi Ze’ev stood on the reading platform in the center of the Baal Shem Tov’s synagogue amidst the Torah scrolls, surrounded by a sea of tallit-draped bodies.

The scandalized crowd was about to eject the man from the synagogue, when the Rebbe turned from the wall and said: "Let him be. For us, Yom Kippur is just beginning, but for him, it's already Simchat Torah He's there already"

The room fell utterly silent. All were caught in the thrall of the melody, a melody of yearning and resolve, of ascent and retreat...

A room full of five-year-olds in a Russian cheder learn a new way to read the Alef Bet

It seems that this stingy man, despite his considerable wealth, was loath to share his blessings, no matter how worthy or urgent the cause. Rabbis and beggars alike avoided his home.

Matter before spirit?

"It's Chanukah," cried Nachman, "the festival of miracles! We'll do the mitzvah the way it should be done. Not in some rusty can fished out from the garbage..."

What kind of question did Joseph ask his brothers? Doesn't everybody have a father?

"Tell him," said the Rebbe, "that not everything in the Dark Ages was dark"

"Do you know where all our rubles come from?" said Igor to Ivan. "The Czar himself has them minted in his palace! So why doesn't he just keep all the rubles he needs, and we'll keep ours?"

The Rebbe took the gold coin, wedged it in a crack in the wall next to his desk, and said no more

The young prodigy overheard the exchange between the rabbi and the wagon driver. He could scarcely believe his ears. A pound of candles to atone for violating the holy Shabbat?

I heard the voice of my three-year-old daughter Chanah calling to me, "Father, father, where are you? Father, father, answer me..."

When I was 11 years old, my father gave me the manuscript as a gift. "This is a chassidic kiss," he said, "in time I will explain"

The year was 1945, just after the war. The place: a refugee camp somewhere in Germany. Jews just out of concentration camps had gathered in a barracks-turned-Synagogue for the Yom Kippur prayers