Rabbi Sholom and Mushki Reindorp, Neshama, Baltimore, MD
By: Chaya Chazan
The local jails often give me a list of inmates who identified on their intake questionnaire as Jewish. Most of them aren’t actually Jewish, they’re just looking to get on the kosher diet, thinking it’s better food (unfortunately, they are mistaken). But one time, a name on the list caught my eye: Jerry Goldberg*.
I asked one of the guards to arrange a meeting with him. When Jerry arrived at the visitation booth and saw me sitting there, his eyes opened wide in surprise.
“When I was told I had a visitor, I never expected it to be a rabbi!” he commented, as he sat across from me.
As we chatted, I found out he’d been raised Conservative, but had never felt connected to his Judaism. His bar mitzvah was the first and last time he’d ever put on tefillin or given any thought to his connection with G-d. That was over 50 years ago. He shared that his recent arrest and detention had really crushed his spirit, and he was barely existing from moment to moment. He was in a deep depression, sleeping most of the day, and feeling like there was nothing to wake up for.
It was a few days before Purim, so I shared some Chassidic insights on the megillah and its lessons for us in day-to-day life. From that moment on, his perspective towards Judaism and life shifted. He’d never thought of Torah as anything more than irrelevant stories of people who lived thousands of years ago, and a bunch of rules that didn’t seem to make sense. He was amazed to see that behind all those “stories” are real life messages from the creator of the world – messages that applied to his challenges, and those “rules” are really a channel through which Hashem’s presence manifests within the physical world.
I kept coming back each week to learn with him one-on-one, and slowly, he started recognizing his significance to Hashem by virtue of the fact that, day after day, Hashem returned his neshama to him and gave him a new lease on life.
Jerry’s thirst for learning, specifically the philosophical and mystical aspect of Torah, was insatiable. I would bring him books he’d devour from cover to cover, asking me deep, insightful questions that led to hours-long discussions.
I once told him about the learning of Chitas. “The Rebbe instituted a daily learning cycle in the most fundamental Jewish works. There’s a company called Chayenu that prints weekly booklets with detailed explanations in English. Should I sign you up for a subscription?”
Jerry was eager to begin, and began learning Chitas every day.
Each visit, I’d put on tefillin and help him read through the Shema. After a few months, I told him, “Jerry, I’m not putting tefillin on you anymore. It’s time for you to start putting them on yourself!”
Jerry agreed, and committed to putting on tefillin every day.
Jerry has since been released, and continues to honor his commitments. One of the first things he did upon his release was sign up for his own subscription of Chayenu!
—————–
It felt like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. For the first time since our marriage, my wife and I had the opportunity to go on vacation – just the two of us. With five little children and a busy shlichus, it was rare to get quality time with one another. We both eagerly looked forward to the break, and I was determined not to let anything back home disturb us.
When I turned my phone on after our plane landed, it buzzed incessantly, as all the missed calls, emails, and texts came in. I quickly skimmed through them to see if there was anything urgent that couldn’t wait 3 days, and one email grabbed my attention. It was someone I didn’t know, writing about his brother, who had recently been arrested. He explained that his brother was in profound emotional distress and having a really hard time coping, and begged me to visit him as soon as possible.
As I read the email, my heart plummeted. Although I’d promised myself I’d leave all business back home, I couldn’t get this young man off my mind. Over the next three days, as I smiled and chatted with my wife and window shopped in the sunshine, I couldn’t help but picture his face, drawn and haggard, angst staring at me from his fathomless eyes.
As soon as we returned home, the first place I went was the county jail.
I sat in the visitation booth, and waited for the guards to bring him in. It took longer than I thought it should.
When he finally entered, he looked every bit as pallid as I’d imagined him. My heart went out to him.
I introduced myself, and asked, How are you feeling? with genuine concern in my voice.
He shrugged. I continued asking him questions, gently, but he remained unresponsive and brusque.
Determined to prompt some sort of response from him, I said something that was, admittedly, quite out of character for me: “It looks like you’re going through hell.”
His head shot up and he glared at me. “What are you here for?” he asked, angrily.
“I heard a fellow Jew was here, so I came to visit you,” I answered.
“So you’re not a member of staff?” he asked. “I don’t have to talk with you?”
“No, of course not,” I answered. “Not if you don’t want to.”
To my shock, he immediately stood up and left the booth.
I remained frozen in my seat, still trying to process what had happened. Was it possible the guy I’d spent my vacation fretting about just walked out on me? My spirit flattened in an instant.
I thought over the quote of the sages – words that come from the heart enter the heart – and I felt I’d messed up and lost the opportunity. Apparently, my care did not come across as genuine. And now, it was too late. I felt as if the life had been sapped out of me.
As I drove home, I couldn’t help pitying myself. I’d wasted a vacation, not to mention the time it took to drive to and from the jail, just to find out I was a massive failure.
I wallowed in self-pity for a couple of days, until a teaching from the Tanya struck me. If all Jews shared one father, and we were all equally beloved children of Hashem, why was my pain more important than his?
Stop feeling sorry for yourself, I berated myself. This man is blinded by so much pain, he can’t even see the hand reached out to him. How deeply troubled he must be to feel unworthy of care and attention!
His plight was still on my mind the following week when I was asked to speak with some counselors from a nearby camp. Usually, I’m not one for speaking, but, still raw from this story, I decided I’d share it with them.
At the camp site, I, rather vulnerably, shared the story with these teenagers, and then challenged them to close their eyes and think of someone who had wronged them or offended them, but instead of focusing on their own hurt and pain, to try and think of the other person’s perspective – what challenge, fear, or insecurity might have prompted them to make that choice?
As we came to the end of the exercise, a thought hit me. I may have lost my chance at connecting with this man directly, but perhaps I can still use this very moment as a way to impact him: What if these counselors could pen a letter about how his story, that he himself doesn’t even know about, has had a positive impact on them and their perspective? And then, I could mail him the letters. The counselors instantly agreed.
Eventually, he did get in touch, and one of the things he shared was how much he was moved by those letters.
———————
I’d found out about a young Jewish man on trial, about to be sentenced. I went to the court house early, and asked for permission to pray with him privately before the sentencing. Although the court didn’t usually allow it, they made an exception for me.
The young man, Mark*, was so touched I’d come for him. I offered to put tefillin on him, and he agreed. He admitted he’d had very little Jewish education or upbringing, and he’d never put on tefillin before.
I told him that, in that case, today would be his bar mitzvah. I helped him wrap the straps around his arm and say Shema. We celebrated by singing Mazal Tov and danced together. I shared some words of encouragement, and, since it was Elul, I also blew the shofar, explaining the significance of its cry. Respecting my surroundings, I tried to blow it as quietly as I could.
By the time we finished, he was visibly more relaxed. He’d been tense and nervous before, but he now seemed sanguine, ready to face whatever lay in front of him, with faith in G-d. And indeed, he walked into the courtroom with a feeling of connection and Jewish identity, still wearing the kippa I’d given him moments earlier.
Later, his lawyer shared with me what had been happening in the judge’s chambers at that time. The judge, the prosecutor, and he had been having a private discussion concerning some of the details of the case, when suddenly, a low wail sounded through the hallway.
“What on earth is that?” the judge wondered.
“I remember that sound from when I was a kid,” the prosecutor offered, “from when my family went to synagogue. I think it’s called a shofar.”
—————
It’s an unfortunate reality, but in the state of Maryland (and probably many other places too), when someone with a severe mental health condition is arrested for committing a crime, they will often spend many months in a county jail instead of a psychiatric hospital, where they could get the help they truly needed, because there’s such a long wait list for beds in most psychiatric wards. This is true even if the court’s assessment confirms the individual is non-criminally responsible, and signs off on a transfer order to a hospital. The Department of Health, which handles the list of incoming cases, doesn’t really have eyes and ears on all of the patients on the list, so their system of intake is mostly based on a policy of first come, first served. In the meantime, a sick person is wallowing in jail, often falling deeper and deeper into psychosis.
A number of years ago, I found out about a kid from the Jewish community in this very situation. It took some time, but by networking with the right connections within the Department of Health, I was able to alert them to the severity of this specific individual’s needs. They bumped him up the list, and instead of waiting months for help, he was transferred a short time later!
Baruch Hashem, the treatment he received was successful, and he’s since been released and is thriving.
————–
Yankel* was a local from a respected family in the Baltimore community. As a teen, he’d chosen a different way of life. When I came across Yankel in jail, he’d been estranged from Yiddishkeit for decades, and was struggling with severe mental health challenges, in a state of psychosis. The court had completed an assessment, found him criminally not responsible, and ordered a transfer to a mental care facility. Unfortunately, as is too often the case, I knew there’d be a long wait for an available bed. I used my contacts in the Department of Health to expedite the process, and he was soon transferred.
I visited him there every week while he underwent treatment, and it was incredible to see his transformation over those two years. The medication and therapy stabilized him, and our weekly shmoozes – and the tefillin I put on him each time – healed his breach with Yiddishkeit.
Recently, Yankel was reassessed and deemed fit to move onto the next leg of his journey – a group home. Residents have group therapy sessions a few days a week, and they are overseen by a social worker who lives on site.
When Yankel moved into this new home just before Rosh Hashana, I welcomed him by bringing kosher supplies and a shofar he could blow on Yom Tov.
“Actually, now that you have a shofar, you could help me out with an issue I’ve been thinking about,” I told him. “Just half a mile away is another group home. There’s a guy I know there – Eddie*. He’s an elderly Jew that was released last year after decades behind bars. He doesn’t know much about Yiddishkeit, but he told me he really wants to hear the shofar on Rosh Hashanah. For the past few weeks, I’ve been thinking about how I can fulfill his request. It’s so far removed from any Jewish community or rabbi, it would be extremely difficult for anyone to get here. But it seems like Hashem has already planned the perfect way for Eddie to do this mitzvah! He sent you, Yankel, as the shliach to not only blow for yourself, but to blow for him as well!”
Yankel agreed. Helping another Jew fulfill a mitzvah empowered him to take an active role in his own Yiddishkeit.
In all the time I’d known him, while incarcerated and hospitalized, Yankel never asked for his own pair of tefillin. Although the rules wouldn’t allow him to have his own, had he requested them, I would’ve advocated for him. As it was, he agreed to put them on when I was there and offered them to him, but he’d never taken any initiative.
When he was released to the group home, I included a pair of tefillin among the other supplies I brought.
“These are my own spare pair,” I told him. “I won’t be able to visit every day to help you put on tefillin, but I’m happy to lend you a pair so you can do it yourself. Even if you only do it once in a while, it’s worthwhile to me!”
I didn’t press him for an answer, and we left it at that.
Two weeks later, I had the opportunity to finally bring Yankel back to visit Pikesville, the community he’d grown up in, and to a shul, for the first time in decades. I asked “Ready to do tefillin?”
To my delighted amazement, he said, “I already did it this morning! I’ve been doing it every morning since you gave me that pair!”
————————
Early on in our shlichus, I came across a young Jewish man in his twenties in a detention center. He was incarcerated there due to a substance abuse issue, and I started visiting him on a regular basis to offer support. Although he didn’t consider himself religious, he appreciated when I would come and put on tefillin with him and help him say Shema.
He told me about his girlfriend who was also Jewish, and gave me her contact information. When I first contacted her, my focus was supporting her while her loved one was in jail. Unfortunately, a couple of months later, she suffered a miscarriage and needed our support while she struggled with this new crisis. We did our best to be there for her, and made sure she knew she could reach out to us at any time.
With her boyfriend in jail, her grief over her lost baby, the difficult recovery, and financial hardships, she was in despair. One day, she called, sobbing as she told me about everything that was going wrong. As I listened, I heard some concerning signs that made me suspect she was considering harming herself.
She lived about an hour away. I told her to sit tight and wait – my wife and I were heading straight over. I knew my wife could console her and comfort her in ways I couldn’t, and how important that would be. It was a scramble to find a babysitter, but, baruch Hashem, we found someone to watch our children while my wife and I rushed to the young woman’s home.
We knocked on the door and rang the bell, but there was no answer. Calls to her phone went unanswered as well.
With sinking hearts, we called 911. They agreed with our assessment that there may be immediate danger, broke in the door, and discovered her unconscious in bed, suffering from an overdose.
She was whisked off to the hospital, and, baruch Hashem – her life was saved.
Five years later, though still mourning the loss of her unborn child, she is doing much better. Her boyfriend was released a while back, and they are rebuilding their lives – together.
*Names changed to protect privacy
Amazing work
BS”D
Always making a positive impact since we met.
Lechaim!
Shlomo Nissim P