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Shkufim Atumim -

A Story for generations

"And he made for the House windows, narrow within and wide without (שקופים אטומים)."

(Malachim 6,4)

A story is told of a rabbi who, one evening, went to visit an ill man in his home, in order to fulfill the mitzvah of bikur cholim (visiting the sick). When the door was opened for him, he thought for a moment that he had stepped back into the era of “cave dwellers.” The large living room was dim and shadowy, filled with restless noise and chatter from outside voices.

“I see I’m disturbing,” said the rabbi. “I’ll come back another time.”

“Please come in, Rabbi,” came the voice of the host. “We’re just listening to what’s happening in the big cities—it’s important to know.”

“No, thank you,” said the rabbi. “I’ll come another time; I’ll call first.”

The patient, however, insisted on honoring his guest, and knew what to do. The voices were silenced, the lights turned on, and the “cave” once again became an ordinary home. A lively conversation developed about doctors and treatments. The rabbi advised and encouraged, and the eyes of the patient lit up with happiness. At the end of their conversation, the man felt the need to ask a question:

“Why didn’t the Rabbi want to hear what’s going on outside? Isn’t the Rabbi interested in what’s happening in the cities, in the country, in the world?”

“I’m very interested,” replied the rabbi. “After all, I live among my people. I keep myself informed daily from proper sources.”

“Hearing directly from people is different,” said the patient. “When you’re connected to what’s going on, you feel it more strongly!”

“True,” agreed the rabbi.

“So why did the Rabbi avoid it?”

“Precisely because of that,” answered the rabbi.

The host looked puzzled, so the rabbi explained:

“You ask only about outside information, because you also know how damaging bad influences can be to a person’s character. But since you ask—listen carefully:

As you know, I serve as a dayan (rabbinical judge). Day after day I hear complaints and quarrels, I see how homes are destroyed over trivialities, how dreams are shattered and lives worn down. And I ask myself: How does this happen? Why do people who built a home with love and feeling, and pinned so many hopes on it, reach such a crushing breakdown, even hatred and enmity?

Why didn’t this happen with our ancestors? Why is it so rare in the religious community? I think I have found the answer.

Our forefathers lived hard lives—lives of decrees and persecutions, of tensions and fears. But they tried to make sure all of that ended at the threshold of their home. Inside the home there was light and radiance, peace and purity.

The Englishman says: ‘My home is my castle.’ The Jew says: ‘My home is my sanctuary,’ a mikdash me’at. The home is sacred—a place of protection, serenity, and education; a place for conversation with one’s wife and play with one’s children.

But today, peer pressure and outside influences have broken through the walls of the home. People worry more about “what will they say in the city” than about what their own children are learning at the table. Instead of being a fortress of peace, the home becomes an outpost of outside noise and demands.

You asked about hearing the news of the cities. Think about this: when every influence from outside is allowed to flow into your home, then you are no longer really living in your own home! The outside world has invaded it—with its culture and atmosphere, its rivalries and fashions.

The Holy Temple had windows that were ‘narrow within and wide without’ (שקופים אטומים), meaning the light went out from them, but no light came in from outside.

So too must the Jewish home be: a source of light and radiance, shining outward. That is how I try to shape my home—a home of inner happiness, a fortress of holiness and education.”

A week later, the patient came to synagogue. After prayers, he approached the rabbi.

“My wife listened to our conversation—and she decided we should close the door on outside pressures.”

“I’m sure she had her reasons,” said the rabbi.

“Yes,” replied the man. “Since then, the light is on in our home in the evenings.”

And he did not mean only the electric chandelier.

Rabbis need to disciver and explore - to learn how to filter through all the “noise” the world offers and genuinely and authentically decide what needs to come in - and what needs to stay - this is Shkufim Atumim.