Tzedakah has such power that it can save from death

"You shall tithe all the seed crop that the field gives forth, year by year.” (Devarim 14:22)

The Torah describes Bnei Yisrael’s physical comfort in the desert as a situation where they weren’t lacking anything. They had the mahn, the Well, and as it says (Devarim 8:4): “Your clothing did not wear out upon you, nor did your foot swell these 40 years.”

So how did they fulfil the mitzvah of tzedakah with one another? (Rav Shimshon Pincus, Tiferes Shimshon)

I pulled up in front of the glass-plated office building in Jerusalem, pleased it boasted a parking lot. Obviously, the building hosted many hot-shots.

I was on an errand for a relative, to sign some paperwork from a top specialist. Entering the building, my estimation of this doctor’s success shot up as the lobby was posh and polished, with a proper receptionist, and a double set of large glass elevators.

Riding to the 11th floor, I exited into a long, carpeted hallway leading to the offices. Carpet in this country definitely spells success.

I idly wondered if the doctor was a real snob, heady with his flourishing practice that netted such nice décor. It really wasn’t my concern, though. Baruch Hashem, I had no need for his expertise, nor would I care if his bedside manner was haughty or humble. I just needed his signature.

Actually, there was no possibility in the desert to fulfill the mitzvah of tzedakah. This was intentional. Shlomo Hamelech writes in Mishlei (11:4): “Tzedakah saves from death.” Tzedakah has such power that it can save from death, even if death was already decreed in Heaven.

The generation of the desert were given a death decree. If they’d had the ability to give tzedakah, they could’ve been saved from that decree, but this wouldn’t have been good for them! Therefore, Hashem actually made it impossible for them to fulfill tzedakah so they could atone for their sin via their deaths.

The secretary smiled at me as I entered. More points for the practice if the receptionist was welcoming. I took a seat in the comfortable waiting room, noticing the plants, tasteful lighting, and framed artwork.

Glancing around, though, I couldn’t help but notice the other patients waiting to see the specialist. My stomach tensed as I realized that most of them were probably not even aware of their comfortable surroundings as they waited for the eminent physician to pronounce a sentence upon their life and future.

It’s well known that in the last century, the level of Yiddishkeit in America was extremely low, yet they were saved from the fires of the Holocaust that raged through their brethren in Europe. Many gedolei Yisrael have said that this was in the merit of the exceptional generosity of American Jewry.

It’s important to keep in mind, though, that although tzedakah may be like a respirator allowing a person to live, he still needs to do mitzvos and maasim tovim on his own to merit eternal life.

When my name was called, I entered a large, airy office. Dr. Kitov was a distinguished-looking man of about 60, with a kippah on his head and a smile on his face. Despite the ominous prognoses he dealt with on a daily basis, he seemed to radiate professionalism as well as personal care.

As he went over the paperwork, I glanced around his desk, noted the shiny surface and top-of-the-line computer equipment. Then I saw the glass stand on the corner of his desk.

There stood several sifrei Tehillim, a copy of the Rambam’s works, and a beautiful tzedakah pushke made of cherry oak, with the words “tzedakah tatzil mimaves” engraved upon it in silver.

Dr. Kitov signed my papers and with a smile wished my relative best regards.

With my hand on the doorknob, I paused and turned back to face him. “I’ve heard a lot about your expertise, and I’m very impressed with your professionalism. But I must tell you, I’m in awe of a physician who has risen in the medical field like you have, with so much scientific knowledge at your fingertips, and still remembers the ultimate route to refuah.” I gestured toward his seforim and the tzedakah box. “Thank you for being that shaliach.”

I closed the door softly, grateful I hadn’t needed the doctor’s expertise for my life, but that I’d gained a life lesson.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 657)