Last month’s “Shabbos flight” and the resultant El Al PR debacle spawned much discussion. There was debate regarding the airline’s intentions and whether it had manipulated Orthodox passengers, in addition to intense deliberation between armchair poskim as to whether or not those passengers should have taken a Thursday afternoon flight in the first place.

Then there was the cynicism, commenters weighing in on whether roshei yeshivah should be flying in business class at all. It’s bad optics or even chillul Hashem, they said; here they are, collecting money, and when they’re perceived as too free with those funds, it makes donors — many of whom fly economy class — squirm.

A few thoughts on this.

Why is it even called “business class?” Is it only open to businesspeople? Is it exclusively a place where business is conducted?

Of course not. It’s the section for those who are traveling with an immediate purpose. Upon landing, they aren’t headed for a long nap and they don’t have 24 hours to get their bearings.

If a rosh yeshivah or rosh kollel is traveling to America with you, it’s likely that he has meetings set up (or at least hoped for), from the moment he lands. No rosh kollel would rather be eating cereal downstairs in Shomrei Shabbos than being home, at their shtenders, surrounded by their talmidim.

They are in business.

And now, I’d like to make a general proposal, going forward: If the donation you give doesn’t match the decision you’re criticizing, then perhaps it’s not your place to weigh in.

An example: Say an economy-class ticket costs about $1,000, and a business-class ticket is $1,800 — but you only gave $54. So then you have no right to an opinion, because your donation, appreciated as it is, didn’t even cover the cost of an extra piece of luggage, and surely not the economy ticket you think the passenger should buy. You have to earn the right to an opinion.

Similarly, if you’re going to reach into your pocket and finally pull out 50 cents, why are you reading the laminated tzedakah letter for 20 minutes, squinting and scrutinizing like you’re a customs agent?

An interesting question was posed to Rav Shach. A yeshivah representative wanted to know if he could return a donation he felt to be an insult. However, as a gabbai tzedakah, he had acquired the money on behalf of the yeshivah — how did he have the right not to accept even a pittance of a donation? Rav Shach asked the collector who paid for his airline tickets. “The yeshivah, of course, because that’s the reason I’m going.”

And who covers your meals? asked Rav Shach.

“The yeshivah as well — I have to eat.”

“Exactly,” said Rav Shach. “The yeshivah covers that which is necessary for you to be able to do your job. And dignity is also necessary. A collector has to be able to protect himself from humiliation. Otherwise he won’t last very long.”

Klal Yisrael needs yeshivos and kollelim. Anyone collecting money for a holy institution — yeshivah or Bais Yaakov or soup kitchen or kiruv center or whatever — is doing us a favor. And they know what they need to be able to continue.

The Rambam (Matnas Aniyim, 10:4) says that when a donor gives money with an unpleasant demeanor, to a poor person, he loses and destroys his own merit, “Even if he gives him elef zuz.”

Why? Didn’t the pauper still get a significant amount of money?

A great man explained this. After being greeted with a scowl, an expression the collector won’t soon forget, he’s finished. Those elef zuz will be the end of the night for him, maybe the week. But 100 zuz given with a smile and words of encouragement will translate into a collector who feels empowered and appreciated, able to get out there, and knock on more doors.

So even in terms of the bottom line, a smile and encouragement goes further than whatever else you might be giving.

Yisgadal V’yiskadash

I’m not an eavesdropper in a creepy sort of way, but this job has taught me how to catch snippets of conversation here and there. I’ve learned how to innocently pause and read shul signs, focused intently on text about “Not just another raffle” and “Finally be able to lein Megillas Esther the right way,” planting myself firmly in the path of oncoming conversations.

On a recent visit to Jerusalem, walking up the charming stone stairs of a building in Shaarei Chesed, I caught an exchange between two good Jews post-Erev Shabbos mikveh, drops of water and holiness on their foreheads.

“You don’t know me,” said one to the other, “but I noticed in shul this morning that you were saying Kaddish. Can I ask after whom?”

The second man adjusted his backpack. “Yes, for my father.”

I pretended to be on the phone as I walked in step with them.

“Can you tell me something about your father?” the first man asked earnestly.

The second man stopped walking completely, standing in place and putting me in an awkward position.

“Why do you ask?”

I considered making believe the cat perched on the nearby stoop was my pet, then gave up and stopped pretending.

“I started to do that, wherever I am. If I see someone saying Kaddish, I ask them who it’s for, what lesson can be learned from that person, and I try to incorporate that into my life. This way, the deceased is still teaching us, and the mourner gets a little comfort as well.”

The second man sighed. “My father was everything to me. He taught me how to live. I guess his message was to be happy, always. He always found a reason to smile.”

The first man nodded. “Thank you. May his neshamah have an aliyah.”

He walked away, already happy.

The second man remained fixed in place, but of course he didn’t see me anymore.

For that moment, he was with his father.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 740)