A few days later, one of them texted me: “Just did it — $6,500 order, sent $650 to a kollel I support. I’ll sleep better tonight”

I’M

a father of five and a partner in a growing business. I’m not a rav or a rosh kollel — I’m just someone who sees, every single day, the widening gap between our communal aspirations and our financial infrastructure.

Every Wednesday morning, I learn b’chavrusa with a yungerman named Motti. He’s 32, sharp, humble, and committed. He learns full-time, supports four children, and drives a Toyota that shakes when it idles. We learn in a converted dining room next to his kitchen. Sometimes his five-year-old sits on his lap, repeating after him as he reviews the daf. Motti never asks for help. But it’s clear: The margins are tight, the pressure is real, and he is holding up a world.

Later in the day I might walk into a meeting where the table is set with hand-rolled sushi, single-origin pour-over coffee, and delicate French pastries arranged like jewelry — every detail curated, every item whispering comfort, abundance, and care.

And I think of Motti’s cracked Formica table.

And his wife’s pride when she finds a sale on chicken cutlets.

And the quiet strength in a home built on Torah, not trimmings.

The idea didn’t hit all at once. It started as a kind of quiet frustration — the kind that creeps in when you’re mindlessly scrolling through people’s WhatsApp statuses late at night. You tap through scenes of glowing tents, raw bars stacked like sculptures, dessert carts, imported waitstaff, cigar lounges. No captions, just emojis — 🔥🔥🔥, 🙌, 💎. And you wonder — when did this become our norm?

I mentioned my idea to a friend a few weeks ago in the back of a shul, over coffee. “What if,” I said, “every time we spent on something above and beyond — an extra, a luxury — we matched it with a gift to Torah?”

He laughed. Then paused. “Actually, that’s brilliant. But no one will do it.”

I brought it up again that Friday with two colleagues. One runs a large simchah business, the other works in finance. I pitched it carefully: not as a takanah, not as a shaming tool — just a mindset. A structure.

“Call it a luxury tax, self-imposed. You spend big, you give bigger.”

They both raised their eyebrows. One of them said, “You’re serious about this?”

The other added, “I mean... it’s idealistic. But who’s actually going to follow through?”

Still, they didn’t dismiss it. There was a pause.

Then one of them said quietly, “It’s not crazy. It just needs the right push.”

A few days later, one of them texted me: “Just did it — $6,500 order, sent $650 to a kollel I support. I’ll sleep better tonight.”

I spoke to a vendor who caters high-end events. “Would your clients be open to this?”

She shrugged. “Depends how it’s framed. But honestly? I can see how people are waiting for something like this. We all feel the imbalance.”

Not everyone agreed, though.

One person told me flat out, “It’s idealistic. People don’t want to feel policed.”

Another said, “Listen, I give plenty — to my shul, to my kid’s yeshivah, to neighbors who are struggling. Why should I be expected to give more just because I bought something nice?”

Some pushed back harder: “This feels like lifestyle shaming. People work hard for their money and should be able to enjoy it without being judged.”

But even the critiques were telling: They weren’t pushing back on the need — just on how it might be received. And beneath the resistance, there was often a spark of discomfort — which means the idea touched something real.

That’s when I knew it had legs. So we gave it a name: “Ma’alim”— a word that means to elevate. The idea is simple: Turn the trappings of a blessed life into lifelines for those who are sustaining our spiritual future.

It’s the same spirit that animates Adirei HaTorah — raising up those who hold the Torah by giving them the support, dignity, and stability they deserve. Ma’alim is a way to carry that momentum forward into everyday life.

Not enforced by any government or institution. Just self-imposed. Voluntary, but consistent. A community-wide norm that says: whenever I spend on extra comfort, I also spend on kavod haTorah.

Let’s call it ten percent.

Redid your backyard with a new pergola, outdoor oven, and stone firepit for $5,000? Beautiful. Now you can entertain family and friends and build memories for a lifetime! Now allocate $500 toward a kollel where the only luxury is an extra hour of undisturbed learning.

Sent your teenager to a traveling camp in Europe or Eretz Yisrael for $10,000? Mamash an incredible experience. Why don’t you match $1,000 to help a yungerman keep his family afloat during bein hazmanim?

Dropped $8,000 on a new sheitel for Yom Tov — custom cut and same-day styling? That’s mekayeim “v’samachta atah u’veisecha”! But why not also channel $800 toward a kollel family’s Yom Tov grocery bill?

This isn’t about guilt. It’s about alignment — building a structured way to turn comfort into kavod haTorah.

How do we estimate the potential? We crunched numbers based on actual community spending. According to vendors in the Lakewood area alone, seasonal upgrades, simchah-related purchases, and boutique shopping — not including housing or tuition — amounts to hundreds of millions in annual discretionary spending.  If even 5,000 families implemented a ten percent Ma’alim model on just their nonessential spending, that could easily yield $10 million to $15 million per year — and that’s before broader adoption or vendor participation.

Is this just for Lakewood? No. Lakewood is the natural pilot, but Ma’alim is designed to be scalable. We are currently speaking with families and vendors in Monsey, Passaic, the Five Towns, and Toronto, with plans to expand further.

Where does the money go? We’re creating a central Ma’alim fund — a 501(c)(3) in formation — with transparent disbursement protocols to vetted kollelim and Torah institutions.  At the same time, participants may choose to designate funds directly to their own local mosdos. The key is accountability and consistency — not where it goes, but that it goes.

This is not a fundraising campaign. It’s an infrastructure. A mindset. A model. And at this time of year, this idea takes on deeper meaning. We just completed the Three Weeks, our time of national reflection. A time when we mourn a Beis Hamikdash lost not just to enemies, but to imbalance and disunity — between physical comfort and spiritual sacrifice.

The Gemara says the Second Beis Hamikdash was destroyed due to baseless hatred. Maybe part of rebuilding it begins with baseless giving. Giving not out of obligation, but aspiration.

Imagine reaching Elul with 1,000 families having quietly moved thousands of dollars into Torah — not via speeches or pressure, but through simple, structured commitment.

We’ve built a generation of comfort and kavod. Now let’s build one of kavod haTorah.

Dovid Aryeh Rosenblatt is a Lakewood-based entrepreneur and communal thinker who learned in yeshivah in Eretz Yisrael and later at Beth Medrash Govoha. He uses his background in finance and operations to advise growing businesses. He can be reached through Mishpacha magazine.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1074)