| Cut ‘n Paste |

My Uncle the Kanoi

By A. Kutcher | May 29, 2017

Everyone knew he was a tremendous machmir, extremely, extremely careful about every drop of food that went into his mouth. And he was also a kanoi in ahavas Yisrael

P eople might think my uncle Rav Shimshon Pincus ztz”l was a kanoi.

And undoubtedly he was.

If the definition of kanoi is someone who is ready at every given moment and no matter the cost to self to do ratzon Hashem then definitely Rav Shimshon was a kanoi.

Rav Shimshon was once arrested for spray painting over an immodest billboard in his neighborhood. When asked by the tough secular Israeli court cop if he wanted a lawyer he retorted “I need a lawyer? I saved you from a flood! It says that the flood came to the world because of immorality!”

Rav Shimshon spoke at a gathering instituting the mehadrin bus line in Eretz Yisrael and told the crowd that we get used to immodest things and eventually they become normal. He held that one day separate buses would be “normal” and mixed buses shocking to our senses.

When Rav Shimshon spoke to “yeshivahmen” (as my grandfather used to lovingly call yeshivah bochurim and yungeleit) he was demanding. He told it like it is: We are capable of producing a billion times more Torah than we currently are! We could be saving the world with it! What are we waiting for?

Yes Rav Shimshon was a kanoi.

A kanoi for dvar Hashem.

A kanoi in ahavas haTorah.

In ahavas Hashem.

And he was also a kanoi in ahavas Yisrael.

Like when he asked his close relative whom he loved so much what she wanted him to get her. “Baskin Robbins ice cream Pralines ’N Cream ” came the ready answer. Rav Shimshon drove to the (chalav stam) Baskin Robbins on Avenue J and a kid jumped out of his car to go in and get the ice cream.

Like when I was newlywed and asked Uncle Shimshy if he would come visit us in our apartment. After he said of course he’s coming right over my brand-new husband and I looked around our (miniscule) apartment then at each other and realized we had absolutely nothing to offer him.

My husband ran to the corner mini-mart on Coney Island Avenue and Avenue P (we had no car) and came racing back with a package of Stella D’oro Swiss Fudge cookies.

I looked at the cookies looked at my husband wondered what I’d been expecting (at 10 p.m. did I think he’d bring back fresh kosher bagels from the Pakistani-owned minimart?) and informed my husband: “There’s no way Uncle Shimshy will eat these cookies. They’re not pas Yisrael.”

Everyone knew Uncle Shimshy walked his chickens before he had them shechted. Everyone knew he was a tremendous machmir extremely extremely careful about every drop of food that went into his mouth.

I clearly remembered the time my brothers were eating bagel pizza from a heimishe-brand box that said “made with chalav Yisrael cheese.” Uncle Shimshy pointed out to them that it only specified that the cheese was chalav Yisrael...Who knew what other dairy non-chalav Yisrael ingredients lurked inside the bagel pizza....

I knew there was no way Rav Shimshon would eat the cookies. But we left them on the table. There was nothing else (if I can excuse my empty cupboard by explaining that I worked two jobs leaving every morning at six-thirty and coming home at night with my husband at seven).

Uncle Shimshy came in, looked around at our tiny apartment, and promptly and confidently agreed with us that we were paying way too much. (At $450 for approximately 4.5 square feet, he was right. But how he knew American apartment prices, we couldn’t figure out.)

He then delighted me by schmoozing in learning with my new husband, and discussing with him whether or not then-President Clinton would serve Stella D’oro Swiss Fudge cookies at his table in the White House! Was it ra’ui l’shulchan melachim (worthy of a king’s table)? That would decide if the cookies needed to be pas Yisrael. (Based on Avnei Nezer YD 1:92; cf. Chelkas Binyamin 112:12 biurim)

A part of me laughed inwardly as I listened to the discussion. I was sure the discussion was irrelevant. He was just humoring us so we wouldn’t feel bad that he couldn’t eat a cookie. I knew without a doubt what the conclusion would be: Of course, it’s mutar, he would definitely let his wife and kids eat it… but he himself… so sorry… don’t feel bad…

And then I watched unbelievingly as, at the end of the discussion, Uncle Shimshy took a cookie, made a brachah, and ate it. (Presumably, relying on the heter of pas palter.)

Our marriage was blessed by him.

And when, as a teenager, one of us was wearing bobby socks and someone asked him what he thought? Nary a word.

Rav Shimshon was a kanoi. He lived every moment ready to do anything, absolutely anything, that he felt Hashem wanted of him.

And for some moments in his too-short life, it meant acceptance, it meant love, it meant living by the maamar Chazal that, just like it’s a mitzvah to tell someone something that they will hear (accept), so is it a mitzvah to not tell someone something they will not hear (accept).

This is not what Rav Shimshon is so famous for.

He’s famous for his rock-splitting Torah that breaks open your mind, letting the dvar Hashem come pouring into your brain like a life-giving shower of sweetness.

He’s famous for his ability to inspire you, through a single hour-long class, to change a habit or activity you’d been indulging in for a decade or more. To tap yourself into that part of yourself that wants to be great. That still believes you can be great.

He’s famous for his brilliance.

For his gadlus.

For being a true kli of the dvar Hashem, to give it over to us in our generation.

And for eating a Stella D’oro Swiss Fudge cookie in his niece’s tiny newlywed apartment because he decided that’s what Hashem wants of him right now?

This, too, was Rav Shimshon Pincus, my uncle the kanoi.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha Issue 662)

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