| Impressions |

This Small One Will Become Great

By Rivky Neuhaus | January 24, 2018

“We just want the brit milah, nothing more. If you won’t do it, that’s fine. But if yes, just do it and be done with it”

As told to Rivky Neuhaus by Rav Yitzchak Abuhav

y father, Rav Refael Abuhav z”l, was best known as a cantor (he was the chazzan at the Great Synagogue of Tel Aviv for many years) but he was also a much sought-after mohel

That was in part because he performed many brissim free of charge, especially for poor families. But Abba would do more than just perform a bris, he would look after the families, often supplying them with baby supplies, food, clothing, and even money. For that reason, he had the zechus to perform many brissim across Israel.

In all the years that he worked as a mohel, one story he told us stands out.

One day, my father received a phone call from a man who introduced himself as Gideon. He asked Abba if he could perform the bris milah for his newborn son, and my father happily agreed. The bris would take place in Bat Yam, at 7:30 a.m. on the following day.

Early the next morning, my father davened at the k’vasikin minyan, as was his custom, and then took a taxi to the address he was provided. When he arrived, he was surprised to discover that the address was for an apartment building and not a shul. Though it’s not common to perform a bris in a house, it’s not completely unheard of either, so he climbed the steps and knocked on the door. A very tall man wearing a t-shirt and shorts answered.

“Excuse me,” my father said, a bit confused. “I must have the wrong house.”

“Are you the mohel?” asked the man. My father nodded.

“In that case, you are in the right place. I’m Gideon, the father of the baby. Please, come in.”

Abba walked in and looked around the empty house. “Where will the brit take place?” he asked.

Gideon led him into a side room where a newborn was sleeping peacefully.

“Right here,” he said. “In the baby’s room.”

My father was perplexed. Not only would the bris take place in a house and not a shul, but in an empty house in a side bedroom. There was also no sign of a minyan or seudah.

Trying to hide his growing unease, my father asked, “Are you expecting more people? Family members?”

“No, no,” Gideon said. “There’s no need to make a whole party out of this. We didn’t invite anyone. What for? We just want to do it quickly and get it over with. How much does the brit cost?” the man said, pulling out his wallet. “Nu, how much do I owe you?”

Instead of replying, my father looked around. “Where is the mother of the baby?”

“My wife is in the back, getting ready to leave. She has to go out. Let’s just do the brit quickly, because I also have to go. I have to be at my job at eight.”

Alarmed, Abba stared at the man. This was getting downright bizarre.

“Sir, what do you mean ‘do it quickly’? There should be guests, a seudah, a minyan…”

“Look,” said Gideon impatiently. “We just want the brit milah, nothing more. If you won’t do it, that’s fine. But if yes, just do it and be done with it.”

Abba took a deep breath. “Got it,” he said, grasping the situation. “B’seder. Don’t worry; I will take care of getting people. If you need to leave, you can go.”

The man left the house. Abba went downstairs to see if he could gather some passersby to form a minyan, but it was still early in the morning and there weren’t many people around. Abba walked back to the apartment and came face to face with Gideon’s wife. She was holding a purse in one hand and a baby bottle in the other.

She said, “Listen, I need to leave now, but the housekeeper is supposed to arrive soon. When she comes, you can leave. Here’s a bottle in case the baby gets hungry before she arrives.” And with that, she handed him the bottle and was out the door.

My father was simply in shock. Though he had performed thousands of brissim during his career he had never been in a situation like this, performing a bris alone. For a few moments he stood there just shaking his head. Then, he collected himself and began to prepare his instruments.

There was no choice, so Abba had to act as both sandek and mohel. He said the prayers quickly and then performed the circumcision. But at the point when the baby is named, he suddenly realized that the father had not given him one! What was he supposed to call him?

In a flash, it came to him:

“Vikarei shemo b’Yisrael, AVRAHAM BEN GIDEON.”

This baby was to be named for the very first person who had performed the mitzvah of bris milah, Avraham Avinu. Suddenly, his heart constricted and his eyes filled with tears. He began to cry for this poor, unfortunate baby whose parents didn’t care enough to be at his bris.

Abba closed his eyes and said the concluding prayers. “Zeh hakatan gadol y’hiyeh! This small one will be great!” The entire time he sobbed uncontrollably, saying fervently, “Bezrat Hashem, may it be His will that this child grows up to be a great tzaddik and yerei Shamayim!” He cried for the helpless baby who was likely going to be raised without any vestige of his rich heritage. He cried for the parents, who were so abysmally ignorant that they didn’t even realize the significance of bringing their son into briso shel Avraham Avinu. He prayed fervently for the child’s future, trying to imbue him with as much kedushah as possible on this holy day.

My father placed the baby on the cot and bandaged, dressed, and swaddled him. Then he lifted little Avraham and held him against his chest, stroking his back until he was calm. Still holding the rach hanimol, he sat down and pulled out his little Tehillim that he always kept in his bag. He started to chant the holy words. With intense concentration, he prayed for the child, Avraham ben Gideon. Word by word, perek by perek, he said the Tehillim of David Hamelech. The tears ran down his cheeks unchecked as he begged Hashem to let the boy see the light of Torah and mitzvos.

He didn’t know how long he sat there saying Tehillim, engulfed as he was with intense emotion. Soon the baby was sleeping soundly and my father placed him back in the bassinet and began to gather his instruments. From the other room, he heard the door open and close, and saw that the housekeeper had arrived. He could not bear to leave the child alone with a gentile woman so soon after having undergone this most significant occasion of his new life, but he realized there was nothing more he could do. He took one last look at the sleeping newborn, his chest rising and falling. Then he picked up his bag and left.

That evening, Abba came home and told us all about his bizarre day. He described the intense emotions he’d felt being all alone in the house with this baby, and how he could not stop crying. It was clear to all of us that my father had been deeply moved. For many years, he referred back to that day, remembering with utter bewilderment that he had once been the sole participant at a bris.

Surprise Visit

Twelve years later, Abba came home one day with barely suppressed excitement. “Don’t ask what happened to me today! You will never believe it!”

He told us that a woman came to the offices of the Rabbanut in Tel Aviv, where he worked. She asked to speak to Rav Refael Abuhav, and was shown into my father’s office.

“K’vod HaRav,” she began, “I have come to ask you for a favor. I have a son who wants to meet you, to talk to you. He is waiting outside. Do you have a few minutes for him?”

“Who is your son?” Abba asked.

She told him his secular name. “You were his mohel,” she added.

“I don’t recall, but it doesn’t matter. Of course I will meet with him. Please, let him come in.”

A tall, nervous-looking boy entered the office and stood near his mother. Abba smiled and shook his hand, inviting them both to sit down.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

The mother cleared her throat and looked at her son. Then she began to speak.

“Rabbi, our family is not religious at all; we don’t believe in it. My husband and I have raised our son completely secular. He has always attended public school and has never had any religious instruction. He is now 12-and-a-half years old and we’ve started talking about his bar mitzvah. About half a year ago, he started getting ideas into his head. He wants to have a religious bar mitzvah! He wants tefillin! He is driving us crazy! We have tried explaining to him that our family doesn’t do these things. But from that point on, he lost interest in school, in sports, and stopped participating in family events. We simply don’t know what to do with him!

“A few weeks ago, he asked us about his mohel. My husband remembered your name, but my son still wasn’t satisfied. He said he wanted to meet you. He didn’t let up, so we looked up your name in the phone book and realized that you work in the office of the Rabbanut. I brought him here to meet you.

“Rabbi,” she said, her voice cracking, “We love our son and we want him to be happy, but religion is not for us. Please talk to him. I’m hoping you can knock some sense into him.”

While the mother was talking, memories of that strange bris came flooding back. My father now clearly remembered the woman — she was the one who had left her baby alone with a complete stranger on the day of his bris. This meeting was turning out to be perhaps even stranger than his first encounter with this family. He marveled at the story of this young man, and wondered how a boy so young could have such yearnings for Torah after being deprived his entire life.

“Well,” said my father. “I’m happy to talk with your son. If you can step outside for a bit…”

The mother rose and left the room. Abba now addressed the boy gently and asked what he wanted to talk to him about.

“Tell me the story of my brit milah.”

“The story of your brit?”

“Yes, I want to know how my brit went. There are no pictures and my parents said they weren’t even there. Only you can tell me.”

My father smiled. It was an unusual question but he obliged the boy by telling him about that day. Abba described how he was all alone, and how he had to choose a name for the boy, and how he decided on the name Avraham. He described how choked up he had felt and how he had cried during the entire episode.

The boy was astounded. He never knew he had a religious name. He listened with rapt attention to Abba’s tale, hungrily ingesting every word. And then, without warning, the boy burst into tears. His shoulders shook as he sobbed uncontrollably. My father, though alarmed, sat quietly, waiting for the boy to stop.

Finally, the boy collected himself and looked at my father with his large, sad eyes.

“Rabbi,” he said, “my parents are good people. But they are not religious at all. They have never taught me a thing. However, I want to be religious more than anything else, and I don’t know how to go about it. My bar mitzvah is coming up, and they want to throw me a party like all their secular friends, completely devoid of anything spiritual — basically a glorified birthday party.

“I want to learn Torah and get a pair of tefillin, but my parents don’t see any reason to buy them; they think it’s just a waste of money. I was surprised to find out they even gave me a brit. I don’t know anyone religious, so I asked my father who performed my brit, and he told me it was a chareidi man with a long beard. Since you were my mohel, I thought maybe I could ask you… Can you please help me get a pair of tefillin?”

My father was incredulous. How does it happen that a 12-year-old boy who has never been exposed to a shred of Judaism should, out of the blue, decide to become religious? Where does such a yearning come from?

When he found his voice, he said, “Young man, I am amazed that a boy your age could have such a strong feeling of kedushah after having been raised in a secular home. Of course I will help you! It would be my honor and zechut!”

They talked for a while and then my father called the boy’s mother back in.

“Listen,” he said to her in a very serious tone. “Your son is a very unusual boy. I believe that his desire to put on tefillin is coming from a very deep place. Nothing you or your husband can say or do will change that. If you continue to oppose him, you will only alienate him. My best advice to you is to allow him to live his life as he feels is right and not impede him. He has a very lofty neshamah. If you support his decision to live with Torah and mitzvot, you will have a son who will bring you much joy and nachat.

“As far as the tefillin are concerned, leave that up to me. I will be happy to procure a pair of tefillin and find someone to prepare him for the bar mitzvah, at no cost to you.”

The mother sat in her chair quietly, mulling over what my father said. Finally, she seemed to come to the conclusion that he was right. Although she was completely uninterested in her son being religious, her desire to maintain a relationship with him eventually won over and she reluctantly accepted my father’s advice.

My father arranged for Avraham — as he now began to call himself — to learn with an avreich in a local shul, paying the young man for his time. He ordered and paid for a mehudar pair of tefillin from a reputable sofer and taught Avraham how to lay them. On the day of Avraham’s bar mitzvah, almost exactly 13 years from the day Abba first met him as a newborn, he celebrated his bar mitzvah in a shul, with a small crowd of people. There was a seudah with joyous singing. Avraham’s parents eventually resigned themselves to their son’s chosen way of life and attended the bar mitzvah — looking very much out of place, but happy to participate. And my father was there as well, standing by his side as he entered adulthood, just as he had been there 13 years earlier, as Avraham entered the covenant of Avraham Avinu.

Avraham was overjoyed with his newfound life. He loved learning, and seemed drawn to Yiddishkeit like a baby drawn to his mother’s milk. When he graduated eighth grade he refused to attend public school. He wanted to go to a yeshivah and grow in Torah learning.

Abba arranged for him to attend a yeshivah that was being formed at the time by the gaon Rav Nissim Sova. Afterwards, he went to Be’er Yaakov and then on to Slabodka. Avraham grew very close to my father and our entire family. Today he is an outstanding avreich, talmid chacham, and yerei Shamayim.

My father often said that the catalyst for Avraham’s unusual journey was the tears he shed at his bris. Abba always advised parents to allow themselves to cry during their sons’ brissim. Those tears, he said, plant the seeds for their sons’ Jewish futures. Surely, Eliyahu Hanavi, who is present at every bris, shed a tear at Avraham’s bris and returned the boy’s holy neshamah to his people.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 695)

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