Program:
Charidy — online crowdfunding for non-profits

Innovator:
Yehuda Gurwitz

Problem solved:
Fundraisers weren’t making as much as they could

Naysayers:
“It’s a gimmick”

Growth in numbers:
From one-man office to 60 employees worldwide

It’s hard to believe that Charidy, the online fundraising program, is not even five years old. It seems we’ve been receiving — and been touched by — their attention-grabbing emails for years. But according to Yehuda Gurwitz, its CEO and founder, they’re only just getting started. With $500 million of tzedakah raised so far, that’s a good “start.”
Gurwitz, who is 32 and single, has always been a go-getter, whether it was raising $40 in second grade for his teacher’s surprise birthday party, $1,000 in seventh grade for Chanukah, or eventually hundreds of thousands for kimcha d’pischa in his community of Crown Heights. It seemed everything he touched turned to gold, and fundraisers soon queued for advice.
“I can’t help you fundraise,” he’d tell them, “but I can help you become a better fundraiser.”
One such fan was the head of one of Chabad’s largest institutions. Yehuda pointed out names on the man’s donor list whose generosity he wasn’t maximising. “He was a great fundraiser,” Gurwitz explains. “He raised millions over 40 years. Yet he wasn’t as effective as he could be. He was leaving a lot of money on the table.”
Gurwitz coached him, and two weeks later the man raised $70,000 more from two donors who each used to give him five grand. It felt odd to Yehuda that this veteran fundraiser needed knowhow from a self-proclaimed “shnook.” But he realized that if he could help organizations fundraise more effectively, they could raise more in a shorter period of time.
He studied traditional giving throughout history and identified a few core principles: People care about financial value, about time, and about social issues. Guided by these insights, Charidy was born. Its concept of high-impact big-goal matching online campaigns in a short amount of time was the first of its kind, even in the non-Jewish world. “There were copycats,” says Gurwitz, “but I was flattered. The biggest compliment was when Facebook added a similar fundraising feature.”

Gurwitz started out by experimenting on home turf, raising funds for two Chabad Houses headed by his brothers-in-law. From there, he moved to the kiruv world, the global Orthodox world, and then the whole wide world. “My vision is to transform the entire giving world, so we work with every part of the world and every religion,” he explains. “We want the whole world giving ‘maaser.’ ”
Today, Charidy boasts a global team with offices in New York and Australia and representatives in dozens of cities, from France to Brazil. They have plans to localize in every big city. “Nothing gets done without a great team,” Gurwitz points out, and heading that team are Charidy’s cofounder Ari Schapiro, COO Shay Chervinsky, CIO Moshe Hecht, and Yehuda’s father, Berel Gurwitz, who manages the finances.
Charidy has run over 2,500 campaigns, with a 99 percent success rate for reaching goals. And because the formula includes elements that really motivate people — impact, urgency, recognition — Charidy has seen buildings built, scholarships funded, mouths fed, and aid delivered in record time. Campaigns — whether it’s for an auction, a dinner, a capital campaign, or a chesed — can be matched, doubled, or quadrupled. They can also be all or nothing — and yes, nothing means nothing. They have sent back money in the past.
How was the novel idea received by the philanthropists?
“They loved it,” says Gurwitz, “because the campaigns involve others. Donors want to see that an organization is not dependent on them alone.”
Convincing organizations was another story.
“In the beginning, it was hard because organizations don’t like to take risks,” he explains. “They’re happy with $50,000, thrilled with $100,000. But at Charidy, we strategize what would be an ambitious attainable goal for an organization, and we give them the confidence to achieve it.”
There was no shortage of naysayers. “It’s a gimmick,” said one. “It won’t last,” said another. “It’ll only work for Chabad,” claimed someone else. Even Yehuda’s close friend worried the venture would fail, saying to a confidant, “I hope it doesn’t fall very hard on him.”
That friend ended up becoming Charidy’s biggest advocate. As for the “gimmick,” it has been commissioned by prominent establishments, including hospitals, universities, and even the United Nations, for their anti-human-trafficking campaign.

From his unique vantage point, Gurwitz has been able to observe the differences between how Jews and non-Jews give charity.
“The sense of community in the Jewish world is insane,” he gushes. “When the campaign is for a woman who is struggling and you get 10,000 people who donate to her cause, without having a clue who she is, it’s humbling. Maybe 1,000 of them knew her. Mi k’amcha Yisrael.”
When a problem can be solved with money, Gurwitz feels gratified that his innovation serves as the shaliach. For example, a child in Israel required surgery, but the family couldn’t afford it. Charidy raised half a million shekels, helping her reach a cure.
Charidy charges a small commission for each campaign, but Gurwitz waives that on occasion. For example, a 29-year-old father of three passed away. He had been a friend of Moshe Hecht and the cousin of Ari Schapiro. Because of his heart condition, he had not been eligible for life insurance, which meant his wife was left penniless. “I never knew the guy,” says Gurwitz. “But, finally, someone working in the company could help someone they cared about. I said, ‘Let’s raise it, but fast!’ ”
They ran a huge chesed campaign, with a goal of $200,000. One can imagine their shock when a staggering $700,000 rolled in by the end of the 24-hour deadline. “It was one of my proudest moments,” he recalls.
Later, one of his workers had a daughter who required surgery. They ran a campaign l’shem mitzvah and raised $70,000 in a jiffy.
Gurwitz recognizes how blessed he is to run a business that is so rewarding and makes him a virtual partner in so much tzedakah. And, apparently, he’s not alone. He was sitting in the back of an Uber car during our phone call and the conversation was on loudspeaker. When he left the car, the Muslim driver, who had been quietly listening, turned to him and said, “Thank you for what you’re doing.”
Thank you, indeed.