What was striking was that although none of the staff was identifiably dati, no one wanted to pass up the opportunity of receiving the brachah of an old rabbi.
It was just a regular workday at an Israeli bank: the clerks were sullen, smiles were rare, the service begrudging and reluctant.
The imperious clerk behind the desk was bedecked in all the proper appurtenances of seculardom: tattoos on her arm, vampire fingernails, a wrist band bearing a ’70s pop buzzword, a T-shirt urging hostage release at all costs. When I finished my dealings with her, on an impulse I asked her if she would like a brachah. Her dark countenance suddenly brightened up: “A brachah? Yes, by all means!” In the spirit of the rabbinic dictum “Al tehi birchas hedyot kallah b’einecha — Do not make light of the blessings of ordinary people,” I blessed her and her family with long life, good health, joy and satisfaction in all her endeavors. She was genuinely moved and thanked me profusely.
The clerk sitting nearby, having overheard our exchange, called out, “Me, too! Please give me a brachah also.” (In all this I heard faint echoes of Bereishis 27:38: “Do you have only one brachah….?” but I pushed them aside.) So I gave her a similar brachah. She was overjoyed. From some desks further away came other voices: “How about me?” And soon enough, the entire staff seemed to be clamoring for a brachah.
What was striking was that although none of the staff was identifiably dati, no one wanted to pass up the opportunity of receiving the brachah of an old rabbi.
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