About a half hour drive from here, at the corner of Route 1 and Harford Rd. there is a park named The Henrietta Lacks Park. The young children who innocently swing and slide in the park are blissfully unaware of the dark backstory of Henrietta Lacks and the outsized influence this woman had on the world.
In 1950, Henrietta, a 30-year-old black woman, living in Baltimore city was not feeling well. She did not have an easy life, and her pain tolerance was quite high, so when she asked her husband to take her to the hospital, he knew something was wrong. Sure enough, a few tests later, it became clear she had cervical cancer. She immediately started treatment. During one of her physical exams, the doctor treating her did something that would change the course of history – he scraped a few cells from her cervix, placed them in a tube, and gave them to a colleague at Hopkins, a researcher by the name of Dr. Gey. This was done without getting Henrietta’s consent. A year later, she died.
Henrieta’s cells were the first cells to survive in a test tube. But not only did they survive, they doubled in size every 20 hours. Living cells that don’t die, that researchers can do all types of tests on endlessly, was the greatest possible gift to modern medicine. As soon as other researchers found out about these cells, Dr. Gey was bombarded with requests to share them, which he did.
Those cells, nicknamed the HeLa cell, played a crucial role in virtually every medical advancement in the past 70 years, including but not limited to, a vaccine for TB, polio, HPV, advancements in a wide variety of cancer treatments, medications to treat AIDS, and the development of in-vitro fertilization. All from those few cells, which could have fit on the tip of a ballpoint pen.
Henrietta never knew they took her cells for research. Her descendants did not know for decades how her cells were changing the world. And yet, those invisible pieces of matter were multiplying and changing the world.
The removal and usage of Henrietta’s were highly unethical. She never gave permission. The family was constantly lied to. And to make matters worse, while researchers and pharmaceutical companies were making billions off of her cells, her descendants were living in poverty.
But I imagine, had they asked her, had they told Henrietta, your cells can possibly cure cancer, they can cure TB, they help treat aids, they can help people who struggle with infertility have children, what do you think she would say? Of course, she would say, gladly!
And I imagine if I were to tell you that your cells have the ability to have the same impact. It wouldn’t take any surgery, just a tiny little procedure and you could save hundreds and thousands and maybe millions of lives? How often would you allow this little procedure to take place?
As often as possible. Right? That’s what I thought.
So, allow me to tell you another true story, not as well-known and not as controversial, but as you will see, just as impactful. It’s a story, told by Rabbi YY Jacobson, about a young man named Joey.
Joey is a B-list musician. He has a band and when they get gigs – which is not so often, they’re usually in smalltime bars up and down the East Coast. He’s played guitar on some movie soundtracks, and when he’s not playing music, he’s an avid fan of the Atlanta Braves.
Joey also happens to be Jewish. He doesn’t keep all the Mitzvos. He’s traditional. He makes Kiddush Friday night, he shows up to shul on the big holidays, he doesn’t eat pork. And he’s a staunch Zionist.
On Thursday, June 12th, Joey had a gig in Upstate New York, a gig no different than hundreds of gigs he’s had before. Poorly lit bar, smoke-filled room, lonely souls looking for fleeting human connection. The only difference was that on this night, Joey was a little distracted. Most of the televisions around the bar were playing sports games but one of them was showing the news. That date should sound familiar to you – Thursday, June 12th was the night the Israeli Air Force preemptively attacked Iran. He was singing, he was strumming, but his eyes were glued to that one screen; his heart was in the East.
Despite being the lead musician of his little band, Joey does not like attention, he likes to blend in and keep it simple. But on Thursday, June 12th something was tugging on him, and he decided to not ignore that feeling. He stopped mid-song and took the mike off the stand.
“Friends, he said, “I’ll be honest with you, I’m having a hard time concentrating tonight.” Drinks were put down, conversations paused. “I’m Jewish,” he announced, and quickly looked around. Upstate New York is not known to be the friendliest place for Jews, but there was just silence. He continued:
“Tonight, my brothers and sisters in Israel are fighting for their lives, and I am scared.” No politics; just an appeal from one human being to another in the universal language of familial love. Whether the people in the crowd were Democrats or Republicans, whatever their opinion of Jews were did not matter. They nodded along.
“If I could ask you to do me a favor. Can you do one good deed for my brothers and sisters? Can you commit to doing one small thing to make the world a better place? It would mean the world to me.” And then he continued playing.
I admire Joey, I really do.
First and foremost, I admire Joey’s chutzpah. His unabashed Jewish pride is a breath of fresh air.
I also admire his willingness to listen to his soul, to his Neshama. How often do we feel the tug that Joey felt? How often do we feel a little voice inside questioning our actions, encouraging us to do something different. Maybe it’s to be a better spouse. Maybe it’s to find more time for our children or for Torah learning. Maybe it’s to make Aliyah. But most of us keep strumming. Most of us allow the rhythm of our life to continue unabated. And that little voice, that Neshama of ours, eventually stops trying. But Joey listened to his soul.
But there’s another part of me that also feels a little cynical. So he cared about Israel and wasn’t able to concentrate. So he stopped his little concert and made a little plea to a handful of people. So he committed to doing a good deed and asked others to do the same. Is that really such a big deal?
This is not a criticism against Joey; it’s a mirror to my own insecurities. For the past 700 days of war, young and not very young men in Israel are dying weekly; I am sitting at home. The Israeli economy is teetering because the workforce is on the battlefield; I am going to work. Mothers and fathers aren’t sleeping because their children, their little teenage children, are going into battle; my children are going to the mall.
Do we make a difference? Are our two chapters of Tehilim after services really all that meaningful? The yellow pins, the small commitments we made, the learning we have taken on in their merit, does any of it really matter? Or are we just doing all this to assuage our guilt for not living in Israel, for not serving in the IDF, for not sacrificing our lives? Are all the signs, and the protests, and the good deeds, one elaborate act of self-deception so we could sleep at night?
Joey went home. That Friday night, he had a dream. In that dream, a rabbi with a long beard appeared and shared with him the following: “Joey, your message at the bar had an incredible impact on the world. There was a woman in the crowd who is Jewish. After hearing your message, she decided that despite having had nothing to do with Judaism for over 40 years since her Bat Mitzvah, she decided she was going to light Shabbos candles that Friday night. And she did. And those Shabbos candles that she lit literally saved hundreds of lives in Israel.”
If you recall, when Iran responded to Israel’s attacks, despite firing directly into high-density civilian locations, despite the Israeli government planning for mass casualties, the number of people killed was remarkably and miraculously low.
Joey, who went to a Jewish day school, understood what the rabbi was trying to convey. A Mitzvah, according to the Kabbalists, is not just a good deed that helps build good character. The Gemara proclaims: “Chayav adam lomar, bishvili nivra ha’olam, a person must say, the world was created for me.” The Biblical account of the creation of humankind, which according to our tradition took place today, 5786 years ago, has G-d creating one human being. Why wasn’t Eve created at the same time as Adam? Why did Hashem first create one person? “To teach us,” says the Gemara, “that the entire world was created for one individual. And not just Adam, but one individual just like you.”
Some understand this to mean that a person should wake up every morning and appreciate the incredible universe and be grateful and feel as if G-d created all this, all the beauty and complexity, just for me. But Rav Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev, takes a different approach, one which I believe to be, possibly the most fundamental idea in Judaism. This idea is the only thing you need to remember at all times, everything else is commentary.
This is what he says: Bishvili nivra ha’olam means that G-d created the world in such a way that a single person has the ability to transform the world. We think that to make a difference in the world, we need to start an organization, we need to have 25 thousand followers on social media, we need to be the president of a fortune 500 company. But our sages teach us that G-d would have created the world just for you. Because your actions, just you! – your Mitzvos, they can bring about the objective of creation, they can transform the world.
And not only when you do many good deeds. Rav Levi Yitzchak continues, when a SINGLE individual does a SINGLE Mitzvah it brings שפע לכל העולמות ולכל המלאכים ולכל הנשמות ולעולם התחתון, every Mitzvah brings a Divine flow of spiritual energy into all the worlds, into all the angels, into all the souls that exist in the upper and lower worlds.
Every single one of us is Henrietta Lacks. Every single one of us has the power, with just a tiny bit of effort, to radically alter the world. Just a few cells – a little prayer, a little Torah study, or a little kindness, has the ability to change the world. We may not see it, we may not feel it, we may not even know it’s happening, but neither did Henrietta Lacks.
That’s what the rabbi in Joey’s dream was telling him. You, Joey, with your soft-spoken words, caused this woman who hadn’t been connected to Judaism in decades to light Shabbos candles that Friday night. Later that night, she probably turned on her tv, had a ham sandwich, closed some lights, and went on with her life. But that one tiny action, that one Mitzvah, somehow saved lives in Israel, it changed the world.
Joey woke up, thought about his dream for a moment or two, and then shrugged his shoulders and went on with his day. He completely dismissed the dream. What was going through his mind is likely not that different than what is going through yours. Cute idea, rabbi, but I don’t buy it. If I say one word of prayer, does it really make a difference. When I put on my tefillin, when I light my Shabbos candles, maybe I feel good; but change the world?! C’mon.
And I hear you. I have no way of proving this concept to you, I don’t. If I could be even more honest, I would say, I believe it, but I often struggle with really believing it. But I’ve realized that I have a choice:
There are two ways to look at life. One is he following quote that lives in my head: “One day, you and everyone you love will die. And beyond a small group of people for an extremely brief period of time, little of what you say or do will ever matter. This is the Uncomfortable Truth of life. And everything you think or do is but an elaborate avoidance of it. We are inconsequential cosmic dust, bumping and milling about on a tiny blue speck.”
I could choose to believe that I am inconsequential cosmic dust, but I could also choose to believe that my actions impact the cosmos.
I could choose to believe that I am a sophisticated animal chasing after my base desires, or I could choose to believe that I am infused with a soul more spiritual than an angel and my every breath is a spiritual fire.
I could choose to believe that I am a nobody, or I could choose to believe bishvili nivra ha’olam, that G-d would have created this world just for me, and just for you, and that our individual actions have the power to change this world.
Over the past month, I have had one piece of paper, actually a sticker in my pocket, that says, bishvili nivra ha’olam, and it has changed me. It really has. Because if we choose to believe bishvili nivra ha’olam, it changes our life.
Every time I was too tired to concentrate on my prayers, and subconsciously thought, who cares, I said no! Bishvili nivra ha’olam! These words can save lives!
Every time I was about to lose my cool or get frustrated, I said no! Bishvili nivra ha’olam! My actions will reverberate within my family and not only them but the cosmos for all of time.
Every time I was feeling small and insignificant, I reminded myself how false that is. Bishvili nivra ha’olam! It became my mantra, and it truly changed me, and I hope it can change you.
I actually made some stickers for you. You’re welcome. They’ll be in the back of shul at the end of davening. Take one. Because once we open our eyes to this reality, once we accept that our every word of prayer is a nuclear reactor, our every kind deed is an earthquake, our every thought is a blistering force, you can’t go back to living a simple life. Bishvili nivra ha’olam demands of us to live every moment to the fullest.
***
The Klausenberger Rebbe, a survivor of the Holocaust; a Hungarian rabbi who lost his entire family, his wife and eleven children, in Aushchwitz, was liberated in April 1945 and his first Yom Kippur after the war was in a DP camp. On Yom Kippur night before Kol Nidrei, he got up to speak and he shared the following message. He opened the Machzor and started quoting the confessional prayer, the Vidui:
“Ashamnu, we were guilty,” he read. And then he looked up. “Did we even have the ability to sin? We had no energy to do anything. Bagadnu: did we betray G-d? No we did not. Gazalnu, we stole. Was there anything left to steal during these terrible years?
“This Vidui,” the Rebbe said, “is not for us,” and he closed the machzor. And then he continued, “There is one sin that we are guilty of. We told Hashem that we cannot take it anymore, that He should end it for us…. How many times did we pray, Master of the Universe, I have no more strength, take my soul? How many times did we wake up and ask ourselves, is it worth it? What’s the point?”
“Our sin,” he said, “is that we did not believe that we have a role to play. We sinned because we did not believe that we can make a real difference. That is something we need to do teshuva over. That is something we need to beg G-d for forgiveness, how we didn’t recognize that everything we do is consequential. That is something we need to change. To believe not only in G-d, but to believe in ourselves. Bishvili nivra ha’olam!”
You’re about to open your Machzor. You’re about to stand before G-d. You may not read Hebrew, you may think you are a nobody and G-d doesn’t want to hear from you. It’s not true. Bishvili nivra ha’olam. Your words matter, in any language, in any place.
You’re going to go home. You’re going to sit with your family. You may think what happens behind closed doors is irrelevant. It’s not true. Bishvili nivra ha’olam. Your actions matter.
You’re going to go back to your regular life. You may think I am not the greatest Jew after all; I don’t keep everything like I should, what’s one more small misdeed, why should I bother doing one small Mitzvah among so many sins? It’s not true. It’s not true. It is false. Bishvili nivra ha’olam.
The opportunities to pray, to study Torah, to do Mitzvos are endless. Every one of them can be earth-shattering. Had Henrietta Lacks known her power, would she have said, only take a few cells? Of course not. And neither should you! Every moment is a goldmine of earth-shattering opportunities. Please take advantage of your immense power.
***
On Monday morning, Joey got an email. “Dear Joey, I spent the last few days trying to track you down. I was at the bar you played at last week. Honestly, I wasn’t paying attention to the music, but I listened to what you said about Israel and Iran. Something about the way you said it really struck a chord. I happen to be Jewish, not a practicing Jew in any way shape or form. But I decided, after hearing you speak, that I should do something special even though I hadn’t done anything Jewish since Hebrew school. Thanks to your inspiration, this past Friday night, I lit candles for Shabbat.”
When we accept that bishvili nivra ha’olam, we cannot go back to living life like we did until now. Your every word matters. Your every action matters. You matter.
We are so grateful to our brothers and sisters on the front line, they are doing so much, and so are we. Let’s make this a year in which on every day and in every moment we remind ourselves, bishvili nivra ha’olam.