By Rabbi S. Binyomin Ginsberg

 

A father once sat across from a principal and proudly described his business and how he manages success. Every item that was manufactured was inspected. If a product came out flawed, it was rejected. If a worker didn’t follow protocol, he was replaced. “That’s how you keep standards high,” he explained.

The principal listened patiently and then leaned forward. With quiet words that carried the weight of eternity, he said: “But we don’t return children like merchandise. We hold them closer.”

In that still moment, he didn’t just undo one father’s worldview—he exposed a quiet error many of us carry. Children aren’t on assembly lines; they’re souls. Raw, radiant, and often wrapped in mystery. And chinuch—real chinuch—isn’t about quality control. It’s about unconditional connections.

That sentence didn’t just correct a perspective. It tore through the illusion that raising a child is about results. And it reminds us: This is not business. This is eternity.

A rebbi or morah stands before a classroom of 25 children. To the untrained eye, they may look like a group, a class, a cohort. But the Torah teaches us otherwise: Each child must be taught according to his own way.

One boy devours pesukim as if he’s tasting honey, another stumbles over every word. One girl raises her hand eagerly, another hides behind her sleeve. One comes from a home saturated with encouragement, another carries burdens too heavy for her young shoulders. No two are alike. Every child is a universe.

And somehow, the rebbi or morah must reach all 25 universes at once. That’s not just a profession. That’s avodas hakodesh.

When I was five years old, just a week before Pesach, I broke my foot. I was in pain, but even more than that, I was heartbroken. I was sure I’d be the only boy who wouldn’t know the Mah Nishtanah. But my rebbi, Rabbi Ephrayim Birnhack, showed me what true chinuch means.

Every single day that week, he came to my house. He sat by my side, smiled, and patiently taught me the Mah Nishtanah. By the time Yom Tov arrived, I was ready—not just with the words, but with the confidence that comes when a rebbi believes in you.

That wasn’t in his contract. That wasn’t for his paycheck. That was pure, selfless dedication. And I know this wasn’t unique. I could tell hundreds of similar stories—of rebbe’im staying late, of morahs buying supplies out of their own pockets, of teachers crying real tears because they couldn’t reach a student and yet returning the next morning with hope and love.

This kind of dedication isn’t new. It’s written into our mesorah. When Moshe Rabbeinu was chosen to lead Klal Yisrael, it wasn’t after he gave a powerful speech or performed miracles. It was when he was tending sheep.

The Midrash says he noticed a small lamb that strayed. Instead of letting it go, he chased it, carried it on his shoulders, and whispered, “I didn’t know you were tired.” Hashem said, “If this is how you care for sheep, you are fit to shepherd My people.”

And Rabi Akiva looked at illiterate shepherds and saw sparks. He built an empire of Torah not by rejecting, but by believing that within every Yid burns a flame, waiting to be fanned into fire. So too, every rebbi and morah is a shepherd. Every rebbi and morah is a spark-seeker.

Imagine a gardener who has 25 different plants in one garden. Some need sunlight, some shade. Some need heavy watering, others only a trickle. If he treats them all the same, half the garden withers. But if he tends each one according to its needs, the whole garden blooms. That’s the classroom. One rebbi, 25 neshamos. And every child must be nurtured according to his way.

We don’t always notice the quiet stories—the ones whispered between moments, tucked behind routine. In a classroom in Lakewood, a morah observed what others overlooked: a child who never brought a snack. No complaints. No requests. Just silence. So, without a word, she began a private ritual. Each morning, she packed an extra bag of goodies—not with fanfare, but with heart—and gently slipped it into her desk.

No one saw. No one needed to. Because some of the most powerful acts of chinuch aren’t loud. They’re hidden kindnesses that speak only to Heaven.

A rebbi in Chicago crossed the city every Sunday, not for a meeting or an errand, but for a boy who was slipping beneath the surface. He wouldn’t let him drown in silence. So he came, week after week, to review the Gemara—not just to teach, but to lift, to rescue.

In Yerushalayim, a rebbi quietly ordered dozens of large-print siddurim. Not because the whole class needed them, but because one boy did. And that one boy would never have to feel different.

These acts don’t go viral. They won’t be posted on plaques or praised at banquets. But they’re the truest expression of what chinuch is meant to be: Not spotlight moments—but sacred ones.

Moments seen by the Ribono Shel Olam that bring Him much nachas.

Now let’s turn the mirror not toward the classroom but toward the kitchen table.

When our children come home and say, “The rebbi was unfair” or “The morah doesn’t like me,” those moments aren’t nuisances to dismiss. They’re crossroads.

If we roll our eyes, if we mutter sarcasm under our breath, if we respond with cynicism disguised as sympathy, we’re planting seeds. Not just seeds of doubt in one rebbi or one morah, but seeds of suspicion in the entire system meant to shape their souls. We’re teaching them that kavod is conditional, that authority is optional, that the world of Torah is just another voice in the noise to be believed or belittled depending on our mood.

But if we respond with patience, “If that’s how you felt, let’s try to understand it together,” or “Maybe there’s more to the story. Want me to help you think it through?” then we aren’t just managing the moment, we’re modeling a worldview.

We’re showing our children that Torah teachers aren’t adversaries; they’re allies. That even when questions arise—and they will—we don’t respond by tearing down; we respond by leaning in. Not with blind defense, but with a heart that believes in the system and wants to strengthen it—not unravel it.

Because one comment, one shrug, one dismissive line can echo louder than a thousand classroom lessons. And one moment of respect—real, deliberate, thoughtful—can become a lifelong foundation of kavod haTorah.

The pasuk in Mishlei teaches us, “Ner Hashem nishmas adam—The candle of Hashem is the soul of man.” A rebbi or morah holds 25 candles. Some burn bright, some flicker, some nearly go out. When we support teachers, we’re adding oil. When we criticize unfairly, we’re blowing wind. Which do you want to do?

We’re not blind. No one’s saying everything is perfect. Not every rebbi gets it right. Not every morah handles every child the way we wish she would. There are conversations that need to happen, and yes, there are improvements to be made.

But the way we speak about those flaws—especially in front of our children—matters more than we realize. Because frustration is human. But bashing is toxic. And bashing doesn’t repair—it erodes. It doesn’t solve problems—it breeds resentment, suspicion, and disrespect.

We think we’re just being real, but what our children hear is:

I don’t have to respect that rebbi.

I don’t have to take that morah seriously.

If I don’t like what I’m hearing, I can tune it out.

We don’t have to pretend every classroom is perfect. But we must stop normalizing sarcasm, eye-rolls, and dinner table grumbling as acceptable forms of critique.

Because every word of cynicism weakens the flame, and every word of respect strengthens it.

The mechanchim and mechanchos in our lives—the ones holding our children’s neshamos—aren’t the enemy. They’re the builders, the lifeguards, the lamplighters. They’re not flawless, but they’re faithful. And when we honor them—especially in front of our children—we’re teaching a deeper lesson than any mussar shmuess could ever deliver.

We don’t send back our children. And we dare not undermine those who carry their neshamos with trembling hands and heartfelt tefillos.

This is not a business. This is not a transaction. This is the holiest partnership on earth. A rebbi or morah doesn’t teach a subject. They teach a soul. They don’t manage a class. They carry worlds.

And we, as parents, must honor that. Support that. Speak with respect. Act with gratitude.

Because this isn’t about products or protocols. It’s about flames. One child. One flame. One future. Held with patience. Carried with trembling hands. Guided with love.