Tzaddik, Have a Good Night

It was after midnight, some twenty years ago, in a gas-station convenience store in Israel. I was in my early twenties, and I loved the night shift. Maybe one or two people came in an hour, and in between it was very, very quiet. Quiet enough to read.

And I was reading a lot in those days, because I had just been introduced to the wisdom of our ancestors, which I hadn't known before. One book in particular had hold of me that season — The Path of the Just, an old text that lays out, step by step, how a human being can move toward right consciousness and right deeds. Standing behind that counter at midnight, reading it, I felt an enormous love for everyone.

Which is when the troublemakers came in.

Two of them. One of them approached my counter and started talking to me. How much is this? How much is this? I told him the prices, thinking, okay, in a few minutes I'll be back to my book. What I did not understand was that he was standing there like a block — positioned so I couldn't see what his friend was doing behind him. He was filling pockets and bags with groceries. They took a lot. I had no idea.

Finally, the man in front of me asked about the price of a pack of chewing gum. He paid me something like a dollar. And because of where I was in that moment — floating somewhere inside that book, in a good vibe with the whole world — I said what came out of me naturally:

"Tzaddik, have a good night."

He looked at me, surprised. "Don't call me that," he said. I didn't understand his reaction at all. And a minute later, he came back through the door with all the bags — and put everything back on the shelves. Everything. Then, he said good night, and went.

I said nothing to him. I didn't think I needed to. The situation was obvious then, and I think, in the end, he acted very, very good. Only afterwards, piecing it together, did I understand what had almost happened — and I felt strangely happy. It was like finding money in your pocket that you didn't know you had.

The Three Garments of the Soul

So what is this word, tzaddik?

In our tradition, we say the soul wears three garments — three ways it dresses itself to meet the world. The innermost is your thought. The second is your speech. The third is what you do. A tzaddik is someone who is accurate in all three. And he is still a human being — everybody makes mistakes — but he always comes back and makes the correction. He brings back the groceries, so to speak.

But here is the thing: tzaddik is also simply how parents speak to their children. The way you might say "come, honey," we say "come, tzaddik — let's wash hands before dinner." It's a way of labeling upward. We teach that when a child tells a lie, you never say "you are a liar." You say: this doesn't seem like the truth — but that is not you. The lie is a garment; you can change it. The label "tzaddik" calls the soul higher.

I think that's what happened at midnight in that store. When I said the word, I really meant it — I saw a human being in front of me and wanted to greet him somehow, and this is what came out. I believe he felt not worthy of what I was calling him. He wanted to rise to the level I had framed him at. So he did.

They say a kid needs one adult that believes in him. And we all have our inner kids, so we all need that. Sometimes, if you really believe in what you're saying — really believe in it — it happens.

I didn't plan anything. I didn't do anything, really — just said one word. The only intention I had was a good vibe toward him, toward the world in general. He could have found me at another time, more closed. But at that point in time, thank God, I was there.

How I Came to Be Holding That Book

People sometimes ask how a young guy on a night shift ends up reading a book like that. I grew up in a very Israeli family — not religious at all, quite Western in our way of life, but with deep respect for our ancestors and a strong love of our people. And I grew up in a particular atmosphere. There were terror attacks in those years, buses exploding — one of them very, very close to me. We knew people. So the feeling in the air was: you need to give back to those who gave for you.

There's an old story we tell about a man in his seventies, planting a tree that would bear fruit only seventy years later. You will never see the fruit, someone said to him. And he answered: today I eat the fruit of the previous generation, and I need to leave something for my grandchildren. That was the feeling.

Then came the army — in Israel we have three years of mandatory service — and there I met, for the first time in my life, a real tzaddik. Whenever the talk in the room turned unclean, he would very quietly leave — no drama, no criticizing anyone. Just going. Whenever something needed a volunteer, he was the first. His humility was beautiful to me. On Saturday nights I sat with him and the others around the table in the old way — eating, staying, talking, singing very ancient songs. I had never experienced that.

After the army, most of my friends did what many Israelis do after three intensive, sometimes traumatic years: they flew east, to India, to relax and rewire. I stayed to study music. One night, composing an electronic track with a friend, we got into an argument. I kept insisting on my point — for no real reason, he thought — and finally he said: this is arrogance. This is pride. This is not good. I was confused; I thought of it as confidence. So he asked me: have you ever read the Ethics of the Fathers? Six short chapters, he said. Go read it.

I read it that same night. And I was amazed — things that had been running silently in my mind, things I thought only I was thinking, were expressed there, plainly.

We say that speech is like the steam that rises from the heart. What comes out of your heart will touch the heart of the one who is listening — and if not, it will pass right over him.

That was the first time I understood: if you want to be a good human being, there are good sources to learn from. My friends went to India to rewire — and that is a beautiful way. But I discovered your journey can happen inside your regular life. The question isn't only whether you rewire; it's what you're wiring yourself to. The previous generations left giants behind them, and I said to myself: okay, I want to be the dwarf standing on their shoulders. From the day I learned to read until then, I had hardly read at all. Since those days, I am connected to books every single day — the ones written by people who at least aim to help me shape my character.

What Is Pride?

Around that time my older brother came back from India, where he too had found his way to our ancient traditions, and told me he was starting to observe Shabbat. I didn't know how to do any of it — but I wanted at least to know how to hold the prayer book, to be part of the nation my grandfather and his grandfather belonged to. So I went along, and one time I approached a rabbi with the question that had been burning in me: what is pride?

He explained it very simply, for a confused boy like me: pride is someone who walks through the world looking at everyone as if from above. And I understood immediately — yes, this is wrong. It had never worked for me. The books teach that pride is the source of all the evil a person can do; it is the shield of the insecure. Because ask yourself: what really makes you confident? Your job? You can be fired. Your money, your family? All of it, in the end, is external. Keep asking what you really are, and eventually you come to understand that you are a kind of consciousness — the divine, filtered. And by that, you understand that this is what everyone else is, too.

Even Moses — who had every advantage a human being can have — is called the most humble man on earth. How can that be? Our ancestors explain: he thought, yes, I received many gifts. But if someone else had received these same gifts, maybe they would use them better than me and bring more good into the world. Therefore I need to listen to him, and to her.

There is a verse from David, the king, written three thousand years ago, that I carry with me. On the surface it says that in a little while, you will look for the evil man and not find him. But the deeper reading is this:

If you look at the place of this human being — where he grew up, what family he came from, what he experienced in life, what his situation is now — after you really, really understand him, he is not evil. Maybe he is doing something wrong. But evil, he is not. You could find yourself in his shoes.

Maybe that is also what one word at midnight can say to a stranger: I have looked at your place, and I do not see an evil man.

In Hebrew, the word for humility is anava. People translate it as modesty, but its inner essence means the ability to surrender to the truth. We live in a confusing time, when everyone speaks of narratives, as if there is no one true thing at all. But if everything is only narrative, nothing is demanded of me — and I will not have the strength to do the right thing when it isn't convenient. Anava begins with understanding that the truth exists. It will never sit in my pocket. But I can chase it — and sometimes, I will score.

Growing Us Up, Patiently

How does all this live inside an ordinary life — with a wife, four kids, work, noise? I think of it like the gym. Go twice a week, you're in one shape; three times, better shape; skip two weeks, you're out of shape. Life brings situations where the right thing is not the convenient thing — and if you're in good shape, you have a better chance. We say that even spontaneous moments are things we've been preparing for all our lives. That word in the convenience store came out spontaneously — but the book had been preparing it.

And life itself keeps us honest. My wife knows me better than anyone; she is my mirror. Because she loves me, she will not let things slide. She puts me on the spot: who are you telling this story to? You cannot say "I want to go to prayer" while the babies are crying and she needs you now. That, too, is the practice — knowing the true order of your responsibilities. And the kids? People ask me how the kids are, and I answer: they are growing us up. Patiently. I'm kidding, of course — but in a way it is exactly like this. They take you back through your childhood with new eyes, and they make you more accurate. We fall and rise, fall and rise. Seven times, we say, the tzaddik falls — and gets up.

One Adult Who Believes

At the end of our conversation, I was asked: has anyone ever done for you what you did for that man — seen something in you that you couldn't see in yourself? And I realized: all my life. My parents gave me their approval, every time, all the time. They let me understand that I might be a good person. That is my anchor to this day. I pray that I'm giving the same thing to my kids.

And one more thing. When someone asks you about your story, they are giving you a gift — because you cannot take shortcuts when explaining yourself to someone unfamiliar, and sometimes you tell something and only then understand it yourself. More than the listeners, I think, the one who tells the story benefits. So keep giving this gift to people.

As for the rest — I was simply in a good place when a stranger stood in front of me, and one word came out. Somewhere, sometime, someone will stand in front of you, too, blocking your view, not yet worthy of the name you might call them. What word will come out of you?

— as told by Erez Levin on a Story Booth.