After Rabbi Shmuel Dishon returned to America from a visit to Russia, he related a remarkable incident that had been told to him by the rav who had personally experienced it.
For decades under Communism, the Soviets waged war against Yiddishkeit. Millions of Jews were cut off from Torah, mitzvos, and even the most basic elements of Jewish life. Entire generations grew up without a siddur, without a Chumash, and without any meaningful connection to their heritage.
Yet in recent years, after the fall of Communism, a powerful awakening had begun. Sefarim could finally be brought in. Yeshivos were opening. Jewish organizations were reaching out to reconnect Russian Jews with the faith that had been lost.
During one such visit, a certain rav announced that Yom Kippur services would be held in the large synagogue of Lemberg. Any Jew who wished to participate was invited to attend.
Since so many Jews had been estranged from their heritage, the rav did not anticipate a large crowd. But when Yom Kippur arrived, nearly 2,000 Jews streamed into the synagogue men, woman and children some not even knowing how to dress for such an event.
The rav stood before the crowd overcome with emotion. Looking out at the assembled congregation, he realized that many of them knew virtually nothing about Judaism. They had come only because they knew they were Jews and because something deep within them had drawn them there. To let that auspicious moment go without warming their Yiddishkeit was simply not an option.
He had to share something — something good to send a flash of inspiration through their veins.
As Kol Nidrei was about to begin, the rav approached the podium. With deep emotions, he addressed the crowd. "My dear friends,” he said, “I would like to tell you a story about the holy Baal Shem Tov.
There was once a simple Jewish boy who lived far from any center of Jewish life. One Yom Kippur, he watched as people hurried to the shul dressed in white. Curious, he asked where they were going. They explained that Yom Kippur is the day when Hashem forgives His people. Jews gather to pray, repent, and ask for forgiveness.
The boy was deeply moved. “I want to pray too," he thought. But there was one problem. He did not know how. The only thing he knew was the alef-beis.
Lifting his eyes Heavenward, he cried out, "Ribbono shel Olam, I do not know how to pray. All I know are the letters of the alef-beis. I will say the letters, and You Hashem, please arrange them into the prayer I wish I knew how to say.”
The Baal Shem Tov taught that the sincerity of that child's words pierced the Heavens and opened gates that even great tzaddikim could not open.
The rav finished the story and turned back to the crowd. "My dear fellow Jews,” he said, “a child armed with nothing but the alef-beis could reach the Heavens. This is possible for us."
Suddenly, voices from within the audience began to murmur: "But we don't even know the alef-beis.”
The rav got word of their plea. Then, with tears in his eyes, he replied, “If that's the case, I will say the alef-beis, and you repeat after me."
The synagogue fell silent. “Alef!”
Two thousand voices answered, “Alef!”
"Beis!"
"Beis!"
One letter after another echoed through the sanctuary: Gimmel. Daled. Hei. Vav. The letters continued until they reached the final letter.
"Tav!"
And then it happened. The entire congregation burst into tears. Men, women, and children who knew virtually nothing about Judaism wept uncontrollably. They knew no prayers. They knew no Torah. Yet they knew one thing: they were Jews, and they had a Father in Heaven.
The yearning that had been buried beneath decades of oppression suddenly erupted from the depths of their souls. Who knows how high those expressions went.
Even years later, when many of those people went on in life, the rav would still speak about that unforgettable Yom Kippur.
Then he would turn to his audience and ask: “What about us? We know the alef-beis. We know how to daven. We were raised on Torah and tefillah. We have siddurim, yeshivos, rabbeim, and countless opportunities to draw close to Hashem. If those Jews cried because they longed to pray but did not know how, how should our prayers look?
“With what feeling do we stand before Hashem? How much must we appreciate the privilege of being able to pour out our hearts before the King of Kings?
“The Jewish soul naturally longs to connect with its Creator. The question is whether we allow that longing to find expression every time we open a siddur and begin to daven."