After the passing of the great tzaddik, Rabbi Avraham Weinberg of Slonim (1804–1883), known as the Yesod Ha’Avodah, a question arose among the Chassidim: Who would succeed him?
He had several grandchildren of towering stature, each one worthy of bearing the mantle. But who, they wondered, embodied their revered Rebbe’s path most faithfully?
In the end, their choice rested upon his grandson, Rabbi Shmuel Weinberg (1850–1916), later to be known as the Dvar Shmuel. And the decision was sparked by a single illuminating episode.
From his youth, R’ Shmuel had a fiery passion for the mitzvah of hadlakas neiros Chanukah. He did not merely prepare for the mitzvah; he immersed himself in it. Each year, he would personally gather olives from the field, press them, sift them, and refine the oil until it was perfectly pure, worthy of doing hiddur mitzvah to its fullest. The approaching days of Chanukah filled him with deep, growing excitement.
That year, he chose to spend Shabbos Chanukah with his illustrious grandfather, the Yesod Ha’Avodah. Chassidim from across the region would travel to witness the Rebbe’s Chanukah lighting, and R’ Shmuel was no different.
Early Friday morning, he placed his carefully prepared menorah in the small room off the shul where he was staying so that everything would be ready for erev Shabbos. Before lighting himself, he went to behold his grandfather’s hadlakah.
When he returned, however, he was met with an unexpected scene.
A simple man, seeing a beautifully prepared menorah with pure oil set in place mistakenly assumed that it was there for public use. Oblivious to the effort invested, he had taken R’ Shmuel’s menorah and had lit it for himself!
When R’ Shmuel entered and saw what had happened, he neither uttered a cry of frustration nor did his face fall. Instead, he softly said:
“Ah...the menorah has already been lit. Then I must do the same.”
With no oil left and Shabbos rapidly approaching, he searched for an alternative, but all he found were a few simple wax candles. And so, with perfect calmness, he lit the wax candles in place of the pure olive oil he had worked so hard to prepare.
One might think such a disappointment would cast a shadow over his Chanukah. After all, he had pored hours of devotion into producing the oil with which he had longed to perform the mitzvah. Yet, R’ Shmuel allowed none of it to dampen his joy. He celebrated the Yom Tov with a full and grateful heart, untroubled by what had gone differently than planned.
Those who witnessed the moment saw not only his humility but his mastery over himself, his ability to embrace Hashem’s will with serenity. It was this quiet greatness that convinced the Chassidim: He is the one who should carry his grandfather’s mantle.
From this, we learn the proper response when life veers from our expectations. R’ Shmuel invested tremendous effort to beautify a mitzvah, yet when everything shifted beyond his control, he accepted it without bitterness — rejoicing simply in the opportunity to serve Hashem however circumstances allowed.
Sometimes, the greatest light of Chanukah comes not from the oil we prepare but from the light of emunah we ignite in our heart.
