When I was a child, there was a special Haggadah published by a tzedakah organization known as the Diskin Orphanage. Each year, they produced a new edition by reproducing old Haggados, complete with illustrations, and distributed them widely as part of their fundraising efforts. These Haggados, with their distinctive paperback covers, became well known, forming a collectible series that was mailed to thousands of recipients.
My uncle, of blessed memory, owned a particularly distinguished and old Haggadah. The organization approached him, requesting permission to reproduce and typeset it for their publication. In gratitude, they offered him the privilege of choosing its name. He decided to honor his grandfather—his namesake—Moshe Bamberger, and thus, the Moshe Bamberger Haggadah was born.
When the Haggadah arrived in the mail, my father showed it to me, and I was captivated. I wasn’t accustomed to seeing my name on book covers, so holding a Haggadah with my family’s name on it felt extraordinary. It was a source of pride, almost a badge of honor. Though it wasn’t my personal accomplishment, nor even my grandfather’s directly, it bore his name, and that was exhilarating.
Excited to share this with my rebbe, I brought a copy to yeshiva for a sort of "show and tell." However, before I had the chance to present it, another boy in my class approached our rebbe, proudly holding up the Moshe Bamberger Haggadah. I was stunned. How had he taken it from my bag? Indignant, I confronted him, demanding to know what right he had to take my Haggadah without permission. He denied it outright, but I refused to believe him.
After some back-and-forth, he eventually handed it back, and I remained furious. How dare he steal my moment? The nerve! I stewed over the incident the entire day. But when I got home and looked in my bag, I was shocked to find two copies of the Moshe Bamberger Haggadah inside. His father had also received one in the mail and had given it to him to bring to yeshiva.
At that moment, I realized how quickly I had jumped to conclusions. In my mind’s courtroom, I had already judged him guilty, without even considering the possibility of an innocent explanation. I was so certain I was right that I never stopped to question whether I could be wrong.
This experience was an early lesson in the importance of dan l’kaf zechus, judging others favorably. We encounter people in all walks of life—on the street, in our homes, in our communities—and often, we assume we understand their actions or intentions. But in truth, we rarely have the full picture. Even when we think we do, the human mind has layers far deeper than an onion. And those layers often hold truths we cannot always or immediately see.
