"Anyone whose fear of sin precedes his wisdom, his wisdom is enduring" (Ovos chapter 8, Mishna 9). Rabbeinu Yonah has two alternative explanations for this statement. He says as follows: "The tanna is referring to the motives of a person. Someone whose motive in pursuing wisdom is to prevent his soul from sinning, and he indeed acquires wisdom, his wisdom endures. He keeps away from sins, and also fulfils mitzvos as a result of his wisdom and understanding. "`If his wisdom preceded his fear of sin, his wisdom is not enduring.' If his motive at the outset was not to acquire wisdom to put into practice, but rather just to procure wisdom and understanding, such wisdom will not endure, and this is only logical." This reasoning may be challenged. Is it not possible for someone to study Torah initially without this motive, and still merit to have his wisdom endure, if he acquires the correct motive in the course of time as a result of his studies? Rabbeinu Yonah has discovered an important point for us here: all the wisdom that we attain makes an impression on us in accordance with the motives and the intensity of purpose which accompanies the process of attaining it. Someone who studies a certain discipline because he needs it to make a living will put more effort and will delve deeper into his studies than another person studying the same discipline only because he loves wisdom. The same applies to Torah study. ...

"If only Yom Kippur's influence on us would last until we walk out of shul on motzei Yom Kippur!" This saying, this clear-cut diagnosis, by Maran HaRav Yisroel of Salant ztvk'l, the founder of the mussar movement, about the extent to which Yom Kippur changes our daily behavior, seems to indicate that its influence is insignificant.

Although surely distressing, this saying does present us with the right prospective. Actually, anyone who studies mussar clearly sees how that activity acts like a mirror to reflect all of our minor and major faults, focuses an intense beam of light on all we do, and distances us from the unrealistic ideas that we tend to cling to, from the illusions that warp our view of ourselves and others.

How should we study mussar? The answer to this can be illustrated with a moshol:

During the dreadful European Holocaust, a certain Jew who wanted to escape a bitter fate decided that the best way to do so was to appear as a full- fledged Christian. He sat near the entrance of the local church together with the non-Jews. Afterwards he began to fear that someone might expose him, so he reasoned that his best bet was to go to work as the priest's helper. Surely, he reasoned, no one would think that a Jew was the priest's helper.

That particular priest had a plot of land on which he grew various vegetables. The Jew's job, among others, was to bring the produce to the city's marketplace and to sell it for the highest price. One day when traveling to the marketplace with the wagon loaded to overflowing with various vegetables, the Jew noticed a group of hapless Jewish slave workers being led by their Nazi oppressors. A brilliant idea flashed through his head. He jumped on to his wagon and began pelting the slave workers with everything he could get his hands on. He threw tomatoes, cucumbers, carrots, and any other vegetables he could find in the wagon.

This touching description of spending the Yomim Noraim together with the Bobover Rebbe is a description and analysis of how the Bobover Rebbe lived and how he promulgated avodas Hashem. It is doubly appropriate now just after his sheloshim and at the outset of the Yomim Noraim.

A Kvittle to the Rebbe

It is the week before the High Holy Days. Every evening, a crowd of chassidim congregates on the corner of Fourty-Eighth Street and Fifteenth Avenue in Brooklyn's Boro Park waiting for the Rebbe to enter his study and begin taking kvittlach.

There are old chassidim, grey and bent, some in stained, tattered cloaks, and young chassidim, meticulously dressed. Some chassidim, eager for their children to absorb holiness, carry infants in one arm and hold other children by the hand. There is a hush in the anteroom. With the Days of Awe approaching, a solemn spirit prevails.

My husband and I wait in line with the others. This is our first visit back to the States since moving to Israel twenty years ago. Praying with the Rebbe will be the highlight of the trip.

The gabbai motions for us to enter.

Though so many years have passed since I'd last seen the Rebbe, my memory of him always remained that of a regal figure, straight and proud. Now, on entering his private study, I'm shocked to find a bent old man standing at the side of his huge desk.

Although he still wears a bronze brocade robe, with mandarin collar, black slipper-type shoes and black velour hat, everything else about him is different. His beard has turned all white, he seems to be totally exhausted; breathing with difficulty, constantly sighing, almost gasping as though to get more breath. He seems so frail; his eyelids are almost transparent.

I suddenly understand why in the past, my husband would often refuse to consult with the Rebbe on matters that troubled us. "I don't want the rebbe to have aggravation," he would say. "The Rebbe is like a father to his chassidim. He takes their heartaches very seriously and very personally, and gets sick from all the problems that his chassidim bring him. A real chossid tries to spare his rebbe."

I would disagree with my husband, ...