The Groom's New Suit
Mendel was a peddler from a small village, the kind of man who knew the value of a kopeck and how to stretch it. His son, Hershel, was bright, hardworking, and—against all odds—had caught the eye of a young lady from a wealthy family. The girl’s father, a man of means and fine taste, actually liked the boy. He saw potential. He approved the match.
Still, appearances matter. So, as the wedding approached, the wealthy father-in-law-to-be took Mendel aside. “Listen,” he said, kindly but firmly, “please buy your son a proper suit. Something respectable. When he comes to my city for the wedding, he should look the part.”
Mendel, of course, agreed. He took Hershel straight to the best tailor in the village—who, to be fair, was the only tailor in the village—and ordered a suit. A fine suit. A suit that, in that little town, was considered the height of elegance.
The night before the wedding, Mendel and his family arrived in the city and checked into a modest hotel. Everything was going according to plan—until morning. That’s when the trouble started.
A crowd had gathered outside their room. There was shouting, hand-wringing, even a little theatrical wailing. Mendel, usually a man of restraint, was beside himself. He pointed at the broken door lock. “Thieves!” he cried. “They took everything! Our luggage, our money—even the new suit I bought for Hershel!”
The bride’s father arrived, took one look at Mendel’s distress, and patted him reassuringly on the back. “Mendel,” he said, “don’t worry about a thing. Clothes, money, whatever was lost—I’ll take care of it.” He turned to his butler and gave a simple instruction: “Take them to the best tailor in the city. Get them whatever they need.”
And so, when Hershel arrived at the wedding, he wasn’t wearing the suit from the village. He was dressed to the nines, looking every bit the part of a groom in high society.
Later, at the wedding feast, Mendel sat at the head table, a glass of wine in hand. But he didn’t look happy. A friend of the bride’s father leaned in. “Mendel,” he whispered, “why the long face? Your son just married into a wealthy family. The wedding was beautiful. What’s bothering you?”
Mendel sighed. “What’s bothering me? Didn’t you hear what happened? The thieves! The suit! Everything was stolen!”
The man chuckled. “Nu, so what? The bride’s father bought you new clothes, didn’t he?”
“Of course he did,” Mendel admitted. “Beautiful clothes! But why should I have to take gifts? I prepared everything myself!”
At this, the man shook his head and laughed. “Mendel, you don’t understand. That thief did you the biggest favor of your life! You thought you bought a good suit? Maybe in your village, sure. But here, in the city? They would’ve laughed!
“Now, instead of looking like some poor boy from a shtetl, your Hershel was dressed like a prince! The whole wedding, people were admiring how fine he looked. Thanks to that thief, your son fit right in.”
Mendel considered this for a moment. He took another sip of wine, sat back, and nodded. “You know,” he admitted, “maybe the theft really was for the best.”
The Tzaddik and the Ba'al Teshuvah
The Sages taught in Sanhedrin 99a: In the place where penitents stand, even the completely righteous may not stand. A bold statement. But why? Shouldn’t a life of unwavering righteousness be superior to a life of mistakes and regret?
The tzaddik spends his years amassing spiritual wealth—Torah, mitzvot, prayer. When his time comes, he arrives before the heavenly court, adorned in levushin deMalka, royal robes woven from his good deeds. The angels inspect every thread, scrutinizing his garments like master tailors.
“The Torah you studied—was it truly for its own sake?” the angels inquire.
“This mitzvah—was it done with a pure heart?”
“This prayer—was it said with full intent and kavanah?”
Every deed is weighed, every action examined. The scrutiny is endless.
Then comes the penitent, the ba’al teshuvah. Unlike the tzaddik, his robes are threadbare—no radiant jewels of mitzvot, no fine fabric of Torah. He stands before the throne of God with empty hands and a full heart. His voice trembles: “Ribbono Shel Olam, how did I waste so many years? How did I let so much slip away?”
And what does the Holy One do? He makes for him new spiritual garments. “Great is Teshuvah,” the Sages say, “for it transforms sins into merits.” His new clothes—designed by God Himself—are finer than anything the tzaddik brought. No flaws. No questions.
The tzaddik may have earned his spiritual wardrobe, piece by piece. But the ba’al teshuvah? He is dressed by the King Himself. And so he stands in a place where even the righteous cannot go.
(Adapted from Mishlei Yaakov, pp. 463-464)
