Imagine discovering a hidden connection to your heritage in the most unexpected of places. That’s exactly what happened to me during a routine kosher certification visit in Shandong Province, China. As a Shliach, my role often takes me to factories across China, ensuring that kosher products meet the strict standards required by Jewish law. These inspections are more than just a job; they’re a bridge between global Jewish communities and the ingredients that sustain them. But this particular day was anything but ordinary.
I visited four factories, each with its unique atmosphere and story. The first three were standard—meticulous checks of production lines, ingredients, and equipment to ensure kosher compliance. But here’s where it gets truly remarkable: At the fourth factory, I encountered something far more profound than machinery or processes. It was a person—a factory representative overseeing kosher certification—who left an indelible mark on me.
From the start, there was something different about him. Beyond the usual professionalism, he exuded a quiet reverence, almost as if he were in the presence of something sacred. Later, I learned he had recently joined this department, which explained why our paths hadn’t crossed before. After completing my inspection, as I prepared to leave, he approached me with an eagerness that was hard to ignore. And this is the part most people miss—what he shared next.
He led me to a small closet behind his desk and carefully pulled out two books in Chinese. To my astonishment, they were about the Talmud. He held them with the tenderness of someone cradling a treasure, explaining that these texts were his constant source of wisdom. The titles? Talmud Bavli and The Book of Wisdom, compiled by a Chinese scholar named Qiuquan. Though the books lacked direct references to Talmudic passages, their content was a testament to the scholar’s deep admiration for Jewish thought, morality, and ancient teachings.
Intrigued, I asked him to share a story that resonated with him. He eagerly opened a passage and recounted a tale—not from the Talmud itself, but from the Midrash. It was about Rabbi Shimon ben Gamliel, a sage whose wisdom has echoed through Jewish literature for centuries.
Here’s the story: Rabbi Shimon ben Gamliel once asked his attendant, Tavi, to bring him the best food from the market. Tavi returned with beef tongue. Later, when asked to bring the worst food, Tavi again brought tongue. Confused, Rabbi Shimon questioned his choice. Tavi replied, ‘From the tongue comes the good, and from the tongue comes the bad. When it is good, nothing is better; when it is bad, nothing is worse.’ (Midrash Rabbah, Parashas Behar)
This simple yet profound lesson—about the power of words to build or destroy—struck a chord. But what truly amazed me was the storyteller himself: a Chinese factory manager in a remote province, passionately engaged with 2,000-year-old Jewish wisdom. Standing there, thousands of miles from home, I felt an unexpected connection—a reminder that the light of wisdom transcends borders, cultures, and time.
But here’s the controversial part: How often do we overlook the universal appeal of our ancient teachings? Could it be that the wisdom of our Sages has more to offer the world than we realize? This encounter left me wondering: What if the lessons of the Talmud and Midrash are not just for us, but for anyone seeking meaning and moral clarity? I invite you to reflect: Have you ever found inspiration in unexpected places? And do you think our ancient texts have a role to play in shaping global conversations today? Share your thoughts below—let’s spark a discussion!
