Broke, But Not Broken

I recently approached an intersection where a homeless veteran was holding a sign. The sign read: “I’m broke, but not broken.” Unfortunately, the flow of traffic did not permit me to stop and hand this soul a dollar or engage him in any way. But the sign stuck with me. What a powerful statement and what an empowering mindset. All delivered via a random messenger. 

The lesson speaks for itself. It teaches that we all have the capacity to overcome adversity by not allowing the circumstances of our lives to define us, to demoralize us or to alienate us from ourselves. It is, after all, the same instinct and perspective that has encapsulated Jewish history—the astounding ability to emerge from the most withering of circumstances with our life-force intact.  

But it was not only the message that resonated with me; it was also the messenger. This “random” vet, this street prophet, a man I will probably never encounter again, was a trumpeter of a deep and timeless truth.

I always tell people that we are here to be both students and teachers and that there’s no such thing as a random encounter. Each one of us, regardless of our socio-religious spheres, has a voice that can uniquely and compellingly express energizing truths. These life truths are not only conveyed by scholars, gurus, self-help experts, influencers, podcasters, etc. Quite often we encounter prophets who come to us in the most surprising of garbs. If I could have sat down with that vet, I would have asked him how he was able to weather the storms and deprivations of his life, and I have no doubt I would have left with a deeper sense of gratitude and awareness. 

Though this experience left me wanting and wondering, it reminded me of other encounters I have had. For many years, I used to frequent a synagogue in Hancock Park after I dropped off my kids at school. Along with the regular attendees, there were a few homeless men who would regularly enter the shul and politely ask for money. There was one gentleman, however, who especially caught my attention. Unlike the others, he walked around carrying a small box that alternatively held snacks, pencils and other supplies that he sold. Instead of simply asking for a handout, this man was determined to support himself.

He hated being a beggar. His face was etched in pain and shame. I turned to him, looked him straight in the eye and said, “You’re not a beggar, you’re my teacher.”  

One morning he walked over to me and confessed that he hated being a beggar. His face was etched in pain and shame. I turned to him, looked him straight in the eye, and said, “You’re not a beggar, you’re my teacher.” Incredulous, he asked me what someone like him could possibly teach someone like me. I told him that his determination to live a dignified life despite his immense challenges inspired and humbled me. I was not being polite or patronizing. My statement reflected a sincere realization. I’ll never forget the look of astonishment on his face. In that fleeting moment, that man felt a sense of dignity that he hadn’t felt in years. 

Most of us don’t realize how profoundly we impact the world, unaware of the lessons that we impart through the lives and encounters that we navigate. This dissonance finds poetic expression in a Jewish teaching. Our Sages strongly discouraged exaggeration when speaking about others. They made, however, one exception: when offering a eulogy.

As Rabbi Joel Sirkis (the BACH) teaches, we can’t possibly fathom the void that the passing of each person creates. Every soul invisibly but palpably impacts the world around them, so whatever exaggeration you are expressing at a eulogy may not come close to capturing the true impact of this person.

Every person walking this planet wants to feel significant. Sometimes we need the pained words of a homeless prophet to remind us of the dignity inherent in every soul.

Shlomo Seidenfeld is a freelance rabbi, speaker and real estate agent.