Nechamah can come about in strange ways.

It was the summer of 2004 and my wife and I were returning from a shivah visit in Providence, where we lived for eleven years before moving to New York. The CD player in our car was broken and I tuned into a public radio station. The program being aired, “This American Life,” was telling the story of a young chassidic man who joined a punk rock group. Our curiosity, understandably, was piqued. 
 
The subject of the narrative apparently hadn’t proved himself to be “student material” and while wandering around his native Williamsburg he came across a musical group’s studio, and it intrigued him. In a nutshell, the fellow hung out there many days and ended up contributing his own original “nigunim” to the group. He even appeared, in full chassidic regalia, with it in performances.
 
At one point, the chassid announced that he wanted to become a full-fledged member of the outfit and that he intended to cut off his payos to better fit in. The leader of the group, a gentleman of Irish ethnicity whom I’ll call “Vic,” stopped him cold. 
 
No, he protested, “I’m telling you man, you cut the curls, you’re out of the band… you cut the curls, we have no act.” Vic later said to the interviewer that he just didn’t “want [the chassid] to cross over entirely,” that he didn’t want “to be responsible for that.”
 
And, like the “pang of regret” that Rabi Yochanan in the name of Rabi Yosi (Brachos 7a) teaches is “more effective than many lashes,” the chassid came to realize that his punk-rock rebbe was right. He may have enjoyed being “part of the gang,” but that wasn’t who he really was.
 
The story had a happy ending for the chassid, who ended his Jewish rumspringa, returned to his community and got married and became a father. Vic attended the chasunah -- incognito, because the chassid’s parents blamed him for their son’s wayward stage.
 
I felt bad for Vic about that, and also felt a deep urge to express my hakaras hatov for his refusal to allow his protégé to cut (both literally and figuratively) his ties to his real world. And I indulged the urge, tracked the guy down by phone and introduced myself.
 
“Wow!” he said, sounding a little, well, dreamy. “A rabbi! Rad!”
 
I confessed to the accuracy of my claim, explained why I was calling and invited him to join me, as a token of appreciation, for lunch in my office. He readily agreed (and, discussing the fare with him, I discovered that Irishmen and Jews have something in common: we both are partial to corned beef).
 
I’m not sure what the receptionist at Agudath Israel’s national offices in Manhattan (well, then, anyway; now, they’re in a Zoom room) thought when Vic, spike-haired, multi-pierced and wearing wrap-around sunglasses, told her he had an appointment with me. But I don’t think she was permanently traumatized.
 
Vic was honored, he said, to meet an actual rabbi. I didn’t tell him that we’re actually pretty much a dime a dozen in New York, and instead just expressed how I was also honored to meet him, since he had done something truly remarkable and praiseworthy. 
 
We sat and shmoozed and enjoyed our deli sandwiches. Before I escorted him out -- we made quite a pair -- he even gifted me with his group’s most recent CD. Although my musical tastes run in different directions, it actually was interesting.
 
His real gift, though, of course, was something infinitely more valuable: the return of a straying Jewish soul to Klal Yisrael. How odd, I’ve often thought, that someone like Vic had the merit to do what he did. Hashem brings about happy happenings, Chazal teach, (Shabbos, 32a), through worthy people. What made Vic the worthy messenger is a mystery Mashiach may deign to answer.
 
What isn’t a mystery is that the word nechamah can mean both “remorse” and “comfort.” Because the former, as in the case of Vic’s “talmid,” can be key to the latter.

May our own remorse of what might require it in our lives yield the ultimate nechamah, bim’heira biyameinu.

  
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