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 vital link in the global kosher supply chain, connecting Chinese manufacturing to Jewish communities worldwide. But this particular day was anything but ordinary.
I visited four factories, each with its unique atmosphere and story. The first three were standard fare—meticulous inspections of production lines, ingredient checks, and equipment reviews. But here’s where it gets truly remarkable: At the fourth factory, I encountered something—or rather, someone—that left me deeply moved.
The factory itself was unremarkable: clean, efficient, and well-organized, like countless others in China’s industrial landscape. The surprise wasn’t in the machinery or the processes, but in the factory’s kosher certification representative. From the moment I met him, I sensed an unusual depth to his demeanor. While most factory staff are polite and professional, he exuded a quiet reverence, almost as if he were in the presence of something sacred. Later, I learned he had recently been transferred to this role, which explained why our paths hadn’t crossed before.
After completing my inspection, I was preparing to leave when he approached me with an eagerness that was hard to ignore. ‘May I show you something?’ he asked. Intrigued, I followed him to a small closet behind his desk. There, he carefully retrieved two books in Chinese. And this is the part most people miss: Both were about the Talmud.
He handled the books with the care one might reserve for a treasured heirloom. With a proud smile, he explained that these texts were his constant source of wisdom and inspiration. The titles were Talmud Bavli and The Book of Wisdom, compiled by a Chinese scholar named Qiuquan and published by the China Federation of Literary and Art Circles Press. Though the books lacked specific references for the passages they quoted, their content was captivating. Each page radiated a profound admiration for Jewish learning, moral reasoning, and the timeless lessons embedded in our ancient texts.
I asked him to share a story that resonated with him. He eagerly opened one of the books and began recounting a tale—not from the Talmud itself, but from the Midrash. It was about Rabbi Shimon ben Gamliel, a sage frequently mentioned in Jewish literature.
Here’s the story he shared:
Rabbi Shimon ben Gamliel once called his attendant, Tavi, and said, ‘Go to the market and bring me the best food you can find.’ Tavi returned with beef tongue. Later, Rabbi Shimon asked him to bring something bad. Tavi returned again with tongue. Confused, Rabbi Shimon asked, ‘Why did you bring the same thing both times?’ 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)
The story’s simplicity belies its profound message: Our words hold immense power—to heal or harm, to uplift or destroy. But what struck me most wasn’t just the wisdom of the story, but who was sharing it: a Chinese factory manager in a remote corner of Shandong Province, passionately engaged with the teachings of our Sages.
In that moment, thousands of miles from home, I felt an unexpected, profound connection. Here was a man who found personal meaning in the teachings of our ancestors, whose wisdom has shaped Jewish thought for over two millennia. And this is where it gets controversial: How often do we assume that our heritage is confined to our own communities? This encounter challenged me to reconsider the boundaries of inspiration and the universal appeal of Jewish wisdom.
As I left the factory, I couldn’t help but wonder: How many others, in far-flung corners of the world, are quietly drawn to the light of our ancient teachings? This experience reminded me that wisdom knows no borders, transcending language, culture, and geography to touch hearts in ways we could never predict.
What do you think? Have you ever encountered someone unexpectedly connected to your heritage or culture? Does this story challenge your assumptions about who might find meaning in Jewish teachings? Share your thoughts in the comments—I’d love to hear your perspective!
