Imagine this: You're thousands of miles from home, in a bustling Chinese factory, inspecting kosher food production. You're focused on the details, ensuring everything meets strict religious standards. But then, you meet someone who completely changes your perspective. This is the story of a surprising encounter in China's Shandong province, where the ancient wisdom of the Talmud unexpectedly came to life.
As a Shliach in China, my work involves regular visits to factories producing kosher food for global export. It's a crucial role, ensuring that Jewish communities worldwide can access products that meet halachic requirements. Since so many ingredients originate in China, these inspections are essential. I represent several kosher certifying agencies, supporting factories in maintaining full compliance. It's a routine, yet vital, part of my work.
During a recent visit, I inspected four factories. Each had its unique atmosphere, its distinct smells, and its own story. I meticulously observed the production processes, as always, walking through the lines, checking ingredients, examining equipment, and reviewing records. But in the fourth factory, something truly remarkable happened.
There was nothing unusual about the plant itself – clean, organized, and efficient, typical of the well-run facilities scattered across China's industrial regions. The surprise came not from the machinery or the process, but from a person: the factory's representative responsible for kosher certification. I had never met him before, and he left a lasting impression.
From the moment I arrived, I sensed something different about him. Factory staff are generally polite and respectful, but this man displayed an extra measure of reverence, a quiet awe. I later learned that he had recently been transferred to this department, which explained why our paths hadn’t crossed until then.
After completing my inspection and verifying that everything was in order, I prepared to leave. But before I could depart, he approached me with visible excitement and asked if he could show me something. Intrigued, I agreed. He led me to a small closet behind his desk, opened it carefully, and took out two books in Chinese.
Prepare to be amazed: Both books were about the Talmud.
He held them as if they were sacred treasures. With a proud smile, he explained that these books are his constant source of wisdom and that he studies them regularly for inspiration. The titles read 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.
When I opened the books, I noticed that they didn’t cite the actual references for the passages they quoted, but the content was fascinating nonetheless. Each page reflected deep admiration for Jewish learning, moral reasoning, and the life lessons derived from our ancient texts.
I asked him to share one of the stories he particularly liked. He eagerly turned to a passage and began recounting a tale, one that, interestingly enough, comes not from the Talmud itself but from the Midrash. It told of a Talmudic sage often mentioned throughout our literature: Rabbi Shimon ben Gamliel.
Here's the story he shared:
Once, Rabbi Shimon ben Gamliel called his attendant Tavi and said,
“Please go to the market and bring me the best food you can find.”
Tavi went and soon returned, holding beef tongue.
Rabbi Shimon thanked him and then asked him to go again, this time to bring something bad.
A short while later, Tavi returned, and again, in his hand, tongue.
“I don’t understand,” Rabbi Shimon said. “When I asked for the best food, you brought me tongue, and now when I ask for bad food, you bring the same thing?”
Tavi, the clever attendant, replied, “Exactly. From the tongue comes the good, and from the tongue comes the bad. When it is good, nothing is better than it; when it is bad, nothing is worse than it.”
(Midrash Rabbah, Parashas Behar)
But here's where it gets controversial... The story's simplicity hides its depth. Our words have power, to heal or to wound, to uplift or to destroy. What amazed me most, though, was not just the wisdom of the story but who was telling it: a Chinese factory manager in a remote corner of Shandong province, passionately studying lessons from our Sages.
Standing there, thousands of miles from home, I felt a sudden, unexpected connection, one that transcended language, culture, and geography. Here was a man who found personal meaning in the teachings of our ancestors, whose lives and lessons have shaped Jewish thought for over two thousand years.
And this is the part most people miss... One never knows where inspiration will come from. Today, it came from a Chinese gentleman in Shandong province, deeply engaged with our 2,000-year-old literature, and in turn inspiring me. Encounters like these remind me that the light of wisdom travels far beyond its origin, touching hearts in ways we could never imagine.
What do you think? Does this story challenge your assumptions about where you might find spiritual connection? Share your thoughts in the comments below!
