A personal story related by the Baal Shem Tov

When I was just five years old, I lost both my father and mother. The final words my holy father spoke to me before his passing were etched into my soul: “Yisrolik, fear nothing but G-d alone.”

Guided by those words, I found solace in the fields and the vast forest near our village. After cheder, I would wander into nature, reviewing my studies by heart. Many nights I slept beneath the open sky, among the trees. My guardians, who cared for me and other orphans, disapproved of this behavior and often punished me harshly.

Two years passed this way. One morning, deep in the forest, I heard a voice. I followed the sound and discovered a Jew wrapped in tallit and tefillin, praying with a fiery devotion I had never seen before. Hidden behind the trees, I watched in awe. I thought to myself: Surely this is one of the thirty-six hidden tzaddikim who sustain the world.

After his prayers, he sang Psalms with heartfelt melody, then immersed himself in Torah study. When he finished, he packed his books and sacred items into a sack and began walking. I stepped out from my hiding place and approached him.

He asked, “What is a small child doing alone in the forest? Aren’t you afraid?”

I replied, “I love the forest and the fields. There are no people here—most are arrogant and dishonest. I’m not afraid. I’m an orphan. My father told me before he died: ‘Yisrolik, fear nothing but G-d alone.’ So I fear nothing.”

He asked if I was Reb Eliezer’s son. When I confirmed, he took out a volume of Talmud—tractate Pesachim—and studied with me. I joined him on his journey, not knowing where we were headed or why.

We traveled from town to town, sometimes staying for days, sometimes longer. I never learned his name. Each day we studied together. He never accepted charity, yet he fed and clothed me, caring for all my needs. Three years passed this way.

One day, he told me of a G-d-fearing Jew who lived nearby in the forest. He brought me to a small hut and entrusted me to its resident, Reb Meir, then departed.

I lived with Reb Meir for four years. He studied with me diligently. Each day we walked to the village to pray. The villagers knew Reb Meir only as a humble charcoal burner, unaware of his hidden greatness.

In his home, I learned the ways of the hidden tzaddikim and their leader, Rabbi Adam Baal Shem. When my time with Reb Meir ended, I was accepted into their fellowship and began traveling again, fulfilling missions assigned by their leaders.

Before I turned sixteen, I had acquired deep knowledge of Kabbalah and sometimes prayed using the mystical meditations of the Lurianic tradition, taught to me by the awe-inspiring hidden tzaddik, Reb Chaim.

On my sixteenth birthday—Elul 18, 5474 (1714)—I was in a small village. The local innkeeper, a simple Jew barely able to read the prayers, was deeply devout. He would constantly say, “Blessed be He for ever and ever.” His wife, Zlateh Rivkah, would echo, “Praised be His holy name.”

That day, I went alone to the field to meditate, as is the custom on one’s birthday. Immersed in Psalms and Kabbalistic unifications, I lost awareness of my surroundings. Suddenly, Eliyahu the Prophet appeared before me, smiling.

Though I had merited revelations of Eliyahu before, never had he come to me alone. I was puzzled by his smile.

He said, “You toil with great effort to meditate on the divine unifications within King David’s Psalms. Yet Aaron Shlomo the innkeeper and Zlateh Rivkah, unaware of these mystical meanings, utter simple praises—‘Blessed be He,’ ‘Praised be His name’—that echo through all worlds and stir heaven more than the deepest meditations of the greatest tzaddikim.”

Eliyahu explained the immense joy G-d receives from sincere words of gratitude and praise, especially from simple folk who speak them consistently, with pure faith and heartfelt devotion.

From that moment, I embraced a new path: inspiring others to speak words of praise to G-d. Wherever I went, I would ask after people’s well-being, prompting them to respond with expressions of thanks—“Baruch Hashem,” “Blessed be His Name,” and the like.

For many years I pursued this practice. Eventually, the fellowship of hidden tzaddikim adopted it as a central form of divine service. This marked the beginning of a new approach—one that emphasized love for every Jew, regardless of their Torah knowledge or spiritual level.