The Tikkun of a chicken which had links of generations
In the days when the holy Baal Shem Tov walked the earth, bringing light and healing to the Jewish people, there was a town not far from Mezhibuzh, where a wealthy and respected philanthropist named Reb Gavriel lived. Known for his generosity and piety, Reb Gavriel was beloved by all. After many years of longing and prayer, he was finally blessed with a son. The joy in his household was boundless.
To celebrate the boy’s bris, Reb Gavriel spared no expense. He invited the greatest rabbis, scholars, and dignitaries from across the region. The finest meats were prepared, the choicest wines uncorked, and the town buzzed with anticipation. Among the honored guests was none other than the Baal Shem Tov himself, accompanied by his closest disciple, the brilliant and fiery Reb Dov Ber of Mezritch.
As the guests arrived and the festivities began, the Baal Shem Tov entered the hall with his usual quiet dignity. He greeted Reb Gavriel warmly, offering blessings for the newborn child. But as he approached the banquet table, laden with delicacies, he paused.
“Tell me,” he asked, “who prepared the meat for this feast?”
Reb Gavriel, slightly taken aback, replied, “The finest shochtim in the region, Rebbe. Everything is strictly kosher, as you would expect.”
The Baal Shem Tov nodded slowly, his eyes scanning the room. Then, with a gentle firmness, he said, “I cannot partake in this food. I must find my own chicken.”
A murmur spread through the crowd. Why would the holy Rebbe refuse the food prepared with such care? Nevertheless, no one dared question him. He walked past the bustling kitchen, past the coops filled with healthy, plump chickens, until he stopped at the far end of the yard. There, lying in the dust, was a sickly, half-dead chicken, barely breathing.
“This one,” he said, pointing. “This is the chicken I will eat.”
The shoichet was summoned, and the chicken was slaughtered. But as he examined the bird, his face grew troubled.
“Rebbe,” he said, “this chicken has a serious question of treifus. I cannot rule on it alone. It must be shown to the town’s Rav.”
The Baal Shem Tov nodded. “Then let us bring it to him.”
The Rav of the town, a man of great learning and stature, examined the chicken carefully. After a long silence, he declared, “It is not kosher.”
Reb Dov Ber stepped forward. “With respect, I must disagree,” he said. “The Gemara in Chullin teaches us…” And with that, he launched into a deep and complex halachic discourse, citing sources from the Talmud, the Rambam, and the Rishonim. His words flowed like a river, each argument more compelling than the last.
The room was silent, save for the sound of his voice. The bris, meanwhile, was delayed. The guests waited, puzzled and restless. A simple chicken had become the center of a great Torah debate.
After hours of discussion, the Baal Shem Tov raised his hand. “Is there anyone else in the house who can offer an opinion?”
Reb Gavriel looked around, confused. “Rebbe… only my son is here. He just turned thirteen today. But he’s been paralyzed since birth. He’s never spoken, never walked. He sits in the attic, silent and still.”
“Bring him,” the Baal Shem Tov said.
The room erupted in laughter. “Rebbe,” someone whispered, “surely you jest. A child who has never spoken? What could he possibly say?”
But the Baal Shem Tov was unmoved. He rose and walked up the stairs himself. Moments later, gasps filled the room as the boy appeared — walking unaided, his face radiant, his eyes clear and wise. The impossible had happened. A miracle, unfolding before their eyes.
The Baal Shem Tov led the boy to the center of the room and seated him between the town’s Rav and Reb Dov Ber.
“My child,” he said gently, “today you are a man. Today you will speak Torah. Tell us — is this chicken kosher?”
The boy stood. Silence fell. He opened his mouth, and for the first time in his life, he spoke.
“The question,” he began, his voice carrying a new strength, “hinges on the lesion near the lung.” For half an hour, he spoke with remarkable depth, citing proof after proof — drawing from the Tosafists, clarifying the Rambam, and weaving together a tapestry of halachic reasoning. His voice was filled with wisdom far beyond his years, resonating with the eloquence of the greatest scholars who ever lived. He quoted dozens of sources verbatim, weaving together intricate claims and counterarguments with astonishing clarity and depth. The room listened, spellbound, as he addressed each halachic point, building a tapestry of Torah that left even the most learned guests in awe. At last, he concluded: this wound does not render the chicken treif. It is kosher.”
His voice was clear, his reasoning flawless. The Rav blinked in astonishment. Reb Dov Ber nodded slowly, his eyes wide with wonder.
The Baal Shem Tov smiled, his face glowing with joy. “Now,” he said, “we may proceed.”
The bris was held, the child circumcised, and the feast resumed. But the true celebration was not only for the newborn child — it was for the miracle that had unfolded, for the awakening of a soul long silent, and for the revelation that even the weakest among us may carry the deepest truths.
The bris was completed. The guests rejoiced. The miracle of the boy — once mute and paralyzed, now walking and speaking Torah with clarity and brilliance — was the talk of the town. The feast resumed, and the Baal Shem Tov sat quietly, his eyes reflecting a depth few could fathom.
But then, as the final blessings were recited and the last songs faded, a sudden cry pierced the room. The boy — the miraculous child who had stunned the crowd with his halachic ruling — had collapsed. His body trembled once, then lay still.
A hush fell over the hall. Joy turned to shock. Celebration to grief. His parents rushed to his side, tears streaming down their faces. The guests stood frozen, unable to comprehend what had just occurred.
Reb Gavriel, his voice choked with sorrow, turned to the Baal Shem Tov. “Rebbe… why? Why would Hashem grant us such a miracle, only to take him away so soon? Why awaken our son, only to silence him again?”
The Baal Shem Tov looked upon the grieving parents with compassion. He did not speak immediately and then stepped forward and began to explain.
“You must know,” he said gently, “that your son was not an ordinary soul. In truth, you were chosen to host one of the highest souls ever to descend into this world. You were granted the soul of the great Rabbi Alexander Shor of Nikolsburg — the author of the Simlah Chadasha, the most authoritative work on the laws of shechitah.”
Gasps rippled through the room. The Simlah Chadasha was revered across the Jewish world. To hear that this soul had returned was beyond imagination.
The Baal Shem Tov continued. “It once happened that Rabbi Alexander gave a hasty ruling to a poor widow regarding a chicken that she had bought for her children who were orphans with money that she saved for many months. He declared it not kosher. But in truth, had he looked a little deeper, he would have seen that it could have been permitted. That ruling caused the woman great pain — she had no other food, no other means. And in the heavenly courts, this was held against him.”
The room was silent. The weight of the story settled over them like a mist.
“So it was decided in Heaven,” the Baal Shem Tov, “that he would return to this world. But to ensure he would not stumble again, he would be born mute and paralyzed — unable to speak, unable to act — until the day he turned thirteen. On that day, he would be given one chance to correct his ruling. And so it was. The chicken you brought today had the exact same question as the one he ruled on long ago. And this time, he ruled correctly.”
Reb Gavriel and his wife wept, but their tears began to shift — from sorrow to awe. “He came into this world for one purpose,” the Baal Shem Tov finally spoke. “To repair a single moment. To bring justice to a soul. And now, having fulfilled his mission, he has returned to the Garden of Eden, pure and whole.”
The parents embraced others’ presents for emotional support, their grief mingled with a deep, spiritual joy. Though their son had passed, they had been part of a divine mystery — chosen to host a soul of greatness, to witness a tikkun of heavenly proportions.
And so, the story of the boy who ruled on the chicken became legend. A tale whispered in study halls and sung in quiet corners of the Jewish world. A reminder that every soul has a purpose, every moment a meaning, and that sometimes, the deepest truths come from the most unexpected places.
Takeaway
In Parshas Noach, Hashem permits humanity to eat meat for the first time — but immediately warns against consuming blood, teaching that life is sacred and must be treated with reverence.
The story of the Baal Shem Tov and the miraculous boy reminds us that eating meat is not just a physical act, but a spiritual responsibility. A single halachic ruling on a chicken carried eternal consequences, and a soul returned to this world solely to correct it.
This teaches us that every decision — especially those affecting others — must be made with care, humility, and deep Torah wisdom. Even the smallest choices can echo in eternity.