There are moments from one’s youth that blur with time, soften by distance, and get lost in the general haze of growing up. And then there are moments that refuse to recede, moments that remain vivid not because of drama or spectacle, but because of the quiet way they shaped how one thinks about people, about responsibility, and about the subtle forces that mold character.

I remember one of those moments. However, I will not recount the exact details, partly out of discretion and partly because anyone who spent time in a yeshiva high school already understands the category.

There were youthful antics, a lapse in judgment, and a situation that escalated far beyond what anyone involved had anticipated. Somehow, a test was taken, not in the administered sense, but rather from a teacher’s desk or briefcase, whether by accident or design, and in short order, the entire episode took on a life of its own. There was confusion, commotion, and what can only be described as a tumult, one that may even have included the pulling of a fire alarm. What mattered was not the mechanics of what occurred, but the fact that a line had been crossed, and everyone knew it.

Ordinarily, such incidents are handled quietly and individually, with an emphasis on minimizing fallout rather than drawing attention. But the roshei yeshiva in Philadelphia, took general education seriously. They took character flaws even more seriously. They understood that moments of failure are not merely breaches of discipline, but opportunities for formation, moments when a young person’s internal compass is either subtly corrected or silently distorted, and thus the start of a slippery slope toward corruption. And so, a decision was made to gather all the high school boys together, not in the bais medrash, but in a separate room, one that I am not even sure still exists today in the structural sense, but clearly exists with remarkable clarity in my memory.

And then something unusual happened. The rosh yeshiva, Rav Elya Svei, spoke.

Those of us who were accustomed to hearing him only during a shmuess delivered to the bais medrash bochurim sensed immediately that this was not routine. For Rav Elya to address high school boys directly, privately, was exceedingly rare. This was not a disciplinary lecture, nor was it an expression of anger or disappointment. It was chinuch, delivered with deliberateness and total heart.

He opened a Sefer Hachinuch and read from this week’s parsha, a lav that seemed, at first, far removed from the incident at hand: the prohibition of breaking the bones of the Korban Pesach. Why, the Sefer Hachinuch asks, does the Torah concern itself with something seeming so technical? What is the relevancy of bone-breaking to the goals of the korban? The Chinuch explains that bone-breaking in order to get more meat is the behavior of slaves.

Someone who is ravenously hungry, desperate and reduced to survival, breaks bones to extract every last bit of nourishment. Kings do not eat that way. Princes do not gnaw at bones. Royalty eats with restraint, with dignity, with composure. They eat like bnei chorin, with a sense of self that does not need to squeeze sustenance from every corner.

And then Rav Elya articulated the principle that framed everything that followed.

Adam nifal lefi pe’ulosav.

A person is shaped by his actions.

We are not merely influenced by them, and not only affected by them in passing, but actions shape a person in a cumulative and lasting way. A person who consistently behaves with dignity develops dignity, while a person who habituates himself to coarseness gradually becomes coarse, regardless of how refined his intentions may once have been.

Rav Elya then brought the point into sharp focus, explaining that a boy who cheats is not revealing an existing corrupt character trait so much as cultivating one. Dishonesty, once practiced, does not remain confined to a classroom or a single incident. It becomes a tool the soul grows comfortable using. In his inimitable manner, he stated, “A cheater is a cheater because he cheats!”

Over time, it appears in business dealings, in financial shortcuts, in strained relationships, and even in the private rationalizations a person offers himself when no one else is listening.

That shmuess never left me.

Adam nifal lefi pe’ulosav is not a slogan or a line of homiletic flourish. It is a spiritual principle with far-reaching implications, one that extends well beyond adolescent missteps and into the broader fabric of communal and personal life.

At times, watching scenes unfold in the streets of Yerushalayim, I cannot help but think of that lesson. Demonstrations, clashes, fires, and chaos are often analyzed through the lens of ideology, with debates centering on whether actions align with daas Torah. But beyond the question of authorization lies another concern.

What is this doing to the people involved?

Chazal tell us that after the destruction of an Ir Hanidachas, the Torah promises a unique brocha, v’richamcha, that Hakadosh Boruch Hu will restore compassion within the people. The need for such a promise itself is telling, because acts of violence, even when justified, leave an imprint. Aggression reshapes the inner world of the one who engages in it. Undoing that damage requires Divine assistance.

Actions do not remain external. They settle inward, slowly and often imperceptibly, until they become part of the person himself.

Many years ago, my grandfather, Rav Yaakov Kamenetzky, was invited to deliver a shmuess at an Israeli yeshiva. As he entered the building, there was pushing and shoving, boys pressing forward eagerly to say shalom or to catch a glimpse. The enthusiasm was genuine, but the disorder was striking, particularly to someone accustomed to a different communal rhythm. I do not recall such scenes when walking with him at Agudah conventions in America, where there was a certain civility and respect for order. Whatever the cause, Rav Yaakov sensed that something deeper was being expressed.

He did not give the planned shiur.

Instead, he spoke about the meraglim.

The Torah lists the shevotim in a seemingly disordered sequence, a question raised by the Ramban and illuminated by Rashi’s comment on “Vatikrevun eilai kulchem,” that the people approached Moshe be’irbuvya, in chaos. The young pushed ahead of the elders, hierarchy dissolved, and order collapsed. That disorder, Rav Yaakov explained, was symptomatic. When seder breaks down externally, clarity and judgment falter internally as well.

Once again, the same message emerged.

People are molded by the behaviors they normalize, the environments they tolerate, and the actions they repeat. The music one listens to, the media one consumes, the tone one adopts in protest, and even the manner in which one fights for causes believed to be holy all leave their imprint.

Nothing is neutral.

Adam nifal lefi pe’ulosav.

Even when intentions are sincere and causes are righteous, the methods matter, because methods do not disappear once the moment has passed. They train the soul, shaping character quietly but inexorably.

We often imagine that behaviors can be worn temporarily and discarded at will, but the Torah teaches otherwise. Over time, we become what we do.

Just saying.