Why I Steal

Essay by Cohen Binyaminov

A Confession

I have a confession to make.

I steal.

Not every day. But often enough that I have become rather good at it.

I steal when no one is looking. I steal when the world is distracted. I steal when obligations line up outside my door demanding to be acknowledged. And, strangely enough, the older I become, the more convinced I am that this form of theft may be the greatest virtue a person can acquire.

King Solomon, the wisest of men, once prayed an extraordinary prayer to the Almighty. He asked not to become excessively rich, lest wealth seduce him into believing that he was the sole architect of his destiny. And he asked not to become excessively poor, lest desperation provided him with endless reasons to justify wrongdoing merely to survive.

What a remarkable understanding of human nature. We rarely commit wrong because we lack reasons. On the contrary, we commit wrong because we possess too many reasons.

Centuries later, Rabbi Zusya of Hanipol taught that there are seven qualities one can learn even from a thief. A thief works in secret. A thief perseveres despite failure. A thief risks comfort for his objective. A thief values every small gain. A thief is determined. A thief is courageous. And a thief pursues his mission with a singular devotion that most righteous people never apply to their own spiritual lives.

Perhaps that is why the Torah commands us, in the Ten Commandments, 'You shall not steal.' Not merely property, but even the mind of another person through deception, false impressions, and stolen honor.

But this is not the theft I wish to discuss.

The theft I have in mind is holier.

Twenty-Four Hours

As a bone marrow transplant survivor, I no longer experience time as I once did. Before illness, I lived as though life were measured in decades. After illness, I discovered that life is measured in days.

My life expectancy is twenty-four hours. Not medically. Spiritually.

Today is my entire life. This morning, when I awoke, I was handed a universe exactly twenty-four hours wide. Tomorrow's universe has not yet been created. Yesterday's universe had already collapsed into memory. Today is all I possess.

The Theft

And today, I committed theft.

At exactly three o'clock in the afternoon, during what is arguably the busiest hour of modern existence, I sat down with my Torah study partner in Israel to learn Chassidut.

The world objected. The telephone rang. Messages accumulated. Meetings demanded attention. Responsibilities assembled their legal arguments. Seven missed calls arrived to testify that I was needed elsewhere.

But I stole the hour anyway.

For sixty minutes, I disconnected myself from the entire universe to participate in creating a better one.

Our days have become crowded kingdoms. We awaken to prayer, race to work, attend meetings, answer messages, care for spouses, children, parents, and friends, pay bills, visit doctors, attend events, exercise, solve problems, pursue ambitions, manage crises, and collapse into bed convinced that we were productive.

But productive for whom?

The wise person, I have come to believe, must become a thief. He must steal from urgency. He must steal from distraction. He must steal from comfort. He must steal from the illusion that everything demanding his attention is equally important.

Eternity

Because one day, after seventy, eighty, or one hundred and twenty years, I do not believe they will ask me how many emails I answered on July 1, 2026. I do not believe they will ask me how many meetings I attended. I do not believe they will ask me how efficiently I managed my calendar.

I believe they will ask a far simpler question:

"What did you do with the day that was entrusted to you?"

What did you do for God? What did you do for your soul? What did you do for eternity?

And I pray that I will be able to answer:

"I stole an hour."

I stole an hour from commerce. I stole an hour from distraction. I stole an hour from the endless demands of the physical world. I stole an hour to study Torah. I stole an hour to refine my soul. I stole an hour to bring one additional measure of light into a world that desperately needs it.

What greater title could a human being hope to earn?

While others were stealing money, this man stole time. While others were stealing honor, recognition, and the approval of strangers, this man stole moments from mortality and deposited them into eternity.

Perhaps that is the only theft Heaven celebrates.

Join Me

So, I extend to you an unusual invitation. Join me. Become a thief. Steal fifteen minutes. Steal thirty. Steal for an hour. Steal a moment from the relentless machinery of this world and dedicate it to something that will outlive this world.

For in the end, we have nothing. Not our wealth. Not our accomplishments. Not even our bodies. We are given only a handful of days and the freedom to decide what to do with them.

And the greatest secret I have learned, after illness, suffering, survival, and grace, is this:

The only things we truly keep are the moments we managed to steal for eternity.