In Hashem We Trust? Do You Have the Faith to Cut the Check?

By David Rogatsky

I. The April Dilemma: Faith, Fear, and the IRS

It was tax season in Los Angeles, and somewhere in Pico-Robertson, a balding accountant with tzitzis tucked under his Costco button-down was sweating bullets over a spreadsheet. On the line with a client (let’s call him “Avi from Beverlywood”), he’s trying to explain why Avi’s kosher meat habit, mezuzah replacement, and Shabbos flowers probably won’t qualify as deductible.

April is brutal. It brings the unholy trinity of expenses: the IRS, the registrar’s office at your kids’ Jewish day school, and the butcher who just casually charged $210 for a tray of lamb chops. Add to that the cost of cleaning for Pesach, buying your fifth Afikoman gift, and making sure your toddler’s yarmulke matches his seersucker suit for the Pesach program, and suddenly “In Hashem we trust” becomes less a motto and more a white-knuckled prayer of desperation. And here we are in May, the aftermath, subtly peppering your buddy at shul with questions to find out if you’re the only one who’s holding on by a thin strand.

But beneath the bills and budget spreadsheets lies a spiritual battleground. That’s what this article is really about. Because when you're staring down a $40,000 tuition tab with three W-2s and a checking account that’s crying uncle, the real question isn’t just how you’re going to pay. It’s whether you believe Hashem will make a way, or in other words, if you have the faith to cut the check.

II. Rabbi Rietti and the Check Heard 'Round the World

The first time I heard the phrase “Do you have the faith to cut the check?” it stopped me mid-scroll like a car crash on Pico. It wasn’t a snarky TikTok or another overpriced “growth mindset” guru. It was Rabbi Jonathan Rietti. British-accented, master educator, and one of the few kiruv personalities who can quote both Tehillim and Tony Robbins without sounding like a parody.

The idea is deceptively simple. You’re staring at a bill—maybe tuition, maybe taxes, maybe tzedakah. You don’t have it. Or you barely have it. And yet, you write the check. Not because it makes fiscal sense, but because your emunah tells you that Hashem will catch you on the other side.

Rietti has said versions of this in lectures for years, often quoting the pasuk: “U’vchanuni na b’zot…” i.e. “Test Me in this,” says Hashem in Malachi, referring specifically to giving tithes and tzedakah. It’s one of the only places in Torah where we’re told to test G-d. Give, and He’ll give back. Not metaphorically, materially.

But what does that mean in 2025, when the check we’re cutting isn’t just to the yeshiva or IRS, but also to L.A. landlords, mechanics, and the inflation powers that be?

III. The Numbers Game: Millennials, Money, and the Myth of “Hard Work”

Let’s dispense with one myth right now: the idea that today’s young Jewish parents just need to “work harder” or stop buying Starbucks. Oprah Winfrey once claimed her generation succeeded because they had better work ethic. Instagram clapped back with something far more convincing: math.

In 1984, the median home cost was roughly 3.5x the average income. Today, it's over 7x. Wages have crawled; home prices have launched. Since 1970:

• Home prices have increased 1,608%.

• College tuition is up over 1,400%.

• Childcare costs have tripled.

• Median income? Up just 15% after inflation.

And we wonder why a 30-something father in Hancock Park with four kids and two jobs is stress-biting his nails into oblivion.

For Orthodox Jews, this reality is multiplied. Not figuratively. Literally.

Between kosher food premiums, tuition for multiple kids (which can easily cross six figures annually), the cost of religious holidays, modest fashion requirements, and increased housing needs due to larger families, the average frum family is budgeting for a lifestyle that would bankrupt their secular counterparts.

So why aren’t we all screaming into the void?

Because we believe in something bigger.

IV. Parnassah and the Pit: Emunah in the Age of Financial Anxiety

Let’s talk about the elephant in the room: anxiety. Not the “I forgot to reply to that WhatsApp” kind. The real stuff. The pit-of-your-stomach, “What if I can’t make payroll?” kind. The “How will I face my wife if I can’t send our son back to school next year?” kind.

This isn’t hypothetical. It's the lived experience of thousands of men, especially in our community, who are raised to believe they must simultaneously be providers, spiritual leaders, and emotionally available husbands, all while existing in a system that offers no margin for error.

One young father from Valley Village put it to me like this:

“There’s a weird guilt that comes with making just enough. I’m not poor. But I’m not rich enough to feel comfortable. Every year, I make more money. And every year, I feel poorer. I can’t breathe. I feel like I’m constantly apologizing to my kids and my wife, ‘not this year,’ ‘maybe next year.’ And I love Hashem, but sometimes it feels like I’m being crushed.”

This man isn’t alone. According to Pew Research, religious Americans, particularly observant Jews, are among the most likely to report financial stress despite stable income. Why? Because “just making it” doesn't work when your bare minimum includes full-time Jewish schooling for 5+ kids, kosher meat, simchas, and shul security.

V. From the Torah to TurboTax: Halachic Obligations and Modern Burdens

We’re commanded to give ma’aser, to support yeshivos, to be yirei shamayim in business. We’re told that “Dina d’malchusa dina”—the law of the land is law. Which means taxes? Yeah. Those too.

But is the Torah cruel? Does it set us up for burnout?

Hardly.

Halacha, in its infinite nuance, recognizes capacity. The Shulchan Aruch never commands you to bankrupt yourself for a mitzvah. And yet, there’s that tension. Between halachic boundaries and the Chassidic ideal of bitachon b’li gevul - faith without limits.

Rabbi Nachman of Breslov famously said:

“The main test in life is money.”

Not Torah knowledge. Not how many Daf Yomi pages you can flip in a day. Money. Why? Because it reveals your heart. Your fears. Your control issues. Your willingness, or unwillingness, to let go.

VI. The Tuition Trap: Do We Even Have a Choice?

According to internal figures from Jewish day schools in L.A., tuition fees average between $18,000 and $30,000 per child per year—and that doesn’t include books, trips, or the infamous “registration fees” that arrive the same week as your tax bill and Pesach shopping.

Rabbi Arye Suffrin of YULA explained it bluntly:

“Without fundraising, tuition wouldn’t cover the expense of any school. We have to operate on razor-thin margins. We’re doing our best—but it’s expensive.”

YULA operates with over 100 staff members, dozens of sports teams and clubs, and a sprawling facility. It’s not luxury, it’s a necessity for the kids that go there and for the 100+ families supported by their payroll. Still, for a family with four or more kids, the math stops making sense around kid #3.

So, if the schools need the bread and, as we’re outlining, not everyone can make it happen, what do parents do?

They hustle. They borrow. They cry. They strategize like generals in wartime, squeezing blood from stone and praying their credit card doesn’t bounce at the butcher. They sit through humiliating financial aid interviews. They fudge numbers. They cut corners. Some even consider moving out of state, until they remember there’s no kosher bakery in Tulsa.

And yet, every year, they cut the check.

VII. The Burden of the Breadwinner: Silent Sacrifices, Unspoken Pain

There’s a reason the Gemara says "Parnassah is as difficult as the splitting of the sea." It’s not just poetic.

The frum man in L.A. today is often living a dual life. To the outside world, he's a regular guy—a programmer, a lawyer, a real estate agent. But underneath the kippah is a soul tormented by the fear that he’s failing as a provider. Failing as a husband. Failing as a Jew.

He doesn’t talk about it at shul. He can’t afford therapy. He’s too ashamed to tell his wife he’s drowning. So he pulls a 12-hour day, comes home to make Havdalah, smiles through his daughter’s Dvar Torah, and wonders if maybe, just maybe, he’s doing enough.

And just to twist the knife a little deeper, let’s not forget that in Los Angeles, tax season doesn’t even end in April. Thanks to the fires, the government granted an “extension.” But it’s a trap. Because while the paperwork may get delayed, the pressure doesn’t. The countdown just shifts. People file extensions, not relief. The sleepless nights and credit card games continue, just with a new expiration date.

VIII. The Upside Down: When Faith Defies Logic

Now here’s the wild part.

Despite all of this, despite the tears, the overdrafts, the frum community is thriving. Schools are full. Shuls are packed. There’s joy, vibrancy, and an unmistakable sense that Hashem is present.

Because somehow, against all odds, the money does come. Maybe not always how we expected. Maybe not always cleanly. But the stories are legion:

• The donor who shows up the week before the eviction.

• The unexpected tax return.

• The freelance gig that lands (after davening) with a stranger who needed help with his website.

• The envelope of cash tucked anonymously into a shul mailbox.

This isn’t prosperity gospel. It’s not “give and get rich.” It’s the deeper truth of Torah: You were never in control to begin with.

IX. What Now? Community, Courage, and Course Correction

So what do we do?

For starters, we get honest. About the burden. About the broken systems. About the shame. We speak openly, in articles, at shul, with each other, about the crushing cost of Jewish life in America, and especially in Los Angeles.

We demand transparency from schools. No more hidden fees. No more registration during Pesach week. No more financial aid committees staffed like IRS audits.

We support one another. If you’ve been blessed with wealth, don’t just sponsor a kiddush. Sponsor a family. Quietly. Dignified. As tzedakah was meant to be.

And above all, we cut the check with faith. Not recklessly. But righteously. Not because we’re sure it will all work out, but because we trust that Hashem is watching. He knows our hearts. He counts our sacrifices in ways the IRS never could.

X. Conclusion: The Final Test

Let’s be real.

Cutting that check, whether for tuition, taxes, or tzedakah, may feel like the most terrifying thing you’ll do this year. But in that moment, you’re not just a provider or a taxpayer. You’re an avodah-performing Jew, holding a pen like a sword, declaring to the world and to Hashem:

“You gave me this. I’m giving it back. I trust You to fill in the rest.”

Because the truth is, Hashem never asked us to make it make sense. He asked us to believe. He asked us to try. He asked us to write the check with faith.

So… do you?