WEfrum Yidden are absolutists. We believe with absolute certainty that there is one Hashem Who revealed Himself to Klal Yisrael at Har Sinai, Who gave us instructions through His Torah that we must observe. In all this, there is no wriggle room whatsoever.

The very opposite of absolutism is moral relativism, the idea that there is no universal or absolute set of moral principles, but rather “To each his own,” and “Who am I to judge?”

“Okay?” you say. “And your point is?”

Hang on. I’ll get to it.

For whatever reason, we humans are drawn toward artists, and most powerfully toward singers. The youth, particularly, tend to idolize them and worship them. The back pages of this very magazine testify to this phenomenon and in fact have come — and not without merit — under some criticism for feeding this tendency.

Why this idolization? Evidently there is a subconscious desire to venerate someone who seems particularly talented, rich, popular, or powerful. By adoring them, we somehow associate with them and feel part of their lives. But hero-worship may also lead to a subliminal desire to emulate the hero. Now, generally, this feeling is relatively harmless. If your son idolizes a baseball player, the gap between the ballplayer’s life and your son’s is so vast that there is no real concern he will seek to mimic his hero’s lifestyle (though this idolization may lead to an issur of lo sechaneim).

Which brings me to my point.

Israeli pop music is becoming increasingly popular in our circles, and that is not my issue. “Al taam v’reiach, ein l’hitvakeiach” — there’s no accounting for taste. There is undoubtedly a world of talent that exists in that genre. But to celebrate an Israeli pop singer who identifies as masorati, and generally does not don a yarmulke, is crossing a red line.

A masorati literally means a traditionalist. It refers to the many Jews in Israel who view themselves as somewhere between religious and secular. In general, they observe the mitzvos that serve as symbols of tradition (Shabbos, the Yamim Tovim), but do not adhere to the strictures of halachah. Their motivation for observing these mitzvos is an appreciation of the culture of Judaism and the feeling of belonging to the Jewish People that these mitzvos provide. They are cultural Jews, not religious Jews.

Now, this is somewhat of an oversimplification, because in fact, many of them struggle with belief to various degrees. In fact, there is a singer who advertises his spiritual struggle in his songs in a most eloquent and engaging way [one of his popular songs is “Bein Kodesh l’Chol Ani Chai” ) — but that is the problem. It is this very celebration of ambiguity that is problematic. The angst associated with this ambiguity seems so “authentic,” so real and raw, so sophisticated, and thus for some, so attractive. Black and white seem so pedestrian.

But for us absolutists, masorati is just plain wrong. The blurring of truth and falsehood is what makes Open Orthodoxy much more dangerous than Reform.

The specter of frum Yidden, particularly the youth, attending a concert — even one with separate seating — cheering and applauding a singer whose life message is “I’m not sure,” whose ambiguity is his definition, and who clearly is not fully committed to Torah u’mitzvos, should be deeply disturbing to any frum Yid. The issue of our youth coming to idolize a masorati singer carries a risk of justifying him as a person, of adopting a relativistic attitude: “I have my truths, and he has his.”

This is no small deal. Sure, we must be emotionally understanding of other people’s struggles, but when it comes to emunah v’deios, we must be particularly vigilant. Listening to his songs is one thing, but attending a concert where he is a featured singer crosses a red line.

One man’s opinion.

Rabbi Avrohom Neuberger is the rav of Kahal New City and the author of Positive Vision, a Chofetz Chaim Heritage Foundation project (ArtScroll/Mesorah)

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1039)

The post Without Doubt first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

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ost chinuch tips seem quite obvious and commonsensical, but that in no way diminishes their value. Parents gain immeasurably by being reminded of these basic ideas, and by the ensuing conversation regarding their practical application.

Sometime back, however, I heard a chinuch idea from Rav Elya Brudny shlita that was in fact a chiddush — a concept, that I, for one, had never considered.

He said that successful chinuch should imbue a child with a sense of familial pride — that is, the child should feel proud to identify him- or herself as a member of his or her family.

I’d like to elaborate on this idea.

At first blush, the term “pride” sounds odd, suggesting hubris and gaavah — but of course, this is not what we are speaking of. We mean an identity, a self-value rooted in the principles one’s family stands for. For although all good Yidden have the same basic values, the order of precedence, the hierarchy, and the focus can vary in a million different ways.

For instance, the Friedmans may identify themselves by old-school Hungarian values — erlichkeit in business, being neheneh miyagia kapav, closeness to a rav, etc.; the Gross family, by dikduk b’halachah with simchas hachayim; the Kleins, by tefillah, chesed, and connection to a chassidus; the Weisses, by chiddushei Torah and bikush ha’emes. There are so many middos, and so many more ways of balancing these various ideas and principle, that every family can find individuality in their own unique “nusach.” The sense of pride imbues confidence in the children, as they embrace their parents’ approach to Yiddishkeit. It conveys to the child a sense of rootedness, and psychological stability. There is no better feeling than knowing who you are.

The families who are successful in this way need not be loud, anti-establishment, or cynical of society to celebrate their individuality. On the contrary, their quiet confidence in their individual approach allows them to respect other families who have other approaches. They do not feel threatened.

I was therefore dismayed when I heard that a popular children’s store in the Tristate area had to institute the following policy before they took shipment of their products for the upcoming school year.

At 9 a.m. tickets were handed out on a first-come-first-serve basis — like they used to have in the bakeries. The store actually opened at 11 a.m. Someone I know showed up at 9 a.m. to get her number, but by that “late” hour, there were already hundreds of people waiting for numbers. She received number 371. By the time they got to her number in the store, it was 4:30 p.m.

What I find so distressing about this is the message inherent in such conformity. Because this is really not about gashmiyus. The mothers waiting in that interminable line will say, in all sincerity, that they’re doing it for their kids, because they don’t want them to feel like outcasts and “nebs” for not wearing the popular “cute” style all their classmates are.

This thinking is warped, and it is symptomatic of a societal error that is at direct loggerheads with Rav Elya’s foundational principle. What these parents are conveying to their children is that we, as a family, have no inherent values; we don’t stand for anything other than what our neighbors stand for. We cannot be proud of who we are because we are nothing more than part of the mass. We conform.

These well-meaning parents think they are helping their children, but in fact they are undermining them. (I anticipate that some of the readership may quibble with this example. Fine, but you know that I know that you know what I mean.)

The chinuch eitzah here, as it is in most cases, has nothing to do with what you teach your children, but what you teach yourself.

Young parents must take stock of themselves and develop a healthy sense of pride in the principles they believe in. Instead of waiting in interminable lines to make sure that their child has that piece of clothing, they should think about their core values, what they truly value as important, and embrace those values bishtei yadayim. (Establishing such inner values, dare I say, may even be more valuable than attending chinuch classes!)

By doing so, and role modeling those values to their children, their children will develop a sense of identity and stability… to a far greater degree than any garment, backpack, or insulated cup, ever can.

Rabbi Avrohom Neuberger is the rav of Congregation Shaarei Tefillah of New Hempstead and the author of Positive Vision, a Chofetz Chaim Heritage Foundation project (ArtScroll/Mesorah).

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1027)

The post Who Am I? first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

The current war, with its increasing casualties and the ongoing captivity of the hostages, is unspeakably painful. But the war has also exposed another, more subtle source of pain.

The initial victims of the attacks on October 7 were attending a Nova Music Festival. A Nova festival, for the uninitiated — as I was, until I was enlightened by a prominent rosh yeshivah, outraged that members of our community were visiting such an event — is a “trance” concert. These gatherings feature a certain type of rhythmic music designed to send its attendees into a hypnotic state, to achieve a sense of spirituality.

Whether this approach is rooted in avodah zarah is debatable, but as noted by Rav Chizkiyahu Mishkovsky, in a video clip shown at Dirshu’s recent Kabbalas Shabbos event, this much is clear. The massacre occurred on a Shabbos, Simchas Torah. The multitude of acheinu bnei Yisrael attending that event were seeking spirituality and a connection to something Higher — something that they should have experienced from simchas haTorah and shemiras Shabbos. But because they were ignorant of the true form of connection offered by their own heritage, they sought fulfillment elsewhere.

Rav Dovid Ozeri, who was also a featured speaker at the Dirshu event, related two stories that really drove home this point. He had recently traveled to Eretz Yisrael and visited the “museum” of hundreds of burned-out cars. He noticed a secular Jew crying and engaged him in conversation.

The fellow shared that he was at the concert when the attack occurred. He had barricaded himself in a safe room with ten other men. Upon realizing that their end was near, one of them recalled that some special Hebrew words should be said before one dies, but he could not remember them. No one else knew, but one person thought that the words may be “sefer Torah.” So they all began chanting “sefer Torah, sefer Torah” as they were massacred. This lone individual had somehow survived.

Reb Dovid then met another secular Jew, who was in Kibbutz Be’eri during the attack. He had fainted and was presumed dead, so he was spared. When he awoke, he was lying on the floor and the IDF had just arrived. They took him to be one of the terrorists and were about to shoot, so he cried out “Shema Yisrael!” and was spared. Reb Dovid asked him if he knew the words that follow “Shema Yisrael,” and the fellow admitted he did not.

Reb Dovid noted how terribly sad it is that thousands of our brethren do not even know Shema Yisrael and have never tasted the sweetness of Shabbos. But the onus for that, he said, is on us.

Rav Yitzchok Sorotzkin shlita recalled the Brisker Rav’s observation that almost all Jews know and observe Yom Kippur in some way, whereas so many Jews completely disregard Shabbos. The Brisker Rav suggested that this results from the inherent unity of the Jewish People. The passion that shomrei Torah u’mitzvos feel for Yom Kippur reverberates throughout the nation, so that even the secular Jews acknowledge Yom Kippur.

Conversely, a lack of appreciation for the gift of Shabbos in our camps manifests in the secular camp’s total disregard for Shabbos. If we truly cared, they would too. It does not suffice to keep Shabbos by default. We must be passionate about Shabbos. We must care about all its details. If it’s our song, it will be theirs.

Mizmor shir l’yom haShabbos: Tov l’hodos l’Hashem ul’zamer l’Shimcha Elyon!

In fact, that phrase captures Dirshu’s Kabbalas Shabbos event, which served to kick-start Dirshu’s Daf Halachah that began with Hilchos Shabbos. Aside from the speakers mentioned above, it featured many other gedolim, including Rav Shimon Galai, Rav Sholom Smith, and Rav Shimon Spitzer, among others. Interspersed between these speakers were multiple musical interludes with renowned singers and chazzanim accompanied by a 20-piece band.

Reb Dovid Hofsteder, the nasi of Dirshu, cited the statement of Chazal that King Chizkiyahu himself could have been Mashiach, because his generation was so righteous. But the failure of Klal Yisrael to celebrate the miraculous annihilation of Sancheriv’s army with shirah demonstrated a lack of appreciation of the miracle. This resulted in the missed opportunity to bring the Messianic era. He implored the assembled to be passionate about shemiras Shabbos and seize the opportunity to become proficient in the laws of Shabbos.

The Song of Shabbos is not just the song that we sing for Shabbos. Shabbos is a reality and the day itself sings along when we are passionate about it. V’yom hashevi’i meshabeiach v’omer, mizmor shir l’yom haShabbos.

Rav Sorotzkin related that when the Chofetz Chaim finished Mishnah Berurah, he celebrated with a week’s worth of siyumim. On Sunday, he made a siyum on volume one and discussed its laws. On Monday, he made a siyum on volume two and discussed its laws This continued through Friday. Yet on Shabbos after davening, the Chofetz Chaim surprisingly announced that there would yet another siyum at his house after davening. The Chofetz Chaim explained that he had not intended to make another siyum, but on Friday night, Shabbos itself appeared to him in a dream and requested another siyum for volumes three and four, in which he discusses the laws of Shabbos.

Every song goes from a state of tension to resolution. Without the dissonance, and the anticipation of the resolution, the song lacks depth and character. The chapter of Mizmor shir l’yom haShabbos speaks of the dissonance of tzaddik v’ra lo and rasha v’tov lo, the concealment of Hashem’s hashgachah inherent in the question “How do bad things happen to good people?”

But the ultimate resolution of that tension of hester panim will come during the days of yom shekulo Shabbos and will result in the ultimate song. The very concealment of our times, when resolved, will result in Mizmor Shir l’yom haShabbos, Mizmor shir l’asid lavo, l’yom shekulo Shabbos… speedily, in our days. —

Rabbi Avrohom Neuberger is the rav of Congregation Shaarei Tefillah of New Hempstead and the author of Positive Vision, a Chofetz Chaim Heritage Foundation project (ArtScroll/Mesorah).

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1016)

The post The Song of Shabbos    first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

Photos: Jeff Zorabedian, David Khabinsky/Yeshiva University

How to capture the essence of the Rambam? Follow the paper trail preserved in the Cairo Genizah and elsewhere, plus manuscripts, fragments and letters that occasionally surface in auction houses and at antique dealers. Chicago businessman Robert Hartman is one such collector, and together with historian Dr. David Sclar, he’s made the priceless artifacts accessible to everyone

The world of antiques, manuscripts, and ephemera (including the very term “ephemera”) is generally reserved for scholars and collectors; the average layman doesn’t necessarily relate. An exhibit currently running at the Yeshiva University Museum, however, seems to be the rare exception to this rule. The Golden Path: Maimonides Across Eight Centuries, which has been running since the middle of last year and is slated to remain on display until this Thursday, is particularly unique in its wide range of appeal. And we want to give readers a glimpse before all the artifacts go back to their owners.

Rabbeinu Moshe ben Maimon, known as the Rambam or  Maimonides, was one of the most impactful Jews in all of history. The scope of his work is breathtaking. He was the great posek, the codifier of Torah law via his magnum opus, the Mishneh Torah. He was the great philosopher whose monumental work, the Moreh Nevuchim (Guide to the Perplexed), has illuminated the path of rational belief for multitudes, both Jew and non-Jew alike. He was the great ethicist, whose Shemoneh Perakim and Hakdamah L’Cheilek describe proper behavior as well as correct beliefs. He was the great expositor, whose Pirush HaMishnah was the first full-length commentary ever written on the entire Mishnah.

He was the great leader of his generation — a beacon of light for the Jewish community, guiding communal affairs in his hometown of Cairo and as far away as Yemen. He was a teacher to the scholarly and educated, and he was a teacher to the simple Jew struggling to serve Hashem on the most elementary level. He was an advocate, a spokesperson, a fountain of wisdom, and so much more. And aside from all that, he was a preeminent astronomer and physician who authored seven works related to medicine.

In the eight centuries since he lived, his influence has only grown, as his writings and teachings have been the focal point of so many lives spanning many continents and eras.

How does one capture the essence of such a larger-than-life figure?

In contrast to most Rishonim, whose original writings and artifacts were destroyed by persecution and oppression, there is a significant trail of first and secondhand kisvei yad of the Rambam, in addition to many artifacts, that have been preserved in the Cairo Genizah and elsewhere. These open a window through which we may explore his world. Fragments and letters traced back to the Rambam occasionally surface in auction houses and at antique dealers, creating a small niche in the market of Judaica for “Rambam collectors.”

Robert Hartman, a businessman from Chicago, is one such individual. Several decades ago he purchased his first Rambam manuscript, and his collection, driven by his deep-seated connection and appreciation for the Rambam, has grown ever since. Several years ago, he hired Dr. David Sclar, a scholar of history and a librarian, to catalog all of the items in his collection and provide the background information and pertinent history of each.

Dr. Sclar was so taken by this collection that he suggested to Mr. Hartman to allow the material to be exhibited to the public. Mr. Hartman generously agreed and the exhibit — which showcases many items of the Hartman collection, along with a number of other pieces on loan from various collections — was formed.

Final day for exhibition tours is Sunday, March 3:

https://www.yumuseum.org/programs/2024/03/03/final-day-for-exhibition-tours-of-the-golden-path-maimonides-across-eight-centuries

The post Fragments from Fustat first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

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efore-and-after pictures are meant to be studies in contrast — and indeed, one cannot imagine a greater contrast than that of the images we saw of Israel before the Gaza invasion with those we have seen since. The “before” images were of a country torn asunder, of a nation at the brink of civil war. But the “after” images have been of heartwarming unity, of chareidim hugging chilonim, of secular soldiers singing Torah-based songs, and of unified prayers for the safety the hostages, and for all of Klal Yisrael.

But the lesson here is not just about unity. I think it’s really about something much deeper.

Rav Eliyahu Boruch Shulman makes a fascinating point on the very first Rashi of the Torah. Rashi cites a Midrash that asks why the Creation account was needed. Why not begin immediately with the laws in parshas Bo? The Midrash answers that the Torah begins with Creation to provide an answer to the nations of the world who claim, “Listim atem,” the Jews are bandits for stealing the land from the Seven Nations. In response, we can point to the Torah and say that Hashem created the world and He gives to whom He wishes.

At first glance, the objection of the nations is nonsensical. The Canaanites were not the first possessors of Eretz Yisrael. Rashi (in Lech Lecha) writes that they conquered it from the descendants of Shem. So how can they object to our conquering it from them? And anyway, isn’t it the way of the world for stronger nations to conquer the lands of weaker ones? It’s difficult to find too many nations that have lived in their land from time immemorial. Why must the Jews be forced to defend themselves for living in Eretz Yisrael?

The simple answer is that there is double standard when it comes to Jews. The renowned social philosopher Eric Hoffer wrote in 1968:

The Jews are a peculiar people: things permitted to other nations are forbidden to the Jews. Other nations drive out thousands, even millions of people, and there is no refugee problem. Russia did it, Poland and Czechoslovakia did it. Turkey threw out a million Greeks, and Algeria a million Frenchman. Indonesia threw out heaven knows how many Chinese — and no one says a word about refugees. But in the case of Israel, the displaced Arabs have become eternal refugees...Other nations when victorious on the battlefield dictate peace terms. But when Israel is victorious, it must sue for peace… Everyone expects the Jews to be the only real Christians in this world.

But that cannot be Rashi’s intention; if so, the Torah could have skipped from Creation to parshas Bo. There would be no need to include the accounts of the Avos’ lives and the events of Klal Yisrael in Mitzrayim.

The real answer, suggests Rabbi Shulman, is that there is a fundamental difference between the way we claim that Eretz Yisrael belongs to us, and the way other nations claim their ancestral lands. The Celts owned England only until the Saxons conquered them; and the Saxons until the Normans came. Under this system of conquest and acquisition, no one would suggest that today’s Britons should give their country back to the Celts. Nor does anyone seriously think that the United States should give its land back to the Native Americans.

But our claim to Eretz Yisrael operates on a different plane. We claim that Eretz Yisrael is ours intrinsically, Divinely. Hashem created the world for Am Yisrael (Bereishis — Bishvil Yisrael shenikra Reishis), and specifically Eretz Yisrael as the Divinely intended home for Am Yisrael. To support that claim, we need everything the Torah writes from Creation until parshas Bo.

You see, Klal Yisrael’s origin story begins in this week’s parshah, parshas Lech Lecha. With hardly any preamble, Hashem appears to Avraham Avinu, instructing him to set out on a new life and head to Eretz Yisrael. Avraham is told that he will become a powerful and influential nation, and that those who bless him will be blessed, and those who curse him will be cursed. “V’nivrechu becha kol mishpechos ha’adamah — through you all the families of the earth will be blessed.”

Hashem is in effect giving him — and really, us — a mission statement. Avraham and his descendants have a message to bring to the world. If the nations accept and appreciate that message, they will be blessed; otherwise, they will not. The objective of the entire world’s existence is filled through its acceptance of Avraham’s message. “V’nivrechu becha kol mishpechos ha’adamah.”

Klal Yisrael was primed to receive that message through the experiences of the Avos and Shibud Mitzrayim, and they ultimately received that message at Har Sinai. However, even after accepting the Torah, they could have backed out and rejected that mission, since they had taken it on by force (“kafah aleihem har k’gigis,” Shabbos 88a). However, as Ramban (ad loc.) notes, had they done so, they would not have merited Eretz Yisrael. Why?

Because while Eretz Yisrael was created for Am Yisrael, the precise identity of “Am Yisrael”  was not fixed. The title of “Chosen Nation” could have been assigned to whoever wished to be the bearer of Hashem’s message. Klal Yisrael could have backed out and someone else would have become Am Yisrael. In fact, after the Eigel, Hashem told Moshe Rabbeinu that a new Am Yisrael would be built from him, but Moshe refused. (Only after the events of Purim did Klal Yisrael resolve never to retract their commitment.)

In other words, to present our claim of a Divine and intrinsic right to Eretz Yisrael, we assert that Hashem created the world, and that we merited to be the nation to whom Hashem granted Eretz Yisrael, because He chose us to bear His message.  Why did He do so? Because of our Avos, our experiences in the cauldron of Egypt, and ultimately, our acceptance of the Torah.

The recent civil unrest in Israel split the country along the fault lines of those who identify the state as just another democratic country — without any connection to Jewishness — and those who at least see it as a Jewish state. This is not a new controversy; in fact, a fascinating example of this divide can be seen in Harry Truman’s note recognizing the State of Israel a mere 11 minutes after it was declared. Note that the words “Jewish state” are crossed out and are replaced with “State of Israel.” At its very inception, the identity of the state was called into question.

Torah Jews certainly maintain that Klal Yisrael’s right to Eretz Yisrael is divine (whether they accept or reject the state). And one senses (or hopes) that even those of the right whose religiosity leaves much to be desired have an intuitive feeling of that divine right.

As reflected in the flood of images we have seen since the Hamas invasion, it is evident that even the left, even the nonreligious, are now identifying more strongly as Jews. There has been a mass revival of the feeling, of the intuition, that we are a people of destiny — that we in fact have the right to Eretz Yisrael because we are Hashem’s Am Yisrael.

The stronger our sense that we are the bearers of Hashem’s message to the world — the role that we accepted at Har Sinai — the stronger our claim to Eretz Yisrael becomes, and certainly the greater siyata d’Shmaya we will have in this conflict.

Shomer Yisrael, shemor sh’eiris Yisrael, v’al yovad Yisrael, ha’omrim “Shema Yisrael.” 

 (Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 983)

The post Divine Right   first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

IN the Gemara, “sagi nahor” literally means “much light,” but refers to a blind person. “Lashon sagi nahor” —  “an expression of much light” — therefore refers to a phrase that means the polar opposite of its literal translation.

That may be the best way to explain the name “Four Roses Bungalow Colony,” because I assure you that in a million years, no one could find a single rose in that place, let alone four. Four Roses, where I spent my summers as a child 45 years ago, was a motley collection of some 30 hovels situated on the perimeter of a forlorn property in the Catskills. Yet, the enjoyment we experienced there was in inverse proportion to its physical condition. In fact, its dilapidated state — which somehow reflected the honest and kind but curmudgeonly personalities of its owners, Mr. and Mrs. Rozsa — determined and defined its occupants.

It wasn’t that the chevreh was poor; in fact, some were quite well off. But there wasn’t much stuff in Four Roses. It had, in spades, however, a much more valuable commodity — camaraderie. My enduring image of Four Roses is a great circle of beach chairs, populated by mothers shooting the breeze, speaking in rapid-fire French peppered with peals of hysterical laughter that rippled through the humid Catskills air. (The women who didn’t belong to the two extended French-speaking families at the colony spent their days scrambling for an explanation of the latest joke.)

Chazal say, “Marbeh nechasim, marbeh da’agah — increasing one’s possessions increases one’s worries” — and the families who stayed at Four Roses can affirm that the inverse of that rule is also true. No stuff, no stress.

For us, the colony was the most carefree place in the world.

Mr. Rosza of Four Roses

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spent nine idyllic summers in Four Roses, from 1966 to 1973. The daily schedule — for the boys at least — was pretty simple: learning groups in the morning until 12, including recess, and then… whatever we wanted. I don’t remember having any counselors or formal activities; we just winged it, hour after hour, day after day, for eight blessed weeks. Invariably, there was swimming, punchball, baseball, Capture the Flag, and a yearly play, all arranged by the boys, for the boys.

(Punchball is an almost-entirely extinct sport nowadays. My friend Shmuel L., who is four years my senior and now a Flatbush rosh yeshivah, was the best Four Roses punchball player by far. When I was eight years old, I turned to him for advice on improving my abysmal punchball-hitting skills. He sagely suggested that for better results, I insert my thumb into my fist; according to the laws of physics, this would generate more force. I spent that entire summer painfully forcing my stubbornly inflexible thumb into my fist. The result was an apparent refutation of the laws of physics, because there was no discernible improvement whatsoever.)

Nowhere was the colony’s lashon sagi nahor theme better expressed than the merry-go-round, which was surely a source of more misery than merriment. The merry-go-round was a hexagonal metal frame with thick metal spokes radiating from a center pivot. Wooden planks, fixed onto the outer perimeter, served as the bench; for some reason, the entire frame was set on an angle. Kids would sit on the frame and beg adult passersby to spin the carousel as fast as they could. Eventually some kind fellow would acquiesce, and predictably, as the thing was spinning at (what we thought was) great speed, someone would slip off — at the peak of the orbit — and fall into the center of the spinning mammoth.

Inevitably, the child would panic and try repeatedly to sit up and get out, but instead would be bopped repeatedly on the head by each successive spinning spoke. O the misery of the victim… but O the merriment of the onlookers! (My sensitive sister insists that the term “merriment” in this context is cruel and heartless. I agree wholeheartedly.)

Who can forget how Pinchus B. would climb the frame of the swings? When Mr. Rosza caught him, he would get on the PA system and call out in his heavily accented Hungarian English, “Pinkas! Get off the swing or I’ll breaka your neck!”

Three notable incidents will enhance the image of Four Roses.

First, one fine day, Jonathan, the owner’s 13-year-old grandson, who, like his grandparents, was not frum — but nevertheless an integral part of our group — told us that Meir Kahane’s Jewish Defense League had a training camp across Route 52. Its burnt-out, bullet-ridden bungalows can still be seen today; back then, it was in full operation, and Jonathan offered to take us there.

Crossing Route 52 was strictly forbidden; cars fly down that road at 60 miles an hour. But an adventure is an adventure, so some ten of us agreed to secretly convene on the baseball field and sneak across the road to explore the camp. What we were thinking is anyone’s guess, but I’m not sure there’s much rational thought in the mind of a 12-year-old when the excitement of adventure looms.

One by one, we crossed the highway between speeding cars and entered the forest. We scrambled up a hill, passing a cave which Jonathan assured us was a bear’s hibernation den (who were we to argue?), and reached the top. We gathered, caught our breath, and were about to head further toward the camp when — Pow! Pow, pow! Gunshots! They were shooting at us, and there we were, bullets whizzing by.

Who knows why? Perhaps we had wandered into their shooting range, perhaps they thought we were animals or a band of marauding teenage terrorists. Either way — and for this I am eternally indebted to him — Jonathan had the presence of mind to yell, “Everyone, drop to the ground!” We did, and then slid, tripped, and ran as fast as we could down the hill, out of the forest, across the 52 to our mothers’ comforting embraces. After reassuring us that we were still alive, they let us have it but good. (I don’t recall the punishment, though, because as far as I was concerned, the adventure was still well worth it.)

Another lazy Friday afternoon, my 13-year-old friend and I decided, again illegally, to ride (or rather fly) our bicycles down an extremely steep country road that abutted the colony. (I would reveal my friend’s name, but he now stands at the helm of a well-known yeshivah and might not appreciate the publicity.) The road was so very steep — it was about three-quarters of a mile straight down — that once you committed to descending, you simply had to remove your feet from the pedals and let them spin freely because you couldn’t possibly keep up with their rotational velocity.

As we headed out, I saw that my two younger brothers, aged eleven and seven, had decided to tag along, much to my chagrin and annoyance. The Gemara says, “Ein adam chotei v’lo lo — no one sins for anyone other than himself” — and I had no inclination to take responsibility for their misconduct.

If they want to follow us, it’s their problem, I thought.

About halfway down, I spotted a car coming up the hill. I must have (shockingly) felt some modicum of brotherly achrayus, because I turned back toward my brothers to tell them to move to the side of the road. Instead, I saw the 11-year-old lying on the side of road, moaning in pain, his mangled bike next to him. I yelled to my partner in crime to come back, somehow managed to stop the bike, and then ran up the hill to my brother. It was an awful sight: He was bleeding from his mouth, crying, a real mess. I turned away in horror, only to discover the seven-year-old in a similar same position just a bit further up the road! He, too, had “ditched” his bicycle and was lying in a heap on the side of the road, blood pouring from his head (the term “helmets” had not yet been coined).

We had two young injured boys and were looking at a 15-minute hike up the hill to the colony: We needed a plan.

“I’ll run with my bike until I reach flat ground and then I’ll ride for help,” said my friend, hoisting his small bike up. With that, he was off.

Meanwhile, we three brothers started hiking up the hill, hoping to meet a car that would bring us back to the colony. The younger one, who looked worse, was strangely quiet, which was very scary (head wounds bleed a lot but aren’t necessarily dangerous), while the 11-year-old was howling in pain because, as we later found out, he had cracked his two front teeth.

No car ever came. Instead, we three made that terrible trip up the hill on foot. Upon arriving, I found my mother, who took my brothers to the hospital.  (Avner W. remembers her typical nonplussed reaction when she saw them: “Nu, nu. They’ll live.”) The younger one needed stitches and came home shortly, whereas the older one endured a three-day stay in the hospital.

Sometime later, I went to find my friend.

“Why didn’t anyone come for us?” I asked.

He told me, in all innocence, that he went to call my mother, but it was ladies’ hour in the pool, and all the women were there, so he of course couldn’t go in. Since there were no men around, he did what any healthy yeshivish bar-mitzvah-age bochur would do in that matzav — he went to play punchball.

I totally understood.

The third story is somewhat embarrassing. But for your reading pleasure….

I was ten years old, and on Tishah B’Av afternoon, I went to catch frogs together with my friend Aron B. As every Four Roses kid knew, the best place to catch frogs was in a place generously referred to as “the swamp.” Aside from the awful smell — I’m not sure why it wasn’t covered — the place looked exotic, surrounded by tall weeds, trees, and boulders. You could almost imagine it was the Everglades.

I assumed the best frog-catching position, stomach down on a boulder, and waited for my prey to emerge. It did, and as I stretched and reached to seize the critter, I slipped off the boulder — and slid headfirst into the swamp. I was an accomplished swimmer, but the viscosity of whatever made up the swamp did not allow for an easy exit. Aron B. literally saved me from death (and from a most humiliating obituary) by pulling me out of the yevein metzulah, this upstate-New York Abyss of Despair.

I tottered back to the bungalow, desperately avoiding all human contact. My mother took one look at me and hollered that I get into the shower, to which I — ever the halachist — protested, “But it’s Tishah B’Av!”

She would have none of it (“Into the bath now!”), and when I emerged ten minutes later, she was not yet mollified (“Back in there!”), so I returned to the shower, leaving only once she departed the bungalow.

Four Roses today. The manpowered merry-go-round looks much improved since my time

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he very lack of structure during those lazy summers was the perfect venue for the most effective form of chinuch: role modeling. For although no one told us what to do, or perhaps because no one told us what to do, the adults at Four Roses served as incredible examples for us of what a real Jew looks like. Without naming names, I’ll give a small sampling of who those fathers were (as a boy I focused on the men, but I’m sure the girls had the same experience with the women).

There were at least four maggidei shiur: an Alter Mirrer, a ram at Rabbeinu Yitzchak Elchanan, a ram in a litvish beis medrash in Long Island, and a mesivta rebbi in Flatbush. There was a rosh yeshivah of a heimishe Boro Park yeshivah; a chassidishe Rebbe, whose son has become a famous tzaddik (from his “kepelleh” to his “feeselleh”); one of the most influential members of Agudath Israel; an East Side mechanech who lived in Rav Moshe Feinstein’s building; an owner of one of the most well-known seforim stores in Boro Park; a first-grade rebbi who just retired at age 90; a founding member of Mesorah Publications, a Stoliner contingent — and I haven’t even gotten to the two extended French families and others who embodied what it meant to be true Torahdig balabatim.

Today, Four Roses no longer exists. It was closed by the Health Department, and a while back, a chassidus bought the place and refurbished it. A few years ago, my brother happened to be in the area, and he stopped by just to wander the grounds and see it after all these years. As he was walking, a chassid stopped him.

“You must be one of the Four Roses chevreh,” the chassid told him. “Every two weeks, another person comes to this place and just wanders aimlessly, looking around.”

Been there, done that. That’s the greatest testament to the unforgettable and absolutely beloved Four Roses Bungalow Colony. —

Rabbi Avrohom Neuberger is the rav of Congregation Shaarei Tefillah of New Hempstead, New York.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 974)

The post By Any Other Name    first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

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remember hearing the following story from a Bais Yaakov principal, but for the life of me, I can’t remember who it was. (If the protagonist happens to read this column, please write in to the magazine to identify yourself, and take me out of my misery.) Here goes:

The principal recounted the pivotal moment in her education when she turned from being a happy-go-lucky troublemaker to being a more serious, conscientious student. It was in sixth or seventh grade when she found herself once again being sent to the office for committing some minor (or major) infraction.

As she waited for her punishment to be determined, she noticed that the office door was somewhat ajar, and she was able to hear the principal speaking to someone on the phone. Hearing her name, she strained to listen to the conversation. Snippets of dialogue floated out the door as the principal described her latest escapade to the listener (her mother, she assumed), and while she couldn’t quite make out the entire conversation, she did hear this much: “You daughter has character.”

That phrase, that label, struck her with force.

Character.

With all her silliness, immaturity, and lack of focus, her principal, whom she respected greatly, still viewed her as a person of character. Something clicked, and she decided to live up to that label. She gave a lot of thought to what it meant to have character — to act with values, to live responsibly and with self-respect — and the process of real maturation began.

Years later, she went to that principal, now aging, to express gratitude for believing in her (and to apologize for all the trouble). She recounted what she overheard at the principal’s door, but to her surprise, the elder principal started chuckling.

“I never said you have character. I said you are a character!”

But too late, the damage — actually, in this case, the repair — was already done.

The point of the story? Obviously, that words and labels make a difference.

In Yiddishkeit particularly, words do not merely convey ideas; they create and maintain worlds. “Bidvar Hashem, Shamayim naasu — With the word of Hashem, the Heavens were made,” and, “L’olam, Hashem, devarcha nitzav baShamayim — Forever, Hashem, Your words remain in Heaven.” And by the same token, words can destroy worlds…and people.

It has sadly become commonplace, particularly in yeshivos, but also in Bais Yaakovs, to label students and entire mosdos with “alef-beis” labels — and not like hadasim (“alef,” “alef-alef,” “alef-alef on steroids”), but rather like esrogim (“sug alef” and “sug beis”). The labels “beis bochur” and “beis yeshivah” have become so commonplace that we repeat them with nary a thought of the damage they may have on those bochurim and mosdos — because once something is labeled, it’s done. Once a bochur sees himself as “sug beis,” that becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy.

I was recently shown a submission to this magazine, a terribly painful piece describing a community in which there are several mesivtas competing for the best bochurim — the sug alefs — and each mesivta refuses to open a second class for weaker students to avoid being labeled the “sug beis” yeshivah. There are now many bochurim in that community without a local mesivta to attend. What a travesty!

Who’s to blame? The mesivtas? Yes, to some degree, but they are merely a reflection of a superficial and callous society that labels people and mosdos. They are fearful of how we, the society of chareidim, will label them. So where does the problem start?

It would be one thing if the labels were true, but by what standards are the children being grouped? Are intelligence and grades the only factors? Studies have shown that non-cognitive influences such as grit — otherwise known as ameilus and hasmadah — also impact a student’s ability to succeed and are essential in predicting long-term achievement. Are these factors taken into account?

And at what age are we assigning these labels? Is a child’s standing in seventh or eighth grade an accurate predictor of how he or she will turn out? Surely, children mature at widely different rates! Sometimes, I think, we sort too soon.

It certainly is more difficult to objectively assess grit and future maturation than academics and grades, but generally, an experienced and “in-tune” eighth-grade rebbi or morah can project a student’s growth curve.

But aside from the tyranny of labeling people and mosdos in this manner, the labeling is simply counterproductive, even for the so-called alef students. Let me explain from experience.

In beis midrash, I attended St. Louis Rabbinical College, led by its inimitable rosh yeshivah, Rav Yizchok Kleiman ztz”l. St Louis was a colorful and pretty nutty place, I must say, and it had a very eclectic group of talmidim. The range of acuity in learning and in personality was mi’mizrach l’maarav. We had a future rosh yeshivah, businessmen, maggidei shiur, Hatzolah members, shul presidents, dayanim, producers of tapes for children, rabbanim, rebbeim, lawyers. You name it. There were some super strong learners, some weaker learners, and others coming literally off the streets.

But we not only had (lots of) fun together; we learned together. The stronger learners inevitably learned how to share their learning, and how to break things down, and the weaker learners learned from the stronger ones; but much more importantly, everyone learned to appreciate each other. It was great. But when a mossad caters only to the more academically gifted students, all this is forfeited — the “sug alef” students develop a false sense of grandeur, which may come back to haunt them when they eventually discover they’re not quite as smart as they thought they were.

This alef-beis system also suffers from the problem that the “sug beis” designation commonly lumps students with weaker skills together with those with weaker yiras Shamayim. And the first group gets dragged down as a result.

Is there anything to be done? Perhaps we can make headway by asking , “How did we get here?”

Here is my theory. For those growing up in Boro Park in the ’70s, there were only three mesivtas to consider: Torah Vodaath, Mir, and Chaim Berlin. That was it. Each of these schools had multiple parallel classes, of course divided by acumen. But with everyone occupying the same space and constantly interacting, the stigma was greatly reduced. And because in reality no clear line separates sug alef and sug beis, the classes were mixed differently from year to year.

Nowadays, however, instead of having a few, large mesvitas, we have many more small boutique mosdos. And all these are competing and struggling to maintain the images and labels we assign them. Ask anyone looking to place a “beis bochur” in a mesivta in Lakewood. It’s a disaster.

So perhaps herein lies the fix. Sure, we cannot merge all these small mosdos, but can we at least house them on the same campus so the bochurim interact? Might that minimize the stigma? This may be an unreasonable daydream, but I prefer it to the current nightmarish reality.

Let’s at least start the conversation.

Rabbi Avrohom Neuberger is the rav of Congregation Shaarei Tefillah of New Hempstead and the author of Positive Vision, a Chofetz Chaim Heritage Foundation project (Artscroll/Mesorah).

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 960)

The post The Alef-Beis of Chinuch first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

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everal weeks ago, these pages hosted a panel aimed at helping parents — specifically mothers, since the feature appeared in Family First, and no self-respecting male ever reads Family First, right? — navigate the mesivta application process.

The article was both comprehensive and comprehensible, and one sensible and critical piece of advice reiterated by several panelists was that parents should choose the mesivta most suited to their child’s abilities. Their choice should not be influenced by factors like where their son’s siblings went, social status, or other non-essential considerations, but rather what fits this child’s need. This self-awareness may demand self-sacrifice and humility — but what don’t we do for our kids?

I would add something I once read from Rav Shlomo Zalman Auerbach (Shalmei Moed Pirkei Chinuch). He writes that although Chazal tell us “Hevei zanav l’arayos velo rosh leshualim — better be a tail to a pride of lions than the chief of the foxes,” that applies to adults only and not to children growing up. During one’s formative years, a child at the top of his class will generally grow much more since he feels like a success. Positive self-image produces positive growth.

When choosing a mesivta for your son, don’t send him to a “top” place in which he will hopefully keep up if he works hard enough. This isn’t a time for wishful thinking. If the bochur cannot keep up, or barely can, he’ll feel like a failure. For your son’s sake, swallow your pride and choose the relatively weaker place, where he will feel like a success.

I also want to turn my attention to the rebbeim, principals, and mentors who advise their talmidim as to which mesivta they should attend. They too must exercise self-awareness and be prepared to make a decision based on the individual talmid’s needs, not allowing any other considerations to interfere with their judgment. And they have to be perfectly honest with parents as to what is driving their decision.

Full stop. Before I continue, let me make it clear that our current crop of mechanchim are overwhelmingly sincere people who are completely dedicated to their talmidim’s growth. I merely mean to point out something that a) may cloud their judgment because negius always impacts upon our decisions, and b) they may be unaware of.

Yeshivos, whether elementary schools or mesivtas, are to some degree a business like any other, and therefore must protect their brand. While that may sound crass and incongruous when discussing something as sublime as chinuch habanim, the fact is that parents, too, want their son’s yeshivah to be careful about protecting its brand. When parents send to a yeshivah, they are trusting the institution to screen who they accept and hold all their students to certain standards.

Here, however, is where things get tricky and where rebbeim have to check their negius. Elementary schools may take pride in advertising that they send their graduates to “top mesivtas,” and doing so may in fact promote the “brand” of the elementary school. But that consideration cannot play any role at all in the placement of  a mesivta bochur.

Sure, branding is important for a school’s viability, and the schools must be very careful with whom they accept, but once a school has accepted the student, the only consideration when guiding him toward a mesivta must be what is best for him and not what is most beneficial for the school. If this individual bochur may in fact thrive in a less-advanced yeshivah, the rebbi or advisor should not allow his negius to color his perspective as to what is best for the boy.

There is another point I’d like to bring up, which may be less obvious. Occasionally, a rebbi may feel that a bochur will shteig in his learning by attending a certain mesivta whose hashkafah is inconsistent with what the parents want for their children. In that case, the rebbi needs to share his feelings with the parents. He can try to persuade them that this is the right place for their son. But he must be fully honest and upfront with regard to what the mesivta stands for and where they want their talmidim to end up. In the long run, doing so will avoid much confusion and friction between parents and son. Subterfuge is never the way to go.

By the same token, parents should not delude themselves into thinking that they will send their child to a mesivta that fills their current agenda, while planning to reroute him according to their vision once he graduates. That is really unfair to their child and will cause much angst, since he will be forced to separate from his classmates and from the hashkafah he  has absorbed throughout high school.

One last thought: Choosing a mesivta is delicate business, and in many cases it is the final significant decision parents make in determining the direction of their son’s life. Which beis medrash he will attend, whom he will marry, where he will live… all these choices will primarily be his decision… though you and his rebbeim will have varying degrees of influence. As such, remember: the greatest gift you can give your child is trust and respect, so that when later he must make his own decisions, he will be doing so as a wholesome, healthy, self-respecting adult. —

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 942)

The post Check Your Bias first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

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here is nothing more frustrating than finishing a presentation or speech and realizing that you forgot to include an important part. You can’t really get up and say, “Wait! Just one more thing!” So you are instead left holding this idea of urgent importance. And this anguish is amplified exponentially, obviously, when the presentation is given at a major forum such as the Agudah convention.

Well, that is the frustration I am currently feeling, so if I may beg your indulgence of just a few minutes, please allow me the use this forum to add that missing piece. It will be ever so cathartic… for me, at least.

I was delivering a presentation on “Orthodox Optics,” on how we present ourselves to the world at large. I noted a clear contrast between the two paragraphs of Aleinu.

The first celebrates how we are distinct and unlike our neighbors: “shelo asanu k’goyei ha’aratzos, v’lo samanu k’mishpechos ha’adamah; shelo sam chelkeinu kahem….”

The second paragraph, however, conveys our concern for their destiny: “l’sakein olam b’malchus Shakkai, v’chol bnei vasar yikre’u vishmecha, l’hafnos eilecha kol rishei aretz, yakiru v’yedu kol yoshvei seiveil… ki lecha tichra kol berech, tishava kol lashon…vi’kablu chulam es ol malchusecha…”

In fact, this contrast is manifest in our introduction to Avraham Avinu, wherein Hashem first endows him with his mandate — which becomes our inheritance. Lech lecha mei’artzecha… leave behind your land, birthplace, and home, because that entire culture is no longer yours — you will no longer be part of that world. Yet at the very same time, Avraham, you will be a vehicle for My message to the entire world — “v’nivrechu becha kol mishpechos ha’adamah.” The entire world will be blessed by your message and your legacy. You, through your descendants, will serve as an “ohr lagoyim,” as mentioned in Yeshayahu chapters 42 and 49.

But how do we strike this balance between, on the one hand, separating, and on the other hand, influencing? Are we part or apart?

In fact, the two mandates are not merely complementary; the first actually facilitates the second. Think of it this way. You have a rosh yeshivah, rav, morah, or mentor who acts respectfully and elegantly, whom you admire greatly. He or she serves as your role model for how one should act and what one should value. Sure, he or she maintains a distance, but you appreciate that distance. You need not know the nitty-gritty details of that person’s life. Kevod Elokim haster davar. The distance is what generates the respect and thus the possibility for influence, of serving as a role model, standard bearer, and benchmark.

“Aleinu” facilitates “V’al kein.”

In terms of chinuch, however, I think we do a lot better job of conveying the “Aleinu” message than the “V’al kein” message. Our children are correctly taught “shelo asanu” but I fear not enough “v’chol bnei vasar yikre’u vishmecha.” And it is absolutely critical that these two messages be taught in tandem, because placing too much stress on the former risks downplaying the latter. Those segments of our society that emphasize the former must always bear in mind the importance of the latter.

That was the essence of my message, but the bit I forgot is the following incredible example of positive hashpa’ah through role modeling.

My cousin Rav Nochum Lehman fits the image of a long-term kollel yungerman perfectly. He learned many years in kollel in Beis HaTalmud in Bensonhurst with Rav Yisroel Ehrlich shlita. He still lives in a rented house in Bensonhurst and sports a scraggly beard. You can’t get any better yeshivish credentials that those.

However, some 25 years ago, his chavrusa became blind. Reb Nochum, who has an aptitude for computers and was teaching himself programming on the side, decided to research the technologies available to the blind community, to allow his chavrusa to continue learning independently. None worked properly, but with tinkering, adaptations, know-how, and “hartz,” he successfully created a means to allow his chavrusa, who is now a maggid shiur, to learn.

People heard about Reb Nochum’s innovation and asked him to help with other disabilities. One thing led to another, and CSB Care was founded, an organization that produces countless aids for people with a host of disabilities, including hundreds of copies Braille Mishpacha magazines each week for the blind community’s enjoyment (produced and distributed free of charge).

Eventually Reb Nochum was asked to help those suffering from late-stage ALS (also known as Lou Gehrig’s disease), who are almost completely locked in; they can only move their eyes. These individuals communicate through eye-tracking systems. The patient stares at a computer screen, a camera reads where he is looking, and moves the mouse accordingly. Insurance companies pay upwards of $30,000 to buy these machines, but making them functional for each patient requires dozens of hours of training, tinkering, and adapting.

In the non-frum world, such support was essentially nonexistent, making the machines basically worthless. Reb Nochum, however, took the time and effort to make the systems viable for each of the frum people who need them — most notably Reb Avrohom Dovid Weisz (who has finished Shas several times with the machine and has taken all the Dirshu tests), the Kalover Rebbe, and Reb Yitzi Hurwitz, all of whom were able to function and communicate because of Reb Nochum’s dedication.

At one point, a secular Jew heard about Reb Nochum’s work and decided to pay someone to follow him around for six months to see if what he was doing for the frum community could be scalable to the general population. After just three months, it was decided that this could and must be done.

An organization called Bridging Voice was thus born, and it now serves some 1,500 ALS sufferers in 49 states. Governor Phil Murphy of New Jersey personally gave a sizable donation to Bridging Voice and arranged for all ALS patients in his state to be serviced by the organization. Maryland has followed suit as well.

This is the type of kiddush Hashem role modeling that brings the value of chesed to the entire world. How many times have we heard of non-Jews expressing amazement at the work of Hatzoloh and Chaverim? I’m waiting for the day when they decide to follow suit for their own communities.

Perhaps the Latino community could start its own Chaverim. Amigos?

Rabbi Avrohom Neuberger is the rav of Congregation Shaarei Tefillah of New Hempstead and the author of Positive Vision, a Chofetz Chaim Heritage Foundation project (ArtScroll/Mesorah).

 (Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 939)

The post Part and Apart first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.

Photo: Mattis Goldberg

Rav Chaim’s vast knowledge could be compared to a hard drive with incredible storage facilities. But there was something a computer could never achieve: His utter clarity and mental organization of every possible subject

Decades ago, in Kollel Chazon Ish, it was customary for the avreichim to take turns delivering chaburos.

There were some brilliant avreichim there who presented complex chaburos built on creative and innovative reasoning. But when came the turn of a young Rav Chaim Kanievsky, he would read two blatt of Gemara and explain them with simple, perfect clarity. No intellectual acrobatics, no dazzling novellae, no soaring climax.

Once, a group of avreichim were learning with the Chazon Ish, and they showed a lack of regard for his prized nephew’s emphasis on clarity and bekius — a straightforward mastery of the breadth of the Torah.

“You are belittling him now,” the Chazon Ish replied, “but ultimately, when you don’t understand a particular Gemara, you will all seek him out — because without Rav Chaim’s vast knowledge, you will have no way to understand what you are learning.”

It’s common knowledge that Rav Chaim knew all of Torah, but what does that mean? What kind of mastery includes “everything”?

In fact, it is impossible to feel the impact of Rav Chaim’s brilliance unless one experiences it firsthand — but it is well worth the effort. Because when you go through a sugya and you then read Rav Chaim’s works, his absolute command of the material is breathtaking. Otherworldly.

Rav Chaim’s bekius was in fact unparalleled. He achieved mastery of every part of Torah and could locate sources with lightning speed.

The periodical Yeshurun, in a piece focusing of Rav Nachum Partzovitz, the late rosh yeshivah of Mir, relates the following incident: Rav Nachum was once walking through the beis medrash and two bochurim who were schmoozing saw him approaching. To cover for themselves, one of them looked in the Gemara Nedarim they were learning at the time, and started reading aloud, “Tanu rabbanan,” a standard phrase found countless times throughout Shas. Rav Nachum stopped and told them that the phrase “tanu rabbanan” is found nowhere in Maseches Nedarim.

The story was recounted to Rav Chaim, who smiled and said that this is true; however, the masechta does include — just once — the words “detanu rabbanan.”

Back when it happened, the incident made the rounds and was recounted to Rav Aharon Leib Steinman, who explained with a mashal. Say you walk into the local hardware store that carries all sorts of items, including many odds and ends. Nobody knows where anything is except the store owner, who knows where everything is — because, after all, it his “eisek,” his business. To Rav Chaim, Rav Steinman explained, the entire Torah was his eisek… and was therefore at his fingertips.

The post He Knew Everything first appeared on Mishpacha Magazine.