Rabbi Daniel Feldman
"Chavrusa" Adar 5777
Even before I was registered in his shiur,
I wanted to be a student of Rav Hershel
Schachter, shlit”a. As a high school
student, I had become aware of his
reputation as a world-class Torah scholar
and masterful teacher, and sought out
opportunities to learn from him. A few
times, my schedule allowed me to attend
his Thursday morning Parshah shiur, and
I thrilled to the experience of hearing him
compress into one session a rapid fire,
wide-ranging tour of halakhah, lomdus,
parshanus, and haskafah, all delivered
in an accessible tone that made it seem
effortless.
I soon realized that Rav Schachter’s
greatness was not only of degree, but of
kind. He was, quite simply, on a whole
different level, and it was not only because
of the volume of information he retained.
This realization was built upon
the impression created by how others
spoke of him and related to him. As a
student in Kerem B’Yavneh, I saw how
Rav Schachter’s visits and guest lectures
were greeted by unique enthusiasm
and deference from the Rosh Yeshiva,
Rav C.Y. Goldvicht zt”l, who would,
atypically, attend and participate in all of
his shiurim. As I started formally in Rav
Schachter’s shiur, my cousin, the Rosh
Yeshiva of an Israeli Yeshiva, exhorted me
to pay careful attention. “Other Roshei
Yeshiva,” he said, “take the [writings of]
the Dvar Avraham [for example], add
a little bit, and present it as their own
chiddush. Rav Schachter will say a huge
chiddush, and will hide it behind a Dvar
Avraham.”
However, all of this did not prepare
me for the full scope of Rav Schachter’s
greatness. One weekday morning, during
the early days of my time in his shiur,
opened up a new perspective.
I was attending a bris. The baby
was the first-born son of an outstanding
mechanech, who at that time was at the
very beginning of his career in education.
Filled with excitement for the birth of his
son and the opportunity for this mitzvah,
the young father delivered a very learned
and lengthy derashah during the festive
meal that followed. Unfortunately, the
diverse crowd that had gathered for the
event was more aware of the length than
of the learning. As the speech continued,
the impatience of those assembled
became palpable.
Tension filled the
room as family members tried to signal
that the speech should wrap up, and
the discomfort of the situation visibly
extended to the speaker himself. In the
awkward aftermath of this unappreciated
discourse, the crowd was asked to sit
for one more speaker: Rav Hershel
Schachter.
Unlike the others present that
morning, I didn’t have to go to work
that day. I sat back and looked forward
to being dazzled by the scholarly
presentation this gadol b’yisrael was sure
to give.
Indeed, Rav Schachter did dazzle
us, but not in the way I expected.
Rav Schachter spoke for less than
three minutes. He began by noting what
seemed to be an unusual custom in that
community. Typically, when a bris takes
place on a morning when the Torah is read, the father of the baby is given an
aliyah. Yet that morning, all the aliyos had
gone to others. Rav Schachter said that
at first, he was puzzled by this; however,
once he came down to the meal, he
understood why that was.
He quoted Rav Soloveichik’s
explanation as to why the father usually
does get an aliyah. The father is in a state
of simcha, of joy, and he wants to share
that feeling with everyone else. The main
manifestation of joy is Torah study. The
reading of Torah in the synagogue is a
form of teaching Torah to the public.
One who receives an aliyah is therefore
involved in public teaching of Torah
(originally, the oleh was the reader as well;
now the practice is that the oleh reads
quietly together with the ba’al korei).
Thus, the father traditionally receives an
aliyah so that he can share his simchah
with all of his guests.
Rav Schachter proceeded to explain
how during the meal he understood why
there was no need to give the father an
aliyah that morning. Usually, the aliyah is the most effective way for the father to
teach Torah to the public. However, that
morning, there was a special opportunity.
The father — Rav Schachter was careful
to refer to the young rebbe as “a colleague
of mine” — was clearly an outstanding
scholar. That morning, he explained,
those assembled had the privilege of
seeing this concept of spreading simchah
through Torah in its most ideal form,
the way it was originally intended. A
community and a family that produced
someone capable of a drashah such as the
one we had just heard is clearly blessed,
and will continue to be blessed. With that,
Rav Schachter returned to his seat.
It took me a little while to fully
process just how much Rav Schachter
had accomplished in those three minutes.
He said an actual, substantive dvar Torah
that taught something to everyone. In the
gentlest form imaginable, he gave mussar
to the crowd that displayed impatience,
and taught them to appreciate the young
scholar in their midst. He lifted the
spirits of the father, and quickly erased
any embarrassment he had felt just a few
minutes before. And he did all this while
personifying the topic he was explaining:
“Torah is Simchah.”
Of course, Rav Schachter had no
need to show to us that morning how
much he knew. Instead, he taught us all a
much greater lesson in showing us how
much he cared.
Indeed, showing how much one
knows is never meant to be the goal. In
fact, the Talmud teaches, “One should
always train himself to say, ‘I don’t know.’”
(Berachos 4a). As anyone who has spent
one day in Rav Schachter’s shiur knows,
there is, perhaps paradoxically, no one
more ready to say those three words than
he is. But more than that, it is how he says
those three words (often adding another
two: “could be”) that teaches so much. At
once, he is able to convey humility, respect
for the opinions of others, empathy,
a desire for constant growth, and an
appreciation for the vastness of Torah.
Sometimes, he conveys the most
without saying any words. His frequent
emotional reactions, whether to the
suffering of those in front of him, to
reminders of the long exile of the Jewish
people, or to passages in the Talmud that
carry particular resonance, are lessons in
and of themselves.
In recent years, I have had the
privilege to assist him in minor ways
in his efforts to advocate on behalf of
agunos, and against injustice in general.
The needs of the Jewish people and of the
world are great. Sometimes, they can only
be addressed by a singular figure who
combines rock-solid halakhic authority,
massive interpersonal empathy, and a
willingness to take on the suffering of
others, regardless of personal cost.
The fact is this cost is very real, and
takes on many forms, and yet has never
deterred Rav Schachter from doing
what he feels is right.
Often, I have had
the experience of communicating with
people thousands of miles away dealing
with some of the difficult situations
described, and asking, “what can help
here?” I receive the answer: “A call from
Rav Hershel Schachter would help.”
And just like that, one more phone call,
one more letter, one more mediation,
is added to his seemingly endless list of
responsibilities.
Currently, I have the profound
privilege to teach students of our Yeshiva.
I spend my mornings and early afternoons
with them, and we are situated on the
second floor balcony of the new Glueck
Beis Midrash. From our vantage point, we
can view Rav Schachter’s seat at the front
of the first floor of the Beis Midrash.
It is a wonderful benefit that we have,
knowing that just a short staircase away,
such a resource is available, should we
encounter a difficult passage in Tosafos,
an important halakhic issue, or if there is
need to consult as to what action can be
taken to relieve the suffering of an agunah
or to address a pressing communal
concern. However, I realize that there is
so much we can gain without even leaving
our seats upstairs.
From my elevated perch, I can
watch Rav Schachter as the constant
stream of people approach him. I can
see as he lifts his head from his beloved
Gemara, or as a chavrusa of the moment
is asked to pause once again for another
interruption. I can’t hear the words, but
I can see. I can see the smile, the gentle
eyes, the sensitive look, the empathetic
expression, the patient explanation taking
place. I can watch as whoever it is — a
prominent rabbinic figure, a struggling
yeshiva student, a visiting elementary
school group, a communal leader, an
individual in personal anguish, a public
high school student — is treated with
respect, attention, and concern. I watch
and I realize just how fortunate I actually
am. So many years after I first registered
in Rav Schachter’s shiur, I’m still sitting in
his classroom.
