At twelve, I left Nashville for Pittsburgh’s yeshiva. I lived in my grandparents’ home; my grandfather was also my teacher.
He once called my class together at the foot of the stairway and started in his Yiddish-accent sing-song: “You know boys, when you are going down steps, you don’t have to put a foot onto every step. Jump from the tenth step. Skip nine steps. I used to jump down steps. But you know, old people, they getting noivis when boys jump steps. So be nice to old people. When you go down steps, look first if there are old people around. If they are not there, jump! If they are there, then this time, walk down the steps.”
Another time he walked into class and caught us beating up . . . I’ll leave his name out -- but he deserved it. Nothing vicious or horrifically cruel, just boys doing whatever what’s-his-name had coming. “You know boys, I don’t expect you to learn when I leave the class. When I was in yeshiva, and the teacher walked out, we made teams. Each team grabbed one end of the bench and pulled it in their way. One of us watched the door. When he yelled ‘Chatche! Chatche!’ we put down the bench and quickly sat down before Chatche walked in. But to hurt each other? To make fun of someone? This isn’t play. . .”
I remember some things that I learned in school. Some of the things. Some of the time. I remember the people who taught me. At times they are right in front of me, even if they passed on years ago.
My father writes in Think Jewish, “There is a Torah of ink and parchment; there is a Torah of flesh and blood.” To paraphrase Yanky Tauber’s story of Reb Yisrael Rizhinner, “Ideas are accomplishments in man’s quest for G-d; stories of tzaddikkim are accomplishments of G-d in man’s world.”
The Torah begins with stories of tzaddikim: Abraham, Sarah, Joseph, Moses, Miriam. Not until about a quarter through the Book are laws enumerated. Jews do not call Moses a lawgiver; he is Moshe our Rebbe.
Rashi remarks that a conversation of Abraham’s servant can teach more than a law: the conversation of someone who spent time in Abraham’s daily, mundane presence, affords insight into attaining the Divine.
“Look into the eyes of someone who has gazed upon the Rebbe,” Chassidim of old would say when a traveler who had seen the Rebbe arrived at their shtetls.
Another time he walked into class and caught us beating up . . . I’ll leave his name out -- but he deserved it. Nothing vicious or horrifically cruel, just boys doing whatever what’s-his-name had coming. “You know boys, I don’t expect you to learn when I leave the class. When I was in yeshiva, and the teacher walked out, we made teams. Each team grabbed one end of the bench and pulled it in their way. One of us watched the door. When he yelled ‘Chatche! Chatche!’ we put down the bench and quickly sat down before Chatche walked in. But to hurt each other? To make fun of someone? This isn’t play. . .”
I remember some things that I learned in school. Some of the things. Some of the time. I remember the people who taught me. At times they are right in front of me, even if they passed on years ago.
My father writes in Think Jewish, “There is a Torah of ink and parchment; there is a Torah of flesh and blood.” To paraphrase Yanky Tauber’s story of Reb Yisrael Rizhinner, “Ideas are accomplishments in man’s quest for G-d; stories of tzaddikkim are accomplishments of G-d in man’s world.”
The Torah begins with stories of tzaddikim: Abraham, Sarah, Joseph, Moses, Miriam. Not until about a quarter through the Book are laws enumerated. Jews do not call Moses a lawgiver; he is Moshe our Rebbe.
Rashi remarks that a conversation of Abraham’s servant can teach more than a law: the conversation of someone who spent time in Abraham’s daily, mundane presence, affords insight into attaining the Divine.
“Look into the eyes of someone who has gazed upon the Rebbe,” Chassidim of old would say when a traveler who had seen the Rebbe arrived at their shtetls.
Ideals are abstract: hard to perceive, easy to loose, inviting to ignore. Ideals do not inspire. But reflected in the right eyes, ideals solidify into something clear, immediate and tangible. They become alive, before your eyes. They inspire. And once they have ignited your fire, they live within you. And those who lit the fires are now the fire, alive within you. Consuming, but never consumed.