They tried to bury us. They didn’t know we were seeds. -- Mexican Proverb I’ve learned the same words for decades, but never have they struck such an unwelcome chord as they do now.
“The departure of a righteous person makes an impression” (Rashi, Bereishis 28:10).
When Yaakov traveled at Yitzchak’s command to find a spouse, the Torah tells us not only that he travelled to Charan, but also that he “left Be’er Sheva”—the city of Be’er Sheva perceived a loss because “when a tzaddik is in the city, he is its glory, he is its radiance, he is its beauty; when he departs, its glory departs, its radiance departs, its beauty departs” (Rashi Bereishis 28:10; see also Rashi Rus 1:7).
With the murder of four holy men—the holiest of the holy—those words take on new, agonizing meaning.
And their departure leaves the most painful of impressions.
When I learned of the savage attack, my heart ached and pounded. I read the names of the holy martyrs, yet, I confess, the name of R’ Kalman Levine (H”yd) did not immediately grab my attention.
But about an hour later, as photographs were disseminated, I realized that R’ Kalman Levine was my Reb Kalman. The same Reb Kalman who was a sho’el u’maishiv (study hall mentor) in my yeshiva, Derech HaTalmud. The same Reb Kalman whose infectious smile never left his face. The same Reb Kalman whose love of learning knew no bounds. The same Reb Kalman who would bounce around the bais medrash sparking excitement—and sometimes heated discussion—in learning.
That same Reb Kalman is with us no longer, and neither are the three other holy men killed alongside him.
We cannot possibly understand their tragic deaths (Avos 4:19), but certainly we can appreciate and draw everlasting inspiration from their lives. I believe we are obligated to do so.
After all the hardship Yaakov endured with Lavan, the two made amends and parted ways. “Lavan went and returned to his place. And Yaakov went on his way” (Bereishis 32:1-2). Lavan is described as returning to “his place”—rather than to “his land”—while Yaakov “went on his way.” Lavan did not merely return to his land; he reverted to “his place.” He relapsed to his bad habits (see Bereishis Rabba 74:16). He hadn’t changed one iota.
Our interactions with the righteous obligate us to learn from them, emulate them, and better ourselves because of them. We are expected to take leave of them as markedly improved people (see Meshech Chochma, Bereishis 32:1-2; cf. Yerushalmi, Nedarim 9:1).
This was Lavan’s failing. For over 20 years, Lavan lived with Yaakov, “the select one of the forefathers.” He should have observed Yaakov. He should have learned from him. He should have abandoned his old habits. He should have become a changed man.
He should have accomplished these things. But he didn’t.
R’ Chaim Shmulevitz famously derives a similar lesson from the fact that, at the splitting of the Yam Suf, “a maidservant was able to see [the Divine Presence to an extent that even the prophet] Yechezkel ben Buzi was unable to grasp” (Mechilta 15:2). While witness to unfathomable Divine visions, the maidservant still is referred to as such because she was in the presence of greatness but failed to change herself. The maidservant so to speak “returned to her place.”
In His infinite mercy, G-d dispatches righteous people to this world for our benefit: to inspire us and to help us realize our spiritual potential. In that sense, the loss of the righteous is no private or familial loss—it is very much a public loss.
It is therefore no surprise that “the death of the righteous brings atonement” to those left behind (Mo’ed Katan 28a). Indeed, “the righteous do not rest, not in this world or the next world” (Berachos 64a). On the contrary, “the righteous are even greater in death than in life” (Chullin 7b), because they continue to impact the world profoundly even after their souls depart it.
A rabbi visiting Miami once lectured about the famous Chofetz Chaim, describing the humble life of the figure recognized throughout the Jewish world as a righteous leader and great scholar.
Nearing the conclusion of his speech, there was one final anecdote the rabbi wished to tell, but he hesitated, for he only knew part of the story. Still, he thought, even an unfinished story about the Chofetz Chaim would have meaning.
He told of a boy in the Chofetz Chaim’s yeshiva who was found smoking a cigarette on Shabbos. Notwithstanding the outcry from faculty and students to expel the boy, the Chofetz Chaim asked that he be brought to his home.
The rabbi explained that he did not know what the Chofetz Chaim said, but the boy never desecrated Shabbos again.
After the rabbi’s speech, one elderly man remained behind, deep in thought. From a distance, he appeared to be trembling. The rabbi approached and asked if he was okay.
“Where did you hear that last story?” the old man asked.
The rabbi shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t recall. I heard it a while ago.”
“I am that boy!” the old man shot back. “The incident occurred in the 1920s when the Chofetz Chaim already was in his eighties. I was terrified to enter his house and face him. But then he took my hand and clasped it tenderly in his. He brought my hand up to his face, closing his eyes for a moment.
“When he opened his eyes, they were filled with tears. ‘Shabbos!’ he cried out. ‘Shabbos, the holy Shabbos!’
“My heart pounded. Tears streamed down his face and one of them rolled onto my hand. I thought it would pierce a hole right through my skin.”
The elderly man then caressed the hand that bore the invisible imprint of the Chofetz Chaim’s tear. “When I think of that tear today, I can still feel its heat. I never desecrated the Shabbos ever again.”
Before Moshe Rabbeinu passed away, Hashem commanded him to “ascend Har Ha’avarim…and die on the mountain to which you will ascend, and be gathered to your people” (Devarim 32:49-50). The Stropkover Rebbe notes that Hashem informed Moshe that would “die” and that he would “be gathered by his people” because only Moshe’s physical being would die; his spiritual legacy would remain with those he influenced and would echo throughout the generations.
To cling to the righteous is to cling to G-d Himself (see Devarim 10:20; Kesubos 111b; Rambam, Dei’os 6:1-2; Berachos 64a; Kesubos 105b), and, according to some, that itself is a mitzva (Rambam, Sefer HaMitzvos, Positive Commandment No. 6; Sefer Mitzvos HaKotzer [Chofetz Chaim], Positive Commandment No. 16; but see Ramban and Meshech Chochma ad loc.).
The righteous are a conduit through which we embrace G-d. They are here for our benefit. We are to engage them and learn from them and grow from them. We are to carry on their legacy in word and deed.
If we do, no savage can take them from us. They remain alive.
* * * *
Immediately before the redemption, G-d will “grasp the ends of the earth and shake the wicked from it” (Iyov 38:13). R’ Nachman of Breslov would advise that one can cling to the righteous so as not to be cast off with the wicked (Sichos HaRan 22).
But when the righteous ones are torn from us, to whom can we cling?