Rabbi Adin Steinsaltz, who passed away last week at the age of 83 after a long illness, provided those who studied his words with remarkable insight and lessons of Torah applicable to our times.
Rav Steinsaltz was a chassid and confidant of the Lubavitcher Rebbe, who suggested that he use the Hebraic version of his name and go by Rabbi Adin Even-Yisrael. Some of the volumes he produced bear both names — Steinsaltz and Even-Yisrael.
On most Shabbosos when he was in Israel, Rabbi Steinsaltz davened at the ancient Tzemach Tzedek shul, the Chabad shul in the Old City of Jerusalem over looking Har HaBayis. Over the past three decades, I have spent many Shabbosos in that shul and had the unique opportunity to daven close to the rabbi in a rather small and crowded place.
Observing him through the years, I could not help but notice how he sat at a table in the back of the shul and seemed to want to just fade into the shul, which became increasingly crowded as Shabbos morning progressed.
Over all the years that I spent Shabbos mornings there, I had two occasions to interact with Rav Steinsaltz. Both were memorable, and now that he has moved on to the next world, those events are especially pronounced in my thoughts.
It was at least 25 years ago, and we had finished davening around noon on a Shabbos morning. I was there alone that year for my father’s yahrzeit, which fell on Shabbos Chanukah that was also rosh chodesh. I like to say that in addition to a great legacy, one of the things my father left me was the opportunity to not just daven for the amud on his yahrzeit but to say every word in the Siddur that’s reserved for these special observances.
That means that in chazaras ha’shatz, the chazzan’s repetition, I get to recite every word above the lines, below the lines, in parentheses, or, it seems, anywhere on the given page.
I was sitting on the right side of the shul after a little Kiddush. The rabbi noticed that I was there to observe my father’s yahrzeit. This was the shul my dad always davened in when he was in Israel so they knew each other.
I don’t know if it had anything to do with me or my story, but Rav Steinsaltz told me about a meeting he once had with the late editor of The Jerusalem Post, Ted Luria. Mr. Luria was a typical secular Israeli. Actually, he was born in New York but moved to Israel in the early 1940s. The rabbi said that after chatting with the editor, he realized that he was a descendant of the holy Arizal, Rav Yitzchak Luria, who passed away in 1572 and is buried in Tzfat.
Rabbi Steinsaltz added that when Mr. Luria noted that he was a descendant of the Ari and that he had visited the Ari’s kever in Tzfat on a few occasions, Rav Steinsaltz asked Ted Luria, “Tell me, when you stand at his graveside, what do you think he thinks of you?”
I recall listening intently, and as you can see I have thought about his words often, especially now, a week after he passed away in Israel. Why was he moved to share that story about his encounter with The Jerusalem Post editor after I told him that I was there in Israel to say Kaddish on my father’s yahrzeit and to visit his kever in Bet Shemesh?
As a preface to our next encounter, fast-forward to a few years later when again my father’s yahrzeit fell out on Shabbos Chanukah-rosh chodesh and I was there at the Tzemach Tzedek shul in the Old City.
I moved in the direction of the amud from where we lead the prayers, and after I started I felt a presence behind me so I turned around. Standing there was a young American man I had gotten to know over the years in the shul. He looked like he wanted to say something so I leaned in his direction to hear him better. “The rabbi says that you cannot daven for the amud here if you do not have a beard.”
I wasn’t sure if I heard correctly so I said, “What?” And then he just repeated himself, pointing in the direction of Rav Steinsaltz. So I told the young man that, first of all, I had davened for the amud here in the past and it was never an issue. Second, if I knew I needed a beard to daven for the amud here, I could have stopped shaving a few weeks prior to my arrival. And third, I traveled 6,000 miles to observe my father’s yahrzeit exactly like this so, no, I’m not moving from here.
It was only later that I found out there was some kind of disagreement between Rav Steinsaltz and the gabbaim at the Tzemach Tzedek shul, and this was an outgrowth of that dispute.
I also remember telling the young English speaker that if the rav believes I should not be davening for the amud, he can leave and daven elsewhere. I hope the young man did not communicate that message, and I’m sorry I said that, but, as you might imagine, that kind of situation was frustrating.
Perhaps partly because of those brief encounters I have become most attached to Rav Steinsaltz’s books and commentaries. We speak about him here in my office and at home every week.
Here’s one observation that he makes on Parashas Vayishlach in the context of Yaakov Avinu deceiving his father, Yitzchak, into believing that he was Eisav and therefore, as the oldest son, entitled to the patriarchal blessings. It is easy to misunderstand what he says on this matter, so just keep in mind that it is part of a larger dissertation on the subject.
On that matter Rav Steinsaltz writes: “A person’s existence is built on a system of restraints from the falsehood of conventional social manners to the falsehood of outer coverings of all kinds to the gap between what one feels in his heart and what one reveals outwardly. The world innately and by necessity demands of us not to be truthful. It forces us to refrain from expressing the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth even when we would love nothing more than to do so.”
Rav Steinsaltz’s prodigious accomplishments were nothing less than extraordinary. Though he has fulfilled his mission here, it will take a good deal of eternity to grasp all the knowledge and wisdom he has left us.
The world of Torah scholarship has been changed markedly by Rav Adin Even-Yisrael Steinsaltz. יהי זכרו ברוך — may his memory be a blessing.
