Echoes of Holiness
By Rabbi Pinchos Lipschutz
Once
again, I was granted the zechus to spend Shavuos in Eretz
Yisroel, a land where holiness is not remembered but felt, where the air itself
hums with ancient echoes.
When
coming to Yerushalayim, you are coming to a place beyond space, to a rhythm
beyond time.
Yerushalayim
on any Yom Tov is a jewel alight with kedusha, but on Shavuos,
it shimmers with something deeper. As the night unfolds, thousands flow like
rivers through her narrow streets, drawn to the botei medrash by an
inner fire, eyes wide, hearts yearning, feet quick with purpose.
By
dawn, those same throngs converge upon the Kosel, seeking the moment of vosikin,
as the first rays of sun bathe the wall from where the Shechinah never
departed. At the moment the sun rises over Yerushalayim, the tens of thousands
of people davening in dozens of minyonim of various dialects and nuschaos
suddenly fall silent. There is a hush, a collective breath, as everyone
begins to recite the silent Shemoneh Esrei at the same moment. And then
the songs of chazoras hashatz return, followed by gorgeous renditions of
Hallel, Rus, Akdadmos and Musaf. As minyonim
finish, their mispalelim begin streaming home to celebrate the rest of
Yom Tov.
To
watch it and be part of it is like participating in a celestial symphony.
Another
deep zechus was to daven at Kever Rochel, the resting
place of Rochel Imeinu, the mother who still cries for her children. The Vilna
Gaon writes that the Shechinah resides there, and as you stand at the kever,
you feel it—not as a thought, but as a presence. A gentle weight. A listening
stillness.
Although
Chazal say that when we sit to learn Torah the Shechinah joins
us, and there are definitely many other occasions and times when the Shechinah
is present, in golus the Shechinah can feel distant, like a
beloved voice heard through static. But in Eretz Yisroel, that voice grows
clear, close and insistent.
At
the Kosel, tefillah becomes something else entirely. You slow
down. You breathe the words. You don’t just say them, you live them. With each
syllable, your heart whispers, “Hashem is listening. I am seen.”
Even
in the simplest shuls, modest buildings tucked into quiet alleyways, you
see it: People davening with focus, dignity, and an inner calm. No one
rushing in with coffee in hand. No tallis slung casually over the
shoulder. Davening isn’t an obligation. It’s an encounter. A sacred
audience.
Life
there is different. Simpler. Not easier, but purer in a way. The apartments are
small, the budgets tight. But the simcha, the sense of purpose, fills
the space like sunlight through narrow windows. Bnei Torah live with
less, but they live with more.
And
in that spirit of simplicity and greatness intertwined, one of the most moving
moments of my journey was visiting the soon-to-open museum in the humble home
of the Chazon Ish.
To
call it fascinating would be an understatement. Using modern tools, the museum
gently draws you into the past. The screen flickers to life, and suddenly
you’re in the shtetel of Kosovo. You hear the cluck of chickens, the
creak of old wood, the voices in the bais medrash where the young Chazon
Ish once learned. And then, as if aboard a dream, you find yourself seated
in a train rattling through the Lithuanian countryside, heading toward history.
The
life and experiences of the Chazon Ish comes alive vividly before you.
You are then led into the Chazon Ish’s one-room apartment where he
learned and lived in Bnei Brak. There is a period bed, the same size as the one
used by the great gaon. There is a nearby table where he studied until
he had no more strength, where he wrote the chiddushei Torah that are
studied today by lomdim around the world, where he wrote teshuvos
that changed behaviors, and where he wrote letters of chizuk and hadrocha
that inspire and guide until today.
There
is no comparable experience in our world. To be able to stand in a room of such
historical significance, to be able to look around and see exactly what it
looked like when the tzaddik lived, and to be able to stand there and
contemplate what transpired in that room and the amount of Torah and kedusha
that was generated there is an overwhelming experience. At least it was for
me.
After
being given the opportunity to stand there and let your mind wander, you are
brought into the adjoining room where the Chazon Ish davened
along with his minyan. You can stand in the very spot where the Chazon
Ish stood and offered his tefillos to Hakadosh Boruch Hu. I
said a few kappitlach of Tehillim, hoping that my words might
follow the same path, riding on the tefillos paved by that great talmid
chochom and tzaddik.
Adjacent
to the shul is the small mikvah the Chazon Ish used, which
is available for use for those who wish.
Bnei
Brak today is a city of Torah in full bloom, a bustling metropolis of avodah
and purpose. Yet, at its core, it remains rooted in that one-room apartment at
Rechov Chazon Ish 37. From those walls, waves of Torah and kedusha
spread outward, generation upon generation. What a sacred undertaking it is to
preserve that beginning, to recreate the space where light once entered the
world.
I
was privileged to be guided through that space by Rav Reuven Korlansky, who
graciously hosted me and brought me to meet his mechutan, the great gaon
and rosh yeshiva Rav Isamar Garbuz. His brilliance shimmered through his
words, as did his warmth.
Bnei
Brak is close to me. Three generations of my relatives lay buried there: my
grandfather, Rav Leizer Levin; his son-in-law, Rav Chaim Dov Keller; his son,
Rav Avrohom Chaim Levin; and his grandson, Rav Shmuel Yehudah Levin.
At
their kevorim, I davened with the weight of gratitude and
longing, asking for brocha and hatzlocha in their merit. I felt
their presence, quiet and strong, their voices and memories bright and sharp in
my heart.
As
I walk the streets there memories come back to me from the days I would go
there to see Maran Rav Shach, the Steipler, and the city’s other gedolim
throughout the years.
During
our stay, I also visited my rabbeim, Rav Avrohom Yehoshua Soloveitchik
and Rav Dovid Cohen, who provided chizuk and direction for our troubling
and trying times. They were effusive and warm as they encouraged me to maintain
emunah and bitachon, as we recognize that everything that is
happening is being arranged by Hakadosh Boruch Hu. There is no better
way to maintain equilibrium in a time when nothing that is happening seems to
make any sense.
During
our stay, we traveled from one end of the country to the other, from Naharia in
the north, where the anteroom of Rav Dovid Abuchatzeira was filled with people
waiting for a brocha and for clarity, to the Gaza border in the south,
which was thankfully very quiet.
It
was nice to be in places I had never previously visited, such as the supposed kever
of Yehudah in Yahud, Castel, Moshav Chemed, and other off-the-beaten-track
locales. I wandered through towns I’d never known, their silence steeped in
stories. But no matter how far we traveled, no place stirred my soul like
Yerushalayim.
Yerushalayim
doesn’t just contain kedusha. It breathes it. Each stone tells a story,
each alley whispering tefillos of centuries. She takes my breath away
each time I visit all over again.
From
being at the Kosel, to visiting and speaking with some of the iconic
residents and characters, to walking the streets of Geulah where we stayed,
there is a definite chein, a holiness wrapped in beauty.
When
you meet the city’s rabbonim, tzaddikim, nistorim,
storekeepers, tradesmen, people on the street and even the shleppers and
the taxi drivers, there’s a sparkle in their eye, a touch of knowing. When you
speak with them, you hear it: chochmah dipped in bitachon, humor
laced with humility.
I
love standing anonymously in the street, blending into the stones of the walls,
and studying people as they scurry about doing their pre-Yom Tov errands.
A purposeful rush takes over them, but they maintain their dignity and sense of
kedusha as they engage in preparations for the various mitzvos hayom.
Carrying bags of different sizes and colors, they patiently look for the best
of everything with which to celebrate Shabbos and Yom Tov, as
they traverse Rechov Malchei Yisroel and its little offshoots, patronizing the
various shops.
Here,
we hop into and out of our cars, storing our bags and stuff in the trunk, as we
dart in and out of megastores filling our wagons. And there is nothing wrong
with that. But it doesn’t come close to the beauty and color of carrying those
bags of Shabbos and Yom Tov goodies along the holy streets and
bumping into legions of holy, interesting and colorful people engaging in the
very same activity.
The
scene is a living painting, rich in color, alive with heart.
The
Kosel is a place where you can study people’s faces as they encounter kedusha,
some more serious about it than others. Faces are turned heavenward, eyes
closed in pleading or thanksgiving. Some daven slowly, tears tracing
silent paths. Others stand quietly, fingers grazing the stones, unsure of what
to say, but knowing that something holy is happening.
There
were the regulars, ehrliche Yidden who speak to Hashem with deep
familiarity, and the visitors, with temporary yarmulkas and curious
eyes, drawn by something they can’t identify.
Many
came with children, holding little hands, whispering words of awe. You could
see it on their faces: This was not just tourism. It was an encounter.
You
hoped it would linger with them.
There
were special personal moments as well, such as when my dear friend, Rav Natan
Feldman of Tzuf Seforim Publications, presented me with the latest sefer
authored by my son, Rav Yitzchok Elchonon, hot off the press. Celebrating my
mother-in-law’s 90th birthday was a great highlight, as was visiting
my 90-year-old uncle, Rav Berel Wein, and being presented with his latest book
on anti-Semitism, which came out this week. Visiting incognito the Shuvu school
in Petach Tikva where the Bais Medrash is named for my father and seeing
the learning going on there and the children’s angelic faces, was a special nachas.
My
special friend, the tzaddik of Rechovot, Rav Zvi Shvartz, honored us
with a visit on the second day of Yom Tov, along with some members of
his family. He regaled us with divrei Torah and stories of how he began
his kiruv revolution in that city, starting with a small shiur
that he established while in kollel there, an effort that has led to
thousands of baalei teshuvah over the decades. He is indomitable,
exhibiting no signs of slowing down in his holy work of teaching and spreading
Torah. His fire burns bright.
There
were other visitors too. One came bearing flowers, but they weren’t for us.
A
deliveryman arrived, flushed and sweating. The beautiful bouquet was meant for
someone else, ordered from Brooklyn, but the address was wrong and the phone
was off. He’d been searching door to door across buildings for over an hour. As
Yom Tov approached, the flowers were wilting, and so was he.
We
invited him in, gave him water, and offered him a seat.
He
didn’t seem frum, at first glance. But when he began sharing divrei
Torah, I noticed a small yarmulka resting at the back of his head.
“Hashem sent me here,” he said, “so I’d have someone to share Torah with.”
There
he stood, flowers in one hand, Torah on his lips, radiant with bitachon.
He wasn’t worried about finding the correct recipient. Hashem would guide him
to the right address. Repeating divrei Torah about the rapidly
approaching Yom Tov of Shavuos was more important. Eventually, we
found the intended recipient. He continued on, but the moment lingered.
Only
in Yerushalayim.
Another
encounter came in a taxi. Our driver had no yarmulka, but he possessed a
mouth full of maamorei Chazal.
We
asked him, gently, “If you know so much Torah, why no kippah?”
He
answered, “I don’t want to be a chillul Hashem. If someone cuts me off
and I yell...I’d rather that they think I’m a chiloni.”
And
sure enough, when another driver—an Arab woman—tried to squeeze ahead, he leapt
out of the car and began yelling. “Achshav atem meivinim?” he said,
turning back to us. “Now you understand?”
I
wanted to give him a shmuess about how a Yid is supposed to act
in all situations, but I didn’t want to get into an argument with him.
He
explained that he is religious, that his children are as well, and that his
grandchildren—who all have names from Tanach—go to a mamlachti dati
(religious public) school. His parents live in Nachlaot in Yerushalayim and are
from Kurdistan. They follow the masoret of Yehudei Kurdistan and
even speak Aramaic to each other and to their children. That’s right. They
speak the language of the Gemara still today. Fascinating stuff.
There
are more stories I could share, like my meeting with Uri Maklev of Degel
HaTorah, a devoted servant of the klal and a shliach of the gedolim.
But for now, I’ll close with what happened just as I left.
Sitting
on the plane, the sadness of departure filling my chest, a man approached me.
“Are
you Rabbi Lipschutz?” he asked in Hebrew.
I
nodded. I didn’t ask how he knew.
He
introduced himself as Avraham Elkaim. “I have a gift for you,” he said. His
suitcase had been slightly overweight and airport security made him remove a
book. It was a biography of his grandfather, Rav Nissim Toledano. He had more copies in his other suitcase.
As
an ehrliche Yid and baal bitachon, rather than complain and
argue, he placed the book in his carry-on and said to himself, “Hashem wants
this to end up with someone on the plane.”
He
looked around, and when he saw me, he knew.
He
handed me an autographed copy of this beautiful new sefer on his
grandfather. The biography goes through his life, with each facet portrayed
through another of the 48 kinyonim of Torah. I began leafing through it
and found it to be a compelling work on a great man. Look for it in the
bookstores. It should be there soon.
Receiving
the book was emblematic of the way things happen in Eretz Yisroel, and since it
happened on an El Al flight, legally we were still in the land where you see
and feel the hand of Hashem all the time. As the posuk states, “Eretz
asher…tomid einei Hashem Elokecha bah.”
And
so, in that moment, I felt it again: the gentle nudge of Hashgocha, the
quiet wink from Above.
Ashrei
mi shezoche,
fortunate are those who live in that land, who walk its streets and breathe its
air. Fortunate are those who visit, who taste its sanctity. And fortunate are
those who long for it, who whisper in their hearts: Ribono Shel Olam, bring
us home.
May
we all be reunited there soon b’vias goel tzedek bimeheirah b’yomeinu.
Amein.
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