You Need to Believe in It

Rabbi Shimshon Sherer

He’d been one of 25 students, so why was it that he was the only one to emerge as a Torah observant Jew?

MY

father grew up in Williamsburg of the 1920s, at a time where there were no viable options for a full-time Jewish education, and so he attended the local public school. There was a Talmud Torah program a few afternoons a week that my father attended, but at some point, my father’s cousin, Mike Tress, approached my mother and informed her of a Jewish school called Torah Vodaath that had recently opened. Would she want young Moshe to attend? Mrs. Sherer needed little convincing, and soon, a young Moshe Sherer was enrolled in the fledgling yeshivah. The yeshivah’s menahel, Rav Shraga Feivel Mendelowitz, immediately saw something special in my father. He was somehow able to sense that, someday, he would be a leader in Klal Yisrael. It happened once that my grandmother — who essentially raised my father, as my grandfather was a frail man in poor health — wasn’t able to make the weekly tuition payment to the school. Unwilling to bring herself to benefit from a school without payment, she sent one of her older sons to pick my father up from yeshivah and bring him home. Reb Shraga Feivel noticed the two Sherer boys heading for the school’s exit and understood what was going on. He stood in the doorway and spread out his hand, barring their exit. He looked animatedly at my uncle. “You’re not taking him anywhere,” he said. “One day, your brother will be a leader of the Jewish People.”

My father was ever-grateful for his solid Jewish education, yet always wondered about that Talmud Torah class he was in: He’d been one of 25 students, so why was it that he was the only one to emerge as a Torah observant Jew? The question niggled at him for years. One morning when he came into the Agudah office, an envelope was waiting for him on his desk. In it was a letter criticizing the Agudah for taking a particular stance on a certain political issue. My father read the letter and noted the signature at the bottom. It was a name he immediately recognized as none other than his Talmud Torah teacher from his childhood. It wasn’t a common name — who else could it be? Rather than respond to the letter in writing, my father picked up the phone and called the sender, requesting a meeting.

“Sure,” the fellow said, “I’d be happy to meet with you.”

They arranged a time and a place and my father headed out, hoping to ask the question that had been on his mind all these years. My father arrived at the meeting place and saw that the other fellow was already there — without a yarmulke and eating something that looked suspiciously not kosher. My father sat down opposite him. They exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes, and then my father got directly to the point.

“To tell you the truth,” he said, “I’m not really here to discuss Agudath Israel’s political viewpoints. I’m here to ask you a question: Were you my Talmud Torah teacher in the 1920s?”

The man, taken aback, took a moment to compose himself.

“I was,” the man admitted. My father pressed on.

“Well, then,” he said, “I was actually going to ask you another question but you’ve answered it already.”

The man raised an eyebrow.

“I was always wondering,” my father explained, “why it is that I was the only kid from my class who remained Orthodox. I wanted to ask you why. But now I think I know the answer,” my father said, looking at the man directly and spoke. “When you would sing the words ‘Torah tzivah lanu Moshe’ in class, did you connect to them? Did you believe that Moshe was the one who gave us the Torah?”

There was a silence, and then the man looked back up at my father. “Why do you ask?”

“Because,” my father explained, “I’m convinced that the reason 24 out of 25 kids didn’t make it is that the teacher who taught them ‘Torah tziva lanu Moshe’ didn’t believe it himself. You can’t be a convincing salesman of something you don’t believe in. That is why I ask if you believed in it or not.”

The man nodded. He understood exactly what my father meant.

“No,” he finally said, “I did not believe in it. It was my job, and I needed the money.” The man then revealed that he had felt so guilty about teaching something he didn’t believe in that after two years he quit his job.

“I’m so grateful to my mother,” my father would say, “that she did it for me. Because without her, all I would have had was a ‘Torah tziva lanu Moshe’ taught by someone who didn’t believe in it.”

MYfather recorded this story in his sefer, Bishtei Einayim, and used it to explain one of the great perplexities in the story of Noach and the Mabul. We are taught that Noach spent 120 years building the teivah, so that the people would observe the complex architecture under construction and inquire after its meaning. Noach would then use the opportunity to explain that a great flood was coming because of the generation’s many sins. This chastening would hopefully encourage the sinners to repent. As it turns out, the plan failed — 120 years passed and repentance was nowhere in the offing.

“Why?” asked my father. “Why did the plan not work?”

He pointed to a Rashi explaining that a somewhat reluctant Noach didn’t enter the teivah until he was compelled by the torrential rains. He didn’t fully believe that the Mabul would actually materialize. And although it is not our place to critique those who are on a level that we cannot comprehend, my father would share the following thought: Noach could not convince others about the Mabul because he himself didn’t believe with total certainty that it would happen. And you can’t be a convincing salesman of something you don’t believe in.

This idea really explains my father’s extraordinary success in inspiring so many thousands to believe in the mission of Agudah. My father himself believed so strongly in what he was doing that it was only natural that he should act as the best possible salesman in convincing others to believe it as well. As skilled an orator as he was, it was the heart within the message that resonated so powerfully.

But passion aside, my father’s speaking skills truly were amazing. I’d actually quizzed some of his closest friends whether they knew what my father’s first public speech was. Some would recall how, as a bochur in Ner Israel Baltimore, he was recognized for his remarkable oratory skills and was honored to speak at a yeshivah dinner.

“It’s a good guess,” I would say, “but you’re not even close.”

And I’d explain that his first public speech was in first grade in public school, when, come December time, the class was required to chant hymns in the spirit of the season. Even at that age, my father was noted for his oratory finesse and was chosen to lead the class in whatever recitation was on the syllabus.

My father’s popularity grew, and, along with it, the frequency of his speaking engagements. After speaking at a particularly prominent event, he would reflect on the great zechus, but then sigh. “But nebach, the first speech I gave was in first grade, in December, when my teacher was convinced that Morris Sherer was the best speaker in the class.”

The story comes with an epilogue: A few short days before one of the annual Agudah conventions, my father needed emergency open heart surgery. Before the surgery, his doctor mentioned that, following the procedure, if he were to exercise properly, he would feel “ten years younger.”

As they were wheeling my father into the surgery, he turned to my mother. “You hear that?” he exclaimed, “That means I’ll have ten years’ worth of extra strength to do for Klal Yisrael!”

The surgery was successful and my father took the doctor’s instruction seriously. He would exercise rigorously and, as part of the regimen, would take brisk walks each morning. In the winter, when it was uncomfortably cold outdoors, he would drive with a grandson to Kings Plaza Mall, which was open early in the morning. There, they would walk from one end of the mall to the other, sticking to the exercise schedule while keeping warm. One December day, they were walking on the third floor when they heard children singing from downstairs. They went over to the railing and looked down. There stood a teacher with a class of children, standing around a tree singing holiday carols. My father watched them for a moment and then, he started to cry.

“Zeidy,” his grandson asked him, “why are you crying?”

“You see those kids?” he responded, “That was me. Not only was that me, I’m sure there are kids there that are me — some that come from Jewish homes. These kids may not be as fortunate as I was. And while I’m so grateful to have become what I did, I still must cry for those who will never be what they could have been.”

I’m certain that in his heightened place in Shamayim, my father is still crying for those children. He is crying for them and davening for them, just as he is davening for all of us, the People he loved so much and spent a lifetime serving.

Rabbi Shimshon Sherer is the esteemed rav of Congregation Khal Zichron Mordechai in Brooklyn, New York, a position he has held with distinction since 1991.

Serving as Rav Elchanan Wasserman’s attendant honed a young Moshe Sherer’s sensitivity to the special essence of a gadol. Years later, in conference with Rav Shach – an emissary of Torah to the halls of power

We Need You Now

Rochel Langer

He saw from up close what politics was all about, and his sole purpose for establishing these connections was to use them to help Klal Yisrael

W

hen my grandmother, Basya Bluma Sherer, was expecting my father, the Stoliner Rebbe blessed her that she would have a child who would light up the world.

When my father was a young child, he once became ill and was in desperate need of a certain medication. My grandmother rushed off to the pharmacy with the prescription and a small amount of money she managed to put together to purchase the medicine.

But the pharmacist wasn’t there. When she handed the prescription to the pharmacist’s assistant and told him how much she could afford to pay, he shook his head. There wasn’t enough money to cover its cost. She begged, she pleaded… and finally, stirred by her pleas, the assistant relented. He filled the prescription, placed the glass bottle inside a paper bag, and handed it over to my grateful grandmother. She dashed out of the store, clutching the bag tightly as she hurried down the street toward their apartment.

And then the unthinkable happened — my grandmother tripped.

The bag fell onto the ground with a cracking sound. My grandmother watched horrified as the precious liquid trickled out and onto the pavement.

In desperation, she got down on the ground, trying to salvage whatever she could of the remaining medicine. But it was hopeless. She stood up and with the paper bag still dripping, she made her way back to the pharmacy for a refill — this time pleading with the pharmacist, who’d returned, even offering to pay for the medication by cleaning the store.

Overcome with compassion, the pharmacist agreed to refill the medication.

He took the bag from her and, out of habit, inhaled what remained of the liquid. His head shot up abruptly. “Mrs. Sherer,” his voice was shaking, “your son was mistakenly given the wrong medication. He could have died. An angel must be watching over him….”

My grandmother frequently repeated the story to my father, reminding him that he was saved for a purpose — “To light up the world….” Later, when our father would share the story with us, he would reiterate that it was his mother’s zechuyos that saved his life.

MYfather’s cousin Reb Elimelech Gavriel “Mike” Tress, ten years his senior, was a leader in the Williamsburg branch of Zeirei Agudath Israel, then consisting of a Zeirei minyan along with Pirchei groups. These groups served as a social outlet and gathering place, drawing religious youth into a Torah atmosphere, helping them remain frum. My father participated in their activities and became close to Rav Gedalia Schorr, who led the Zeirei minyan at 157 Rodney Street as its unofficial rav. Rav Schorr had a notable influence on my father, first as a mentor and then as a close friend. That closeness continued until Rabbi Schorr was niftar in 1979.

With Rabbi Schorr’s urging, my father left public school and was enrolled at age 11 in Mesivta Torah Vodaath, where his classmates included such future gedolim as Philadelphia Rosh Yeshivah Rav Elya Svei and Rav Levi Yitzchok Horowitz, the Bostoner Rebbe.

My father was 16 when his father was niftar. Two years later, in 1939, Rav Elchonon Wasserman visited America, and Rav Shraga Feivel Mendlowitz, the menahel of Torah Vodaath, arranged for my father to serve as Rav Wasserman’s attendant for two months. We often heard from my father that those months of observing and learning from Rav Wasserman up close impacted him powerfully, laying the groundwork for his eventual involvement with the klal and his staunch adherence to daas Torah.

My father would relate how, on their first morning together, Rav Wasserman kept practicing “Good morning” in English as the elevator made its way down to the first floor of the hotel building. It was imperative for this tzaddik to greet the elevator operator and all the other people who provided services in a pleasant manner.

My father attended Ner Israel in Baltimore for two years after high school. Much of what my father gained there, and the close connection he forged with Rosh Yeshivah Rav Yaakov Yitzchok Ruderman, had a profound effect on the way he helped shape the Agudah. Appreciating my father’s oratory skill and Torah representation, Rav Ruderman often sent my father to various communities to speak on behalf of the yeshivah.

Yet the most burning issue consuming the rabbinic leadership at the time was the war raging in Europe, as Jewish communities across Nazi-occupied Europe were being wiped out. Deeply involved in hatzalah work, Mike Tress frequently traveled to Washington, often stopping in Baltimore to visit my father. After receiving semichah from Rav Ruderman in 1942, my father officially joined Mike Tress at the Agudath Israel Youth Council’s headquarters on West 42nd Street in Manhattan. Their Refugee and Immigration Division worked tirelessly to save Jewish lives — from obtaining affidavits and visas to fundraising campaigns, and countless other rescue projects necessary during the war and throughout the postwar years.

During that period, my mother, Devorah (Fortman) also worked in the Zeirei office as a secretary. Her father, Rabbi Shimshon Zelig Fortman, was a Lithuanian talmid chacham of note, and was the rav of Congregation Knesseth Israel of Far Rockaway (a.k.a. the White Shul).

The shidduch was suggested and my parents became engaged while the war was still at its peak. Their simple wedding took place on Rosh Chodesh Kislev/November 28, 1943. There are only two photographs of their wedding.

My father and his father-in-law became as close as a father and son. My grandfather was an accomplished and talented speaker who gave classes in homiletics in Yeshiva Torah Vodaath for those talmidim interested in developing their skills as future rabbanim.

My grandfather was niftar while still in his fifties, and despite my father’s busy calendar, he acquiesced to Torah Vodaath’s request to assume teaching his father-in-law’s public speaking class. My father did so for several years, eventually giving the class at the only time available — eight o’clock in the morning — until it became impossible for him to continue due to his mounting responsibilities and evermore demanding schedule.

My father was actively involved in klal work when I was growing up, but he was not yet keeping those grueling hours that meant working day and night. Yet after his congressional testimony in March 1961, when he addressed the House Education and Labor Subcommittee on public aid for parochial schools, the resultant publicity meant that powerful doors of opportunity began to open, paving the way for previously unheard-of advocacy on behalf of Klal Yisrael.

Mike Tress was the national president of Agudath Israel of America from the 1940s until he tragically died young in 1967; then my father took over, commencing 55 years of leadership.

My father was a genuine people person and used his unique skills to cultivate close relationships with many government officials and others in the secular Jewish world. But he didn’t work for kavod, power, or personal ambitions. He saw from up close what politics was all about, and his sole purpose for establishing these connections was to use them to help Klal Yisrael.

My parents’ married life began in Williamsburg, where they resided for ten years in a rented apartment. For the next 29 years, they continued renting as tenants of a first-floor apartment at 1626 52nd Street in Boro Park until it became necessary to leave.

Finally (with the help of Agudah activists), they became homeowners, purchasing a house off 14th Avenue. For many years, my father walked from their home to the local Boro Park Agudah minyan on Shabbos. Despite the fact that my parents lived on a tight budget, my father never felt justified increasing his salary at the Agudah, claiming that it was “kahal’ishe gelt” and not his to enhance his living conditions.

But the financial situation was not easy and there were two times that my father almost left klal work for good. In the late 1940s, with the war over and the financial pressures of a growing family increasing, my father felt that it was time to go into business. He started two businesses; one sold light fixtures and the other was a lighting supply business, with each one supporting the other, thereby assuring each company’s growth.

My father believed he was on the way to major financial success. But the gedolim believed otherwise. They wanted him back, anticipating the need for an Agudah organization in postwar America. He was invited to a meeting.

“I walked into the room not knowing what to expect, and was shocked to see the room filled with gedolim,” he shared with us. “Rav Aharon Kotler, Rav Moshe Feinstein, Rav Ruderman, Rav Yaakov Kamenetsky, the Bluzhever Rebbe…. I felt as if I were standing in front of the Beis Din shel Maalah.

“They told me, ‘Klal Yisrael needs you.’

“I asked, ‘Can I have until the end of the year to settle matters with my businesses?’

“ ‘No,’ they told me, ‘We need you now.’ ”

When my father returned from that meeting, he told my mother, “It’s back to bread and water, Deb….”

In the early 1960s, with debts mounting, my father once again tried to change jobs. As expected, Rav Aharon Kotler promptly requested that he come to his house on 15th Avenue in Boro Park.

My father went to Reb Aharon, fully intending to tell the gadol that this time he would not be dissuaded from his decision.

However, when he entered the apartment and Rebbetzin Kotler saw him, she burst into tears. “The Rosh Yeshivah worked so hard to build Klal Yisrael… how could you do this?”

Those tears persuaded him. Even though my father could not pay his bills, he went back to the Agudah, and stayed — for the rest of his life.

[Adapted from From Their Daughters’ Hearts by Estie Florans (ArtScroll)]

Celebrate Unity

Dr. Robert (Moshe Yaakov) Goldschmidt

Not that he cared about the image of Moshe Sherer. Rather, he looked at himself as an ambassador of Torah Judaism

MY

father-in-law, Rabbi Moshe Sherer, often quoted a speech given by a certain Reform rabbi who described Orthodox Jewry as a sickly weed. “And look how this sickly weed has blossomed!” my father-in-law would say.

Indeed, the Orthodox community is a force to be reckoned with in the halls of government and in the public arena in general. Orthodox Judaism is a recognized and respected institution today, largely due to the tireless work of Rabbi Sherer over close to half a century. This might very well be singled out as my father-in-law’s greatest overall achievement.

Within the panorama of my father-in-law’s life work, there were so many noteworthy individual achievements as well. As the dean of students at Touro University, I have an insight into my father-in-law’s impact on higher education in the frum community.

Through the creation of the Association of Advanced Rabbinical and Talmudic Schools (AARTS), he succeeded in attaining governmental accreditation for yeshivos, which paved the path for what must now total in the hundreds of millions of dollars of funding for yeshivos. This is just one of the countless accomplishments in my father-in-law’s lifelong quest to help Klal Yisrael.

Rabbi Sherer was singularly focused on achdus. He sought unity and celebrated it. When differences splintered various factions within the Israeli chareidi parties, my father-in-law would not travel to Eretz Yisrael so as not to be associated with any aspect of machlokes. Even when he would vocally attack the Reform and Conservative movements, he would criticize their ideology, and not engage in personal attacks. As a mantra he would repeat, “A Jew is a Jew is a Jew.” He was equally loved and respected by roshei yeshivah and chassidic rebbes.

One Rosh Hashanah, my father-in-law davened in the Gerrer beis medrash in Jerusalem, and the Gerrer Rebbe made sure that he was seated all the way at the front, directly beside him, an honor few were afforded. My father-in-law wasn’t a Gerrer chassid, but the Rebbe held him in high regard. He respected chassidim, and they respected him in return.

Rabbi Sherer was impeccable in the way he presented himself, but it was never because he cared about the image of Moshe Sherer. Rather, he looked at himself as an ambassador of Torah Judaism and felt it his duty to represent that community as honorably as possible.

As part of his emphasis on presentation, he would always carefully prepare before a meeting, educating himself diligently on its subject matter. In 1985, when a sharp controversy arose around the establishment of a Mormon university in Jerusalem, I walked into his study to find him engrossed in a series of documents and textbooks. Noting my curiosity, he explained that he would be traveling to Utah to meet with Mormon leaders and it was essential for him to be informed about their philosophy and thinking.

While Rabbi Sherer is remembered as a giant public figure and a paragon of communal leadership, he was also, on a personal level, a loving father and grandfather. My father passed away while I was in high school, a student in Yeshiva Torah Vodaath. Once I married Rabbi Sherer’s daughter, I felt like I had a father all over again.

My wife Elky and I were constant guests in my in-laws’ home. For the first 27 years of our marriage, we never made a Pesach Seder on our own. We lived relatively close to my in-laws and, up until my father-in-law’s last Pesach, we would participate in Sedorim there. I will never forget the image of that final Seder, when my father-in-law was unwell and emotions ran high. After the Seder, we joined hands and danced, singing L’shanah haba’ah b’Yerushalayim while tears glistened in his eyes.

In general, my in-laws’ home was infused with such a warm atmosphere. My father-in-law had a beautiful voice and, on Shabbos and Yom Tov, he loved to sing, harmonizing with our son Shrage. He had boundless love for his children and it spilled over to his grandchildren as well. He loved to tell them stories, and they would delight in his imaginary figures, Pinchikel and Chanah Fufeleh. His prominence on the public stage did nothing to mitigate his focus on family.

I would frequently daven with him in the Agudah of 14th Avenue in Boro Park, and he would greet every mispallel warmly. He truly cared about people, even those he had never met before.

My father-in-law was once at a wedding in Toronto, and noticed a bochur who was visibly in the process of undergoing chemotherapy. My father-in-law approached and introduced himself, explaining that he too had gone through similar treatments and had, baruch Hashem, a full recovery. He then asked the young man for his full Hebrew name, explaining that he wished to daven for him. “But I have one condition,” he said “you must invite me to your wedding.” My father-in-law would call the young man before Yamim Tovim to check up on him until he learned that he had a refuah sheleimah. Unfortunately, my father-in-law passed away before the bochur’s wedding.

It’s been 25 years since we last spoke, but my shver’s warm smile, loving personality, and sagacious advice continue to guide me to this very day. I still feel him looking over my shoulder.

Dr. Robert (Moshe Yaakov) Goldschmidt is the Executive Dean of Touro’s Lander College in Flatbush, and vice president of Touro University in New York. 

One Random Page

Shrage Goldschmidt

When you spoke with Rabbi Sherer, it was as if nobody else in the world existed, as if his single care in the world was whatever you happened to want to discuss with him

T

wenty-five years is a long time. That’s how long it’s been since the petirah of my grandfather, Rabbi Moshe Sherer — and still, not a day goes by without me asking myself: How would Zeidy handle this? How would he react to this person? What would Zeidy do?

With the passage of time, we often forget. But with the greatest of leaders, reflection can bring things into sharper focus. Now is an appropriate time to reflect.

How can one encapsulate what it was like to grow up quite literally on the lap of Rabbi Moshe Sherer? To watch how he revered our gedolim and subjugated himself completely to their views; to watch how he so ably represented Klal Yisrael before presidents, senators, and mayors. To watch how he deftly navigated the delicate machinations of Israeli politics with a steadfast eye on the chareidi population. To watch how the needs and concerns of each and every Jew — yachid and rabbim alike — were so important to him.

Sometimes, all it takes is one page. I have that page in my hand.

You see, as I write this, I’m examining a notebook that’s over 40 years old. It’s my grandfather’s call log for a portion of 1982, documenting the telephone calls that he made and received each day.

I’ve turned to a random page — one of many in the little book. The contents are anything but random. It reads: Rav Shneur Kotler; Senator Daniel Patrick Moynihan; Belzer Rebbe; Governor Hugh Carey; Knesset Member Menachem Porush; Rav Mordechai Gifter; Mayor Ed Koch; Moshe Reichmann.

And that’s just one morning.

Looking at this one page from a daily call log is mind-boggling. Not only because of whom my zeidy spoke with, but because of how he spoke with them.

You see, a conversation with my zeidy was a singular experience. When you spoke with Rabbi Sherer, it was as if nobody else in the world existed, as if his single care in the world was — in an astounding coincidence — whatever you happened to want to discuss with him.

I observed this firsthand, many times. The very last time was just a few weeks before my grandfather’s petirah. As the only grandchildren present at the last Pesach Seder of Rabbi Sherer’s life, my wife and I stole his afikomen. In keeping with tradition, he naturally looked to us when it was time to ask for a present in exchange for the return of his afikomen.

“Can we ask for anything at all?” I inquired.

My grandfather’s answer was firm and definitive: “Anything.”

We asked that my grandparents join us for a Shabbos seudah at our home. My grandfather was quite ill, but a promise was a promise.

Two weeks later, our wish was fulfilled. The walk was short — just two blocks. But what should have been a five-minute stroll stretched to half an hour. Every few steps, another person stopped my grandfather to greet him, delighted to see him out and about during a serious illness.

I focused on how he reacted to them. Even in his weakened state, my zeidy gave everyone just what they needed. A smile, an encouraging word, a bit of advice, a promise to help another Yid in need.

Standing in the sunshine on that Boro Park street, I witnessed a spontaneous master class in bein adam l’chaveiro; how to listen, how to empathize, how to strategize and how to commit to action. With each new conversation, each fresh need, it was as if nobody else in the world existed. It was the very last Shabbos that my grandfather left his home, yet to the very end, Rabbi Sherer never spoke to you. He spoke with you.

Twenty-five years later, we each have an opportunity to ask ourselves: In what way am I perpetuating the legacy, the ideals, the achrayus of Rabbi Sherer?

It’s easy — or at least convenient — to look away and shift focus. After all, I was not meshamesh Rav Elchonon Wasserman as a teenager. I was not like a son to Rav Ruderman. I did not work with Mike Tress. I did not receive personal hadrachah from Rav Aharon Kotler. I was not on the phone daily with gedolei olam.

But if you look closely, you’ll realize that each of us, in our own way, is capable of being just a bit like him.

There’s a little bit of Rabbi Sherer in each of us, because there was a little bit of each of us in Rabbi Sherer. He did not just listen; he internalized. He did not just feel another Yid’s pain; he lived that person’s experience. He never stopped thinking about the well-being of Klal Yisrael. And he would go to the ends of the earth to carry out the mandate of gedolim, fighting each day, for each cause, as if his life depended on it.

Rabbi Sherer’s legacy is a clarion call to us all. We know what he accomplished. The question is, what will we?

Shrage Goldschmidt lives with his family in Brooklyn, New York.

Hacking out legislation with New York Governor Mario Cuomo. While kevod Shamayim and kevod haTorah were paramount, kevod hamalchus was Rabbi Sherer’s third non-negotiable imperative

Bring Honor to Heaven

Rabbi Shmuel Bloom

Rabbi Sherer had a standard line: “Does it pass the smell test?” Even if it can be legally or ethically justified, would society see it that way?

I

had the tremendous privilege of working with Rabbi Sherer on an almost daily basis for close to 25 years. It’s impossible to quantify all that I learned from him during this time; Rabbi Sherer was too large a personality to describe in words. But thinking back, there were a few core concepts that stand out as running themes throughout so much of what he did.

The first and most obvious is the primacy of being mekadesh Sheim Shamayim. He saw this not as an ancillary requirement but as the very focus of the mission. I can think of many opportunities the Agudah had over the years to bring in some much-needed revenue, but it would need some massaging of the law. Rabbi Sherer had a standard line: “Does it pass the smell test?” What he meant was, forget whether it is right or wrong, think about it from the public’s perspective. Even if it can be legally or ethically justified, would society see it that way? If not, he wasn’t interested. The money could wait; kiddush Sheim Shamayim came first.

In tandem with his focus on kevod Shamayim came his deep-seated respect for gedolei Torah. As influential a dignitary as he was, as much honor as he was afforded in the most powerful offices in the world, he would stoop his shoulders in humility before the Moetzes Gedolei HaTorah. This was true even in the later years when many of the rabbanim on the Moetzes were younger than he. Because their hashkafah defined the way he saw his role in the Agudah, and in truth, the way he saw his role in life.

Rabbi Sherer’s ardent respect for gedolei Torah went together with abject intolerance for those who challenged the Torah’s veracity. He saw himself as a shaliach of Rav Aharon Kotler in fighting the battle against the influences of the Reform and Conservative movements. The moment he saw a public statement made by a known Jewish personality claiming to represent true Jewish values, he would spring into action. He felt it was his personal responsibility to counter any public misrepresentation of the Torah’s truth, and he would use his influence, connections, and supreme communicative skills to clarify the message of Toras emes.

Yet at the same time, even as he took to the public arena to challenge their ideologies, he never waged a personal confrontation with Reform or Conservative clergy themselves. When he was critically ill, I received a call from Rabbi Alexander Schindler, who, at the time, was the leader of the Reform movement and the originator of the concept of patrilineal descent (the claim that the status of a Jew goes through the father). Rabbi Sherer had attacked Rabbi Schindler publicly and on more than one occasion.

“How is Rabbi Sherer doing?” Schindler asked.

I explained that Rabbi Sherer’s condition was critical and that things weren’t looking good.

“Well,” said Schindler, “please let him know that I’m praying for him.”

He explained that he had worked alongside Rabbi Sherer on the Claims Conference Board on behalf of Holocaust survivors and although he knew how strongly Rabbi Sherer attacked him on principle, he appreciated that he hadn’t made it personal.

This was a running theme throughout Rabbi Sherer’s life; he valued the individual Jew as much as he did the broader Jewish community. He coined the term “Klal Yisrael and Reb Yisrael,” emphasizing how no Yid is too small to deserve our love, respect, and assistance.

While kevod Shamayim and kevod haTorah were Rabbi Sherer’s two primary qualities, there was another type of kavod that was extremely important to him as well: kevod hamalchus. He would remind us that Moshe Rabbeinu would speak to Pharaoh respectfully, even while he was ruthlessly killing Jewish children. As difficult and sometimes detestable as some of the political establishment might be, Rabbi Sherer would always speak with respect and dignity.

That didn’t mean shying away from an often forceful and direct message; but assertive as he was in voicing his position, he was never disrespectful or demeaning. I remember how, after the Crown Heights riots in 1991, he wrote a letter to then-mayor David Dinkins, who carried much of the responsibility for the riot’s tragic effect. Rabbi Sherer began the letter by expressing sympathy for all that the mayor must be going through in terms of personal anguish. He then proceeded to issue very direct criticism at how Dinkins mismanaged the social tensions that had raged in the days leading up to the riot.

But the letter concluded with the following: “I have decided to write this letter for two reasons. First, precisely because I have so much respect for you as a humanitarian, I believe I can talk to you openly and you will understand what I have to say. Second, our constituents are frightened. The situation is extremely serious and we must find a way to address this severe problem.”

And they did.

Rabbi Bloom is the former Executive Vice-President of Agudath Israel of America.

At the Agudah convention in 1941. In front are Rav Shimon Schwab and Rav Elya Meir Bloch. Rabbi Sherer, who was already recognized as a dynamic and influential speaker with a heart toward Klal Yisrael, is standing back left

Straighten Those Pictures

Rabbi Chaim Dovid Zwiebel

“Whatever we were able to accomplish all these years, it was because of our chezkas kashrus at the highest levels. Now, I’m afraid, because of the actions of a few bad apples, that chezkas kashrus may be gone”

I

had just started working at the Agudah in early 1984, when I noticed that Rabbi Moshe Sherer had a puzzling habit. He would walk into an office or conference room at our 5 Beekman Street headquarters, proceed directly to the wall, and, without a word, start straightening the pictures.

Rabbi Sherer had a reputation as a stickler for detail, but still it seemed strange. Doesn’t the president of a major Orthodox Jewish organization who interacts regularly with the greatest Torah leaders, who is on the phone constantly with powerful government officials, who carries the heavy burdens of Klal Yisrael on his shoulders — doesn’t this man have anything better to do with his precious time than adjust the pictures on the wall?

Rabbi Sherer looked at me, sensed my bewilderment, and said with a smile, “I just can’t stand crooked pictures.”

It didn’t take long to realize that Rabbi Sherer’s aesthetic aversion to crookedness reflected a corresponding internal aversion. Indeed, without meaning any disrespect to him, Rabbi Sherer was a fanatic for erlichkeit not just because of halachic and legal mandates, to which he was exquisitely sensitive, but also because he understood that the Torah community’s reputation for absolute integrity was the single most essential tool he had at his disposal in trying to accomplish positive things for the community.

Sadly, from time to time, that reputation would become tarnished — and Rabbi Sherer was devastated. I will never forget how crestfallen he was when he received a phone call from an assistant commissioner in the New York State Education Department, with whom Rabbi Sherer shared a longstanding warm relationship, telling Rabbi Sherer that because of allegations of fiscal improprieties in certain Jewish-related schools, the Education Department would now be more stringent in reviewing requests from Jewish schools for official state recognition.

“Look at what’s happened to us, Chaim Dovid,” Rabbi Sherer lamented. “Whatever we were able to accomplish all these years, it was because of our chezkas kashrus at the highest levels. Now, I’m afraid, because of the actions of a few bad apples, that chezkas kashrus may be gone.”

And so, Rabbi Sherer would never stop talking — in meetings with Agudah staff, at the podium of Agudah conventions — about the importance of conducting one’s affairs with scrupulous integrity. And he would never stop straightening a crooked picture.

 There was another type of integrity to which Rabbi Sherer was passionately devoted: the impregnable, timeless truths of Torah.

Acting at the behest of gedolei Yisrael, Rabbi Sherer was a fearless and peerless frontline warrior for authentic Judaism, fighting with all his might, even with his final strength, against the deviationist Reform and Conservative movements. His successes in these battles confounded many professional prognosticators.

During the early years of the development of American Torah Jewry, the common assumption was that if there was going to be any Orthodox presence in the United States, it would be as part of a larger Jewish community that encompassed “three wings of Judaism” — Reform, Conservative, and Orthodox — and would have to find its place within that broader spectrum.

But the gedolei Yisrael said no. They were not prepared to throw in the towel and surrender to the “new realities” of American pluralism. And when they looked for a field general to lead the battle for the undiluted integrity of authentic Torah Judaism, the man they chose was Rabbi Moshe Sherer.

In 1954, when 11 of the greatest roshei yeshivah of their day issued a prohibition against joining the Synagogue Council of America and the New York Board of Rabbis — groups that embodied the premise of “three-wing Judaism” — they dictated their psak to Rabbi Sherer. He not only wrote it for them, he implemented it as well, doing more throughout his career than anyone else on the contemporary Jewish scene to combat the destructive heresies of Reform and Conservative.

Indeed, it was not just the outright falsifiers of Judaism whom Rabbi Sherer took on. Sometimes, painful though it was, Rabbi Sherer found it necessary to call out dangerous trends emanating from within segments of Modern Orthodoxy as well. Some criticized him for breaching the achdus of Orthodox Jewry, but Rabbi Sherer understood that the integrity of Torah Judaism must be safeguarded against all threats, regardless of their source.

A quarter-century has passed since Rabbi Sherer’s petirah, but his calls for integrity — both in terms of erlichkeit and Yiddishkeit — continue to ring loudly through the years. The chezkas kashrus we once enjoyed continues to get battered from many different angles. The efforts to redefine Judaism in the face of “progressive” social changes proceed dangerously apace.

If Rabbi Sherer were with us, I think he would be busy walking into our mosdos and homes, proceeding directly to the walls and straightening out the pictures. And he would implore us to fight with all our might to preserve the integrity of Torah, with not one iota of compromise or reform.

But he’s not with us. So it’s in our hands.

Rabbi Chaim Dovid Zwiebel is the executive vice president of Agudath Israel of America.

At Agudah’s 6th Knessiah Gedolah in 1980. Today’s world has a whole new set of distractions and challenges. What would Rabbi Sherer do if he was here? He’d still make sure Yiddishkeit flowed into every neshamah

Rise to the Occasion

Mrs. Debby Jacobs

He always spoke of Klal Yisrael being like a tea bag — our strength truly comes out only when we are in hot water

I

was Rabbi Sherer’s assistant for nearly two decades, and this is how it started: I was a single out-of-town girl, working as a court reporter in a law office. On a lark, I went to be interviewed by Rabbi Sherer, whose assistant was moving to Lakewood and leaving the Agudah. She said it was a tough job and wished me luck, but I really had no intention of taking it. However, Rabbi Sherer simply did not take no for an answer. This was my first glimpse of the persuasiveness that achieved so much for Klal Yisrael.

Everyone in Klal Yisrael — from the young to the elderly, from the kollel yungerman to the Modern Orthodox — had a place in his perfect 20/20 vision, seen through his iconic gold-rimmed glasses. I recall a young lady with a problem who called week after week for several months. Each time she called, he would have me come into his office (because I was a woman) while he helped guide her and gave her chizuk. I marveled as I witnessed an unknown side of this multifaceted Giant.

We drove in together most mornings, so I would be there early and the day could start before all the interruptions. Being an out-of-towner, I had learned how to drive at a young age, and I jokingly offered to drive, knowing that he would never take me up on it… until the morning that he came to pick me up and handed me the keys, saying there was a crisis and he had to read the morning papers and strategize. That soon became a common ritual. But observing and hearing how he dealt with each crisis and issue made me realize that nothing was too big, complex, or insignificant for this Giant.

When I answered the early calls in the morning, invariably they were calls from rabbanim, many of whom weren’t in the Agudah camp, and some who were publicly opposed to the Agudah. But they respected him and turned to him for his guidance, insight and assistance. Then came the calls from the mosdos and askanim, and government and public officials. They all recognized the wisdom and erlichkeit of this Giant.

He would often have a private lunch with an official, a dignitary, or an askan. In preparation, he would seclude himself and review his notes. We would then set a small table with china and dinner napkins; everything had to be exact. As they ate, he would, with siyata d’Shmaya and charm, invariably resolve the issue to benefit Klal Yisrael.

We live in a world with a whole new set of distractions and challenges. Relationships are different. What would Rabbi Sherer do? He would take the time to listen to the heartbeat of our society and think of how to make sure that Yiddishkeit flowed into every neshamah of Klal Yisrael. He always spoke of Klal Yisrael being like a tea bag — our strength truly comes out only when we are in hot water.

Rabbi Sherer’s respect for daas Torah was immeasurable. Once, he was preparing for a meeting to discuss an important issue with the Moetzes Gedolei HaTorah. He was so certain of the outcome that he spent days preparing a follow-up plan of action.

Leaving the room for a few minutes while his presentation was discussed by the rabbanim, he returned to find that their decision on the matter was the exact opposite of what he had expected. Rabbi Sherer was not dejected, and not just “okay” with it; he was overjoyed. He fully accepted the fact that their words were emes, and that he was simply their shaliach, happy to follow their decision, even if it meant completely negating his own opinion and discarding many days’ worth of work. That is the sign of a true Giant.

I recall once when Rav Shneur Kotler and Rav Yaakov Kamenetsky were at the Agudah for a meeting, I would rise each time they entered and exited Rabbi Sherer’s office.

At one point, Reb Yaakov asked, “Is this what you do every day? Do you stand up each time Rabbi Sherer walks in and out of the office?” Acknowledging my puzzled look, Reb Yaakov explained that Rabbi Sherer was similarly deserving of all the respect in the world. Little did I know that Rabbi Sherer must have overheard the entire conversation. After the meeting, when Rabbi Sherer walked out of his office, I rose.

He looked at me and asked, “What are you doing?”

I responded hesitantly, “I’m standing up for you.”

“Okay.” Rabbi Sherer smiled, and with his signature pointed finger to emphasize his words, said: “You learned. You did it — now don’t ever do it again.” Forever the humble Giant.

Mrs. Debby Jacobs is the Conferences and Special Events and Registration Coordinator for Agudath Israel of America.

With the Yeshuos Moshe of Vizhnitz at the first Am Echad conference in Israel, initiated by Rabbi Sherer at the 1997 Agudah convention. Rabbi Sherer’s goal, which has recently been relaunched, was to present Israeli leaders with the unified voice of the American Orthodox community

You Are All-Important

Moshe Davis

I can recall, as a young child, feeling proud that we shared the same first name 

I

am a born and bred “Agudist,” as my father, Reb Yosef Davis, co-founded the Agudath Israel of Illinois office and served as a presidium member for over 20 years. Today, as the executive vice president of Agudah of Illinois, I am privileged to follow in those sacred footsteps. Still, although twenty-five years may have passed, I cannot separate the “real” Agudah from Rabbi Moshe Sherer. In my mind, he was Agudah and Agudah was him; my job in this role is essentially to emulate him and his ways.

But as much as I always revered Rabbi Sherer, I never looked at him as being high, mighty, or out of touch with “regular” people. I remember entering the Agudah shul on Boro Park’s 14th Avenue — I couldn’t have been older than 13 — and bumping into Rabbi Sherer. He greeted me and started schmoozing with me as if there was nothing more important for him to do. That was so characteristic of Rabbi Sherer — he had such a way of instilling pride in others. I can even recall, as a young child, feeling proud that we shared the same first name.

There was a guarantee of excitement in the house every time one of Rabbi Sherer’s telltale envelopes of Agudah correspondence would arrive in the mail, always with personalized messages for my father. Even as a child, too young to understand the scope of his work’s importance, I understood his level of prestige just by watching my father and grandfather interact with him. Anything he asked them to do got done immediately; they wouldn’t question or think twice about Rabbi Sherer’s instructions. When Rabbi Sherer entered the room, it came with a swish of energy — you could tangibly sense that he and those working alongside him were serving a vital mission on behalf of Klal Yisrael.

And my final memory is of the national Agudah dinner, held just hours after Rabbi Sherer was niftar. I was there, and still vividly recall how Vice President Al Gore ignored his prepared remarks and instead delivered a eulogy for Rabbi Sherer.

Rabbi Sherer could impress a child just as he could impress a top-level American politician. To Rabbi Sherer, it was all one and the same. If you were part of Klal Yisrael, you were worth all the time and respect in the world.

Deep down, I’m still proud to share his first name.

Mr. Moshe Davis is the Executive Vice President of Agudath Israel of Illinois.

In a lighter moment with US Vice President Al Gore. Rabbi Sherer helped secure the Clinton administration as a partner

Think Huge

Rabbi Labish Becker

Rabbi Sherer raised his voice and thundered, “If you teach, you will influence 20. If you come to work here, you’ll impact 20,000!”

R

abbi Moshe Sherer did not think big. He thought huge! The problems of all of Klal Yisrael were on his mind literally day and night. He used to joke that he slept like a baby — waking up every few hours crying… for Klal Yisrael.

My introduction to Rabbi Sherer came when Reb Benzion Fishoff a”h encouraged me to interview for a position at the Agudah, where I’ve been privileged to work for 44 years. I entered his office at 5 Beekman Street with great trepidation and no small sense of nervousness. I knew that I was sitting before one of the most formidable leaders of Klal Yisrael. Nevertheless, his demeanor was warm and gracious, putting me completely at ease.

After inquiring about my background and my thoughts about Agudah, he asked me if I had received other job offers. I told him I had been offered a job in chinuch. He wanted to know how many students I would have in my class. I suggested perhaps 20 at a time. With that, I had fallen perfectly into the trap. Rabbi Sherer raised his voice and thundered, “If you teach, you will influence 20. If you come to work here, you’ll impact 20,000!”

I was instantly sold on his passion, excitement, and vision for helping the klal. Little did I know that his words would prove prescient. Within a decade, 20,000 people attended the 9th Siyum HaShas in Madison Square Garden. (That, of course, was only the beginning of the Siyum’s explosive growth. This past Siyum, more than half a million people participated from more than 150 cities across the globe.)

I saw his vision on display daily throughout my years working at Agudah, especially in the last three years of his life, when I was privileged to become Rabbi Sherer’s assistant. Two years before his petirah, he called me into his office and entrusted me with a new mission: He told me he wanted Agudah to grow into a truly national organization from its Tristate area focus. He urged me to found Agudah branches throughout the United States.

I began traveling around the country, meeting with local rabbanim, askanim, and balabatim in California, Florida, Georgia, Los Angeles, the Midwest, and New England. We organized regional Agudah offices, hired directors to run them, and encouraged the development of new Agudah branches, creating a national network for Agudah. Today, the more than ten regional offices servicing more than thirty states and the Agudah’s Washington office have collectively brought in more than $1 billion into yeshivos and communities across the country through Title I, school choice and scholarship programs, security grants, and other government funding.

Despite Rabbi Sherer’s intense efforts for Klal Yisrael, he never, ever forgot “Reb Yisrael.” I cannot count how many times I saw him helping individual Jews who were in trouble, whether they were Holocaust survivors, Iranian refugees, those needing help with governmental authorities, or with a thousand other needs. Watching how one person could accomplish so much for so many was incredible.

Tens of thousands of Jewish lives and Jewish neshamos were rescued during and after the Holocaust, the Hungarian Revolution, the exodus from Russia, and the Iranian Revolution. Rabbi Sherer created entire structures, projects, and divisions to help these countless Yidden worldwide. We, who were privileged to work for him and consider ourselves his talmidim, try to continue to implement his vision.

I am sure Rabbi Sherer, from his perch in Shamayim next to the Kisei Hakovod, continues to advocate on behalf of his beloved family, Agudah, and all of Klal Yisrael. May we continue to learn from his legacy, bring him much nachas, and transmit all we have learned to the generations after us. Zechuso yagein aleinu.

Rabbi Labish Becker is executive director of Agudath Israel of America.

Nothing for Granted

Rochel Miller

To live with a perennial sense of mission, of responsibility, and of belonging, that was Rabbi Sherer — and all of us who were privileged to work with him got a little part of it as well

I

was just a teenager when I started working for Rabbi Sherer as his personal assistant. The schedule was intense, the work was nonstop, but in all the time I spent with Rabbi Sherer, I never felt any burden. In fact, I know this sounds strange, but I didn’t even feel that I was working at a “job.” I truly felt that I was on a daily mission to help save Klal Yisrael. That’s how Rabbi Sherer felt, and I, as his assistant, couldn’t help but feel it as well.

I was there through it all, watching him negotiate with foreign countries to grant visas to Jewish citizens, or meeting with foreign government officials on behalf of Jews who were imprisoned because they were Jewish. I even handled the call between Rabbi Sherer and the Red Cross in1970 when the TWA plane carrying Rav Yitzchok Hutner was hijacked.

He wouldn’t take anything for granted. If he asked me to take care of something, he would always look it over. And then he’d smile, and thank me for a job well done, and that smile could light up my entire day.

One of the highlights of my working in the Agudah office was being able to greet the many gedolei Torah who came for meetings of the Moetzes Gedolei HaTorah and for other occasions.

Rabbi Sherer fostered a family-like environment in the Agudah offices. The board of trustees and fellow askanim were welcomed into the offices with such a sincere warmth and friendship. I had started working at an impressionable young age, and it was that atmosphere that molded me. To live with a perennial sense of mission, of responsibility, and of belonging, that was Rabbi Sherer — and all of us who were privileged to work with him got a little part of it as well.

I still work for the Agudah, now as its director of strategic development. It’s been 25 years since I heard his footsteps echoing through the hallways. Today, the echo may have faded, but the footsteps are still there. Indelibly imprinted wherever he walked, they loom enormous but clearly defined, beckoning to Klal Yisrael that they continue to be followed.

Mrs. Rochel Miller is the Director of Strategic Development for Agudath Israel of America.

What Will They Say About Me?

AD Motzen

I showed him a picture of Rabbi Sherer and his eyes lit up and he said, “Yes, that’s him!” Then he whispered, “He isn’t still alive, is he?”

I

never met Rabbi Sherer in person and only joined the Agudah several years after his petirah, but his presence was still felt long after he was gone both in and out of Agudah. During my first meeting with the former director of the Ohio Catholic Conference, he told me that he had once heard “my organization’s leader” speak. He forgot the name of the rabbi, but he said he was very moved by his speech. I showed him a picture of Rabbi Zwiebel and he said, “No, that’s not him. Perhaps I’m dating myself, but it was a few decades ago.”

I then showed him a picture of Rabbi Sherer and his eyes lit up and he said, “Yes, that’s him!” He then stared into the picture as if he was remembering the speech, which was apparently delivered before a meeting with Catholic leaders. He finally looked up at me and whispered, “He isn’t still alive, is he?”

“No,” I said, “he passed away a few years ago.”

He wiped away a tear and took a moment to compose himself before he continued with our agenda.

It left me thinking about the awesome responsibility I have, working for the klal. What will people say, especially those outside of our community, when they remember a speech I gave or an interaction I had? Will it bring tears to their eyes decades later?

AD Motzen is National Director of Government Affairs, Agudath Israel of America.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 960)