The Little Things

Yehoshua Kalish was a product of the local Jewish schools of the 1950s and early 60s, having attended Hebrew Institute of Long Island (HILI, which eventually morphed into HAFTR). But while his schoolmates all headed off to pursue prosperous careers — a path upon which Rabbi Kalish, with his natural talents and intelligence, would surely have succeeded — he decided on an alternate trajectory, choosing instead to throw himself headlong into full-time Torah learning in the Mir in Jerusalem and then in Lakewood, where he received semichah. (During his time as an avreich in Lakewood, he did maintenance work in the building where he lived in order to defer some of the rent, which he could not otherwise afford. His apartment was so small that once there were a few children who would occupy the bedroom, he and his wife Beaty slept on pull-out beds in the main room adjoining the kitchen.)

The intensity of his devotion to learning was matched only by his commitment to implementing Torah values in daily life. Once, back in his younger years, after arriving late to Maariv because he had gotten distracted listening to a Mets game, he made a personal resolution never to listen to a ballgame again — such was his dedication to growth and self-improvement.

He could be seen at weddings or other functions with his pocket Gemara, finishing up his daily quota in order to get to his annual siyum on Shas. When someone gushed over that accomplishment, Rabbi Kalish just waved it off. “Don’t be impressed,” he told his admirer. “I’m just a minor leaguer! Rav Chaim Kanievsky finishes kol haTorah kulah every year. I can only handle Bavli.”

Yet Rabbi Kalish was so normal in life outside the Gemara that it was hard to picture him as anything more than a nice, dedicated mesivta rebbi. He played ball with the campers at Camp Heller where he was the resident rabbi, was an excellent accordion player and even used to ski — on both water and snow. He wanted his talmidim to experience all of the beautiful facets of HaKadosh Baruch Hu’s world along with him, intuiting that it would make them better ovdei Hashem.

And his personal strictness with himself never translated into harshness or strictures toward others. He was respectful and extremely kind to everyone, no matter their accomplishments or personal status. Over the years in Camp Heller, he was approached hundreds, possibly over a thousand times, with variations of the same basic questions about opening a freeze-pop or bag of potato chips on Shabbos. He treated each questioner with the same gravity and consideration as he gave to the camper who asked about needing to go into the hospital on Shabbos.

In fact, when it came to halachah, Rabbi Kalish was known as a meikil — a lenient decisor of halachah, with no interest in chumros going beyond what halachah actually dictates — but that is only half-true. In the arena of Choshen Mishpat (interpersonal laws) he was extremely strict. With his ayin tovah, he saw straight through to people’s innate goodness, to their G-dly soul, and never focused on their outside appearances.

“Rabbi Kalish was colorblind to the type of yarmulke you donned on your head and even paskened that a jacket or hat was not required to be worn in order to get an aliyah or to daven for the amud in our shul, so as not to make anyone feel uncomfortable,” says Aaron Felder.

But he wasn’t just a gadol when it came to the big things that people could see. He also paid close attention to the little things and felt nothing was beneath him.

“I remember walking into the shul’s lobby for Minchah one day before anyone else had arrived,” says Reb Aaron, “and there was Rabbi Kalish, picking up tissues from the floor that had apparently missed their intended target.”

It’s About the Effort

On Tishah B’Av, when we don’t engage in ordinary Torah learning, Rabbi Kalish still managed to learn 23 blatt. How so? Immediately after Minchah on Tishah B’Av, for the next six or more hours, Rabbi Kalish would give a shiur on the entire third perek of Moed Katan (dealing with the halachos of mourning). Rather than considering these 15 blatt sufficient for his daily quota, Rabbi Kalish would proceed to learn his usual seven blatt after nightfall, followed by another blatt delivered to his daily Daf Yomi shiur at Congregation Shaaray Tefila in Lawrence.

Because Torah was so dear and real to him, and he would not tolerate any mental gymnastics in what he saw as distorting it, no matter how clever it might be. Whenever he heard someone say (in his words) “super-lomdus,” he made his displeasure known.

At the vort of one Rabbi Kalish’s children, Mir Rosh Yeshivah Rav Shmuel Berenbaum was telling Rabbi Kalish a shtikel Torah. Every time Rav Shmuel began to quote a source, Rabbi Kalish jumped in and finished the quote — a Rashi in Kiddushin, a Rashi in Yevamos, and a Rashba in a third place — all of them flowing naturally off of Rabbi Kalish’s tongue. Impressed, Rav Shmuel turned to Rabbi Kalish’s prospective mechutan and told him, “You’d better start learning, now that you are getting such a mechutan!”

Sometime later, Rabbi Kalish had occasion to attend Rav Shmuel’s Mishnah Berurah shiur in the Mir Yeshivah. After listening for about 30 seconds, Rabbi Kalish could contain himself no longer and began jousting with Rav Shmuel, who said to him, “I knew you were a baki in Shas, but a baki in halachah, too? (Rabbi Kalish once told a talmid that Rav Shmuel called him, “the illui of Far Rockaway,” but he took great offence to that: He thought that it was not a true description, that in fact, his knowledge of Torah was purely due to the years of effort and toil he had expended in learning.)

When a talmid gifted him a sefer he had authored, Rabbi Kalish came back to the talmid the next day, having perused the first 50 pages of the sefer, and had a number of insights to share. He was a very busy man, keeping to a schedule that was absolutely full to the brim with obligations, and yet he found the time to plunge into yet another sefer. Was he driven by his love for Torah, love for a talmid, or just wanting to be nice to another person? Perhaps it was a combination of all three.

Despite his greatness in Torah, Rabbi Kalish was self-effacing and shunned traditional rabbinic garb, wearing only a short jacket. In his later years, though, Derech Ayson Rosh Yeshivah Rav Yechiel Perr told him that he should begin to don a kapoteh, as it was befitting his stature and position at the head of his kollel. Rabbi Kalish acceded to the Rosh Yeshivah’s instructions, but only on Shabbos and Yom Tov (and some weddings). Rabbi Kalish explained that, according to the Gemara in Shabbos (113a), it is not haughty to wear a long coat on Shabbos and Yom Tov.

But Rav Kalish never wanted to separate himself from the rest of the tzibbur. “He was our friend — a true chaver tov,” says Felder. “The Mishnah in Avos instructs us, “Asei lecha rav u’knei lecha chaver,” and I got both for the price of one. And while the breadth and scope of his yedios in Tanach, bekius in halachah, and mastery of Shas were legendary, it was his warm smile, his zest for life, his kind word, his pride in us and his love for us that I’ll miss the most.

“He always put everyone at ease irrespective of the situation and, what I believe was the epitome of his anivus, this giant of a man just never seemed to take himself too seriously.  And that’s why it’s the children of our shul who are feeling the pain of this loss in a very real and visceral way as well. They, too, lost a tremendous friend and one of their greatest cheerleaders.”

As great a talmid chacham as he was, some of Rabbi Kalish’s lessons go way beyond the technical guidance of halachah or even the inspiration to learn more Torah.

“Several years back, my wife had a surgical procedure a few days before Yom Kippur,” Felder relates. “She called the Rav to ask some sh’eilos about proper halachic protocol, and the Rav gave her exact instructions. But that year, my father a”h was the baal Mussaf in the White Shul, as he had been for over three decades, and I was davening with him. After Yom Tov, I discovered that the Rav left shul on Yom Kippur in the middle of davening, took a ten-minute walk to my house because he knew I was in the White Shul and was too far away, knocked on my front door and asked my housekeeper how my wife was feeling because he had inquired in shul and found out that she had not yet arrived and was worried about her. When my housekeeper told the Rav that my wife was resting comfortably and was planning to come to shul a bit later, he returned to shul with no fanfare, didn’t tell anyone where he had gone, and my wife didn’t even know that he had stopped by. We both found out from our housekeeper after Yom Tov.”

The Best Version

As an elected official and Trustee of the Village of Lawrence, Felder and his fellow board members have unanimously voted and ordered that the entirety of Harborview South, the street where Rabbi Kalish’s shul and home are located, will now be called “Rabbi Yehoshua Kalish Way.”

“We want everyone to know that there once lived a larger-than-life tzaddik here who walked these very same streets and who, quite literally, transformed this place and the lives of the people who lived here in the most positive of ways,” says Felder, “and that we, too, will always be reminded to lead our lives the Rabbi Yehoshua Kalish way and never forget the immense impact he had on this community and beyond.”

But there was something else as well. “The Rav showed me how a seemingly ordinary local boy, educated in our local yeshivos just as I was, could grow to such extraordinary heights, and that means that his live obligates all of us, as to what is possible when you’re committed to and focused on doing the ratzon Hashem, no matter your background, life circumstance, or intellectual capabilities. He taught us by example that when you live the best version of yourself, you will inevitably inspire others to live the best version of themselves, too.”

“What a Rabbi You Have”

By Lori Holzman Schwartz

MY wedding was a strange mix of people. From my husband’s side: Women in sheitels and long dresses, men in shtreimels and beketshes, black hats and suits. From my side: Men wearing bow-ties, coming in bareheaded and quickly throwing on a yarmulke handed out at the door, ladies dressed as modestly as they could manage. My husband is one of seven children from a heimish background, and I’m a baalas teshuvah from a typical secular Jewish background. Rabbi Kalish was the rav of my in-laws’ shul, Bais Medrash of Harborview, and the mesader kiddushin at our wedding.

During the meal, Rabbi Kalish came over to me with his signature big smile. “Your cousin Gabe is an amazing man. All my life, I had a question, and your cousin Gabe answered it for me.”

“My cousin Gabe?” I asked, astonished. “Are you sure we’re talking about the same person?”

To give you some background, my cousin Gabe is the stereotypical Jewish liberal atheist. In his fifties and never married, he’s passionate about supporting the Democratic party, spending huge amounts of his time and money championing their causes. He was the first person to have a Kamala Harris bumper sticker because the minute he heard that she was running, he had one made up even before the campaign had started printing them.

In all fairness, Cousin Gabe is just modeling what he saw at home. His parents were both liberal professors, and his father, a renowned economist famous for his groundbreaking work on the Soviet economy, was a member of the communist party in the 1940s.

Rabbi Kalish smiled and nodded. “Your cousin Gabe said to me, ‘I’ve got to give it to the Orthodox, they sure know how to put on a great wedding. There’s so much energy in the room.’ And then we got into a long conversation about how it’s a mitzvah to gladden the bride and groom, and he said, ‘You know, maybe it’s so that the joy from the wedding will carry them through their whole lives.’ I was so impressed. I told him, ‘I’ve always wondered about the reason behind the mitzvah and now you’ve answered it for me.’ ”

Rabbi Kalish went to join the dancing, and Cousin Gabe came over to me looking electrified. “I just spoke to your rabbi, and wow, he blew me away. What a rabbi!”

I laughed out loud. I couldn’t think of two people living more different lifestyles — Rabbi Kalish who spends all his time learning and my cousin who’s never stepped foot in a shul. So many people on Rabbi Kalish’s level would have dismissed my cousin as an am haaretz or a tinok shenishba, perhaps someone to do kiruv on, but certainly not someone to learn from. Rabbi Kalish was different. He saw the greatness in every Jew.

For years afterward, my cousin Gabe would ask about Rabbi Kalish whenever I saw him. I heard through the grapevine that once a few relatives got to talking about how I had become frum and that they hoped I’d be all right despite the strangeness of my chosen lifestyle. Cousin Gabe said, “Well, at least we know she has a great rabbi.”

Cousin Gabe admired Rabbi Kalish because he could feel that Rabbi Kalish genuinely admired him. There was no flattery and nothing fake about Rabbi Kalish. He saw Cousin Gabe as a great person — someone who could even teach him something new.

At Rabbi Kalish’s levayah, everyone spoke about his dedication to Torah, to teaching, to chesed, to family. When I think about what was so special about Rabbi Kalish it was how he made everyone else feel so special in his presence. Whenever my husband davened in his parents’ shul, Rabbi Kalish would go over to him and say, “I read your wife’s latest article. She’s so talented! How does she write so well?”

When I told my cousin Gabe that Rabbi Kalish had passed away, he was heartbroken.

“Rabbi Kalish played a critical part in making your wedding the wonderful event it was,” he emailed me. “I would have liked to have seen him again.”

Perhaps someday when Moshiach comes, Rabbi Kalish and Cousin Gabe will sit and learn Torah together, each one contributing something to the other.

My Neighbor, My Rebbi

By Dovid Eisikowitz

I was 12 years old when the Kalishes moved in across the street. I didn’t know it then, 30 years ago, but it was a move that would shape my life.

From our first conversation, Rabbi Kalish made me feel important. “Dovid, I’m hosting an oneg Shabbos for my talmidim. Will you join us?” I eagerly accepted, beginning a weekly tradition that would last for years. Each Friday night, I found myself captivated by Rabbi Kalish’s insight, warmth, and the deep respect he showed each talmid.

Rabbi Kalish turned cholent-scooping into an art. As he handed out the steaming bowls, he listened as much as he shared. His talmidim asked about halachah, hashkafah, relationships — even personal challenges and struggles. No question was off limits. Once, a talmid asked a question relating to undergarments. We all cringed, wondering how Rebbi would respond. But sensing that the boy was sincere, he answered clearly and respectfully — treating it with the same thoughtfulness as any other question.

I was a full-time mesivta student, but Rabbi Kalish’s Shabbos shiur, which he delivered in shul, became the highlight of my week. What I loved most was how he bridged every Gemara to the halachah, walking us through each step in between. Rabbi Kalish’s approach opened a whole new world for me, showing how Gemara and halachah are always two sides of one coin.

The rav’s humility was genuine and deep. Once, he shared that if he knew how to make serious money, he would do that instead. “If I could make enough money to support 400 avreichim, I would do it without a question. Who am I to think that my learning is worth more than that of 400 avreichim?”

But his humility never came at the expense of truth; he was a mevakeish emes.

When attending an event or simchah, if the speaker shared a Torah thought that he believed was not emes, he would shake his head to signal his disagreement. It wasn’t politically correct, but he cared more about protecting the integrity of Torah.

Similarly, he held that the “done” shiur for a k’zayis of matzah was massively inflated, causing people to eat far more than required — which meant they didn’t enjoy the mitzvah. He didn’t care that he was a lone voice in this regard; he stood up for what he believed to be emes.

But his leniencies were hardly universal. In matters involving money, for example, he was quite stringent. For example, he did not permit copying software or music. When asked about these issues, he would reply, “I think you should ask someone else. I’m very machmir when it comes to these inyanim.”

Over the years, I asked Rebbi many, many questions.

Once, he remarked, “Dovid, I can’t get over how someone as smart as you gives over the impression that he’s stupid, that he doesn’t understand. You could easily get away with a superficial understanding of the Gemara, but you’re not satisfied with that and so you ask. I’ve seen that those who take your approach end up understanding their learning better than anyone else.”

During my transition from kollel to work, I confided in Rabbi Kalish. “I’m not learning full-time anymore,” I shared, “and I feel bad about it.”

“Feel bad?!” he exclaimed, visibly upset. “Why should you feel bad? Now is your opportunity to apply all that you’ve learned!”

—As told to Michal Eisikowitz

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1041)