It seemed like in any area in which there was vulnerability, brokenness or despair, Rabbi Hauer was there — because that’s where the money is

Photo: Naftoli Goldgrab

I

t was a fairly standard question, the sort that generally begets a standard answer.

For a summertime project coordinated by this magazine, various prominent readers were asked to suggest a book they considered worthwhile.

Most of the answers were predictable, but one stood out. Rabbi Moshe Hauer, still in his shanah rishonah as executive vice president of the Orthodox Union, suggested Ish Yehudi, the biography of Rabbi Joseph Zvi Carlebach of Lubek, later Hamburg.

It was an interesting choice for a “beach read,” a serious, thoughtful tome, heavy in ideological implication, its virtuous protagonist facing challenges unthinkable nearly a century later.

But at the core, it is a story about true Jewish leadership, about teaching Torah in all situations and teaching the Torah that applies to each of those situations. It is a story about a man who maintained personal dignity under impossible conditions, who embodied the nobility of a talmid chacham until his last moment.

In retrospect, of course the book spoke to Rabbi Hauer.

There are great Jewish leaders and great Jewish people, but not always are they one and the same. Someone can be dynamic, efficient, or inspiring, a force of good in public life, but lacking in personal middos, more concerned with the wellbeing of his people, than of “his” people, the ones who work in the next office, or live under his roof and sit around his kitchen table.

Rabbi Hauer was everything, a prince in middos, impeccable in dress, conduct, and speech, in public and in private, whatever the context.

He assumed the position at a particularly fragile time, just as the first strains of COVID-19 were coming forth to wreak havoc on health, morale, and general Jewish unity. Having to dance between constantly evolving health guidelines, a beleaguered religious community, and a public exposed to a flood of rabbinic and medical opinions, while somehow remain inspiring and leaderly at the same time was not what he had signed up for.

But to those watching Rabbi Hauer, it was never about what he’d signed up for: It was about what Hashem wanted from Him and about being an honest servant to his Creator. Ish Yehudi.

S
everal years ago, a friend of mine was traveling to Eretz Yisrael. On the same flight was a rabbi from Baltimore leading a group of his balabatim on a trip, and after Shacharis in the rear galley, my friend chatted with the rabbi, whom he had never heard of.

The rabbi was pleasant, warm, and likeable, and in conversation, my friend proudly mentioned that he had not missed a single minyan in three years.

The rabbi commended him for his commitment, but, in the same warm tone, he shared a piece of advice. “Shloimy,” he said, speaking to his new friend as if they had known each other for years, “right now, you are not married, but one day, you will have a wife. Im yirtzeh Hashem, a day will come when she will be in her ninth month of pregnancy, and she will call you, around eleven o’clock in the morning, and say, ‘Shloimy, it’s time.’

“You will hurry to the hospital, which might not be in Lakewood, and over the next few hours, you will be right there with her, encouraging, giving support, saying Tehillim, and then in late afternoon, you might realize that it’s almost shkiah and you haven’t davened Minchah! Will you leave her and go back to Lakewood for minyan? After all, you always make minyan…. and then, Shloimy, you will realize that Hashem wants you to stay there, that your job isn’t to make minyan at that moment.”

That was the comment made by an unfamiliar rabbi to a Mir bochur en route to Eretz Yisrael. This week, my friend — recently married — told me the story for the first time.

“Rabbi Hauer made this casual comment and I cannot tell you how many times I thought about it in the years since.”

My last meeting with Rabbi Hauer was a few months ago, over breakfast. We were discussing an idea that might have proven very helpful to a particular demographic, and I delicately tried to point out that I was not sure that the intended beneficiaries of the program would be comfortable accepting aid from the OU.

He nodded. Yes, he knew that already. He had already made the cheshbon. And he was okay with it. The OU would get no credit. Their name or affiliation would not appear.

“If it’s good for Jews,” he said, “it’s good for us.”

Ish Yehudi. What Hashem wants.

H
e was a child of chinuch, his father, Rabbi Binyamin Hauer, a respected rav in Montreal’s Bnei Jacob shul, and his mother, Rebbetzin Miriam shetichyeh, a teacher: They made their decision to send their son to Yeshivah Gedolah of Montreal — it was considered to be a more yeshivish institution than those affiliated with their shul and community and it was located quite a distance from their home, so the choice is testimony to their hopes.

And he would realize those hopes, becoming a close talmid of the rosh yeshivah, Rav Moshe Mendel Glustein.

Until this day, talmidim of Rabbi Glustein get together for a chaburah before each Yom Tov: Rabbi Hauer would always try to join, long-distance, a talmid despite the fact that he had so many talmidim of his own. At the close of the shiur, I would always tell the Rosh Yeshivah that Rabbi Hauer had phoned in to hear, and his face would light up at the mention of his talmid’s name. “Moishe? He has time for this on Erev Yom Tov?” he would ask in surprise.

(To see the pain etched on the Rosh Yeshivah’s face at last week’s levayah at JFK Airport is to have seen the depth of this relationship.)

From Montreal, Moshe Hauer went to Ner Yisroel, in Baltimore. The first time he stepped into the beis medrash there, he would say, he felt at home — this was his place, where he was meant to be.

He would eventually venture forth, but he would never really leave.

He would carry the fragrance of the beis medrash, the spirit of the beis medrash, and most of all, the passion of the beis medrash, with him wherever he went. He would become a rav in Baltimore’s Bnai Jacob Shaarei Zion and discover the thrill of teaching Torah, in elevating people through Torah, in transforming entire families through Torah.

He had learned the ropes as rav of a shul, and when he took the position at the helm of the OU in 2020, it was with his belief in the power of Torah. Under his leadership, the All-Torah platform,  skillfully directed by Rabbi Moshe Schwed and his team, became a priority — not because it was successful, but because it was essential. He had left a position that involved giving tens of shiurim a week, and this new job did not afford him that opportunity — but the mission, and the method of accomplishing it, was the very same. Torah, he believed, is the great unifier, the greatest source of joy and elevation. In his shul, he could share it with hundreds: at the OU, he would share it with the masses.

Others get thrust into public life and, with time, pure intentions fade as they learn that here, the rules are different: The battle is for influence, for relevance, for public acknowledgement or public funds.

For Rabbi Hauer, the rules never changed. The White House or television studio was just one more sugya, approached with the same calm, clarity, and yiras Shamayim (perhaps his defining feature, the one that made all the others so admirable) as any other. He could address a crowd of thousands with eloquence, then step away from the mic and lock eyes with an individual in the wings and ask, with the expression in his eyes that let you know he actually cared, “How are you managing?”

And then, he would stand there, not moving, so that you could answer.

Rabbi Hauer saw people. When asked to speak at a bar mitzvah, he phoned the baal simchah to accept the invitation — but he made a request. He wanted to get to know the bar mitzvah boy before he spoke, because while he was a great admirer of the bochur’s parents and grandparents, the derashah was meant to be a message to the young man — and you can’t speak to someone if you don’t know what he’s all about.

His successor as rav in Baltimore’s Bnei Jacob Shaarei Zion, Rabbi Daniel Rose, often joined his mentor in paying bikur cholim visits to members of the community. After completing a visit at the apartment of an especially lonely woman, Rabbi Rose noticed that Rabbi Hauer’s face was glowing. “This,” said Rabbi Hauer, “this is where the money is!”

I loved that line, and in recent years, I found that the words often came to mind when I was dealing with Rabbi Hauer. It seemed like in any area in which there was vulnerability, brokenness, or despair, Rabbi Hauer was there — because that’s where the money is.

In the aftermath of Covid, he was eager to see shuls reopening – not just because of the obvious reasons. He told me that his prime worry was for those who live alone, for whom shul is their social network, their oneg Shabbos, their hope for Shabbos meal invitations and their sense of belonging: The others would recover quickly, but who knew how much these people had suffered and if healing was possible?

About tzaddikim, we are told that no monument is necessary, because divreihem, their words, are zichronam, the most fitting testimonial to their essence. There are great people whose printed or recorded sermons endure, telling us who they were and what they stood for.

About Rabbi Hauer, one can learn not just from his derashos, but even from his text messages. In this format, usually informal and casual, he was proper, precise, and courteous, substance sprinkled throughout random conversations.

I, like so many others, find myself going through our conversations in the days since his sudden petirah, and marveling anew at his mix of style, substance, and sincerity. In the middle of a deeply serious exchange, he could unexpectedly drop a joke, and just when I thought it was “let’s be clever” time, he would revert back to seriousness.

In an exchange, during Covid about the OU’s vigilant stance regarding health guidelines, I made a point to which he responded, “Maskim. (Funny that spellcheck changed that to masking.)”

Post October 7 we had a long conversation about the position of the chareidi community vis-a-vis the Israeli military. He was a yachid in his ability to conduct a conversation in which he was the bigger talmid chacham and the more knowledgeable, insightful participant, while still listening with real interest and respect. What struck me most about that conversation was his genuine pain —  the audible tzaar he felt for families whose lives have been destroyed. “I don’t think people realized,” Dovi Safier told me this past Motzaei Simchas Torah, “that this was someone who cried for Klal Yisrael every day.”

R

abbi Moshe Hauer was not a “great Jewish leader”: He was a great Jew, who was a leader. The decisions, the diplomacy, the politicking and back-room negotiating that comes with organizational relevance was not his story, and not where his mind or heart were at.

One of his last major meetings took place just a few weeks ago, seated around a table with representatives of other major Jewish organizations and chassidic courts: The topic was the disconcerting spike in anti-Semitism and the impending mayoral election in New York City.

Various participants spoke with conviction and passion, offering various political calculations and ideas. Then Rabbi Hauer spoke, his voice calm, soft, serious as usual. Those close to him knew how much the topic weighed on him, how he bore tzarasan shel Yisrael on his heart. (And Moshe grew up and went out to his brothers: He focused his eyes and heart to feel pain for them, Rashi, Shemos 2:11).

He agreed that it was important to do the hishtadlus necessary to ensure our safety and security.

“And even if our efforts are not successful,” he said, “then there is still a Borei Olam.”

The message of a ben Torah, of a person saturated with emunah, of a true leader who never forgets where actual power resides.

Ish Yehudi: the message of a Yid.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1083)