What does it say that Torah figures seem impervious to the immutable laws of human physics? 

M

any of us would struggle to explain Einstein’s Theory of Relativity, but we’re all familiar with the strange interactions of time and space when it comes to growing up.

If your old elementary school still stands, try revisiting it as an adult, and watch how everything shrinks. The classrooms, corridors, sports field, school hall, cafeteria — the entire vast domain which you prowled as an eight-year-old — all seem reduced by the passage of years.

The Lilliputian effect applies to humans as well. The teachers who once towered over their fiefdoms will likely seem reduced in both size and authority.

That’s the law of human physics — as you grow up, everything else seems to grow down.

At a gathering of Gateshead Yeshiva alumni in Yerushalayim last week, I encountered the exception to that rule — and learned something valuable about the enduring nature of greatness.

The gathering was one of those moving moments that show how yeshivah life develops a strong camaraderie. Gateshead Yeshiva has an unusually broad intake, with a strong chassidish and international component, added to local boys arriving from high school and bochurim from yeshivah ketanah.

It’s that rare place where a Bobover from Boro Park might encounter a boy from London who is headed to university. It’s likely the only venue where a bochur from Aix-les-Bains could end up struggling to decipher a shiur in Yiddish with someone from Sydney.

That diversity of talmidim creates unusual interactions, as bochurim of all different backgrounds learn to rub along together.

It was Gateshead that introduced me to the wonders of American Yinglish via a roommate from Monsey. It was while waiting on line for the laundry that I learned the intriguing facts of life in Mexico City, where you might reasonably expect to be kidnapped by a drug cartel.

It was Gateshead Yeshiva where the Brooklyn bochur across the hallway from me picked up the rudiments of Geordie, the local dialect.

Gateshead’s range was on display on the dais at the pre-crowdfunding event. First came the young Sadigura Rebbe, a very recent talmid. His exit was followed by the appearance of Rav Yaacov Hillel, who spoke emotionally of his debt to the roshei yeshivah of a half century ago, Rav Leib Gurwitz and Rav Leib Lopian and the mashgiach, Rav Moshe Schwab.

Like all institutions, yeshivos develop their own internal culture and esprit de corps. And much of that comes from shared experiences, both spiritual and material.

A reminder of that fact was a moment when the crowd watched a video of the yeshivah as it is today. If you’re not a talmid, it’s hard to describe the evocative power of Gateshead chimneypots as seen from the beis medrash. But for myself and many others, those drab streets of working-class England evoke those earnest years of learning and growth.

There was a reverential hush as people watched a clip of the beis medrash, filled with today’s bochurim sitting in the same places where we had once spent so much time.

But then a funny thing happened. As footage of the dining hall flashed onto the screen, the crowd began to warm up. The sight of the toaster — an industrial-size conveyor belt of great antiquity — evoked a spontaneous roar as generations of talmidim greeted an old friend.

The main impression, though, was the effect of seeing the roshei yeshivah. It’s been over 20 years since I last stepped foot in the windy town in north-east England. Any callow corners have long since been smoothed over by the abrasive process of time.

As my world has grown, its individual components have shrunk. Having seen yeshivos and gedolim across the oceans, Gateshead has come to occupy its proper place.

By all rights, then, the roshei yeshivah should have undergone the same transformation that time inflicts on most youthful memories.

Yet, as I sat there listening to the roshei yeshivah, nothing had changed. Rav Avrohom Gurwitz, who spoke over live video, was still the same — with the combination of genius and soft-spoken middos that has captivated talmidim for 50 years. The mashgiach, Rav Mordechai Yosef Karnowsky, is still mining the words of the Ramban and Seforno with the same wisdom that he imparted over two decades ago.

Anyone who has spent time with a Torah great has witnessed another aspect of this divergence: Unlike secular celebrity and fame, where familiarity breeds contempt, close up gedolei Yisrael only grow in stature.

What does it say that Torah figures seem impervious to the immutable laws of human physics?

The answer is that gadlus — Torah greatness — is real. It’s not a product of externalities, of momentary veneration that is here today and gone tomorrow. It’s something internal — a greatness of spirit and inherent nobility that shines, whether its object has a following of thousands or toils anonymously in a quiet beis medrash.

Looking back two decades, that encounter with greatness may well be the most important aspect of the yeshivah experience — more so than the knowledge acquired.

The exposure to gadlus is our version of the yirah preceding chochmah that Maseches Avos highlights as crucial for the success of acquiring Torah wisdom.

Back in 1929, when Gateshead Yeshiva was founded, bochurim were widely ridiculed as “bank kvetchers” — bench squeezers, unproductive losers.

Almost a century on, yeshivah and kollel are the norm, and the Jewish world is a better place as a result. One thing hasn’t changed, though. Especially in an era that celebrates celebrity for its own sake, and rewards talented fakery with all the bounty of digital success, an encounter with Torah greatness is transformative.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1100)