Elder mekubal Rabi Shalom Shmueli shrouds his greatness in a shoemaker’s guise

Photos: Elchanan Kotler

The bustle of the Machaneh Yehudah market is clearly audible even though it’s only the beginning of the week. It resounds through the stone alleyways around Agrippas Street, echoing through the windows and doors of the century-old homes, until it reaches one narrow street that’s barely wide enough for a car and pedestrian to pass at once. This is the seam line between the quaint Nachlaot neighborhood and pathways that feed into the market. But even during the busiest shopping hours, this spot remains quiet — as if a soundproof barrier exists around the building of Yeshivat Hamekubalim Nahar Shalom.

This isn’t some newly donated structure with gorgeous Jerusalem stone facings and a fancy plaque. It’s an old Arab-style building on Rechov Shiloh, with a hodgepodge of additions and renovations that have been built over the years. The beis medrash was expanded a few times, eventually with another one built on top of it supported by external beams, and the rest of the structure a collection of aluminum patches and makeshift bridges.

But what’s missing in opulence is made up for by a spiritual energy — there’s a feeling of sanctity here hovering like a cloud. The aroma of tobacco rises on the singsong of tefillin-wrapped men, some of whom have been studying here for years.

We’re here before Minchah, which will take nearly an hour, as it is recited with all the kavanos of the Rashash (Rav Shalom Sharabi, the great Yemenite kabbalist who lived in the 1700s). The shaliach tzibbur, a carefully selected talmid chacham, ascends the six stairs to the amud, and his eyes scan the Holy Names printed on a sign across from him. The rest of the mekubalim follow in their siddurim.

These kavanos have their own time and rhythm. The brachah of Mechayeh Hameisim of Shacharis, for example, is not at all like the Mechayeh Hameisim of Maariv. Every avodah has its own meditations and cosmic rectifications.

We scan the mispallelim, and then we see him — the 100-year-old man in the gray suit jacket and trademark taxi driver cap, the elder kabbalist of the generation. His name is Rabi Shalom Shmueli, a man who rarely talks, yet is sought out by chassidic rebbes and mekubalim, each of whom have their own personal connection to him far away from the prying eyes of the chareidi paparazzi. He’s also the father of Rav Benayahu Shmueli, the active rosh yeshivah of Nahar Shalom. (Rav Benayanu later tells us that despite the fact that they’ve spent decades sitting and learning together, he rarely dares to touch his father. “One kiss on the back of his hand and I immediately step back. One who knows what a father is, understands,” he says cryptically.)

For decades, the tzaddik Rabi Shalom hid out in the tiny shoe-repair shop on the bottom of Rechov Agrippas, where he could work in quiet, his hands moving deftly, his lips firmly sealed. But the city’s mekubalim and rabbanim knew the secret of Shalom the Persian shoemaker, as did the chassidic rebbes who waited patiently for Shalom to craft them a pair of shoes.

The mekubalim referred to him with the words of Chazal regarding Chanoch: “He would sew shoes, and with each and every stitch he would be meyached Kudsha Brich Hu u’Shechintei.” (Rabi Shalom the Shoemaker is not to be confused with Rav Moshe Yaakov Ravikov, the famous “Shoemaker” of Tel Aviv and leader of a secret group of mekubalim from decades ago who presented themselves to the outside world as simple laborers, including Rav Yehudah Patilon, the Painter; Rav Yosef Voltoch, the Streetsweeper; and Rav Chaim Ezra Hakohen Fatchia, the Milkman.)