That concern for his students’ spiritual welfare spurred the Rosh Yeshivah to spare us no criticism when he felt we needed it

Thirty years are not enough.

Chazal tell us that a person does not begin to understand his rebbi until forty years have passed (Avodah Zarah 5b; see Rashi, Devarim 29:6). But thirty years is sufficient for what his son-in-law and revered successor, Rav Yonasan David, shlita, currently rosh yeshivah, refers to as “the yearnings” for Rav Yitzchok Hutner’s guidance, Torah, and radiance (see introduction to Pachad Yitzchok, Igros). The following appreciation is neither definitive nor conclusive. It is simply one talmid’s yearning for a rebbi who uplifted his generation, rejuvenated the study of hashkafah, defined world events and cosmic issues from a Torah perspective, while never losing sight of the individual’s needs, concerns, and private battles.

Some of the stories are my own experiences, others were shared by gedolei talmidav, his closest disciples. None are simply rumor or hearsay. He was skeptical of outlandish anecdotes, punctilious about the ones he himself related, and would not have been pleased with blind hagiography. However, in the past three decades, the Rosh Yeshivah’s influence has grown exponentially. Seforim, books, scholarly articles, and countless lectures have attempted to explicate the vast treasure he left behind in the multiple volumes of his magnum opus Pachad Yitzchok.

I once brought to his attention a translation of one of the maamorim (essays) in Pachad Yitzchok that appeared in a journal; the translator had made some hopeless mistakes and misunderstood Rav Hutner’s meaning. The Rosh Yeshivah laughed and bellowed, “Loz em leben — leave him alone. I am happy that people in his circles will be motivated to open a Pachad Yitzchok.”

The Rosh Yeshivah himself discovered the “mysterious” (his word) phenomenon that one sometimes gains more from a rebbi after he passes away. In a letter he wrote at the age of twenty-one to Rav Isaac Scher, ztz”l, he confesses that “ideas and concepts that he [the Alter of Slabodka] desperately tried to explain to me, but that I was unable to understand, suddenly were clarified to me with his passing. The righteous are greater in death than in life” (Pachad Yitzchok, hereafter PY, Igros, page 251 and 253).

It is my hope that we, too, can gain even more from the Rosh Yeshivah now than when we were fortunate to have him with us in life.

The Prince

His own rebbi, the Alter of Slabodka, defined him best. The barely adolescent Yitzchok Hutner arrived in Slabodka at the tender age of fourteen and was almost immediately invited into the Alter’s inner circle. The older, veteran talmidim were afraid that the new student would require the Alter to lower the level of his mussar talks or diminish the lofty standards to which they were accustomed. Young Meir Chodosh, future mashgiach and baal mussar, allowed himself to bring this to the Alter’s attention. “Don’t you see?” the Alter reassured them. “He is a prince!” (The Mashgiach Reb Meir, page 112.)

He was a prince at fourteen and he maintained that royalty throughout an incredibly productive and majestic life. That nobility manifested itself in many ways at the yeshivah he later founded, Mesivta Rabbi Chaim Berlin. I remember, as do most of my contemporaries, the trepidation I felt when I was about to ring his doorbell or the buzzer to his office. Indeed pachad — abject terror — was the operative word for most encounters with the Rosh Yeshivah. But that moment of apprehension often turned into life-changing moments of revelation. The Rosh Yeshivah, sometimes gently, sometimes searingly, tore off the veneers obscuring our souls and helped us discover our inner identities. Although the awe remained forever, for those of us privileged to remain in his presence, pachad ultimately mingled with an ethereal joy at his fatherly interest and involvement in our every  tribulation and success.

I first had the zchus of meeting the Rosh Yeshivah when I was still in high school. I attended Mesivta of Eastern Parkway, an offshoot of Chaim Berlin whose menahel was the beloved Rav Elimelech Silber, ztz”l, and whose rosh mesivta was the charismatic Rav Mordechai Weinberg, ztz”l. Both Rav Silber and Rav Weinberg consulted often with the Rosh Yeshivah, and the Rosh Yeshivah favored the Mesivta with a full original maamar when it began (printed in Igros, page 134).

Reb Mottel, as he was lovingly called by all, sent a few of us to say “ah shtickel Torah” to the Rosh Yeshivah. We were terrified. After I finished my pilpul, the Rosh Yeshivah interrogated me about my family, background, and aspirations. I practically forgot my name. When I told him my parents were survivors, he visibly softened his tone and shared words of encouragement.

After that, my bond to the Rosh Yeshivah grew ever deeper and multifaceted, to the point where if I missed a maamar, he would call me in for reproof, while subtly checking to see if everything was in order at home. I left his home or office feeling that he not only cared deeply about me, but that there was nothing in the world more important to him than my physical and spiritual welfare.