Rabbi Mendel Belsky saw how all Jews shined on the inside, even if they’d been tarnished by life’s struggles

On a late summer night, Rabbi Mendel Belsky was driving with his daughter toward the state prison. As the car wound its way along the dark highway, Rabbi Belsky repeated the same statement over and over: “He’s a tzaddik, he’s such a good boy. He just made a mistake. People make mistakes.” 

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abbi Belsky was heading to prison to bail out a bochur who had unfortunately had a run-in with the authorities. As he drove, he kept reiterating his thoughts to his daughter, underscoring the importance of the task at hand. Each Yid has his own set of nisyonos, some more difficult than others. If a bochur makes some mistakes — even big mistakes — does that make him a failed person? “Sheva yipol tzaddik v’kam — the righteous person falls seven times and rises,” says the pasuk. This was just one of this bochur’s falls, and he was now ready to rise up again.

And Rabbi Mendel Belsky was always there to help another Yid rise once again.

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hen the signs went up around Lakewood and Brooklyn on Motzaei Shabbos, 26 Teves, notifying the tzibbur of the passing of Rav Mendel Belsky, some people were unaware of who exactly this adam gadol was. Yes, most people understood that he was a respected member of the prestigious Belsky family, and that he had been an esteemed rosh yeshivah and rebbi for many years — but many did not know that Rav Mendel had single-handedly reignited the souls of hundreds of Yidden and helped pave the way for a new generation of mechanchim seeking to reach out to struggling talmidim.

Menachem Mendel Yitzchak Belsky was born on February 8, 1943 / 3 Adar 5703 to Rabbi Berel and Chana Tzirel Belsky (nee Wilhelm) of Williamsburg, who were instrumental in laying the groundwork for American Torah Jewry. Aside from their involvement in such fundamental projects as Zeirei Agudath Yisroel, Bnos, and Chinuch Atzmai, to list a few, the Belsky home was a legendary center of hachnassas orchim. Visitors from far and near were always greeted warmly and served a hearty meal — often scrambled eggs prepared by Reb Berel himself.

The nonstop giving in their home made an indelible impact on the Belsky children; the unparalleled care for others was so natural, the children viewed it as part and parcel of daily life.

“We didn’t see chesed there,” Rav Mendel Belsky once remarked about his childhood home in his later years, “We lived it.”

It is no wonder that this home produced such pioneers in Torah and chesed as Rav Mendel, his illustrious brother, the posek and rosh yeshivah of Torah Vodaath, Rav Yisroel Belsky ztz”l, and other marbitzei Torah and baalei chesed who helped shape the Torah community in America.

In fact, Reb Mendel was quick to follow in his parents’ ways. “When I was redt to their daughter, I didn’t need to be told their address,” says Rabbi Yitzchok Biegeleisen, Reb Mendel’s brother-in-law. “Each off-Shabbos in Philadelphia, Mendy used to make an announcement that if anyone was looking for a place to get away for the weekend, they were welcome at his parents’ home at 156 Ross Street in Williamsburg — an offer that many bochurim took him up on.”

While he was still a bochur in Lakewood’s Beth Medrash Govoha, Rav Nosson Wachtfogel took note of the Philadelphia alumnus’s depth in Torah knowledge and his unique ability to reach the hearts of those around him. Their relationship went back to Reb Mendel’s younger years, when Rav Nosson davened with his father in the Stoliner shul in Williamsburg. They soon developed a kesher that lasted for many decades; years later, Rav Nosson occasionally visited the home of his beloved talmid to discuss various approaches to inspiring bochurim to maximize their potential.

A Perfect Role Model

In time, young Mendel was sent to join Rav Chaim Bressler and Rav Yaakov Schneidman in the opening of Scranton Yeshivah, where he assumed the position of mashgiach. The talmidim in the newfound yeshivah came from all sorts of backgrounds, and the roshei yeshivah entrusted Reb Mendel with showing them what a ben Torah looked like — how one should dress, daven, and frequent the beis medrash even after the sedorim were officially over. Rav Bressler later said that Reb Mendel played an integral part in establishing the yeshivah, as he was the perfect role model for the younger bochurim; his every move exuded a level of hasmadah, yiras Shamayim, and gemilus chasadim that many of the bochurim had never been exposed to before.

Reb Mendel married Masha Kaluszyner, daughter of Rav Shmuel Kaluszyner, a choshuve talmid of Novardok who served as rav in Brownsville, New York. The couple settled in Lakewood, and Reb Mendel went to learn in Beth Medrash Govoha. Several years later, Rav Nosson tapped the fresh yungerman to resettle in St. Louis, Missouri, in the capacity of mashgiach ruchani of the St. Louis yeshivah. He had a profound impact on the yeshivah, and many talmidim from that period kept up with Rabbi Belsky throughout the years. But it was only after moving back to New York and serving as a maggid shiur in Yeshivas Rav Samson Raphael Hirsch (Breuer’s) in Washington Heights for several years that Rabbi Belsky decided to open a yeshivah of his own, trailblazing a new method of chinuch that was replicated by various yeshivos in the years that followed.

A Place for Every Bochur

Every bochur deserves a proper education, stated the small ad in the Jewish Observer in the summer of 1988.

That zeman, Rabbi Belsky and his brother-in-law Rabbi Shalom Storch opened the Yeshiva Gedolah of Midwood, a post-high school beis medrash for anyone who wanted to grow in their Yiddishkeit. The initial student body was comprised of some very solid learners, but it soon began attracting bochurim who were struggling to find their footing in the regular system. Rabbi Belsky couldn’t fathom the idea of turning any bochur away, and before long, Midwood became the place for bochurim who couldn’t fit into a conventional yeshivah. And it wasn’t by chance; Rabbi Belsky’s genuine love for every person and his unwavering belief in each individual’s unique capabilities regardless of their past, made him a magnet for bochurim from all over the world.

At the time, in the early 1990s, a yeshivah dedicated to struggling bochurim was practically unheard of.

“Bochurim either got into the mosad of their choice, or they went to find a job,” one former talmid explains. “And many of them just fell through the cracks — but nobody felt that it was a yeshivah’s place to keep bochurim from slipping away.”

Rabbi Belsky, however, knew that each soul needs to be given a chance even when every other yeshivah closes its doors to him. At the shivah, one talmid summed up Rabbi Belsky’s incredible way with bochurim based on his personal experience. “I had a heart of steel,” he said, “but he managed to find the smallest pinhole and penetrate it.”

You’re Made of Gold

Rabbi Belsky was willing to do anything to make the bochurim feel cherished and respected.

“My father took the time to reach out to each one of them, no matter how much energy it would take,” his son Rabbi Boruch Belsky relates. “He spent countless hours talking them through their various struggles, from commonplace things like getting up in the morning to far more complex challenges that bochurim wouldn’t normally share with their rosh yeshivah.”

Rabbi Belsky was years ahead of his time, recognizing that open conversations and unconditional love and support were the recipe for success with youth. One of his signature approaches was reminding his talmidim that they were gold, no matter where they were up to in life. He once went to a car dealership and found a former yeshivah bochur working there.

“Why don’t you join our yeshivah?” Rabbi Belsky asked with classic simplicity.

“Nah, I’m done with yeshivah,” came the indifferent response.

“Well, this is no place for a precious bochur like you,” Rabbi Belsky insisted.

He conversed with the bochur for a while, and finally bade him farewell — but a new friendship had been kindled. Rabbi Belsky returned to the dealership for the next several days, trying to convince the bochur to join his yeshivah. One day, Rabbi Belsky entered the dealership with a white shirt in hand.

“This is for you,” he stated unequivocally, before adding with a warm smile, “I expect to see you in the yeshivah today.”

The bochur took him up on his offer. Today, he has a Torahdig family and runs his own successful program for struggling boys.

One Lakewood yungerman remembers how, after a difficult upbringing and turbulent teenage life, he was basically done with religion altogether — until Rabbi Belsky found him.

“The way I was dressed didn’t faze him,” he remembers. “Whenever Rabbi Belsky would see me walking in the streets at night, he would bring me into the yeshivah, even though I was never officially enrolled. When he found out that I had lost my tefillin, the next day I had a new pair. On many occasions, he would hand me a tallis and insist that I daven at the amud. Since I wasn’t a talmid in the yeshivah, I had nowhere to sleep. Soon a place was found for me to live — and although he never told me, I’m pretty sure I know who it was that arranged it.”

Above all, Rabbi Belsky would repeatedly remind him that he was a tzaddik.

“The constant reminder of who I was and what I was worth changed my life forever,” he says.

Rabbi Belsky would urge many bochurim to go to Eretz Yisrael for a few months, hoping that the elevated atmosphere would influence them to make changes in their lives. On one occasion, a bochur’s parents were very against the idea, thinking it would be a waste of money, but Rabbi Belsky pushed them to do it anyway. When their son returned, he had racked up a $400 phone bill. The disaffected parents called the mashgiach, saying that they believed Rabbi Belsky should take responsibility for the exorbitant bill; after all, the whole trip was his idea.

Rabbi Belsky called the bochur and asked him about his daily schedule. They determined there was a half-hour slot available daily.

“Learn for that half-hour each day, and I’ll pay the $400,” Rabbi Belsky challenged.

The bochur, who accepted immediately, later joked about getting the better half of the deal.

“Not at all,” countered Rabbi Belsky. “I got the much better half!”

On Hashem’s Tab

Rabbi Belsky’s profound care and concern for others stretched far beyond the walls of his yeshivah. He simply couldn’t bear the idea of another Yid experiencing pain. One woman called Mrs. Belsky during the shivah and related that Rabbi Belsky had guided her through some of the darkest moments of her life. She said that she had been in a very difficult marriage, and her brother, a Midwood talmid, once shared this information with his rosh yeshivah. Upon hearing what this woman was enduring at home, Rabbi Belsky drove over an hour through a heavy snowstorm that same night to meet with the couple and proceeded to talk with them for many hours. And although the marriage eventually ended, Rabbi Belsky continued to guide the woman for many years, and helped her raise her children.

“His care for his talmidim was just one expression of his deep care for all of Klal Yisrael,” one of his children said at the shivah. “When he would walk home from shul on Shabbos, it was common for him to engage in conversation with the non-frum immigrants on the street corners. He would lovingly tell them about Shabbos, and encourage them to come over for Kiddush. In many instances, he succeeded in enrolling their children in yeshivos and they went on to establish frum homes.”

Rabbi Belsky once convinced a barber to close his shop on Shabbos, and then went to great lengths to ensure that customers would frequent the shop on Sundays, telling anyone he would meet about this phenomenal barber he discovered.

Despite his outward appearance of a mainstream yeshivahman, Rabbi Belsky would routinely draw in people who generally repelled frum Yidden. At the levayah, son-in-law Dov Kaufman depicted the highlight of a Chol Hamoed trip in the Belsky home.

“We were always enchanted by how Tatty managed to detect Jewish souls in a large crowd. The guy with the ponytail who none of us assumed was Jewish — Tatty would somehow start schmoozing with him, and eventually exchange phone numbers and invite him for Shabbos,” he shared.

Another son related, “When we made a minyan for Minchah in the middle of the zoo — somehow my father would find a bunch of Yidden to join, despite them not looking remotely Jewish.”

“It wasn’t just that he loved Yidden, it was that he embodied pure temimus in his avodas Hashem,” says nephew Rabbi Binyomin Newmark. People were drawn in by the simplicity Rabbi Belsky associated with his Yiddishkeit; no mitzvah was too difficult to uphold, no test was too hard to pass, and no obstacle along the way was too large to overcome.

“He was the ultimate motzei chein b’einei Elokim v’adam. And that chein brought hundreds of Yidden back on board,” Rabbi Newmark says.

This pure bitachon was apparent in how Rabbi Belsky regarded finances. He spent many years fundraising for both his yeshivah and his extended family’s kiruv organization, Mifal Torah Vodaath. And yet, he never seemed even slightly stressed about the financial burden on his shoulders. He would always say, “The Ribbono shel Olam will take care of it.” Even when things were tight, he didn’t seem anxious, and continued to hire private tutors and provide bochurim with whatever services they required — often paying out of his own pocket.

Perhaps it was this simple, unyielding faith that endeared Rabbi Belsky to so many philanthropists. Throughout his years of fundraising, he developed particularly deep relationships with a number of benevolent members of the Syrian community. But when Rabbi Belsky went to their homes to ask for donations, there was much more on his mind than just the check — he would take note of their own struggles and be mechazeik them, or take the opportunity to learn with them or put a mezuzah up on their doorframes. He established lifelong friendships with them.

Rabbi Belsky once went to the hospital to visit one of his donors who was suffering from Hodgkin’s disease. His wife was very distressed and asked Rabbi Belsky what she could do.

“Let me take you to the Skverer Rebbe for a brachah!” Rabbi Belsky exclaimed.

The idea of strolling into the chassidic enclave with secular Jews might have stopped most people. But with Rabbi Belsky, nothing could get in the way of helping another Yid. He convinced the wife and one of her children to come with him to New Square — and made an unceremonious stop at a friend’s house so the woman could borrow a head covering and some modest clothing. Her husband recovered some time later.

Rabbi Belsky once went to visit one of his donors at his office. When he entered the room, the man stood up, white as a ghost. He picked up a sandwich from his desk and threw it into the garbage.

“Rabbi, you saved me!” he exclaimed. “I was starving, and was about to eat nonkosher food for the first time — and then you walked in!”

Mr. Joey Safdieh was one of the Syrian businessmen who steadfastly supported Rabbi Belsky’s causes for decades. When he heard about Reb Mendel’s passing, he insisted on delivering a brief hesped. And so as the room filled to capacity with Yidden, including the Lakewood roshei yeshivah and other venerated rabbanim, Mr. Safdieh went up to the podium to share genuine, poignant words.

“The Rabbi saved hundreds of neshamot from assimilation. He created a generation of yerei Shamayim, and we owe him the utmost respect.”

Mr. Safdieh’s attire — clearly not the typical yeshivish garb — highlighted the breadth of Rabbi Belsky’s reach, and his ability to move the hearts of Jews from all affiliations.

Never Debilitated

Lakewood Rosh Yeshivah Rav Yeruchem Olshin delivered a moving hesped at the levayah, saying that the Torah Rabbi Belsky learned in his later years was the ultimate “Torah mitoch had’chak” (Torah study during trying circumstances). Indeed, over the last 20 years, Rabbi Belsky’s body was racked by a severe case of Parkinson’s disease, but his determination never flagged. He kept up his sedorim and continued his chavrusashafts with numerous talmidim on a daily basis despite his physical decline.

He also continued fundraising vigorously for his yeshivah in total defiance of his debilitating illness. A few years ago, he made a trip to Manhattan to the office of a wealthy individual to raise money. The man saw that Rabbi Belsky was in a very compromised condition and asked his nephew to drive him back to Brooklyn. During that car ride, Rabbi Belsky connected with the young man on a personal level, and soon became his unofficial rebbi. They continued to learn together for years, and the young man made great strides in his avodas Hashem. When he came to visit Rabbi Belsky a few months ago, he brought along a sefer as a gift. Inscribed in the front was a note, “From your best friend.”

On Shabbos, the 25th of Teves, Rabbi Mendel Belsky’s holy neshamah ascended to the Heavens. Klal Yisrael may have lost a giant among men, but we are left with countless lessons in both bein adam l’chaveiro and bein adam l’Makom — and numerous yeshivos and rebbeim who are perpetuating his legacy of helping all the tzaddikim rise again.

The family would appreciate receiving personal stories about Rabbi Belsky. Please email them to rabbibelskymemories@gmail.com

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1050)