Rav Berel was acutely aware that one’s time on earth is limited, and so his engine never idled

Iam having breakfast when the phone rings. The voice on the other end is that of my old friend and colleague, Rav Berel Wein.

“Rabbi Feldman,” he says (using my title was his term of endearment), “I hate you!”

I know he is jesting because he never uses the word “hate”; the term is simply not in his lexicon. But I play along: “Berel, what did I do wrong this time?”

Comes this reply: “I just read your column. You write so much better than I do. I hate you.”

This was my friend Berel in microcosm: no frills, but direct, combined with sardonic humor. I laughed so hard that I could not finish my coffee.

Whether his comment was accurate or not, no one knows, but some things I do know: Rav Berel was so much better than most of us in countless ways. He was better in his Yiddishkeit, in his Torah learning, in his brilliance, in his drive, in his intellectual honesty, in his independent thinking, in his sensitivity, in his caring. He was not a run-of-the-mill rabbi.

He was cast from a different mold, and could not be stereotyped or pigeonholed. Good-natured and compassionate as he was, he was nevertheless impatient with phoniness, and could see right through the dross. He was his own man and followed his own star. He was not satisfied with anything less than excellence in everything he did, and he accomplished excellent things in his life: a superb pulpit rabbi, an articulate spokesman for unadulterated Torah, a powerful fighter against those who would sacrifice Judaism on the altar of popularity, an excellent historian of the Jewish past, an excellent visionary of a rich Jewish future.

He might have “hated” me, but I “hated” him in return. For his ability to deliver a magnificent sermon off the cuff, one that would have taken me endless hours to prepare; for his ability to deliver a learned lecture without any notes whatsoever, and to make it sparkle with wit and with humor; for his intellectual depth, and for his ability nevertheless to relate to everyone.

Rav Berel was acutely aware that one’s time on earth is limited, and so his engine never idled. It was always in overdrive, always with an imaginative new project, always innovative and original, constantly inspiring and uplifting. Indefatigable, tireless, unremitting, dynamic are the adjectives that come to mind, but none of these come close to defining his transcendent energy in the cause of Torah.

And all the while, despite personal sadnesses and losses, always creating and producing. The story goes that someone once called his office to speak with him. The secretary said that he had gone out to write a book and would call back when he was finished.

“When might that be?” asked the caller.

Said the secretary: “Oh, in about a half hour.”

That might be a legend, but his capacity for producing new works was in fact legendary.

Not long ago we were chatting, and I was kvetching a bit about the slowdown that comes with age.

He held up his fist. “Age? Forget it! Just keep going, keep going!”

This was his precept, his guide for a productive Torah life.

Berel, Berel, I miss you already. You were the guiding star to an entire generation, an inspiration and a model for every pulpit rabbi. Of few people can it be said, as we say of you, that their lives made a major difference here on earth. The tens of thousands whom you taught and uplifted will testify to this.

I imagine that in your well-deserved heavenly abode, you are already prodding the angels and urging them not to slack off in their missions, but to keep going, keep going.

I wish more people “hated” me the way you “hated” me. A sad farewell, dear chaver, from all of us here on earth, but up Above they are giving you a warm welcome for a job superbly done. Tehei nishmas’cha tzerurah b’tzeror hachayim — May your soul be bound up in the bond of eternal life. Your example will keep us all going, and going.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1076)