In the case of Reb Shayale, we don’t have to wonder what to do, because he made it clear

It’s that time of year.

The 3rd of Iyar. The yahrtzeit of the Rebbe, Reb Shayale of Kerestir. Rav Yeshaya ben Rav Moshe.

To different people, this means different things. Some travel to daven at his kever, while others stay local, honoring his legacy by providing food for other Yidden, just as he taught.

For me, it means receiving a stream of incoming messages, pictures, and clips of gastronomic excess, all in the name of this tzaddik, who expressed the hope that Yidden would merit abundance. As Reb Shayale himself said: “While some Rebbes engage in razin d’razin [a kabbalistic term for the mysteries of creation, the secrets of secrets], here, we work on l’soiva v’lo l’rozoin [a play on the tefillah, “For plenty and not for scarcity”].”

The senders of these messages are by and large Litvaks suffering from a condition called Reb Shayale Derangement Syndrome, so I try to be sympathetic. I am the lucky recipient of their ire, ostensibly, because I had the zechus to write the biography of this tzaddik, so it stands to reason that I am complicit in this mass exploitation of his legacy.

This yahrtzeit marks 100 years since the passing of Reb Shayale, so it’s good a time as any to examine what his legacy is and what it isn’t.

Our community has a complicated relationship with segulos, and it goes well beyond Kerestir.

Supplicatory tourism is a thing, kevarim across Europe providing the perfect destination for shul trips. (How do you say have fun in Yiddish? Poilt altz gits J.)

(Not every trip, of course, and not every participant on every trip.)

Perhaps, in honor of the yahrtzeit, a short user guide to accessing the brachos of Kerestir, and to segulos in general.

There is an attitude of, “What’s wrong if I try it, if I just say/give/go/light/swipe/etc.? Maybe there’s something to the segulah, and if not, it can’t hurt, right?”

Actually, it could hurt. The Ramban writes (Bamidbar 15:22) that when a person concedes any amount of power to a force other than the Ribbono shel Olam, to that degree, he is denying Hashem’s power.

A segulah can only work within the context of believing that there is only One Source of salvation.

A deceased tzaddik certainly has the ability to stand before the Source of power and plead for mercy — but why should he? If he’s a tzaddik, he has it good there. Why should he take time away from his busy schedule of being neheneh miziv haShechinah to petition for you?

Ostensibly, because you are investing in the relationship, too — i.e., you are committed to learning his Torah, to davening at his kever, to carrying on his legacy, or to helping his children.

In the case of Reb Shayale, we don’t have to wonder what to do, because he made it clear. Before his petirah, he assured his grandson that he would continue to help Yidden — as long as the tzedakos continued as well.

Be good to other Yidden. Welcome them, listen to them, give them what they need, and then say a kapitel Tehillim and ask the Ribbono shel Olam to show compassion in the zechus of Reb Shayale. That makes sense.

But if, for example, a building goes up, and it doesn’t meet the code at all, but before the inspector comes, a sticker with a picture of Reb Shayale is affixed to the flimsy scaffold — it’s doubtful that that he will be there petitioning for the builder, since a defective structure with real potential to cause harm to others kind of goes against the ethos of Kerestir.

If, for example, someone is driving way above the speed limit, and then, when he’s pulled over, he snarls out a Reb Shayale-based incantation, it’s unlikely that the tzaddik will step up, because the act of endangering other drivers or creating panic on the roads wasn’t so much his thing. He was more into letting others pass.

Like everything else in Judaism, segulos have to also be “real.”

When I moved to Montreal, I often davened weekday Shacharis at an old-school heimeshe shul. After davening, each morning, a small group of retired older men would gather around a plate of cheese Danishes and a bottle of Canadian Club whiskey mixed with Black Label, Southern Comfort, Jim Beam, and whatever else had been served at kiddush the previous Shabbos, the remnants efficiently poured into this single bottle.

It was twenty years before podcasts, but this chevreh would have been at the top of charts: They covered politics, economy, basic hashkafah… and as they raised their cups, they toasted the tzaddik of the day, whosever yahrtzeit it was.

But Reb Shayale was special.

These were people who remembered Kerestir, some of whom came from the town. (Keh-restir, they said it, not Kere-steer, like we do.)

Always, when they mentioned the tzaddik, their faces softened, awe creeping into their voices. That was a tzaddik, they informed me. That was a Rebbe. He took care of Yidden. He made sure people had what they needed.

They felt Reb Shayale in their bones.

He wasn’t just a magic formula or a life hack, but a real person with an actual value system. Of course, they also said the story of the guy who moved the picture of Reb Shayale around his office until the visiting auditor couldn’t take it anymore and fled, never to return. But that was the effect of the tzaddik, not the essence of the tzaddik.

A full century after Reb Shayale left this world, his court is flourishing, a town smaller than some Lakewood developments welcoming tens of thousands of visitors each year — and that number is consistently growing.

How Kerestir you are is not measured by the thickness of the steak or the dimensions of the board. The gauge of your Kerestir-ness is how ready you are to listen to another Yid, to hear where he is coming from, and to try to make his situation a bit better.

The Rebbe of Kerestir takes you as you are — no application fee, no dress code, and no signed pledge to respect kehillah rules — but if you want him as your rebbe, you gotta make it real.

You know what he wanted. Make it happen. Zechuso yagen aleinu.

 (Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1059)