As was mentioned many times at the levaya of HaRav Mordechai Feuerstein, zt’l, at Congregation Beth Aaron this past Sunday morning, circumstances created a halachic tension. On the one hand, it is the month of Nisan, when our spirits are lifted by our experience of the geulah that we will celebrate on Seder night, and hespedim are generally not possible. On the other hand, the niftar was an outstanding Talmid Chacham, for whom hespedim are really a version of Talmud Torah itself, so suffused are their personalities with Torah.
When Rav Mordechai Willig, shlita, rose to deliver his hesped for Rav Feuerstein, distilling a relationship that extended sixty-five years and a part of whose final chapter I was privileged to witness as the ultimate expression of אז נדברי יראי ה׳ איש אל רעהו—”Then the God-fearing men spoke to one another” (Malachi 3:16), Rav Willig noted that the best approach to resolve what Rav Willig and Rav Feuerstein’s rebbe, the Rov, would undoubtedly have called this dialectical tension, is to “be mekatzer,” to be briefer than what it typical.
I will follow suit in this regard and focus exclusively on only one aspect of the illustrious life of an extraordinary son, brother, husband, father, incredibly faithful meshares (attendant) and talmid to the Rov and communal leader in Canada and the United States. Without any attempt at a comprehensive evaluation, I will limit myself to that which I witnessed daily, firsthand, during the final chapter of Rav Feuerstein’s magnificent life, in what might be called bein hashemashos, when day was turning into night, and a life of dedication and toil in Torah and service to the community was being made so painfully difficult.
First, when it was mostly still daytime, we merited learning five masechtos together, as Rav Feuerstein was a charter member of our Daf Yomi Chaburah in the special partnership between the Beit Midrash of Teaneck and the Jewish Center of Teaneck. When we finished the final masechta, Rav Feuerstein and I shared a quiet moment at the siyum we held in his honor, and he showed me his personal Gemara. There I saw reshimos upon reshimos— handwritten notes on the margins of the pages, just outside of the lines of Tosafos— HaRav Mordechai’s own he’aros (comments) and chiddushim (personal insights). It gave a glimpse into the Torah commitment of someone who had spent his best years and decades serving Am Yisrael, who his supremely devoted daughter Rebbetzin Leah so often told me looked forward to “retirement” for only one reason— so that he could immerse himself in Torah.
Second, there was only one topic outside of Torah, in those years, that I discussed with Rav Feuerstein: family. Rav Feuerstein was, in his own modest way, so immensely proud of each of his children (and their spouses), and of course his grandchildren, and their own unique path and accomplishments. In the moments before and after shiurim, I would so cherish hearing his thoughts on what it was that they were doing, each in their own area of life, from Israel to the United States: Whether it was teaching Torah at all levels, serving as a rebbetzin to a community, drafting a State of the Union address, running a successful business, or serving on the front lines for Am Yisrael, each was a unique point of pride for Rav Feuerstein.
Finally, with a measure of trepidation, I do want to convey something regarding the last period of the bein hashemashos, when even the final rays of daylight began to fade. As was mentioned many times at the levaya, Chazal teach us that we must be exceedingly careful with the kavod of a Talmid Chacham, likened to the broken first set of luchos, who is no longer able to access his learning due to painful circumstances. Before I met Rav Mordechai, I believed that the source of this halacha was honor and respect for that which had been, for the glorious past.
Rav Mordchai taught me, through his sheer presence, to look at this differently. It was not merely honor for the great Torah knowledge that had been accumulated, even if no longer accessible, but far more, for what remained. To see a person for whom all that remained was a desire for even a morsel of Torah defies description and is itself deserving of the highest possible honor. It gave new meaning to Chazal’s statement,” הכל בידי שמיים חוץ מיראת שמיים — All is in the hands of Heaven, with the exception of fear of Heaven.” Hashem had already taken so much back from HaRav Mordechai: his eishes chayil, Shaindel, with whom he is now reunited b’shmei marom (in heaven), and the majority of his exceptional faculties. What remained here below was the purest, most unadulterated reverence for Heaven that one could imagine. It was awe-inspiring.
In that respect, what I believe I was witnessing was the transition from bein hashemashos to tzeis hakochavim (when the stars appear). When all of the daylight had faded, HaRav Mordechai Feuerstein zt’l shone brighter, leaving us all with an indelible image of what love of Torah and fear of Heaven really mean. On behalf of the entire Beit Midrash of Teaneck, which he graced in his final chapter, we bid our chaver and rebbe a tzetschem l’shalom.
Our Daf Yomi Chaburah, so graciously endowed by his lifelong talmid, Ken Goldfarb, will be perpetuated in his memory. May our temidim k’sidran (regular learning) be an aliyah for his neshama. And, may he, in turn, be a melitz yosher for his family, for the hostages, for his son Yosef and all of the chayalim who are fighting for Am Yisrael, and an inspiration to our community.
Rabbi Daniel Fridman is the rabbi of the Jewish Center of Teaneck and vice president for Community Relations, RCBC.
