7 Adar 5777 marked the one-year yahrtzeit of HaRav Meyer Korbman, z”l, the venerable spiritual leader of a small kehila in Union, New Jersey, for 35+ years. Humility was one of Rabbi Korbman’s greatest virtues, yet he impacted so many lives with his poise, compassion and love of every Jew. My family and I will always be indebted to the rabbi for his constant presence in our lives, during moments of hardship as well as extraordinary occasions.
The rabbi fostered and nurtured my love of Yiddishkeit. For me, this began when my paternal grandfather was niftar. I recall during the shiva, as my father and my Uncle Howard, z”l, were saying Kaddish, not knowing any better, I began saying the words with them. The rabbi gently placed his hand over my siddur and smiled. It was later that he sensitively explained to me the meaning of, and the reasons for, reciting Kaddish.
In the weeks, months and years to follow, the rabbi encouraged me in all facets of Judaism. First and foremost, he always emphasized the tremendous importance of kibud av ve’aim. He loved my parents, especially my father, and never failed to remind me of my obligations as a son. The rabbi also taught me how to daven and gave me the courage to stand at the amud. In the beginning, I was the designated leader of Birkot Hashachar. My repertoire of synagogue skills quickly grew to include Baruch SheAmar, Ashrei and, eventually, the ability to daven Pesukei D’zimra. As an 11-year-old, my greatest concern was arriving at shul after Pesukei D’zimra began for fear of losing my spot. Funny, even when I was a few minutes late, somehow the amud always remained open.
Rabbi Korbman nurtured and incubated my lifelong commitment to davening. Today, I am a faithful baal tefilah, never turning down the opportunity take the amud. Even as a stam mitpalel, I harness the rabbi’s invaluable insights and draw strength from the wisdom he imparted to me.
I fondly recall one year when I wasn’t the ba’al Musaf for the Yomim Noraim but instead was honored with Shacharit. Just before the chazarat hashatz, the rabbi told me how glad he was that I was davening. I responded by saying that Shacharit was not at the same level as Musaf. His response was uncharacteristically sharp, asking, “Why do you think the significance is any less? Don’t you realize you’re setting the tone for the rest of the davening?”
As a ba’al teshuva, which until recently was something I never wore as a badge of honor, I think back to Rabbi Korbman’s delight when he learned that I was fulfilling another mitzvah. Yet, he never pressured me. He never judged. He was satisfied to know I was growing. It’s only all these years later that I recognize how important my journey has been. If Rabbi Korbman were here today, I’m certain he would say the very same.
For any ba’al teshuva, the journey is never easy. At times we have doubts. At times we consider turning back. We sometimes alienate family and friends. One of my moments of doubt came during my teenage years. I was trying to come to grips with life’s challenges, including losing both my grandparents within a brief period. I remember telling my father that I no longer believed in Hashem and decided to stay home from shul that Shabbat. For whatever reason, I decided to go to shul the next morning, and even put on tefillin. Maybe it was out of guilt, but maybe it was just something calling out to me. I remember the rabbi putting his hand on my shoulder and telling me “keep the faith.” And with those three words, my journey resumed. It wasn’t my last doubt, but any future question of faith was mitigated by my memory of that brief moment.
Rabbi Korbman embodied ahavat Yisrael. The Korbmans were probably the only shomrei Shabbat people in Union (at least on that side of town). Other than Chabad shluchim, who are the quintessential illustration of mesirat hanefesh, it’s hard to imagine too many frum Yidden voluntarily living in such an isolated fashion. Whether or not people were or became observant, the rabbi’s gentle nature and incredible faith is what made the members of his kehila love Judaism.
His sermons on the Yamim Noraim were soul-penetrating. His words at smachot were inspiring. But most of all, the empathy and compassion the rabbi demonstrated at funerals cannot be summed up in words. Whether or not he personally knew the decedent, he came to know who they were and what made their lives unique. Something else that always struck me was before the rabbi began the funeral service. He would stand in front of the aron and anyone who paid close enough attention would see his lips moving. I can’t be sure if he was reciting Tehillim or asking the decedent for mechila. I was simply awestruck.
Had I never met the rabbi, my life would be drastically different. Life without Torah and mitzvot—or one in which neither was firmly part of my daily life—is inconceivable.
Thank you, rabbi, for your mentorship, inspiration and, most of all, friendship. May you be a meilitz yosher and continue to be an eternal source of chizuk and inspiration for all those who knew and loved you.
By Andrew Schultz
Andrew Schultz, a 16-year veteran of Jewish communal service, currently serves as the director of development with Yedei Chesed. Previously, Mr. Schultz was the director of institutional advancement at the Jewish Educational Center (JEC) and prior to that was the executive director of the Community Alliance for Jewish Cemeteries (CAJAC). A resident of Fair Lawn, Mr. Schultz serves as a gabbai and board member of Congregation Darchei Noam and is also actively involved in Anshei Lubavitch. Mr. Schultz is married to Jessica and is the father of four sons.
