Jewish historian and author Rabbi Berel Wein passed away in Jerusalem one year ago on Aug. 16 at the age of 91. This tribute celebrates the great man that he was and my relationship with him during the last decade of his life.
Rabbi Wein, among the many things I learned from you was that expressing a personal truth often outweighs the comfort of remaining conventional.
Thank you for being a role model for me and my family, but so much more. I cared for you so deeply as a dear, loving grandfather, not biological but chosen.
Rabbi Wein, you were my Rav and esteemed mentor, but in my heart, you were family to me. I merited the company, warmth and depth of you the person, not just the persona.
Once you became family, there was no going back, and there isn’t a week that goes by that we don’t speak of you with a pang of longing and heartache. Your loss has left an empty place at our table and a space in our hearts.
I cared for you perhaps less conventionally than one might expect, but for me, it felt right. I feel your stamp on my soul for eternity.
You were a man of deep truth, of clear understanding and careful articulation. We reflected on your unequivocal understandings, we laughed at your jokes, and we took to heart the gentle way you challenged us to become better.
Not many people can express two seemingly opposing ideas with utmost clarity and live them both as truths. The following are two significant ideas that I have gleaned from you, Rebbe, as I navigate my roles as a mother, rebbetzin and teacher.
“To be an observant Jew, one must be observant.”
And yet, “As a rabbi [and I understood that as anyone in a leadership role], one must know not to see and hear everything.”
At first glance, these ideas appear contradictory. Yet watching you live them, I came to understand that they are, in fact, inseparable. You taught us to notice deeply, to pay attention to people, to history, to the subtle workings of God in the world.
But you also taught us restraint; to overlook what would only diminish. Discernment is not seeing everything; it is knowing what deserves to be seen. Thank you for living that balance so beautifully.
Thank you for being the anchor in our lives.
Thank you for being the anchor in our lives at a time when we experienced personal, national and global shifts and transitions. We climbed onto the roller coaster of history, joining the ride of momentous times with the master himself. We experienced COVID, the pangs of Oct. 7 and the subsequent wars, political unrest and heightened antisemitism, all through a masterful lens and broad perspective that only you could provide.
Perhaps that is why your understanding of history brought such comfort. You taught us to look beyond the urgency of the moment and recognize that we were living one chapter in a much greater story.
Thank you for reminding us that the best way to settle in Eretz Yisrael is by choice and not by fear. Thank you for clarifying that “Never Again” is not a principle we can rely on, but that true security requires the faith and wisdom to act responsibly.
Together, we experienced what was, what is and what will be one guided and truthful journey. There is much comfort in plowing forward into the future on the shoulders of the past, experiencing the present with faith and certainty, precision and a sense of rightful destiny.
The security, safety and reassurance that you provided became the food for the soul, the ultimate Shabbat treat, the nourishment that fueled us week after week. The cravings intensified the more we were fed, the more we were nourished in a way that only you could provide.
To experience the warmth and love of a grandfather, the counseling and guidance of a Rav, the deep wisdom and depth of understanding of a historian, the personal advice and direction of a kind and thoughtful mentor, the bridge to previous generations, a window into the greatness of yesteryear—all from one individual—is truly the most remarkable and understated gift.
The gift you have given us is the gift that keeps giving. Your wisdom—your voice of reason in a liberal and often confused world—has brought us to new clarity. While your vision was indeed waning, you left us all with the gift of sight.
I read the words of your longtime editor who painted the picture of your last meetings together in your most recent, and I believe most beloved, work about your mentors. In her description, she stated that you met together in person to review the chapters as she worked on them. She noted that you would listen intently as she read the chapters aloud, often nodding and smiling, sometimes even laughing heartily. As she writes, “It was clear that he was reliving these episodes of his life and envisioning the people he so loved and admired.”
Reading those final encounters only reinforced what I had witnessed for years. Memories, anecdotes and meaningful interactions do not simply become history. They become the essence of who we are, and if we allow them, the tools with which we shape the future.
You embodied Torah values at their utmost and had a delicate way of making everything relatable, bite-sized and, most importantly, human. You loved and cherished each mitzvah.
I would be honored to serve you just one last meal—and to be served so many delicacies in return.
