Part of the transference of leadership from Moshe Rabbeinu to Yehoshua was semichas yadayim, whereby Moshe placed his hands on Yehoshua. Clearly, much more than simple symbolism is involved here. Horav Moshe Feinstein, zl, suggests that it was meant to symbolize that Yehoshua should be attached — and subordinate to — Moshe throughout his life, so that he should direct his mind and focus on the truth that Moshe received from Hashem Himself. Throughout the generations, Rebbe to talmid has conferred semichah, which we translate as ordination, but has a deeper significance. A chain of Torah transmission of the Mesorah harkens back to Sinai. Throughout the generations, semichah was conferred not by leaning of the hands, but merely by calling the recipient Rav/Rabbi. All subsequent semichos are based on this tradition – that the recipient be subservient to his Rebbe/master.
When Yehoshua succeeded Moshe, he did not just replace him – he bound himself to him. The act of semichah is not about authority alone, but about alignment. The student must align his thinking with that of his Rebbe – until his own conclusions are not independent innovations, but faithful extensions of received truth. Semichah is a transmission, not a certification. Perhaps the significance of leaning goes deeper. Torah cannot be transmitted through independence alone. While contemporary society lives by the pejorative maxim, “I think; therefore, I am,” Torah teaches the opposite, “I receive; therefore, I become.” A talmid who stands independently, entirely on his own, may be intelligent, but his relationship to the Mesorah is flawed.
My brother-in-law, who once served as the head of his city’s Chevra Kaddisha, was confronted with a heartbreaking situation shortly before one Pesach. A young husband and father had passed away, leaving behind a widow and small children facing the Yom Tov alone.With a full heart, he invited them to join his family for Pesach. They respectfully declined. The emotional strain and family dynamics made it too difficult; remaining in their own home, even in solitude, was preferable.
Determined that they should not sit alone on the Seder night, by brother-in-law resolved to leave his own family and join them. His family would manage without him for one night. Surely, this act of chesed was paramount.
As a devoted talmid, however, he turned to his Rebbe, Horav Moshe Wolfson, zl, to seek guidance. The response was immediate and unequivocal: “Absolutely not.” His Rebbe explained that the Torah commands, V’higadeta l’vincha – on the Seder night, a father’s primary obligation is to transmit the story of Yetziyas Mitzrayim to his own children. This is not simply one mitzvah among many; it defines the essence of the night. One cannot relinquish this responsibility, even for a noble act of chesed.
“And the widow?” my brother-in-law asked.
“Find a couple,” the Rebbe replied, “who does not yet have children. Let them go. In this way, both the chesed and the mitzvah will be fulfilled in their proper place.”
My brother-in-law followed his Rebbe’s directive. After some effort, he located a couple who had been married for ten years and had not yet been blessed with children. When approached, they responded with warmth and enthusiasm, agreeing to spend Pesach with the widow and her family, bringing light and companionship into a home darkened by loss and mourning.
A year later, that very couple was blessed with a son.
Deeply moved, my brother-in-law returned to his Rebbe and shared the remarkable news. Rav Wolfson explained that this yeshuah was not coincidental, but the product of two powerful forces. First, the act of seeking guidance itself. By turning to his Rebbe, he affirmed the sacred bond between rebbe and talmid – the very essence of mesorah, through which Torah is transmitted from generation to generation. In subordinating his own instincts to daas Torah, he demonstrated that he was part of a chain far greater than he was. Second, is the purity of the chesed. This was a quiet act, performed without recognition, motivated solely by the desire to ease the burden of a widow and her children. Such chesed, untainted and sincere, carries immeasurable merit.
On the night of V’higadeta l’vincha, we speak of transmission – of fathers to children, of past to future. In this story, that transmission extended beyond words. Through fidelity to mesorah and selfless chesed, a new life was brought into the world. Another link was added to the chain’s continuum.
We can extrapolate from here that no student of a rebbe receives his knowledge in a vacuum. Every insight, every nuance of understanding, is rooted in what was transmitted to him, which, in turn, is rooted in a previous generation. Torah is not self-generated;it is mesorah – received, guarded and passed forward. Likewise, every Jew is the product of an unbroken continuum that stretches back more than thirty generations to Har Sinai. Our beliefs, our practices, even our spiritual sensitivities, are not isolated developments, but links in a living chain.
One cannot simply declare, “I am not Orthodox, I will do as I wish.” Such a claim misunderstands the very nature of Jewish identity. It is not merely about the individual or his personal preferences. A Jew does not stand alone. He is part of something far greater than he is. He is part of a mesorah that preceded him and a destiny that extends beyond him.
Just as a talmid cannot sever himself from the rebbe who shaped him, a Jew cannot detach himself from the generations that formed him. To do so is not an act of independence, but a denial of one’s own spiritual lineage. We are not self-made. We are heirs – and, with that inheritance, comes both privilege and responsibility.
Following World War II and the decimation of European Jewry, those who survived focused on regeneration and rebuilding. Some were so depressed that they felt they must part with the faith in which they were raised. Sadly, when things do not go our way, when the inexplicable happens – we blame Heaven. These were broken shards of what once were a proud, committed people – but, things happen, and who are we to judge?
One day, the tzadik Horav God’l Eisner, zl, Maggid Shiur and Mashgiach in the Gerer Yeshivah in Lodz, Poland (he was known as Mashgiach of Yeshivas Chudushei HaRim), was standing in the Tel Aviv Central Bus Station. While he was there, a young man approached him, greeting him: “Do you remember me?” The man was dressed like a secular Israeli, his head uncovered. Rav God’l replied that he did not remember him.
“I was your talmid in Yeshivah Darkei Noam in Poland,” and he shared his name. Rav God’l smiled warmly, recalling the man and his family. They spoke for a few minutes and were about to part ways, when the man said, “Rebbe, I should tell you that the woman over there (he pointed to someone) will be my wife – and she is not Jewish.”
It was written all over the man’s face. He had suffered immeasurably, his family had all been murdered. It was too much for his faith to endure. He gave it all up as a medium for restarting his life.
Rav God’l was no stranger to tragedy and suffering. He had survived several concentration camps. His family had not. He, too, had been left bereft of his loved ones. He took the man’s hand in his and said, “My dear friend, I must be honest with you. The war years exacted a terrible toll on us all. I am unable to learn with the same passion and fire that I once did. I have not reviewed Shulchan Aruch, Even HaEzer, in a while (the code dealing with halachic marriage). Thus, I cannot rule on the spot concerning your present plans. One thing I can say with certainty, however, is that the practice of chassidim is not to act in such a manner.”
Rav God’l’s reaction floored the man. He had expected first silence, followed by an impassioned plea to be sealed with excoriation and castigation. The last thing he expected to hear was a subtle reminder of his roots in chassidus and how his chassidishe background was the antithesis of what he was prepared to do. He replied, “Yes, Rebbe, I understand.” All the years of intense anger and pain were ameliorated by someone who knew him – his Rebbe. The connection was still active. The Rebbe viewed him as a chassidishe bachur. How could he act otherwise? This love sparked the man’s return to Yiddishkeit, to chassidus, to the world in which he was raised.
