Rooted in a bygone era, Rav Binyomin Finkel soothes the ills of a new century
It’s close enough to midnight that even in Itzkovitch, the Bnei Brak shtibel that doesn’t sleep, people are rubbing their eyes. The last daf yomi shiur of the day is winding down. A late Maariv is reduced to a hum, and the tzedakah collectors are thinking of calling it a day.
One man in the corner, though, seems remarkably unhurried. Clad in homburg and frock coat, he stands nestled against one of the pillars of the aron kodesh, lost in another dimension. Two minyanim have come and gone; the third will overtake him soon, and yet — as if it were Kol Nidrei night — he continues to quietly pour out his tefillah.
A half hour later, as the rav turns around and heads toward a waiting car, a knot of petitioners forms. “Harav,” says one bochur, “please give me a brachah to enjoy my learning.” A second approaches and asks for a brachah for a shidduch. “Does the rav remember my great-grandfather?” a third wants to know.
Despite the fact that the 70-year-old rav has spent a grueling day learning, giving shiurim, being mesader kiddushin in Bnei Brak, delivering a hesped near Haifa, and answering literally hundreds of questions large and small, he responds to each with a warm smile and genuine interest. From his tranquility, the eager questioners would never know that he’s hardly eaten for hours, or that his day still has a long time to run.
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