ON THE YAHRZEIT OF A ROLE MODEL

A Real Rabbi

On the subject of rabbis and shuls with a special atmosphere:

At the Republican National Convention in 2016, I had the good fortune of circulating backstage, where the highest-level politicians and their handlers hang out. I hadn’t won an all-access pass, but something better: the company of Rabbi Nate Segal, a man whose confidence, connections, and personal appeal seem to open doors, the sort of person to whom security officers doff their caps and say, “Good evening, rabbi.”

As the rabbi led me through a web of corridors, we saw A-list media personalities reporting live or waiting to catch speakers on the way off stage. There was a large crowd surrounding one reporter. The head of the microphone he waved was covered by a puppet, an open-mouthed puppy, and his brand of interview was a mix of comedy and insult.

We approached. I marveled at the fact that powerful, respected legislators were stopping to get interviewed, willingly turning themselves into punch lines for that little bit of extra exposure.

Rabbi Segal, with eyes trained to see such things, called out, “You’re a Yid!”

The comedian lowered the mic, suddenly bashful. “Yes,” he conceded.

“Do you go to the synagogue?”

The comedian admitted that he only went on Yom Kippur. “Look, the rabbi isn’t the real thing, the whole synagogue is just a business. It’s not a real shul.”

He used that word?— shul.

He was quiet for a moment, then he said, “When I was a child, we went to a real shul with a real rabbi.”

It was a shtibel, he explained, on the Upper West Side of Manhattan.

“Rabbi Besser was real,” he said.

I told him that that very real rabbi was my grandfather, Rav Chaskel Besser.

His eyes opened wide, in disbelief. “No way!”

Moments later, his aides broke in to point out a prominent senator walking by, and he shrugged in apology and got back to work.

A few weeks later, I emailed him that the shul was still there, and my father, the current rav, would be happy to welcome him for a visit.

He came, the comedian, and, in the small room where the decor and furnishings haven’t much changed since he was a child, he bowed humbly and said Kaddish for his father.

Then he went back to his life, his career, his ratings and awards.

I write these words on the yahrtzeit of my zeide, the 25th of Shvat, who spoke with wisdom and kindness, the sort of language that the canned laughter of a studio audience can never drown out.

A real rav, a real shul, are forever.

Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 747.