Rabbi Shlomo Luria - the Maharshal

The Maharshal – Rabbi Shlomo Luria (Moreinu ve-Rabeinu Shlomo Luria) came from a well-known rabbinic family that traces its lineage to Rashi, and was connected to many outstanding rabbis of his era, including Rabbi Moshe Isserles and Rabbi Meir Katzenellenbogen. Yahrzeit – 12 Kislev Resting place – Lublin, Poland He was one of the great Ashkenazic poskim (halachic authorities) and teachers of his time. He served as rabbi in various communities in Poland and Lithuania. His major halachic work, "Yam Shel Shlomo," covers 16 tractates of the Talmud. However, it has only survived for 7 tractates. He emphasized the importance of the Talmud as the primary source. In his introduction, the Maharshal hints at the fact that he was able to study even when there was insufficient light, as though he were being guided from Heaven. His "Chochmat Shlomo," glosses on the text of the Talmud, and commentaries are printed in standard editions of the Talmud. There are a number of responsa to Rabbi Moshe Isserles, whom he greatly respected but with whom he sharply disagreed on certain matters. He was particularly critical of the Rema's attachment to philosophy, which he strongly opposed. The Rema's controversial view was that in many areas Kabbalah and philosophy address the same issues but use different terminology. The Maharshal's cautious view on using the Zohar as a source for halacha illustrates his independence of thought and uncompromising devotion to the truth as he saw it. The Maharshal was a devoted follower of Kabbalah and placed the Zohar on the same level as other midrashic literature. Nevertheless, when he was asked to rule on the question of whether tefillin should be bound to the arm while sitting, in accordance with the Zohar, the Maharshal categorically refused to accept that opinion, citing the example of the sages of previous generations who did not change their custom in accordance with the Zohar on this matter. Almost all the greatest rabbis of that era were students of the Maharshal. Techiyat HaMetim "This is a story that must be told," said Rabbi Meir Shapiro to his students. "It is a story that has never been published before, which I discovered in the records of the Lublin Jewish community, and it deserves to be made known, since it concerns the greatness of tzadikim and what they are capable of." Rabbi Shlomo Luria had a student whose wife died in the prime of her life, leaving no children behind. The man mourned her for seven days, but when he later persisted in his gloomy despondency and deep depression, people took notice. The Maharshal called the man to him and asked what was troubling him. "Shortly before my wife's death, she made me promise her that I would never remarry," he wept. "But I am still young and have never been blessed with children." The rabbi assured the man that he was permitted to remarry, which he soon did. However, shortly after the wedding, the man suddenly and inexplicably died. All of Lublin was abuzz with the news. As soon as he heard of the death, the Maharshal summoned the Chevra Kadisha. "Prepare him for burial as usual," he instructed, "and lay him in the grave. But do nothing more. Just notify me, and I will come." His instructions were carried out precisely. When the body was lowered into the grave, the Chevra Kadisha sent for the Maharshal. He came to the cemetery, wrote a note, and placed it in the hand of the deceased: "Shalom! Peace to you, heavenly hosts! How can this be? Does not a positive commandment of the Torah override a negative one? I decree in the name of the Torah that you return this man to me!" The Maharshal signed the letter, and then instructed the people to leave the grave open and leave the cemetery. After about an hour had passed, the whole town knew that something extremely unusual had happened. The young man, who had just been buried, was suddenly seen walking through the streets of the city in his shroud, as if nothing had happened. People could talk of nothing else. This was clearly techiyat hameitim.   The Hidden Tzadik Rain had fallen over Lublin during the night. The chief rabbi of the city, Shlomo Luria, known throughout the Jewish world by the name Maharshal, rose from his desk and threw open the narrow window. A strong scent of fresh water filled the room, driving out the smells of old books, melted candle wax, and dust. It was deep in the middle of the night. Lublin slept, wrapped in silence as though in a warm blanket. Only occasionally did the tapping of the night watchman's rattle carry over the rain-soaked cobblestones, gleaming in the moonlight. He strolled unhurriedly through the Jewish quarter, his cracked voice echoing through the dark gorges of the narrow streets. The Maharshal returned to his desk and gently ran his hand over the page of an open tractate. He loved studying at night, when the noise of the day's emotions subsided and the spiritual atmosphere became clear. Taking a deep breath of the fresh air that filled the room, he was about to immerse himself once more in his learning when suddenly he heard a voice. Someone on the ground floor was reciting aloud one of the most complex topics in the Talmud. First the voice stated the main rule of the Mishnah, then ran through the Gemara's discussion, and launched into a subtle analysis of the matter. He asked himself questions and answered them himself. The Maharshal, teacher of many teachers, was astonished. He was able to quickly discern the true worth of any so-called "scholar's" learning, and no one could fool him. The voice belonged to a great scholar; the Talmud, with all its commentators, early and late, lay in this man's palm like a crust of bread. But who was this unknown sage? On the ground floor were the shop and tiny apartment of Avraham, a simple Jew who earned his living selling buckwheat. Porridge was made from it, and so the seller was nicknamed Kashka. Running his thick finger along the page of his prayer book, he could barely mumble the words, and when reading Psalms, he managed to make mistakes that would have shamed a cheder student. So either the voice was coming from the house across the way, or an extraordinary guest had come to stay with Avraham Kashka! Unable to contain his excitement, the Maharshal went to the window again and, leaning out, looked below. Directly beneath him, reflections of light fell onto the pavement, right where the windows of Avraham Kashka's little room were. And the voice — he recognized it — the voice belonged to the illiterate buckwheat seller. Illiterate! The Maharshal nearly jumped where he stood. There wasn't a rabbi in all of Lublin with such knowledge! There was no doubt: Reb Avraham was a hidden tzadik! The next day he invited him over. The guest entered with his eyes modestly lowered, an expression of the utmost reverence on his face. Just as a buckwheat seller ought to look when granted the honor of visiting the chief rabbi of the city. "Reb Avraham," began the Maharshal, ignoring his guest's protesting gestures. "I have run into difficulty working through a complicated passage in the rabbinic responsa. Would you be willing to help me understand it?" "The rebbe is mocking me!" cried Avraham Kashka. "How would I, a simple buckwheat seller, know anything about responsa? I don't even understand what's written there!" "Don't try to pull the wool over my eyes, Reb Avraham," smiled the Maharshal. "Last night I happened to discover your secret. You thought everyone was long asleep, and you opened your window to breathe the air after the rain. I did the same, and I heard you studying." "That was someone else," the hidden tzadik insisted stubbornly. "The rebbe is mistaken. I leaned out over the windowsill, which is not at all easy at my age," continued the Maharshal, still smiling, "and saw the light in your window, and I recognized the voice." "Very well," said Reb Avraham, spreading his hands. "Show me the passage." The Maharshal handed his guest the book. He quickly skimmed the page and began to speak. Clearly, precisely, unambiguously. The problem that the chief rabbi of Lublin had been struggling with suddenly appeared before him in an entirely different light. "But wait!" exclaimed the Maharshal, when Reb Avraham finished his explanation. "What do you say to the commentary of Rabbeinu Tam? He spoke on this subject long before..." "You overlooked the last two phrases of Rabbeinu Tam," Reb Avraham stopped him. "And they completely change the picture." And he quoted the entire passage from memory. "So, so, so," muttered the Maharshal, astonished by his interlocutor's erudition. "But the Raavad! How do you reconcile this with the Raavad's opinion?" The sages spent several hours in discussion, and by the time of Mincha the problem had been resolved. As they parted, Reb Avraham made the chief rabbi promise that his secret would remain between them. "How can such a diamond be hidden from people's eyes?" the Maharshal thought regretfully, but he agreed. Several years passed. From time to time the rabbi would invite the sage over, and behind closed doors they would discuss complex halachic problems. The years rolled by, winters came and went, followed by springs, then summer, then autumn. And it seemed as though it would always be this way. Falling gravely ill, the Maharshal left a will and asked that it be opened only after his death. The community of Lublin was plunged into deep mourning. The deceased chief rabbi had not only commanded enormous authority, but — most importantly! — had been beloved by all. Who would succeed him? Who could take the Maharshal's seat and become a worthy successor? Had the rebbe named someone in his will, and why had he not named him during his lifetime? Returning from the funeral, the head of the Lublin Jewish community opened the will in the presence of the council members. Quickly skimming the page, he froze, as though struck by lightning. "Uh... um," he mumbled, waving the paper in the air. "This cannot be..." One of those present carefully pulled the will from the chairman's trembling fingers and read aloud the rabbi's last wishes. Now the rest of the council members were stunned. The Maharshal had clearly, plainly, and in the most emphatic terms, willed that Reb Avraham Kashka be appointed as his successor. "We obeyed our rebbe for many years," said the head of the council, breaking the silence. "And in all those long years, he never once erred. I am certain that this last decision of his, which seems very strange to us, is also correct. Let us carry out his will, and everything else will become clear in time." "Me?" gasped Avraham Kashka in astonishment. "Chief rabbi of Lublin? You must be out of your minds! How can such an important position be entrusted to an uneducated man?!" But the council members would not relent. They were determined to carry out the Maharshal's last wish, and in the end Reb Avraham gave in. "But only on three conditions," he said, and the council members involuntarily pricked up their ears, eager to hear what the new chief rabbi would demand of the community. "First. I want to earn my living by my own labor. In the literal sense of the word. So I will continue trading in my shop, and the money from the communal fund that was used to support the rabbi, the community shall divide among the poor of the city." "Second. My seat in the synagogue will not change; I will not move to the eastern wall, but will remain where I have sat all these years — in the last row by the western wall. "Third. Neither to my face, nor behind my back, nor in any documents, am I to be called teacher of teachers, mentor, shepherd, or our master. Simply teacher, only teacher, and nothing more." Several months passed. In his official capacity, Reb Avraham had to take part in the work of the rabbinical court, the beit din, and hand down rulings. The seasoned sages of Lublin were astonished by his erudition and sharpness of mind. "What did I tell you," the head of the community council never tired of repeating. "The Maharshal was never wrong!" Reb Avraham's three conditions were observed to the letter. But Jewish minds easily found ways around them. Every morning, one of the townsfolk would go to the rabbi's shop and, with money given to him by the head of the council, buy up the entire day's supply of buckwheat. Reb Avraham would stay behind the counter for no more than ten minutes and then head straight to the rabbinate building. All the important people changed their seats in the synagogue, moving to the back row, near the rabbi. In this way, the very concept of honor associated with the eastern wall lost its meaning for many years to come. As for the honorific title, by unspoken agreement, all the rabbis of the city came to be called "chaver," meaning colleague, while the word "teacher" was used only in reference to Reb Avraham. Before his death, he forbade that he be buried in the front row of the cemetery, near the graves of the previous chief rabbis of Lublin, or that an ohel — a canopy for prayer — be built over his memorial. He was buried in the section for the poor, next to his father. Never again was there such an extraordinary rabbi in Lublin. May the merit of the tzadik protect Am Yisrael!   (https://dailyzohar.com/tzadikim/236-Rabbi-Shlomo-Luria; "A Voice in the Silence" by Yakov Shechter)