Here in Queens – where Rabbi Berel Wein’s cassettes once lined the shelves of the Queens Torah Library and circulated from home to home – the loss of his voice feels deeply personal. As a young boy volunteering there, I remember how quickly his tapes disappeared into eager hands. That was one of my first encounters with his gravity: realizing that Jewish history, told through Torah, could stir the soul.
Rabbi Wein was born in Chicago in 1934 to a family deeply devoted to Torah yet firmly part of the American Jewish story. He grew up in a time when Orthodoxy in America was fragile – surrounded by the allure of assimilation – yet anchored by parents who instilled in him a fierce love of Yiddishkeit. His rebbeim were European giants who had fled the devastation of Europe – men who spoke little English to students who spoke little Yiddish. Somehow, across that gap, something eternal was transmitted. Rabbi Wein would later describe himself as a bridge between worlds, carrying the fire of those yeshivos into the heart of American life.
After years of yeshivah study, he pursued a law degree at DePaul University. For a brief time, it seemed he might take a professional path outside the rabbinate. But his calling could not be ignored. His legal training – his clarity of expression and sharp reasoning – later marked his drashos and writings, giving them precision and force. He received s’michah from the Hebrew Theological College and entered the rabbinate.
His first position was in Miami Beach, where he became rav of Beth Israel Congregation. The community was still young and defining itself. Rabbi Wein was more than a pulpit rabbi; he became a rebbi at the Hebrew Academy, nurturing the next generation of Jewish children in a city just beginning to taste the sweetness of yeshivah education. Families who had only recently rediscovered Jewish observance found in him a leader who could guide both heart and mind. Miami was also where Rabbi Wein’s unique gift for Torah-driven history began to surface, as he used stories of the past to give hope to families building their future.
From Miami, his journey led to Monsey, where he founded Yeshiva Shaarei Torah. For two decades, he served as Rosh HaYeshivah, molding talmidim with warmth, wit, and rigor. His students later recalled that he taught not only Gemara but also how to view the world through Torah eyes. During these years, his lectures on Jewish history began circulating on cassette tapes, filling homes and cars with his steady, deliberate voice. What began as classroom teaching grew into a worldwide movement.
His leadership drew national recognition, and he was called to serve as executive vice president of the Orthodox Union. At a time when Orthodoxy in America still fought for recognition, Rabbi Wein gave the OU a public voice that was principled, dignified, and unapologetically Torah-true. He testified in Washington, advocated for day schools and kashrus, and became a statesman for an Orthodoxy both confident and engaging.
But his greatest reach came when he leaned fully into his passion for history. Rabbi Wein often said that history is the unfolding of Hashem’s plan. “There are no extra Jews,” he would repeat, reminding us that every person and every generation matters. In the 1990s, he founded the Destiny Foundation to carry this message further. Through books, films, and multimedia, Destiny presented the sweep of Jewish history – Rashi and the Rambam, the grandeur of Spain, the resilience of Poland, the triumph of modern Israel – as part of one continuous, G-d-guided story. For countless Jews, Rabbi Wein was the first to show them that history itself could be Torah.
In Queens, his impact was direct and enduring. Rabbi Moshe Sokoloff of Agudath Israel of Kew Gardens Hills reflected that Rabbi Wein taught Jews to stop seeing history as coincidence and start seeing the yad Hashem. Rabbi Yonoson Hirtz of the Torah Center of Hillcrest remarked that he gave us a Torah framework to understand life’s challenges. Rabbi Yaniv Meirov, CEO of Chazaq, added that so much of our community here in Queens quite literally “grew up on Rabbi Wein’s voice.”
When Rabbi Wein moved to Yerushalayim, his Shabbos Shuvah drashos became legendary. Crowds spilled from the sanctuary of Beit Knesset HaNasi in Yerushalayim, eager to hear his carefully measured words. Even in later years, when his body weakened, his spirit remained unbent, and his presence carried the majesty of Torah.
At his l’vayah, mourners recalled the words of Chazal: “Woe to the world that has lost its leader; woe to the ship that has lost its captain.” That sense of shock was immediate, because Rabbi Wein’s greatness was not the kind that takes years to measure; it was felt in every drashah, in every encounter. His son movingly reflected that his father inspired people for 70 years: through classrooms, through pulpits, through tapes and books, and through the thousands whose lives were forever shaped by his teaching.
Beyond his public voice was his quiet humility. Rabbi Sokoloff recalled his presence at a Sunday morning shiur in Queens. “He sat like everyone else,” the rabbi remembered. “Most people of stature feel the need to prove themselves. Rabbi Wein never did. He added a thought here or there, but never sought to show he knew more. His anivus was breathtaking.” For a man who could hold an audience spellbound across the globe, his ability to sit silently in the back of a small shiur spoke volumes about his character.
What made Rabbi Wein remarkable was his inclusivity of vision. He wove together Ashkenazic resilience with Sephardic grandeur, ensuring that the Rambam, Ibn Ezra, and the sages of Spain stood alongside the leaders of Lithuania as part of a single, seamless tapestry. In his telling, all of Jewish history belonged to all of us.
Leaders across the world recognized his unique place. The Orthodox Union called him “a unique rav, educator, and leader whose impact will endure.” Israel’s President Isaac Herzog described him as “a teacher of teachers, who gave his people not only knowledge, but perspective and hope.” His l’vayah in Yerushalayim drew Jews of every background – proof that his reach extended far beyond any single community.
Now, as klal Yisrael sits shiv’ah, we mourn a man who gave our past meaning and our future clarity. His books and recordings remain, but more than that, his way of seeing lives on.
His voice still echoes in our batei midrash and in our homes, reminding us always: Jewish history is not just memory – it is our destiny.
Y’hi zichro baruch.
By Shabsie Saphirstein
