In loving memory of my neighbor and friend who was taken suddenly from our midst. May his memory be a blessing.
From Concern to Connection: A Siyum for the Soul
A gitte voch, family, neighbors, friends.
It is so good, and so important, to see everyone here together tonight. Rarely do we gather with so many layers at once: a Shloshim, a Wedding, a Siyum, a Melave Malka. Each would usually stand alone. Tonight, they intertwine.
We are here in sadness, marking the shloshim of our dear friend and neighbor, Sruly. A presence is missing from our street, from our shul, from our lives.
And yet, we are here in immense joy, to celebrate the wedding of our dear Sruly's oldest son Moishy to Ruti. A new family is being built; a new link is being forged in the chain of our people.
And we are here to complete a sacred task—to make a siyum on the Mesechtos of Taanit, Megillah and Makkot that Sruly and I learned together every day. It was a project we began with grand plans but were, heartbreakingly, unable to finish in this world.
This convergence of shloshim, sheva brachot, siyum, and melave malka is not a coincidence. It is a response. It is our answer to a very old, very deep concern raised by our Sages.
Concern and the Fragility of the Cupola
In Masechet Shabbat, the Talmud presents a jarring idea:
”וְאָמַר רַבִּי חִיָּיא בַּר אַבָּא אָמַר רַבִּי יוֹחָנָן: אֶחָד מִן הָאַחִין שֶׁמֵּת — יִדְאֲגוּ כׇּל הָאַחִין כּוּלָּן. אֶחָד מִבְּנֵי חֲבוּרָה שֶׁמֵּת — תִּדְאַג כָּל הַחֲבוּרָה כּוּלָּהּ. אָמְרִי לַהּ דְּמֵת גָּדוֹל, וְאָמְרִי לַהּ דְּמֵת קָטָן." (Shabbat 105b)
“And Rabbi Ḥiyya bar Abba said that Rabbi Yoḥanan said: If one of the brothers dies, all of the brothers should be concerned. If one member of a group dies, the entire group should be concerned. Some say the concern is greatest if the eldest dies. And some say the concern is greatest if the youngest dies.”
The commentators explain this as a concern for metaphysical judgment—yid’agu means to fear death. But I want to suggest a different reading. Yid’agu means to worry, to be concerned. And I believe the deepest worry is about what happens here, in the human heart of our community.
The natural reaction to tragedy is to pull back, to create distance, to retreat into private grief. It feels like safety—this happened to him, not to me; if I separate, I am safe. But the Talmud warns: this instinct itself is the danger. When a brother passes, we need to worry about the brotherhood. When one member of a group passes, we need to worry about the group itself. The cohesion of the unit is threatened.
The Jerusalem Talmud in Moed Katan gives us the perfect metaphor:
שֶׁכָּל אוֹתָהּ הַשָּׁנָה הַדִּין מָתוּחַ כְּנֶגֶד הַמִּשְׁפָּחָה. דְּאָמַר רִבִּי יוֹחָנָן. כָּל שִׁבְעָה הַחֶרֶב שְׁלוּפָה. עַד שְׁלשִׁים הִיא רוֹפֶפֶת. לְאַחַר שְׁנֵים עָשָׂר חוֹדֶשׁ הִיא חוֹזֶרֶת לְתַעֲרָהּ. לְמָה הַדָּבָר דוֹמֶה. לְכִיפָה שֶׁלְאֲבָנִים. כֵּיוָן שֶׁנִּתְרַעַרְעָה אַחַת מֵהֶן נִתְרַעְרְעוּ כוּלָּן. וְאָמַר רִבִּי לָעְזָר. אִם נוֹלַד בֶּן זָכָר בְּאוֹתָהּ הַמִּשְׁפָּחָה נִתְרַפָּאת כָּל אוֹתָהּ הַמִּשְׁפָּחָה. (Moed Katan 3:5)
“For the entire year, judgment is taut against the family. As Rabbi Yochanan said: ‘All seven days of shiva, the sword is drawn. For the thirty days of shloshim, it quivers. After twelve months, it returns to its scabbard.’ To what can the matter be compared? To a stone cupola: once one stone is loosened, all of them are loosened. But Rabbi Elazar said: ‘If a male child is born into that family, the entire family is healed.’”
“כֵּיוָן שֶׁנִּתְרַעַרְעָה אַחַת מֵהֶן נִתְרַעְרְעוּ כוּלָּן” — “The moment one stone becomes loose, all of them become loose.”
Picture an arch or dome of stones, each leaning inward. No cement holds them—only the pressure of their neighbors. That is the miracle of a cupola. Its strength is in interdependence. The loss of one person creates a space, a gap. The true danger is that the entire structure might weaken from that one point of disconnection.
The Antidote: Joy and Cohesion
But the Jerusalem Talmud doesn’t end there. It gives us the antidote. Rebbi Elazar says:
“אִם נוֹלַד בֶּן זָכָר... נִתְרַפָּאת כָּל אוֹתָהּ הַמִּשְׁפָּחָה.” “If a male child is born to that family, the entire family is healed.”
Why? Because a birth, a wedding, a simcha forces the exact opposite of retreat. It commands us to come together. If the danger of loss is pulling back, the cure is connection. The loose stones are pulled tightly back together by shared joy and collective purpose. The concern about the group becomes concern for each other. Yidagu changes from being the problem to becoming the solution.
This helps us unlock a paradox. Kohelet says:
“טוֹב לָלֶכֶת אֶל בֵּית אֵבֶל מִלֶּכֶת אֶל בֵּית מִשְׁתֶּה” — “It is better to go to a house of mourning than to a house of feasting.”(Ecclesiastes 4:7)
Better? How can that be?
The answer lies in a deeper understanding of the word ‘טוֹב’ — ‘good’. The Psalmist (Psalm 133) sings: ‘הִנֵּה מַה טּוֹב וּמַה נָּעִים שֶׁבֶת אַחִים גַּם יָחַד’ — ‘Behold, how good and pleasant it is when brothers sit together.’ The Psalmist gives the definition of tov: tov means togetherness. Sometimes, it is good and pleasant (tov v'na'im). This is the tov of a wedding. It is the natural, joyful, and delightful coming together that happens almost by itself. But Kohelet speaks of a different tov—a good that is essential. It is the conscious, courageous choice to lean into sorrow when every instinct says to pull away. This act doesn’t feel pleasant in the same way. It feels necessary. It is the tov that heals, that supports, that literally holds a crumbling structure together.
Tonight, the shloshim of our loss coincides with the wedding celebrations. The universe is handing us both forms of tov at once: the joyful command to celebrate, and the sacred obligation to mourn, together. We are being handed the precise tools we need for our healing.
Greatness and Humility
This brings us back to the debate: is the loss of the gadol—the great one—or the katan—the small one—more concerning? In our case, I believe the answer is both, because Sruly was both.
We often think of ‘greatness’ as public achievement, towering scholarship. Sruly was a working man. But in his humble, consistent way, he was a quiet giant.
He was a gadol in his expansive spirit. His smile, his encouraging word for everyone, his showing up every single day to learn—not for glory, but for love. That consistency is greatness.
He was a katan in his profound humility. He never sought the spotlight. He wasn’t the decorative capstone of our cupola; he was a crucial, weight-bearing stone. You might not always notice him, but you always relied on him. His absence is immediately, profoundly felt. Above all, Sruly was a ‘giver’ not a ‘taker’.
Who can forget his mischievous half-smile and the twinkle in his eye when he would get to say his favorite lines? Like when Yossi would quote a Gemara, and he'd say, "Ah, look, such a Talmid Chacham!" Or when he would proudly declare, "אונז האב מיר דאך אונזער ר' דוד" — "We have our own R' David."
How every Shabbos, in our expanded shiur, he would make sure to pour a glass of water and bring it 'for the maggid shiur'.
For a full year, every single day, collectors would come during learning. He would never get annoyed. Just take out a five-dollar bill for one, and then the other. And he would tell them, "I gave for him too," so they would leave me alone. All of this was done daily, consistently, quietly, without being asked, without expecting thanks, always with a smile and a twinkle in his eye.
He was a humble giant. Someone incredibly devoted to his family and always proud of them, no matter what.
The Siyum as Response
And that is why we are not just celebrating a siyum tonight; we are 'making' a siyum. We are completing something as a unit.
When Sruly and I learned, it was a partnership of two individuals. When he passed, that Torah was left incomplete, a silent monument to a silenced voice.
By dividing the pages among all of us, we are doing something radical. We are saying, “You did not make a siyum, because it does not end with you. Your story is not over. Your neighbors, friends and family will continue what you started. We will all be your study partners.”
Each daf is one stone. By each of us carrying a stone, we rebuild the dome. His absence created a gap, but together we fill it. This completion is not one person’s achievement; it is our community’s testament to come closer and lean in to support each other.
Escorting the Soul
There is a beautiful teaching in Taanit 27b, that the word vayinafash (“and He rested”) alludes to the loss of the Shabbat soul— “vai, avdah nefesh” (“woe, the soul is lost”). The Melave Malka is how we gently escort that elevated spirit out, holding onto its warmth a little longer by coming together.
How much more so when we lose a soul from our midst. Tonight, this gathering is our escort for our friend. We are holding onto his warmth by doing what he loved, and doing it together.
Conclusion: From Concern to Connection
So tonight, we move. From concern to connection. From worry to action. From fragmentation to wholeness.
We mourn a stone that has come loose from our dome.
We celebrate a new stone being set into a new home—the new family of Moishy and Ruti.
And we, the wider community, recommit to being the force that holds it all together.
May the completion of this Torah bring immense merit to the soul of Sruly. May the joy of this wedding bring comfort and strength to his wonderful family and may our coming together here tonight be a lasting testament to his life. May his learning, his kindness, his friendship continue to bind us together.
Let us now merit to make this siyum together לע''נ ר' ישראל ז''ל בן ר' שלום יבלחט''א. And from this completion, may we go forward, stronger and more connected than before. And may the Chosson and Kallah merit to build their home, in happiness and faith.
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