Jews from McKeesport, Pennsylvania, and the members of Congregation Gemilas Chessed more specifically, are family to each other. Their bond is the legacy they all received together from their unforgettable rabbi, Rav Yitzchok Chinn, and his wife, Rebbetzin Dinah, and it is thicker than blood.
That legacy is perhaps best expressed by what we will call the Gemilas Chessed motto, gleefully recited on demand by any Jew who ever called that shul home.
An aphorism attributed to the Rebbe of Kotzk, their beloved leader repeated it countless times, most notably during his annual pre-Ne’ilah address.
It goes like this:
If I am I because I am I and you are you because You are You, then I am I and You are You. But if I am I because You are You and You are You because I am I, then I am not I and You are not You.
Rabbi Chinn cherished authenticity. Seeing it as the only path to genuine growth, he exhorted his flock to cherish it too.
He was telling his people to seek their Creator, not because their relationship with G-d was meaningful to him (although it certainly was), but because it needed to become meaningful to them.
When I am I because I am I and you are you because you are you, then both of us are living for real and both of us are living like Jews. Now genuinely united, we can search together for His truth.
For most people, living every moment of life on that level is a bar too high to clear. Authenticity demands intense and constant focus, and an even larger measure of internal peace.
But the rabbi was telling them to try.
Ra’isi bnei aliyah veheim muatim meod.
A few weeks ago, the world suddenly lost one of the rare people who succeeded. A child of McKeesport, he spent his life perfecting the “I” of his own soul.
His name was Rav Reuvane Chinn. He was the rabbi’s son.
The quiet man from Toronto with the peaceful face framed by a long white beard and smiling eyes belonged to a different, higher world. He belonged to a place that cared only for the honor of Heaven.
An accomplished talmid chochom, his vast knowledge was earned through the thousands of hours he spent hidden behind towering stacks of seforim in the study in his home on Caribou Road, his soft voice playing the most beautiful music in the world.
Together with his beloved lifelong partner, he raised a large family and equally loved each member of his diverse brood. When he mentioned them, even in passing, a faraway look appeared on his face. Its depth, hard to explain, held a mixture of pride and of hope, a silent offering of thanks for their past and prayer for their future.
In the afternoons, Reb Reuvane learned with bochurim at Yeshiva Zichron Shmayahu, concentrating on the beauty found in every word of the Rishonim. He urged for intellectual honesty in Torah, to read before thinking and to think before speaking.
Often, when stuck on a Rashi or Tosafos during shiur, Rav Moshe Goldberg, his longtime chavrusa and lifelong friend, would bounce out of his chair and head down the hall.
“Let’s go talk to Reb Reuvane Baal Hapshat,” he would say. “He will know exactly how these lines should be read.”
His integrity extended beyond learning, and he showed the boys that too.
A student once missed most of the shiur, only arriving with five minutes left. He excused himself with the well-worn bathroom excuse. When asked if he was actually there the whole time, the boy awkwardly shrugged, making it clear that he wasn’t.
“So, it’s not true? A yeshiva bochur lied?” he asked in a hurt voice, trembling with disbelief and wonder.
At that point, missing shiur was not the issue at hand any longer.
“Rebbi was shaken that day,” remembers the talmid who shared the story. “A yeshiva bochur lying was a betrayal, a knife in the back of everything he believed in. That raw display of emotion and pain — the first and last time I saw anger on his face — was a shiur in emes that I will never forget.”
For many years, he davened kevosikin every morning. It was usually far from the beginning of his day. He tried hard to be from the asarah rishonim, the first ten men for whom the Shechinah descends. Sometimes he would go just to lay tallis and tefillin, return home to pick up his son, and then hurry back to his place.
During the winter, when dawn came a bit later, two or three hours of learning were often already under his belt. Summertime, when the netz got too early for that, the seder was kept after davening ended.
Most people did not know that. He liked it that way.
I met him during the last year of his life (although we did not know that sad reality then) and we spent a few hours together reviewing the rich life of his late father.
His innate nobility struck me as I sat down. There was something different about this gentle man across the table, something special. As we began to talk, I saw why.
Our conversation was muted at first. Bemused that someone actually thought he had something of value to share, he shyly apologized for taking the meeting.
“I am not so good at talking and I fear I am wasting your time,” he said. “I am sorry you came special to see me.”
He should not have been so worried.
His memories were rich, filled with reverence for the parents and the community that had taught him the secrets of life. Reb Reuvane told stories like he lived—understated, unadorned, and unembellished. The simple wonder of what his parents had achieved, and the rich history of his Shapiro ancestors, giants of the yishuv hayoshon, was enough by itself. The truth was more important than a good anecdote sounding better. Anything unconfirmed was best left unsaid.
Silence, Chazal teach us, indicates wisdom. He was a wise man, indeed. Most people enjoy the sound of their own voice. I do not think he recognized his.
If something did not need to be said, he just didn’t say it.
A case in point.
Long after the rabbi’s son had grown up, an older fellow from McKeesport continued to greet him in public with a ‘knip’ on the cheek. The outdated show of affection bothered Reb Reuvane’s loyal wife. He was no longer a little boy running about, but a talmid chochom of note. She pressed him to protest the gesture she saw as demeaning to a man of his stature.
“A while ago, I made a decision to be counted among the ne’elavim, the people who absorb humiliation without reacting,” her husband replied. “Accepting shame is always better than handing it out.”
A bookend to that story is the refrain he constantly repeated when faced with the final illness that brought along unbearable pan. The idea of complaining never dawned on him, and if ever asked to explain his situation, he had three words to say.
Kach gazra chochmaso — So has His wisdom decreed.
Nothing more needed to be said, and so, nothing more ever was.
Vayidom. Like Aharon Hakohein, Reb Reuvane stayed quiet, secure in his genuine belief that Hashem knew better than he ever will.
Rabbi Reuvane Chinn was a loving and beloved husband, father and grandfather, an excellent rebbi and a mohel of considerable note. He liked making very sweet wine and loved learning Torah. He was noble and humble and gentle and kind, and warmth poured out of his wide-open face.
But most of all, Reb Reuvane was real.
A tzaddik yesod olam, Rav Shlomo Miller called him at his levayah, and maybe that’s the best way to explain who he was.
Yesod olam.
A foundation deep below ground, where no noise crept in or leaked out. In a universe fueled by the attention of crowds, he was the unseen base of thick mortar, a quiet force of unshakeable love and faith holding up everyone else.
Girded solely by the G-dly voice that spoke inside his own soul, he climbed the highest peaks of Heaven. Every inch of his mountain was soundlessly conquered on his own terms, with the strengths and talents and courage that belonged only to him.
Alone with his Creator, he was always himself. And he was always content.
Ve’asu li mikdosh veshochanti besocham.
He decided long ago that he wanted to live that way. Alone, in his personal Mikdosh, the sanctuary that Rashi explains is besoch kol echad vechad, the one that lives inside each Jewish heart.
A man relentlessly chasing the Kotzker ideal espoused by the rabbi of McKeesport, his father, every year before Ne’ilah.
If only I would be I.
Leich beshalom, Harav Hagaon Vehatzaddik Reb Reuvane, and partake of your justly earned final reward.
You succeeded.
You were always unquestionably you.
And there is a little piece inside everyone you touched that is authentic and real.
Because you showed us all that “I am I” is really the only real way to be.
