R’ Yechiel Spero – On Tonight’s beautiful Adirei Hatorah!

There was a time in America when the greatest challenge wasn’t finding treasure; it was protecting it. Miners struck gold, but the journey home was filled with danger. That’s why two men, Mr. Henry Wells and Mr. William Fargo, founded a company with one mission: safe and secure passage. To ensure that what people held dear would reach its destination intact.

And on one memorable evening, nearly two centuries later, in a building bearing their names, Wells (and) Fargo, a different kind of treasure was being carried. A treasure no eye can measure. No vault can hold.

The treasure of Torah.

And the safest passage in a stormy, dangerous and terrifying world?

A Beis Medrash.

This was the fourth Adirei HaTorah gathering, an annual gathering that has now become something far beyond an event.
It’s a statement.
A covenant.
A declaration of loyalty to the eternal.

The Wells Fargo Center was filled wall to wall. Thousands upon thousands. Talmidei chachamim. Avreichim. Yungeleit. Admirers of those precious families who carry the mission alongside them. Supporters and visionaries who quietly fuel the engine of Torah.

And one elderly gaon, who crossed an ocean to attend—Rav Azriel Auerbach. His presence spoke volumes.

But distance of journey must not be measured in miles. The moment Rav Shmuel Kamentzky entered, a jolt of energy and uplift electrified the arena with hope, awe and admiration.

Kavod HaTorah at its very very finest.

But no presence said more than the rows and rows of bnei Torah.

They didn’t come to be honored. They came because they live it. They carry it. They breathe it.
They ARE IT.

This year, they learned the entirety of Bavli and Yerushalmi in memory of their two chaveirim, Rav Boruch Ber Ziemba and Rav Chaim Lipschitz, precious young Talmidei Chachmim, who both died so suddenly.

And then came the moment no one was ready for.

A child rose to say Kaddish.

A young boy, Rav Boruch Ber’s son.
Too young for this burden, too pure for such pain. He stood at the front of the arena, framed by the enormity of the night, and flanked by two towering figures.

To his right, his grandfather.

To his left, Rav Avrohom Lipschitz, the father of Rav Chaim.

Together, they held him up. But in truth, he held all of us.

A deafening silence filled the air. I don’t think I’ve ever experienced such stillness and quiet.

His voice pierced the heavens:

Yisgadal veyiskadash shemei rabbah…

Indeed! What Kiddush Shem Shamayim!

And then, impossibly, came the shift.

The tears gave way to song. The heartbreak made room for joy.

How?

Because Klal Yisrael never stops. Not when struck. Not when broken. Not when grieving.

And as the words of Kaddish rang out—not just in the building, but in Shamayim—you could only imagine: two neshamos, Rav Boruch Ber and Rav Chaim, rejoicing together in the upper worlds. Dancing. Embracing. Proud. Surrounded by the Torah giants of yesteryear, they can’t help but marvel what these two and their chaveirim below have accomplished. The kind of pride felt in Shamayim when the children of Hashem achieve the unthinkable.

We sing because we believe. We dance because our children carry the future. And we hold close that which can never be lost: Zarah Chaya—a seed that lives on. Torah learned. Torah passed down. Torah that cannot be silenced.

The Torah of Chayei Olam.

If an outsider would witness this scene, they would think we are insane.

I guess one could say we are.

Meshuga le’davar echad.

Madly in love with the Torah we learn.

Because this is who we are and this is what Torah does for us.

We connect to Chayei Olam and all it entails. Worlds intertwine and sorrow is engulfed in indescribable joy.

On this night of promise and hope and celebration, sacred Bnei Torah stood, hand in hand, and the arena shook once more—but this time, with simcha. With the unshakable knowledge that Torah lives on. It infuses us to endure and to persevere.

Chayei Olam.

This is the safest passage of all. In a world of chaos, confusion and hate, there exits only one secure path.

Not a guarded wagon through the wilderness—but the quiet march of yungeleit through Shas and Poskim. The hidden heroism of wives raising families built around a seder. The power of a single Kaddish carrying the kavod hatorah of two worlds.

And those who stand behind it—who give, who support, who build without seeking credit—they, too, are part of this caravan. Part of this convoy of eternity.

In the arena named for Wells and Fargo—men who once protected treasures of silver and gold—we witnessed the insignificance of Chayei Sha’ah, and the protection of something far greater.

Something you can’t measure by weight, only by light.

Torah.

And the light it brings. The hearts it lifts. The lives it secures.

Ashreinu.
Mah tov chelkeinu.
Ve’sein chelkeinu imahem.

May we always be zocheh to walk behind the wagons of the Adirei HaTorah and help them bring their treasure—our treasure—home