Dear Reader,

“Yisgadal v’yiskadash Shemei Rabbah…”

This past week, Rabbi Chaim Abadi was niftar, and with his passing, a piece of the heart of Lakewood was lost.

There are people who build buildings.  There are people who build organizations.
And then there are rare people who build people.

Rabbi Abadi built people.

Broken people. Confused people. Hurting people. People others had given up on.
People who no longer believed in themselves.

And somehow, with a smile, a bowl of cholent, a late-night phone call, or simply by sitting beside someone and caring, he rebuilt neshamos.

Thousands of words have already been written about the incredible chessed he did, the boys and girls he saved, the homes he helped rebuild, the lives he changed, and the countless crises he stepped into without hesitation.

But perhaps if there is one phrase that captures who he truly was, it is the opening words of Kaddish: “Yisgadal V’Yiskadash Shemei Rabbah” – May Hashem’s Name be exalted and sanctified.

Because that was Rabbi Abadi’s life.

Everything he touched became a Kiddush Hashem.

Whether he was speaking to a struggling teenager, a Rosh Yeshivah, a police officer, a building inspector, a judge, a politician, or a broken parent crying for help — people walked away feeling the beauty of Torah, the beauty of a Yid, and the beauty of Hashem.

Not because he preached, but because he cared.

That was his greatness.

He entered places many were uncomfortable entering. He dealt with situations others avoided.
But he never made people feel judged, small, or unwanted.

He made them feel seen.

And when a person feels seen, he begins to believe he matters. When he believes he matters, he begins to heal. And when he begins to heal, the Shechinah returns to his life.

That is Kiddush Hashem.

In a distracted world, Rabbi Abadi gave people presence. In a world quick to criticize, he gave acceptance. In a world where many people are busy fixing others, he gave love first.

And perhaps that is why so many tears were shed this week.

Because deep down, every person wants to know:
“Do I matter?”
“Is someone there for me?”
“Can someone still see goodness in me?”

Rabbi Abadi answered those questions for thousands of people, not through speeches, but through his life.

While thinking about Rabbi Abadi and the legacy he leaves behind, I was reminded of a haunting story brought by Rabbi Yechiel Spero.

A Holocaust survivor who had drifted far from Yiddishkeit once bought his son an old handmade menorah from an antique shop. The owner explained that it had been painstakingly carved by a Yid in the concentration camps from tiny scraps of wood collected over many months.

At some point, the menorah accidentally broke, and as they tried to repair it, a hidden note fell out.

The note was written by the man who built it.

He wrote that he did not know if he would survive another day. He did not know if he would merit lighting the menorah even once. But if someone someday found it, he begged them:
“Please light it every night of Chanukah, every single year.”

The survivor looked at the signature, turned pale, and then fainted.

Because the note was signed by his own father.

Suddenly, from deep within the broken menorah, his father was speaking to him again.

And perhaps that is what tzaddikim do even after they leave this world. Their voice continues speaking. Their life becomes a message.

And if Rabbi Abadi left us a note hidden inside the lives he touched, perhaps it would read something like this:

Love another Yid. Believe in people. Do not define someone by where they currently are.
See the neshama beneath the struggle. Make people feel wanted.  Lift people instead of labeling them.  And in every interaction, create a Kiddush Hashem.

My father says a beautiful pshat that expounds on this idea.

At the end of the tefillos of Hoshana Rabbah, we repeatedly say:
“Kol mevaser mevaser v’omer”- The voice announces and says…

But if you stop and think about it, it never actually says what the voice is announcing. My father explains that the answer comes immediately afterward, with the Kaddish:

“Yisgadal v’yiskadash Shemei Rabbah.”

The greatest announcement a Yid can make with his life is that Hashem’s Name should become greater, holier, more beloved in this world.

Many of us say those words, but Rabbi Abadi lived them.

And now, perhaps the greatest zechus we can give him is not only to say Kaddish for him — but to continue his Kaddish.

To walk into this world and leave behind more love. More patience. More understanding.
More dignity.  More acceptance. More Kiddush Hashem.

And perhaps that is the question Rabbi Abadi leaves each of us with.

How do we walk into a room? How do people feel after speaking to us?
Do our employees feel respected?  Do our spouses and children feel seen?
Do people feel judged around us — or uplifted by us?

A Kiddush Hashem is not created only through grand acts.

Sometimes it is created through a smile. Through patience. Through answering gently when you are stressed. Through giving someone the benefit of the doubt. Through noticing the fellow sitting alone in shul. Through calling someone who is quietly struggling. Through making another person feel important. Every interaction is an opportunity to either close a heart or open one.

Rabbi Abadi spent his life opening hearts.

Perhaps the greatest way to honor him is to continue doing the same.

Because that is how a person truly lives on.

Yehei Shmei Rabbah mevorach l’olam ul’almei almaya.

Binyomin Heinemann