Those at the Adirei HaTorah event on Sunday participated in something extraordinary.
They saw tens of thousands of bnei Torah gathered together. They saw roshei yeshiva, rabbonim, yungeleit, baalei batim, fathers and sons. They heard singing, felt excitement, and sensed that they were part of something historic.
But there are some people who would see much more than a gathering.
They would see a miracle.
Imagine a Holocaust survivor entering the stadium.
He looks across the sea of faces and struggles to comprehend what he is seeing. Everywhere he turns are young men devoted to Torah learning. Tens of thousands of people who have come together for no purpose of personal gain, entertainment, or recognition. They assembled for one reason, to honor the Torah and those who dedicate their lives to studying and living by it.
To many, it is inspiring.
To him, it is almost unimaginable.
He remembers a different world.
He remembers the great Torah centers of Europe. Warsaw, Vilna, Lublin, Pressburg, Slabodka, Mir, Kletzk, Telz, Ponovezh and hundreds of towns and villages whose very air seemed filled with Torah. He remembers botei medrash that hummed day and night, yeshivos overflowing with talmidim, and communities whose lives revolved around Torah.
Then came the destruction.
The Nazis did not merely seek to murder Jews. They sought to eradicate Judaism. They burned seforim, destroyed yeshivos, murdered rabbonim, roshei yeshiva and talmidim, and attempted to sever a chain stretching back to Har Sinai.
The survivor remembers standing amid the ruins and wondering whether that chain had been broken forever.
He remembers the ashes.
He remembers the silence.
He remembers a world in which entire communities vanished almost overnight.
Who could have imagined then what would come next?
Who could have imagined that less than a century later, there would be gatherings of tens of thousands of bnei Torah in America?
Who could have imagined stadiums filled not for sports, not for politics, not for entertainment, but solely for kavod haTorah?
A survivor would not simply see a crowd.
He would see the grandchildren of those who never had the opportunity to grow old.
He would see the dreams of murdered parents and grandparents walking among the living.
He would see proof that the Jewish people possess a resilience that defies every law of history.
Most nations celebrate military victories, economic achievements, or political triumphs.
The Jewish people fill stadiums to celebrate Torah.
A survivor would understand the significance of that better than anyone.
He witnessed what happens when Jews lose everything. Homes can be confiscated. Businesses can be destroyed. Entire communities can be wiped out.
Yet one thing endured.
The Torah.
The Nazis believed that they were burying the future of the Jewish people.
Instead, they planted seeds.
From the remnants emerged new yeshivos. From displaced persons camps emerged future roshei yeshiva, rabbonim, and teachers. Survivors crossed oceans carrying little more than faith, memories, and an unwavering commitment to rebuild.
Today, their descendants fill botei medrash across the globe.
Every young man learning a blatt Gemara is a declaration that the Jewish story continues.
Every yeshiva is a monument greater than any structure of stone.
Every child learning Alef-Bais is a victory over those who sought to extinguish us.
There is another person whose eyes would fill with tears upon entering the Adirei HaTorah event.
Not a survivor of Europe, but a Torah Jew who lived in America during the 1930s and 1940s.
He remembers a very different America.
Today we speak about the flourishing Torah world in the United States as though it were inevitable.
It was anything but.
In those years, many observers—within and outside the Orthodox community—were convinced that traditional Judaism had little future in America.
The challenges seemed overwhelming.
Shabbos observance often came at the cost of employment. Day schools were scarce. Yeshivos struggled to survive. Children of immigrants rapidly assimilated. The prevailing assumption was that America could provide economic opportunity, but never become a true home for Torah.
Europe was where Torah flourished.
America was where it would fade away.
Even many sincere Torah Jews feared that Orthodoxy might survive only as a small and shrinking remnant.
Had you told someone in those years that one day tens of thousands of bnei Torah would gather in a packed stadium to celebrate Torah learning, he would have thought that you were describing a fantasy.
A stadium?
Filled with lomdei Torah?
In America?
The very idea would have seemed impossible.
Imagine bringing such a Jew to Adirei HaTorah.
He would look around in astonishment.
Not because he had never seen a large crowd, but because he had spent a lifetime hearing that such a crowd could never exist.
Every face would refute the predictions.
Every yeshiva represented would disprove the experts.
Every voice joining in song would testify that Torah had not merely survived in America, but had flourished beyond anyone’s expectations.
The small yeshivos that struggled to keep their doors open became thriving institutions.
The handful became thousands.
The thousands became tens of thousands.
What many believed could never take root on American soil became one of the greatest centers of Torah learning in the world.
Standing at Adirei HaTorah, he would realize that he is witnessing one of the greatest surprises in modern Jewish history.
The dream became reality.
In truth, these two men, the survivor from Europe and the Torah Jew from early America, are seeing the same thing.
One sees the defeat of Hitler.
The other sees the defeat of assimilation.
One remembers a world where Torah was nearly destroyed.
The other remembers a world where Torah was expected to disappear.
Both arrive at the same conclusion.
The chain was not broken.
The Torah lives.
Yet, perhaps there is an even deeper perspective.
The survivor and the American Torah pioneer would not merely be looking at a crowd. They would be looking at the fulfillment of their hopes and prayers.
For the young men filling the stadium are not merely participants in an event. They are the answer to questions that previous generations carried in their hearts.
The survivor wondered whether there would be grandchildren learning Torah.
There are.
The immigrant who struggled to keep Shabbos wondered whether his descendants would remain faithful to Yiddishkeit.
They did.
The rosh yeshiva who opened a small classroom with a handful of students wondered whether Torah would ever flourish in America.
It has.
The parents who sacrificed comfort and convenience so their children could receive a Torah education wondered whether those sacrifices would bear fruit.
The fruit is before us.
What previous generations could only dream about, this generation experiences as reality.
And perhaps that is the greatest lesson of all.
When we look at a gathering such as Adirei HaTorah, we should not merely count how many people are present.
We should think about how many people stand behind them.
Behind every ben Torah are parents and grandparents who sacrificed. Behind every shteiging yungerman is a dedicated wife.
Behind every yeshiva are visionaries who built when there was little reason to believe they would succeed.
Behind every row of young men holding Gemaros are generations who carried the Torah through poverty, persecution, exile, and uncertainty.
In a sense, every seat in the stadium is occupied by more than one person.
The living fill the seats.
But surrounding them are the hopes, dreams, prayers, and sacrifices of generations past.
As the singing rises and the voices of thousands join together in honor of Torah, one can almost hear the verdict of history itself.
Those who sought to destroy us failed.
Those who predicted our decline were mistaken.
Against every calculation, every forecast, and every expectation, the Torah world has risen from the ashes, crossed oceans, taken root in new lands, and flourished beyond imagination.
The world may see a gathering.
They would see a resurrection.
The world may see a stadium.
They would see the rebuilding of a civilization.
The world may see an event.
They would see the fulfillment of a promise that has accompanied our people through every exile and every persecution: that the Torah entrusted to us at Har Sinai will never disappear from the Jewish people.
Standing amid the tens of thousands assembled for the honor of Torah, they would know that they are witnessing far more than a celebration.
They are witnessing eternity.
They tried to extinguish the flame.
Instead, it became a blazing fire.
And its light continues to illuminate the world.
Many articles about the growth of the Torah world focus on numbers — how many attendees, how many yeshivos, how many students, how many communities. Those numbers are certainly remarkable.
But what makes Adirei HaTorah so moving is that it is not really a story about quantity. It is a story about improbability.
If you had stood in Europe in 1945 amid the ruins of Jewish civilization, you would not have predicted this.
If you had stood in America in 1950, when many believed that Torah Judaism was destined to fade into history, you would not have predicted this.
If you had asked the survivors, the struggling roshei yeshiva, the rabbonim fighting off efforts to lower the mechitzah and open the parking lot, the immigrants fighting to keep Shabbos, or the parents sacrificing everything to send a child to yeshiva, they would have hoped for this, but many would have hardly dared imagine it.
That is why a gathering like Adirei HaTorah feels different. It is not merely large. It is unexpected. It represents the triumph of faith over statistics, conviction over prediction, and mesorah over the powerful currents that seemed destined to sweep it away.
Perhaps the most powerful image is not the stadium itself, but the thought of those earlier generations looking upon it.
A survivor searching the crowd for the grandchildren he feared would never exist.
A European rosh yeshiva seeing thousands of talmidim learning on a continent once thought inhospitable to Torah.
An immigrant laborer who lost job after job for Shabbos watching generations of descendants proudly living as Torah Jews.
A mother who scrimped and sacrificed to pay yeshiva tuition seeing a world where Torah education is cherished and sought after.
What would they say?
Perhaps nothing.
Perhaps they would simply stand silently and cry.
Not tears of sadness, but tears of gratitude.
Because before them would stand the answer to decades of prayers.
A living testimony that Torah is not merely preserved in books. It lives within people. It passes from parent to child, rebbi to talmid, generation to generation. And as long as that chain remains unbroken, the story of Klal Yisroel continues.
That is what makes Adirei HaTorah so powerful.
It is not only a celebration of those learning Torah today.
It is a tribute to those who made sure that there would still be Jews learning Torah today. And it is a declaration to future generations that the chain they preserved is now in our hands.
Yet, Adirei HaTorah is not merely a celebration of the past.
It is a celebration of the present.
To focus only on what was lost or what was rebuilt would be to miss the extraordinary reality standing before us.
The greatest achievement of Torah Jewry is not that Torah survived.
It is that Torah lives.
Across America and around the world, hundreds of thousands of Jews begin and end their days with Torah. Botei medrash hum from early morning until late at night. Young men devote years to serious Torah study. Baalei batim rise before dawn and remain after exhausting workdays to learn. Children fill classrooms learning Chumash, Mishnah, Gemara, and halacha. Families build homes centered around Shabbos, tefillah, chesed, and mitzvos.
This is not a museum preserving a glorious past.
It is a vibrant, living world.
The Torah celebrated at Adirei HaTorah is not merely the Torah learned by previous generations.
It is the Torah being learned today.
At this very moment, somewhere, a father is learning with his child. Somewhere, a rebbi is teaching a class. Somewhere, a chavrusa is struggling over a difficult Tosafos. Somewhere, a young boy is reciting Alef-Beis. Somewhere, a young girl is learning what it means to live a life of kedusha and emunah.
The chain continues to grow.
And perhaps that is what makes the gathering so remarkable.
The attendees are not gathering around a memory.
They are gathering around a reality.
The world often measures success through wealth, power, fame, or influence.
Adirei HaTorah celebrates something entirely different.
It celebrates people who dedicate themselves to understanding Hashem’s wisdom.
It celebrates lives shaped by Torah values.
It celebrates parents who sacrifice for Torah education, teachers who devote themselves to their students, communities built upon chesed, and individuals who strive each day to become better servants of Hashem.
In an age captivated by celebrities, athletes, entertainers, and influencers, tens of thousands gather to honor lomdei Torah.
What does that say about a people?
It says that despite all the changes in the world, despite the distractions and pressures of modern life, Torah remains at the center of Jewish existence.
The significance of Adirei HaTorah is not merely that tens of thousands attend.
It is what those tens of thousands represent.
They represent countless more learning in yeshivos and kollelim here and around the world.
They represent families striving to build Torah homes.
They represent communities where Torah guides daily life.
They represent a generation that appreciates that Torah is not an artifact of the past, but the foundation of the present and the future.
That is worthy of celebration.
Not only because previous generations dreamed it would happen.
But because it is happening.
Perhaps one of the most remarkable aspects of Adirei HaTorah is that many of those who attend do not fully appreciate how remarkable it is.
Not because they are ungrateful.
But because they are young.
They were born into a world where Torah flourishes.
For them, bustling botei medrash are normal. Thriving yeshivos are normal. Torah communities stretching across cities and continents are normal. Fathers learning with their children, kollelim filled with yungeleit, schools overflowing with students, and neighborhoods built around Torah life are simply the reality they have always known.
They never experienced the world that came before.
They never stood in the shadow of the destruction of Europe.
They never heard predictions that Orthodox Judaism could not survive in America.
They never saw yeshivos struggling to keep their doors open or families fighting to preserve Torah observance against overwhelming odds.
And that is precisely what makes the moment so extraordinary.
The greatest victories eventually become so complete that people forget there was ever a battle.
The young man sitting in a packed stadium surrounded by tens of thousands of fellow bnei Torah naturally assumes that this is how things are supposed to be.
But the generations before him know differently.
They know how improbable it all is.
They know how many obstacles stood in the way.
They know how many tears were shed, how many sacrifices were made, how many tefillos were offered, and how much faith was required to bring the Torah world to this point.
The young men filling the seats see themselves as ordinary participants in an extraordinary event.
But from the perspective of history, they are the event.
They are what previous generations dreamed about.
They are the answer to prayers offered in DP camps, in struggling yeshivos, in immigrant apartments, and in homes where parents wondered whether their children and grandchildren would remain faithful to Torah.
The greatest tribute to those earlier generations is not merely remembering their sacrifices.
It is recognizing what those sacrifices produced.
Look around the stadium.
Look at the thousands of young faces.
That is the achievement.
That is the victory.
That is the miracle.
Not simply that Torah survived.
But that an entire generation has grown up taking its flourishing for granted.
And perhaps that is the most profound sight of all.
The builders of the Torah world would look upon those young men and smile.
For they would know that what was once an impossible dream has become reality.
Rav Aharon Kotler, the Ponovezher Rov, the roshei yeshiva of Telz, and the many other builders of Torah who were mocked, criticized and perceived as irrational and impractical relics are today viewed as heroes blessed with incredible foresight and spiritual strength.
It’s a new day, a new era, with new vistas, old battles won and new battles to be fought. We look forward with faith and strength, saluting today’s heroes who make it possible, leading, supporting and implementing shelo yomush haTorah hazos mipinu umipi zareinu vezera zareinu ad olam ad bias Moshiach Tzidkeinu bekarov beyomeinu. Amein.