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Rabbi Moshe Hauer zt”l

As Executive Vice President of the Orthodox Union and longtime Rav of Bnai Jacob Shaarei Zion in Baltimore, Rabbi Moshe Hauer zt”l was not only a leader of institutions — he was a leader of hearts. His Torah was profound, but his greatness lay equally in his humanity. He saw every person, cared for every soul, and carried the pain of Klal Yisrael as his own.

What defined Rabbi Hauer more than anything was achrayus, responsibility. He believed that to be a Jew meant not only to learn, but to act; not only to believe, but to care. Whether advocating for Jewish unity, comforting the bereaved, strengthening communities under fire, or mentoring rabbanim with warmth and humility, he embodied the message the following essay conveys: that faith in Hashem must lead to responsibility for each other.

The saga of Yosef and his brothers, of Moshe’s refusal to abandon his people, of turning faith into love and silence into courage is, in truth, a reflection of Rabbi Hauer’s life. He was the one who stepped forward, who would not look away, who built bridges when others built walls.

In a world too often fractured by indifference, Rabbi Hauer taught us to live “Es achai anochi mevakesh—I seek my brothers.”

May his memory inspire us to do the same, and may his life’s example bring us closer to the Ketz HaYamim—the redemption he so deeply believed in.

Yehi zichro baruch.

RABBI MOSHE HAUER ZT”L

Am I My Brother’s Keeper?

The Cry That Echoes Across Generations

WE ARE ALL FAMILIAR WITH THE GEMARA’S ACCOUNT of Sinas Chinam, baseless hatred, the very force that destroyed the Beis HaMikdash. It is the tragic story of Kamtza u’Bar Kamtza, told in Meseches Gittin (55b–56a).

A man prepared a grand banquet and instructed his servant to invite his friend Kamtza. But by mistake, the servant invited Bar Kamtza, his sworn enemy. When Bar Kamtza appeared at the celebration, humiliated but hopeful, he quietly offered to pay for his meal. Rejected.

He offered to pay for half the entire event. Refused. Finally, he said, “Let me stay—I’ll pay for the whole wedding!” But even that was denied. The host’s hatred was so intense that he threw him out publicly.

The irony is painful. The host gained nothing from this cruelty; in fact, he lost! Had he swallowed his pride, his enemy would have covered the entire expense. But Sinas Chinam blinds. It gives us nothing, and takes everything. That is the classic story of hatred without cause.

But the Gemara adds a critical, often overlooked detail: “Omar, ho’il v’havu yasvei Rabbanan v’lo michu beih, shema mina nicha lehu—Since the Sages were sitting there and did not protest, it must be that they approved.”

Bar Kamtza’s fury was not merely over his personal humiliation. It was the silence of the righteous that broke him, the fact that Torah scholars—people of stature—sat there and watched his public shame without a word of protest. That silence was what lit the spark that would ignite the fire of Churban Beis HaMikdash.

And that silence, says the Gemara, is also Sinas Chinam.

Hatred is not only expressed through acts of cruelty. It is also expressed through indifference, through the failure to stand up for another person’s dignity. Sometimes Sinat Chinam is loud—a word, a blow, a betrayal. But other times, it is quiet—a turning away, a shrug, a silence when someone needs us to speak.

Am I My Brother’s Keeper?

This theme stretches all the way back to the beginning of Bereishis.

The first murder in human history was not born out of ideology or defense. It was born out of jealousy. Kayin looked at Hevel’s korban being accepted, while his own was rejected, and instead of saying, “I can do better,” he said, “I cannot bear that you succeeded.”

Hashem pleaded with him: “Lamah charah lach? Halo im teitiv se’et—Why are you angry? If you do good, will you not be uplifted?” (Bereishis 4:6-7). Hashem’s message was simple: there is room in this world for both of you. You don’t need to destroy your brother to find your own greatness.

But Kayin could not hear it. He rose up and killed his brother. And when Hashem asked him, “Eihei Hevel achicha—Where is your brother Hevel?” Kayin gave the most chilling answer in the Torah:“Hashomer achi anochi—Am I my brother’s keeper?”

That question, rhetorical, defiant, is the spiritual ancestor of Sinas Chinam. The moment a person stops feeling responsible for another Jew, the distance between apathy and violence, between indifference and injustice, is very small indeed. The Torah’s answer to Kayin’s question—to that smug, self-justifying question—is resounding and eternal: Yes. You are your brother’s keeper. You are responsible not only to avoid harming him, but to guard him, to protect his dignity, to speak when silence would shame. The moment we stop feeling responsible for each other, the story of Bar Kamtza begins again.

Two Roots of Sin

The Meshech Chochmah offers a remarkable insight. He writes that just as the sin of the Golden Calf (Chet Ha’Egel) became the root of all sins bein adam laMakom, between man and God, so too, the sin of selling Yosef HaTzaddik became the root of all sins bein adam lechaveiro, between man and man. The story of Yosef and his brothers is, in a sense, a continuation of Kayin and Hevel. Resentment, envy, division, the inability to rejoice in another’s success.

The Torah tells us: “Vayeilchu echav lir’os es tzon avihem b’Shechem—And his brothers went to shepherd the sheep of their father in Shechem” (Bereishis 37:12). And Yisrael said to Yosef, “Lech na, re’eh et shlom achecha ve’et shlom hatzon—Go now, see how your brothers are faring.” And Yosef said, “Hineni—Here I am” (ibid. v.13). He then goes out searching. “And a man found him wandering in the field” (ibid. v.15). 

And Yosef said those immortal words: “I seek my brothers.” The man replies, “They have traveled from here.” Rashi notes that when the Torah says, “They have traveled from here,” it hints at something deeper. “They have traveled from brotherhood.” They have moved away from the very concept of achvah, of brotherhood.

“I seek my brothers.” That cry echoes across generations—from Yosef in the field, to Kayin’s question in the garden, to our own divided people today.

The Message

The Beis HaMikdash was not destroyed merely by hatred. It was destroyed by the failure to love, by the failure to see every Jew as a brother, every stranger as a soul, every silence as a missed opportunity to heal. And so long as we still ask, “Am I my brother’s keeper?” the world remains incomplete. But when we can answer, “Es achai anochi mevakesh— I seek my brothers.” When we start seeking one another again, that is when the rebuilding begins.

The Beis HaMikdash was destroyed through division, and it will only be rebuilt through compassion.

The Fine Line Between Silence and Sin

As Yosef approached, the Torah tells us: “And the brothers said to one another—behold, that dreamer is coming” (ibid. v.19).

The brothers no longer called him Yosef. They did not even call him achinu, our brother. He became a “dreamer,” an abstraction, a stranger. Once you strip a person of his name, of his humanity, everything else becomes possible. 

Following this, they said, “Let us kill him.” And when Reuven intervened, the Torah notes that he succeeded, but only partially. The Ramban explains that Reuven persuaded them not to shed blood with their own hands, but merely to throw Yosef into a pit and leave him to die. That subtle shift, from murder to indifference, from action to omission, was enough to ease their conscience. “We didn’t kill him,” they could say. “We simply didn’t protect him.” They convinced themselves they were innocent because they were not the ones holding the knife.

But they had forgotten the very essence of achvah, brotherhood. To say, “We didn’t kill him, we just didn’t save him,” is to echo Kayin’s protest: “Am I my brother’s keeper?” The Torah’s answer, again and again, is yes.

Yehudah was the first to recognize this. He stood up and said, “What profit is there in killing our brother and covering his blood? For he is our brother, our flesh.” (ibid. v.26). As the Ramban writes, Yehudah reintroduced the moral truth that Reuven’s logic had evaded: whether you kill directly or abandon indirectly, whether you act or simply allow, the result is the same if you see your brother in danger and do nothing.

And that is why Yehudah, not Reuven, became the progenitor of kings. Kingship in Judaism does not mean power; it means responsibility. A melech is the one who says, “Ani e’eseh.” I will act. I will not look away. Centuries later, King David, Yehudah’s descendant, would learn the same lesson. When Uriah HaChiti fell in battle, David did not strike him. Yet the Navi said, “You killed him by the sword of Ammon.” Because leadership—and brotherhood—means that even passive consent carries guilt. 

That same moral blindness appeared again generations later in the story of Kamtza and Bar Kamtza. The rabbis at that fateful wedding were not the aggressors. They didn’t humiliate Bar Kamtza. They simply watched. They looked away. They said nothing. And in that silence, Bar Kamtza felt not only the cruelty of the host, but the coldness of the onlookers. He realized that if Torah scholars could watch a fellow Jew be humiliated and remain silent, then something far deeper was broken. There was no brotherhood left.

When the sense of achvah disappears, the distance between not helping and actively harming becomes razor thin. The world of Yosef’s brothers, of Bar Kamtza’s banquet, and of our own fractured world, all share that same truth: The step between apathy and atrocity is heartbreakingly small.

The Call to Action

The Torah demands more than restraint. It demands responsibility. It is not enough to say, “I did not hate.” We must be able to say, “I loved.” It is n enough to say, “I did no harm.” We must say, “I protected.” Sinas Chinam is not only born from hatred; it is also born from indifference. And Ahavat Chinam, the love that will rebuild the Beit HaMikdash, is not only love in the heart; it is love in action. It is speaking when silence is easier, defending when it is unpopular, caring when no one else does.

From Kayin to Yosef’s brothers to Bar Kamtza, the Torah teaches us this one enduring lesson: we are our brother’s keeper.

When we live that truth, when we no longer ask “Am I my brother’s keeper?” but declare, “I seek my brothers,” then we begin to repair what was broken. And maybe then, the world will be ready again for a Beis HaMikdash built not on silence and separation, but on courage, compassion, and Achdus Yisrael.

The Call of Responsibility

What emerges from the story of Mechiras Yosef is not only a warning about hatred, but a call for achrayus, for responsibility. It is not enough to be horrified by a story of cruelty; we must be equally horrified by a story of passivity and by the failure to step forward, to intervene, to care. Sinat Chinam is not only when one acts in hate; it is also when one refuses to act in love.

The redemption we long for is often called Ketz, “the end.” We pray in our tefillos: “Yishlach l’Ketz haYamim Meshicheinu —Hashem should send us our Moshiach at the end of days.” But the word Ketz can mean more than one thing.

When Hashem looked upon the generation of the Flood, He said: “Ketz kol basar ba lefanai—The end of all flesh has come before Me” (Bereishis 6:13). That Ketz was not the dawn of redemption, but the dusk of destruction. Why? Because, as the Torah says, “Ki malah ha’aretz chamas — the world was filled with violence, with theft, with corruption.” (ibid.)

There are two kinds of Ketz: one bitter, one redemptive. One ends the world; the other begins it anew. And the difference between them lies in how humanity treats one another. The generation of the Mabul perished because they had no bein adam lechaveiro—no care, no responsibility for one another. But when the Jewish people stood at Sinai, they were “K’ish echad b’lev echad— as one person, with one heart,” and that unity opened the gates of revelation itself. The Ketz that brings destruction is a world of chamas. The Ketz that brings redemption is a world of achrayus.

The Difference Between Noach and Moshe

And we can see this difference reflected in two of the greatest figures in history: Noach and Moshe Rabbeinu. Chazal call the waters of the Flood “Mei Noach,” the waters of Noach. The very destruction that he survived bears his name. Why?

The Zohar HaKadosh and many Midrashim explain that Noach did not plead for his generation. When Hashem said, “Make for yourself an ark,” Noach obeyed. He built the teivah, gathered his family, and waited. Noach did not cause the flood, but he also did not try to stop it. Hashem told him, “You and your family will survive. From you, the world will be rebuilt,” and Noach accepted that.

Generations later, when Hashem said nearly the same words to Moshe Rabbeinu after the sin of the Golden Calf: “Leave Me be, and I will destroy them, and make of you a great nation,” (Shemos 32:10), Moshe faced the same choice.

He could have been the new Noach. He could have walked away from a generation gone astray. But Moshe refused. He stood before the Master of the Universe and said, “Erase me from Your book if You will not forgive them” (ibid. 32:32).

Moshe’s greatness was not only in his faith, but in his achrayut, his refusal to stand by, his refusal to be saved alone. Noach saved himself. Moshe saved everyone. That is the dividing line between a Ketz that ends and a Ketz that redeems. Noach accepted survival; Moshe demanded salvation. Noach built a teivah; Moshe built a people.

And that is the call of our generation: o move from the passivity of Noach to the responsibility of Moshe. We cannot be content to say, “I didn’t harm.” We must say, “I helped.” We cannot say, “I wasn’t cruel.” We must say, “I cared.”

The world before the Mabul was destroyed by chamas, by selfishness. Our world will only be rebuilt by achrayut, by standing for one another, speaking for one another, suffering for one another, and believing in one another.

That is what turns the Ketz of destruction into the Ketz of redemption. And so, when we say “Yishlach l’Ketz haYamim Meshicheinu,” we are not only praying for the coming of Moshiach. We are praying that each of us will become a little more like Moshe, willing to say, “If they fall, I fall with them.”Geulah will not come from those who build their own arks, but from those who stand in the storm for someone else.

And when that day comes, when Klal Yisrael rediscovers the courage to say, “I seek my brothers,” then our Ketz will not be an ending at all. It will be the beginning of forever.

The Missing Piece of Geulah

And that is what makes the difference between the Ketz that ends in destruction, Ketz kol basar of the Mabul, and the Ketz that ends in redemption—Yishlach l’Ketz HaYamim Meshicheinu. The difference between a bitter end and a redemptive end is achrayus, the courage to take responsibility for one another.

We this so beautifully if we return once more to Yosef and his brothers, because that is where the story of redemption truly begins. The rectification for Mechirat Yosef is the tikkun for Sinas Chinam itself. The Gemara tells us that when Yaakov Avinu neared the end of his life, he gathered his sons and said: “Gather together, and I will tell you what will happen to you at the end of days” (Bereishis 49:1).

Chazal teach that he wished to reveal to them the Ketz HaYamim, the secret of the end of history, but the Divine Presence departed from him (see Rashi, ibid.). He could no longer speak. Fearing that perhaps one of his sons was unfaithful, Yaakov turned to them, and they responded in unison: “Shema Yisrael Hashem Elokeinu Hashem Echad.” Just as there is only One G-d in your heart, so too there is only One G-d in ours. Yaakov was reassured. All of his children were believers. All were faithful to Hashem.

And yet, the Shechinah did not return. Why not? If they were all believers, what was still missing?

The answer, say Chazal, is that while they had achieved Hashem Echad, faith in one G-d, they had not yet achieved am echad, the oneness of each other. Geulah requires both. It is not enough to proclaim Hashem Echad. We must also live Goy Echad ba’aretz, to be a people united in heart, in empathy, and in responsibility.

We see this immediately after Yaakov’s death. The brothers, still haunted by guilt, sent a message to Yosef, terrified that now, with their father gone, he would seek revenge. They could not believe that Yosef had truly forgiven them. They could not imagine a world without suspicion. And that was what was still missing.

Yosef, however, saw it differently. He said to them, “Do not be afraid. Am I in the place of G-d? You thought to harm me, but God turned it for good” (Bereishis 50:19-20). He saw his suffering not as an act of betrayal, but as an opportunity for responsibility. He then told them: “I will sustain you and your children” (ibid. v.21).

Yosef did not just forgive; he took care of them. He transformed hatred into achrayus. That was what Yaakov wished to reveal. That was the Ketz HaYamim he wanted to show them, and that was the moment when the children of Israel would finally become one.

Not only Hashem Echad, but Am Echad, His Name made one through our unity. The brothers all believed in G-d, but they did not yet fully believe in one another. And until that happens, the Shechinah remains hidden, and the Ketz remains concealed.

When Yosef looked at his brothers and said, “I was sent here by G-d to sustain you,” he was teaching us the key to redemption: to look at every challenge, every wound, every exile, and see within it not a reason for blame, but a mission of responsibility. Geulah will not come through those who simply believe in G-d. It will come through those who act like G-d—who show compassion, who build bridges, who take responsibility for one another.

The Redemption We Can Bring

And so we learn: Geulah does not begin with prophecy. It begins with people. We are not waiting for a supernatural event. We are waiting for a moral awakening, a generation that will stop saying, “Hashomer achi anochi?” and start living, “Es achai anochi mevakesh.”

Yosef’s brothers believed in Hashem Echad. Yosef lived Am Echad. He lived for his brothers, he provided for them, and he saw the hand of Heaven in the very place they had hurt him.

That is Achrayus. That is Ahavas Chinam. That is what will transform the Ketz kol basar of the Flood into the Ketz HaYamim of redemption. Because, in the end, Hashem Echad is not revealed through belief alone. It is revealed through Am Echad, through a people who see each other as brothers, who stand for one another, and who refuse to be silent when another is in pain.

When that day comes, the Shechinah will return. And the world will finally know not only that God is One, but that His people are one.

The Faith That Becomes Responsibility

The story of Kamtza and Bar Kamtza horrifies us, and it should. But the lesson it demands is not only that we avoid throwing our brother into the pit, or embarrassing him before others. It calls on us to become shomrei achinu, guardians of our brothers, and to actively step forward and protect one another. It means standing up when someone is hurt. It means noticing when someone is left out. It means refusing to look away, to be counted among those who remain silent. Because silence, too, speaks, and in the eyes of Heaven, it says: shema mina nicha lehu—they must be comfortable with this.

We are called to live differently. If we truly believe in Atah Echad v’Shimcha Echad—that Hashem is One, and His Name is One—then we stop seeing others as rivals or threats. We stop believing that another’s success diminishes our own. We stop imagining that someone else’s korban blocks ours from reaching Heaven.

True emunah, faith in G-d, frees us from jealousy and competition. It opens our hearts to love. It allows us to see every Jew not as an obstacle but as a partner; not as a rival but as a reflection of Hashem’s unity. Faith translated into action expresses itself through the way we treat each other.

The Prayer That Defines Us

Every day, many times a day, we stand before Hashem in the Shemoneh Esrei. We recognize that He is the Master of the world and that our fate rests in His hands. We ask for everything we need, and we thank Him for everything we have. And how do we end that prayer? With “Sim Shalom—Grant peace between us.” Perhaps that final request is the culmination of the entire tefillah. After standing before Hashem, after acknowledging His sovereignty and our dependence, we ask for the ability to live that truth with one another.

If we have truly internalized what tefillah teaches—that Hashem runs the world—then we can stop being uneasy with each other. We can stop feeling threatened or diminished by one another. We can begin, instead, to care, to comfort, and to connect. Before we take our first step back from the Shemoneh Esrei—before we re-enter the world—we ask Hashem: “Let our faith become compassion. Let our belief become responsibility. Let our prayer for You become a prayer for each other.”

May that faith bring the Ketz HaYamim, the final redemption. May our Shema Yisrael, Hashem Elokeinu Hashem Echad not only proclaim our faith in G-d, but unite us as one people under Him.

Let us be the opposite of the generation of the Mabul; not destroyed by selfishness, but uplifted by shared responsibility. Let us follow the path of Moshe Rabbeinu who refused to be saved alone, and know that for us to grow, for our piece of Klal Yisrael to flourish, we must ensure that every piece grows and flourishes as well.

Each of us must become a Shomer Achi, a guardian, a protector, a friend. Each of us must step forward to ensure that no one stands alone.

And through this strengthened commitment to one another, may we stand together, grow together, and merit together the Geulah Sheleimah.