I’ve always been drawn to the wisdom of a wide range of rabbis — each offering something meaningful to those willing to listen. Over the years, I’ve had the privilege of learning from many and the blessing of counting some of them as friends, but Rabbi Eliyahu Fink stood apart. He had a rare ability to connect across backgrounds and beliefs, to meet people where they were, and to make Torah feel alive and relevant in any setting. His presence was generous, his insights deep, and his impact lasting.
The loss of Rabbi Eliyahu Fink hurts so deeply, precisely because he was that rare teacher, leader, mensch, and tzaddik who could cross all worlds. He found the common thread in all of them, and he met people where they were, on whatever journey they were traveling. He judged no one, and he supported everyone. He could do all of that with such a profound Torah knowledge at its base that, no matter the topic, he could make connections that might be seen by no one else.
A summer ago, I was in Iceland visiting with an old friend who’d recently listened to an extensive local podcast about circumcision. This was entirely new territory for Icelandic people, and his questions were many. My older son was with me on that trip, and we tried our best to answer his many questions. When the topic came up again over dinner — this time with two other Icelanders, all equally curious — I realized that I needed a “pro” to step in to the discussion. So I called Rabbi Fink, and with no warning, put him on the phone for close to an hour, listening as he gave one of the best drashes I could imagine — addressing the topic from all perspectives and making it understandable for someone who knew nothing about it.
On a more personal level, my sons and I were blessed to spend more Shabbats and chaggim around the Fink family table far more times than I could count. Whether in Santa Monica, Beverly Hills, Pico-Robertson, or Monsey, it always included the most beautifully set table and the most delicious food — but even more importantly, such warmth and love, along with some of the most engaging conversations I had anywhere. Those meals often were shared with some of the most interesting people I’ve ever met, all of whom were attracted to the magic of Eliyahu, Tova, Rami and Ozzie (and, more recently, Manny).
I think Rabbi Fink’s greatest gift was his ability to straddle the worlds of Torah, mitzvot, and prayer, on the one hand, and pop culture, on the other. He lived in the world around us, for sure, yet he knew how to connect this contemporary world to a much deeper one. He found the wisdom and the holiness in everything, and he made others appreciate those, too. I saw all of this, at every Shabbat drosh, over every cup of coffee, in every phone call, and whenever we travelled together.
He lived in the world around us, for sure, yet he knew how to connect this contemporary world to a much deeper one. He found the wisdom and the holiness in everything, and he made others appreciate those, too.
I asked Rabbi Fink if he would travel to Israel to lead my younger son’s bar mitzvah atop Masada. What a blessing that was, and what wisdom he shared. His words were profound, but even more striking was everything he did beyond the ceremony itself, whether it was the adventure we had at Jerusalem Yarmulke (where the “locals” were gawking at one of our friends who’d flown in for the bar mitzvah, whose hair was spiked and whose arms were covered in colorful tattoos) or the last-minute working with the bar mitzvah boy on the van to Masada, where the pressure of the moment required a steady hand, a calming presence, and a good sense of humor — all of which ensured that the ceremony would be filled with meaning.
With my two sons, I took Rabbi Fink to the Seeds of Peace camp in Maine one summer, along with a young singer/songwriter, and we spent the day in deep conversations with 15- and 16-year-old Israelis, Palestinians, Jordanians and Egyptians — letting the power of song and the insights of Torah serve as bridges in a way that found the common threads that unite them all. (The “Fink or Swim” piece Rabbi Fink wrote after that was one of the most profound descriptions of Seeds of Peace I’ve ever read.)
This past summer, I was fortunate enough to spend the July Fourth holiday together with four of the five Finks (their eldest son was still in Israel). From enjoying Park City’s annual Fourth of July parade together, to the magical Shabbat dinner Eliyahu and Tova prepared, to a spectacular day-long adventure to Bryce Canyon, it was a weekend filled with such joy and beauty, and such a profound appreciation for the blessings of the world around us and for each other.
Over the last few days, what’s struck me the most is the words of love I’ve heard from the many non-Jews whom I introduced to Rabbi Fink over the years. Each of them has talked about his ability to reach through to them, to positively influence them, and to inspire them. All of them feel broken by what has happened, but grateful to have been touched by his grace and wisdom.
I know that Rabbi Fink’s greatest legacy will be the remarkable family he leaves behind. Though forever broken, now, they also will be forever unified. Theirs was a family that always operated as one unit — connected to one another, supportive, and sharing every moment and simcha together. Whatever they did — and whatever life decision they made, whether in terms of where to live or what to do — they did as one single unit. The strength they’ve given each other these last few days is unlike anything I’ve ever witnessed, and I am sure that, however broken they are, they will stand by each other’s side and carry on Eliyahu’s legacy in everything they do and in every breath they take on this earth.
And as they do that, may the rest of us commit ourselves to being better human beings, to being more supportive of those around us, and to being even more grateful for the blessing of every minute on this earth.
Dan Adler is a Los Angeles-based entrepreneur and a film & television producer.
