Posted on 11/09/25
Among those who lingered was a 13-year-old boy who would one day become the camp’s director, Rabbi Pinchos Munk. He still remembers that moment vividly. “We figured that if Ezra had something to say, it was worth listening to,” he recalls. What followed was unforgettable. For the next seven hours, that small group of 25 boys remained spellbound as Ezra sat on a rock outside the beis medrash, surrounded by the breathtaking scenery of Camp Munk, and spoke from the depths of his heart. He wove together divrei Chazal on the Churban, stories and lessons from the Holocaust, and insights on life that reached far beyond his years. One of the boys who sat in that shiur, now an adult in his sixties, shares that he still remembers what he learned that day.
“I still remember one yesod. I’ve repeated it many times since: The closer you come to HaKadosh Baruch Hu, the more you realize how far away you really are.”
By the time the sun set on that Tishah B’Av afternoon, the boys realized they had witnessed something extraordinary. This was no ordinary bochur. It was the beginning of a lifetime of teaching, guiding, and inspiring that would continue to illuminate thousands of lives for decades to come.
Almost 50 years later, on a rainy morning in Baltimore, I found myself on a shuttle bus heading from BWI Airport to the rental car lot. Around me were about 25 others from all over the country; Atlanta, Minneapolis, Cincinnati, and Milwaukee, all heading to the same destination. By the time the levayah in Yeshivas Ner Yisroel began, we would be joined by hundreds more who had traveled from every corner of the country and even abroad. Some had come alone, others with family or friends, but all with the same mission — to give kavod acharon to their rebbi, Rabbi Ezra Dovid Halevi Neuberger, who passed away on 7 Cheshvan at age 68, known lovingly to decades of talmidim as Rav Ezra.
IF there was one defining image of Rav Ezra, it was that of a man thinking. Thinking about the sugya, about the yeshivah, about his family and his talmidim, and ultimately, always about what Hashem wanted. His home on Yeshiva Lane was just a few minutes from the beis medrash, but as he walked, often slowly, you could tell he was deep in thought. Talmidim recalled calling with a question and hearing silence. After a few minutes, unsure if the line had dropped, they would ask, “Rebbi, are you there?” And he was. He was thinking.
I once met him at a wedding and approached him after the chuppah to discuss something. The music was still playing, though, and he smiled and said, “Moshe Dov, could we move rooms? It’s too loud, I can’t hear myself think.” For Rav Ezra, thinking wasn’t a pause between words. It was his way to get to the depths of the question.
As a bochur, while being meshamesh Rav Yaakov Yitzchok Ruderman ztz”l, Rav Ezra had the privilege of accompanying him to Moetzes Gedolei HaTorah meetings in New York. At one such meeting, a particularly complex issue arose, and by the meeting’s end, no clear solution had been reached. Upon returning to Baltimore, Rav Ezra learned about the issue and suggested an approach to Rav Ruderman, who was deeply impressed by its insight and clarity. Rav Ruderman later presented that suggestion to the Moetzes, and it was ultimately adopted.
Rabbi Dovid (Dave) Silverman, who was very close to Rav Ruderman, recalled that for weeks afterward, whenever Rav Ezra’s name came up, Rav Ruderman would retell that story with evident pride that such a young bochur had offered such a brilliant idea. “He was such a klugge mensch,” Rav Ruderman would often say.
A well-known maggid shiur once asked Rav Ezra, “How is it possible that you have so many developed yesodos, in sugyos, in Chumash, and beyond?” Rav Ezra smiled and replied simply, “Because I never stopped thinking.”
In 1994, Rav Yaakov Weinberg ztz”l appointed Rav Ezra as rosh kollel of Ner Yisroel’s Kollel Avodas Halevi, and he later joined the yeshivah’s hanhalah as a maggid shiur. He became a pillar of the Ner Yisroel beis medrash. He guided hundreds of yungeleit, always knowing, in his quiet way, where each one was holding — and often, behind the scenes, ensuring that they were cared for.
Everything he did was behind the scenes. He was completely comfortable on the sidelines, never seeking the spotlight. Perhaps that was why his talmidim felt so comfortable turning to him — they knew he was there only for them. His shiurim and vaadim combined rigorous depth with passion for avodas Hashem, inspiring generations to learn with integrity, precision, and yiras Shamayim.
He was meshamesh Rav Yaakov Yitzchok Ruderman ztz”l for many years, absorbing the mesorah passed down from the Alter of Slabodka, the vision of gadlus ha’adam that shaped his entire worldview. He internalized the penetrating insight of Rav Yaakov Weinberg, the clarity and ahavas haTorah of Rav Yaakov Moshe Kulefsky ztz”l, and the insight and sense of achrayus he learned from his father, Rabbi Naftoli Neuberger ztz”l. As a son-in-law of Rav Meir Hershkowitz ztz”l, rosh yeshivah of Yeshiva Bais Binyomin of Stamford, he absorbed so much from that special relationship and from his father-in-law’s towering yet humble example.
Yet he was never merely an heir. He was an embodiment. He took each of those teachings and wove them, thread by thread, into something uniquely his own, much like the tapestry he painted every Friday night at the oneg in his home over the Rebbetzin’s delicious cake. He would build a world of parshah and yesodos, layers of machshavah and mussar that left his listeners marveling. The talmidim would hold on to every word and connect the yesodos to their own personal lives. It was clear that each insight had been contemplated for hours, if not years.
His office was simple. There was no phone, no computer, no technology at all, just a quiet room full of seforim, where he would learn for hours on end. There was no secretary and no schedule to navigate. You simply knocked, and you were heard. And if you called his home, it was the same. Either he answered with his warm hello, or a family member would let you know when Rebbi would next be home. Though he lived in a world of silence, he was accessible to thousands — each one feeling as if Rebbi had time only for him.
I was in Rav Ezra’s shiur for only one year, but he still became a rebbi I could turn to for guidance with life decisions. I still have notes from many of those conversations. He never viewed a question in isolation, always seeing things as part of a larger picture, recognizing how one decision could shape years to come. I once consulted with him about taking a position that seemed perfect. Others urged me to take it, but Rav Ezra cautioned me against it, and I turned it down. Years later, every one of the three reasons he had given me proved exactly right. He could see beyond the glitz, beyond the moment, straight to the yesod of the matter.
At the levayah, surrounded by talmidim from across the country — rabbanim, mechanchim, marbitzei Torah, and balabatim — I realized that same story had played out thousands of times. He had guided each of us with that same thoughtfulness, that same pause that said I’m thinking.
His older brother, Rav Shraga Neuberger, said at the levayah that Rav Ezra once explained why Chazal describe the klayos — the kidneys — as the seat of eitzah. Just as the kidneys filter what is unnecessary from the body, true eitzah filters out the external and reaches the essence. That was Rebbi. His eitzos were pure, born of depth and yashrus, untouched by noise. He seemed like a man from another era, yet he understood each generation perfectly. He was able to guide talmidim from so many different backgrounds. He connected to every bochur and yungerman without ever compromising who he was.
Rabbi Doniel Pransky, rosh kollel of the Atlanta Scholars Kollel, shared that not a day goes by without applying something he learned from Rav Ezra. Through years of guidance and countless conversations, he absorbed a foundational lesson that continues to shape his life: Ninety percent of answering a question lies in first identifying the true issues at hand. Once that clarity is reached, the answer almost reveals itself. “I use this every single day in my work with families here in Atlanta,” he says.
Rav Ezra’s clarity was rooted in his closeness to Hashem. His moral compass was always aligned with emes. Everything he did was for the sake of emes, to uncover what Hashem truly wanted. You could see it most clearly in his tefillah. Tefillah wasn’t just a part of his schedule — it was reality itself. Every tefillah was alive, deliberate, and real. And when you spoke to him, that same awareness of Hashem was present.
His care for his talmidim and for the yeshivah was remarkable. He showed genuine kavod to every person, always ensuring that each one received the recognition due him. For many years, he worked closely with the gabbaim on Shabbos, discussing and deciding who would receive the aliyos. Though tefillah was paramount to him, he cared so deeply about others that even during davening he would quietly pace up and down the rows, making sure that each guest — or anyone deserving of an aliyah — was properly acknowledged.
His family — bnei Torah of the highest caliber — are a living testimony to the extraordinary home he built. One son shared at the levayah that he always felt as if his father was a father only to him. His care for each child, in times of need and in times of joy, was beyond words; they felt as if he were always there with them.
One talmid remarked that there were times he was speaking with Rav Ezra on the phone when Rebbi’s children would come home from school. Rebbi would ask him to hold on and personally greet each child by name before continuing the conversation. It was a small gesture — but it spoke volumes about who he was.
Years before, as the sun set that Tishah B’Av afternoon, 25 flames burned with the fire of truth a young Rav Ezra Neuberger had kindled. Now, as the sun set once more over the Ner Yisroel campus — the yeshivah his father built and where Rav Ezra carried the torch of Torah — it was evident that those sparks had become a blazing light in the hearts of thousands, a light that will never fade.
Now that pause that all his talmidim knew will last a little longer. The line is quiet, the office door still. But the clarity, warmth, and emes remain. As talmidim departed the levayah, one thought lingered in every heart. Rebbi had shaped our lives not only through his words, but through his being. He taught us to think before speaking, to live with depth and not noise, to learn and daven with awareness, and to find Hashem even in the silence.
And perhaps that is the truest expression of his legacy — that even now, when his voice is quiet, we, his talmidim, can still hear him thinking out loud.
(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1085)