Dear Matzav Inbox,
In recent weeks, a glossy new effort has begun making the rounds, complete with polished language and lofty promises, all centered on one seductive phrase: helping bochurim “know Kol HaTorah Kulah” by learning Rambam. It sounds inspiring. It sounds ambitious. It sounds holy. And it is precisely because it sounds so good that it deserves to be challenged, forcefully and without apology.
A bochur is not supposed to be mastering Kol HaTorah Kulah. That may sound jarring to some ears in an age addicted to slogans and shortcuts, but it is a simple truth rooted in mesorah, experience, and common sense.
A bochur is supposed to be learning how to learn.
That is not a semantic distinction. It is the entire foundation of the yeshiva system.
The goal of the formative yeshiva years has never been encyclopedic knowledge. It has never been box-checking or coverage. It has never been about being able to say, “I finished X” or “I know Y.” The goal has always been something far deeper and far less flashy: acquiring the tools, discipline, patience, and intellectual honesty required to engage Torah seriously for a lifetime.
Learning how to learn means grappling with a sugya until it hurts. It means struggling through a Tosafos that refuses to cooperate. It means developing the ability to ask the right questions, to recognize when something does not yet make sense, and to sit with that discomfort rather than paper it over with summaries or surface-level clarity. It means learning a derech halimud, not collecting achievements.
And crucially, it means learning what one’s yeshiva tells him to learn.
The yeshiva system is not an accident. It is not a haphazard assembly of masechtos and meforshim. It is the result of generations of refinement by Torah giants who understood that Torah growth requires structure, restraint, and patience. Bochurim are not free agents building personal Torah portfolios. They are talmidim being shaped, carefully, by a framework designed to produce depth, not breadth.
When a yeshiva chooses a particular masechta, a particular approach, a particular emphasis, it is doing so with one goal in mind: building a ben Torah. Not a walking index. Not a marketing success story. A ben Torah.
The recent push to redirect bochurim toward mastering Rambam under the banner of “knowing Kol HaTorah Kulah” fundamentally misunderstands this. Limud of Rambam is, of course, sacred. Learning Rambam is invaluable. But when, how, and for whom matters. Not every good thing is good at every stage. Not every lofty goal is appropriate for every age. And not every powerful sefer belongs at the center of a bochur’s already demanding and carefully calibrated learning schedule.
What worries me most is not the Rambam itself, but the mindset behind the campaign.
We are increasingly uncomfortable with process. We crave outcomes. We want to be able to say that our bochurim are “doing something,” “finishing something,” “knowing something.” We want neat narratives and impressive claims. And so we invent new tracks, new initiatives, new frameworks, often without asking the most important question of all: Who asked for this?
Our bochurim are already under immense pressure. They are navigating demanding learning schedules, expectations from yeshivos, families, peers, and shidduch systems, all while trying to figure out who they are and how they fit into the world of Torah. The last thing they need is yet another external program whispering in their ear that what they are doing is not enough, that unless they are also “knowing Kol HaTorah Kulah,” they are somehow missing the boat.
That is not encouragement. That is distraction.
And distraction in the formative years is not benign. It pulls a bochur off track, not in dramatic rebellion, but in subtle misalignment. Focus becomes divided. Priorities blur. The message shifts from “immerse yourself fully in your yeshiva’s derech” to “add this on, just in case.” Over time, that erosion matters.
We should be deeply wary of new inventions in chinuch, especially those introduced from outside the yeshiva world and marketed directly to bochurim. Mesorah does not reject innovation out of fear; it rejects it out of responsibility. The burden of proof lies with those who want to change the system, not with those who are protecting it.
There will be a time—many times, in fact—when a Jew can and should broaden his horizons, build bekius, master Rambam, and aspire toward encompassing Torah knowledge. That time is not defined by a catchy campaign or an advertising push. It comes naturally, organically, after the foundations have been laid.
A bochur does not need to know Kol HaTorah Kulah.
He needs to know how to learn Torah.
He needs to know a derech halimud.
How to make a laining – or a “lainis‘ for the old timers – on a Gemara.
He needs to know how to stay on track even when shiny alternatives beckon.
Let us not confuse ambition with wisdom.
Let us not mistake slogans for substance.
And let us not pull our bochurim off the path that generations before us fought so hard to preserve.
Sometimes the most responsible thing we can say to a new idea—no matter how well-intentioned—is simply this: not now, and not for them.
A Simple Yid
The Tri-State
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