“I Don’t Like Torah Learning”—What Rabbi Steinman Answered a Struggling Student

“What should I do? I just don’t like studying.”

That painful thought kept echoing in Chaim’s mind. “It’s not for me,” he kept telling himself. “Some people truly enjoy learning Torah, and some don’t. I’m clearly part of the second group. So why do they keep pushing me to sit and learn?”

The question bothered him deeply, and he couldn’t ignore it anymore. In his struggle, Chaim decided to go to one of the greatest Torah sages of our generation—Rabbi Aharon Yehuda Leib Steinman zt”l. Maybe the rabbi would understand. Maybe he could even “exempt” him from Torah learning. That way, he thought, “I’ll be able to go do what I do enjoy, without feeling constant guilt.”

Before approaching Rabbi Steinman, Chaim spoke to his close student and assistant, Rabbi Yitzchak Levenstein. He asked for permission to speak privately with the Rav and requested gently, “Please don’t interrupt me during the conversation.” Rabbi Levenstein agreed.

Chaim entered the small, humble room on Chazon Ish Street and sat quietly across from the elderly Rav. Then he asked his question—but not in the way anyone expected.

“Does the Rav enjoy steak?” he asked.

Rabbi Steinman looked at him with simple honesty and replied, “I don’t know what that is.”

And truly, who could imagine a fancy dish like steak ever entering the modest home of the Torah giant?

Chaim continued boldly. “Steak is meat—it’s cut into slices before cooking. Each slice is fried in oil, and then cooked in a delicious, seasoned sauce. It’s extremely tasty. Maybe I could even bring some for the Rosh Yeshiva to try?”

Rabbi Steinman looked up at him in quiet surprise.

That’s when Chaim burst out, pain spilling from his heart. “Rosh Yeshiva, let me explain what I mean. The Rav doesn’t like steak—and no one is forcing him to eat it. But I—I don’t like Torah! So why are they forcing me to taste it? Why am I being forced to study it?”

The room grew quiet. The Rav sat in deep thought. He could feel the inner struggle in the young man’s voice, and his question wasn’t being dismissed. It was real.

Then Rabbi Steinman asked softly, “Is honey sweet?”

“Yes,” Chaim answered.

“Everyone agrees that honey is sweet,” the Rav nodded. “But what if someone comes and says honey is bitter? What would we think?”

“He’s lying,” Chaim answered quickly. “Honey is clearly sweet.”

But the Rav smiled gently and said, “Not necessarily. He may not be lying. It’s possible that he has wounds in his mouth—so when he tastes honey, it burns. It feels bitter, not because the honey is bitter, but because his mouth is wounded.”

He looked at Chaim with warmth and said, “I don’t know you personally. But it’s possible that you have wounds in your mouth. Wounds from lashon hara (negative speech), gossip, hurtful words, or impure language. And because of those wounds, when your mouth tastes Torah—it feels bitter instead of sweet.”

He paused and then added, “But the Torah itself is sweet. Its sweetness is real. Just like everyone knows honey is sweet—everyone who has tasted Torah with a pure mouth knows its beauty. Its depth. Its joy.

“If it feels bitter to you now,” he leaned closer, “go and heal your wounds. Heal your mouth from forbidden speech and negativity. And once those wounds are healed—you’ll taste the sweetness of Torah.”