Missionary Renegade: Chabad Magazine – Tuesday, 6 Tevet 5774

Tuesday, January 7, 2014

Chabad Magazine – Tuesday, 6 Tevet 5774 · 7 January 2014

Editor's Note:

Dear friend,

Do you sometimes feel stuck, not knowing what to do next, with no options in sight?

The Jews found themselves in such a position. This week we read how, shortly after leaving Egypt, they were facing a formidable challenge: the Egyptian army behind them, and the sea in front of them. An argument ensued, with different groups offering different ideas: to fight, to surrender, to pray, or to simply give up and drown in the sea. But G‑d disagreed. “Speak to the children of Israel and let them travel!” He told Moses, and the rest is history.

This week, 63 years ago, the Rebbe assumed the mantle of leadership of the Chabad-Lubavitch movement. At the time the Jewish people were still recovering from the ravages of the Holocaust, and many were sinking into despair. Taking a lesson from this week’s reading, the Rebbe insisted: “Move onward! We must grow, expand our reach to wherever a Jew can be found. We mustn’t get stuck in the past . . . or in the future. Our action today is what counts.”

So, if you find yourself stuck, whether on a personal or communal issue, remember this lesson: March forward, focus on today’s G‑dly task to make this world a better place, and G‑d will take care of the rest.

Rabbi Mendy Kaminker,

on behalf of the Chabad.org Editorial Team

Daily Thought:

Objective Faith

If your belief is based upon what makes sense to you, what you find most gratifying and what best accommodates your own self-concept—then you will undoubtedly fear intellectual inquiry.

At best, your approach will be subjective and bribed.

However, if your faith is based not upon your subjective self, but because this is the reality of your inner soul, a truth to which it is intrinsically bound—then you are not afraid to inquire.

There is no apprehension of being proven wrong, only certitude that you shall understand more.

Therefore, only true faith can be truly objective.

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This Week's Features:

10 Shevat: A Day of Two Rebbes

The 10th day of the Jewish month of Shevat (Yud Shevat in Hebrew) is a most significant date on the chassidic calendar.

It is the anniversary of passing (yahrtzeit) of the sixth Lubavitcher Rebbe, Rabbi Yosef Yitzchak Schneersohn (1880–1950), of righteous memory.

It is also the day when, in 1951, the seventh Rebbe, Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson (1902–1994), of righteous memory, formally accepted the leadership of Chabad-Lubavitch with a historic discourse (maamar) and address at a gathering marking the first anniversary of his predecessor’s passing.

Quick Links:

Yahrtzeit Observances | Send a Prayer Request to the Ohel

Special Feature:

Watch a 10 Shevat Gathering with the Rebbe

From a 1972 satellite feed of a farbrengen with the Rebbe

Biographies

Rabbi Yosef Yitzchak Schneersohn

Rabbi Menachem M. Schneerson

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PARSHAH

The Four Factions

One camp proposed to throw themselves into the sea. A second group advocated return to Egypt, a third wanted war, a fourth prayer. G‑d rejected all four strategies . . .

Based on the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe

oses said to the people: “Fear not; stand by and see the salvation of G‑d which He will show you today. For as you have seen Egypt this day, you shall not see them again, forever. G‑d shall fight for you, and you shall be silent.”

G‑d said to Moses: “Why do you cry out to Me? Speak to the children of Israel, that they should go forward.” (Exodus 14:13–15)

We all know the feeling: you wake up one morning to the realization that the world is not as you would like it to be.

A common experience, to be sure, but different people have different reactions. One person embarks upon a quixotic crusade to change the world. A second gives up the world for lost, and retreats into whatever protective walls he can erect around himself and his loved ones. A third takes a pragmatic approach, accepting the world for what it is and doing his best under the circumstances. A fourth recognizes his inability to deal with the situation, and looks to a higher power for guidance and aid.

Our forefathers experienced just such a rude awakening on the seventh day after their liberation from Egypt.

Ten devastating plagues had broken the might of the Egyptians and compelled them to free the Jewish people. After two centuries of exile and slavery, the children of Israel were headed toward Mount Sinai and their covenant with G‑d. Indeed, this was the stated purpose of the Exodus: as G‑d told Moses, “When you take this nation out of Egypt, you will serve G‑d at this mountain.”

But suddenly the sea was before them, and Pharaoh’s armies were closing in from behind. Egypt was alive and well; the sea, too, seemed oblivious to the destiny of the newly born nation.

How did they react? The Midrash tells us that the Jewish people were divided into four camps. There were those who said, “Let us throw ourselves into the sea.” A second group said, “Let us return to Egypt.” A third faction argued, “Let us wage war upon the Egyptians.” Finally, a fourth camp advocated, “Let us pray to G‑d.”

Moses, however, rejected all four options, saying to the people, “Fear not; stand by and see the salvation of G‑d which He will show you today. For as you have seen Egypt this day, you shall not see them again, forever. G‑d shall fight for you, and you shall be silent” (Exodus 14:13). “Fear not, stand by and see the salvation of G‑d,” explains the Midrash, is Moses’ response to those who had despaired of overcoming the Egyptian threat and wanted to plunge into the sea. “As you have seen Egypt this day, you shall not see them again” is addressed to those who advocated surrender and return to Egypt. “G‑d shall fight for you” is the answer to those who wished to battle the Egyptians, “and you shall be silent” is Moses’ rejection of those who said, “This is all beyond us. All we can do is pray.”

What, then, is the Jew to do when caught between a hostile mob and an unyielding sea? “Speak to the children of Israel,” G‑d says to Moses in the following verse, “that they should go forward.”

Tzaddik in a Fur Coat

The road to Sinai was rife with obstacles and challenges. The same is true of the road from Sinai, our three-thousand-year journey devoted to the implementation of the ethos and ideals of Torah in our world.

Now as then, there are several possible responses to an adverse world. There is the “Let us throw ourselves into the sea” approach of those who despair of their ability to grapple with, much less impact, the world out there. Let us plunge into the sea, they say—the sea of the Talmud, the sea of piety, the sea of religious life. Let us sever all contact with an apostate and promiscuous world. Let us build walls of holiness to protect ourselves and our own from the alien winds which storm without, so that we may foster the legacy of Sinai within.

An old chassidic saying refers to a such-minded individual as ah tzaddik in peltz—a holy man in a fur coat. There are two ways to warm yourself on a cold winter day: you can build a fire, or wrap yourself in furs. When the isolationist tzaddik is asked, “Why do you think only of conserving your own warmth? Why don’t you build a fire that will warm others as well?” he replies, “What’s the use? Can I warm the entire world?” If you persist, pointing out that one small fire can thaw several frozen individuals, who may in turn create enough fires to warm a small corner of the universe, he doesn’t understand what you want of him. He is a tzaddik, remember, a perfectly righteous individual. There is no place for partial solutions in his life. “It’s hopeless,” he sighs with genuine sadness, and retreats into his spiritual Atlantis.

The Slave and the Warrior

A second camp says, “Let us return to Egypt.”

Plunging into the sea is not an option, argues the Submissive Jew. This is the world in which G‑d has placed us, and our mission is to deal with it, not escape it. We’ll just have to lower our expectations a little.

This Exodus thing was obviously a pipe dream. How could we presume to liberate ourselves from the rules and constraints that apply to everyone else? To be G‑d’s chosen people is nice, but let us not forget that we are a minority, dependent on the goodwill of the Pharaohs who hold sway in the real world out there.

Certainly, it is our duty to influence the world. But then again, the Jew has many duties: it is his duty to pray three times a day, to give charity and to observe Shabbat. So, we’ll do the best we can under the circumstances. Yes, it’s a tough life keeping all these laws while making sure not to antagonize your neighbors, but who ever said that being a Jew is easy?

A third response to an uncooperative world is that of the Fighting Jew. He understands that it is wrong to escape the world, and equally wrong to submit to it. So he takes it on, both barrels blazing.

The Fighting Jew strides through life with a holy chip on his shoulder, battling sinners, apostates, Jew-haters, un-Jewish Jews and non-fighting Jews. Not for him is the escapism of the first camp or the subservience of the second—he knows that his cause is just, that G‑d is on his side, that ultimately he will triumph. So, if the world won’t listen to reason, he’ll knock some sense into it.

The Spiritualist

Finally, there is the Jew who looks at the world, looks at the first three camps, shakes his head and lifts his eyes to the heavens. He knows that turning his back on the world is not the answer, nor is surrendering to its dictates and conventions. But he also knows that “the entirety of Torah was given to make peace in the world”; that “its ways are ways of pleasantness, and all its paths are peace.”

“You hope to peacefully change the world?!” say the other three camps. “When was the last time you looked out the window? You might as well try to empty the oceans with a teaspoon!”

“You’re absolutely right,” says the Praying Jew. “Realistically, there’s no way it can be done. But we are not subject to this reality that you are so impressed with.

“Do you know what’s the common denominator between all three of you? Your assessments and strategies are all based on the natural reality. But we inhabit a higher reality. Is not the very existence of the Jewish people a miracle? Ours is the world of the spirit, the world of the word.”

“So, basically, your approach is to do nothing,” they counter.

“Again, you are employing the standards of the material world,” answers the Praying Jew, “a world that views spiritual activity as ‘doing nothing.’ But a single prayer, coming from a caring heart, can achieve more than the most secure fortress, the most flattering diplomat or the most powerful army.”

Forward

And what does G‑d say? “Speak to the children of Israel, that they shall go forward.”

True, it is important to safeguard and cultivate all that is pure and holy in the Jewish soul, to create an inviolable sanctum of G‑dliness in one’s own heart and one’s own community. True, there are times when we must deal with the world on its own terms. True, we must battle evil. And certainly, we must acknowledge that we cannot do it on our own.

Indeed, each of the four approaches has its time and place. But none of them is the embracing vision to guide our lives and define our relationship with the world we inhabit. When the Jew is headed toward Sinai and is confronted with a hostile or indifferent world, his most basic response must be to go forward.

Not to escape reality, not to submit to it, not to wage war on it, not to deal with it only on a spiritual level, but to go forward. Do another mitzvah, ignite another soul, take one more step toward your goal. Pharaoh’s charioteers are breathing down your neck? A cold and impregnable sea bars your path? Don’t look up; look forward. See that mountain? Move toward it.

And when you move forward, you will see that insurmountable barrier yield and that ominous threat fade away. You will see that, despite all the evidence to the contrary, you have it within your power to reach your goal. Even if you have to split some seas.

From The Inside Story by Yanki Tauber.

Republished with the permission of MeaningfulLife.com. If you wish to republish this article in a periodical, book or website, please e‑mail permissions@meaningfullife.com.

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More in Women:

• Who Am I? (By Jen Stark)

Most people who know me call me Jen. I am 34 years old. I am a mother, a daughter, a wife, a sister. I am an educator by profession. And I am an observant Jewish woman. Although I choose to continue using my English name as opposed to my Jewish name, I adhere to the modest dress of knee-length skirts and long-sleeved, high-necked shirts; I cover all of my hair, as is customary for married women; and I pray to G‑d every morning. I keep a strictly kosher diet, and I try to adhere to all of the Jewish laws that are applicable to me as a Jewish woman.

However, I grew up as a secular Jewish person from a traditional home. I attended synagogue three times a year on the High I never anticipated covering all of my hairHolidays, was lenient with my kosher diet, and was most comfortable in pants and T-shirts. I never anticipated covering all of my hair as a married woman, nor did I expect that a siddur (prayerbook) would be one of my most prized possessions. So, how did I get from there to here?

At the age of 24, I met my husband. He was an observant Jewish man; he kept Shabbat and consumed only kosher food. Through our courtship I quickly realized that if he and I could even consider the possibility of marriage, we needed to share the same family values. Therefore, I chose to experiment with an observant Jewish lifestyle for myself. I discovered not just a love, but a passion, for Shabbat, and I overcame the struggles of being strictly kosher. Over time the inconveniences of not always having food at my disposal became easier, as I learned to plan ahead by bringing food with me when necessary. On the whole, I felt inherently good about my choices.

After I gave birth to my eldest son in July 2007, I decided to explore the possibility of hair-covering and modest attire. Since my son would don the customary kippah and tzitzit at the age of three, I decided that if this was important for our son’s Jewish identity, then I wanted to find ways to strengthen mine as well. I began to cover all of my hair with scarves and wigs, and I easily transitioned to wearing only skirts and long-sleeved tops.

All the while, my purpose was to strengthen my relationship with G‑d. And as my passion grew, so did my commitment to prayer. Today, at the age of 34, I find myself lost without saying my daily prayers, I am uncomfortable in clothing too short or revealing, and I feel naked without my headcoverings. As I continue to move further and further away from the very secular community in which I grew up, and inch deeper and deeper into the religious community I choose to be a part of, I feel a sense of solace in my choices. I am used to being an outsider; now I am becoming an insider in a new space.

I have found ways to contribute to my community through various leadership opportunities. I was the youth program director for my synagogue for three years, which allowed me to work with children within my neighborhood. As a summer camp director for a Jewish day camp, I have been able I have found ways to contribute to my communityto work closely with Jewish children of all backgrounds from all over Toronto. I appreciate the trust parents have given to me to educate their children, regardless of my upbringing.

But I still have a sense of unease about my choices. As a public school teacher and the daughter of secular parents, I still need to be able to function within the secular community. And yet my husband, my children and I also want to live comfortably within the religious community. I am trying so desperately to understand how to coexist within both communities.

As I ponder all of this, I ask myself: am I simply moving away from the very secular community I am so attuned to, or am I making a conscious effort to leave? Or am I even leaving it behind to begin with? Is there an element of fear of abandoning the past that contributes to the very essence of who I am and who I want to be? And of course, I must ask myself—can the “here” and “there” be in the same place and exist at the same time, thereby creating a brand-new space? As I become more involved in the observant way of life and the very tenets of my religion, which is ever reshaping my identity, I ask myself—do I have to abandon all of the old me?

What happens to identity when we move from “there” to “here”—from one space to a different space? Where is “here”? Are the “there” and “here” fluid? And when I question this fluidity, I want to understand—are the secular and observant Jewish communities fluid to begin with? Is there a possibility that this “fluidity” I am curious to understand may just be an actual evolution; and if so, as I take on a new identity, am I shedding my old identity? Or, as aspects of the old me and new me come together, am I still the old me with some changes?

I’m using this curiosity as an opportunity for discovery. I’m learning more about myself. I’m discovering how to appreciate my past so as to use it to elevate me spiritually today and in the future. I no longer choose to keep the details of my past hidden.

I am starting to understand that there do not need to be finalities to decisions, and it does not need to be all or nothing. Had I understood this earlier in my life, then maybe I would have been able to make faith-based choices more easily.

I have started to realize that identity is not linear. My spiritual journey thus far has always been based on the pretense that I must know exactly where I am at any given moment. But I am now starting to learn that we may not have all of the answers, and maybe we don’t need them to make decisions. Moreover, our identities always include a small piece of who we once were, as we continue to reshape who we currently are. It is virtually impossible to forget our pasts, and it is extremely difficult to assume that our past experiences will have no bearing over who we will continue to be.

And as I continue to solidify my identity as an observant Jewish woman, embracing the mitzvahs and laws of our religion, I am beginning to understand that I do not need to abandon all of the old me, because it is a part of who I am. In fact, it has helped to foster a love for my religion and culture; it has helped me embrace a more stringent yet rewarding way to live.

Therefore, I am now beginning to have a clearer understanding of how the “there” and “here” coexist, and how it is very possible to be a part of both spaces at the same time. I can use my secular past to help others within the observant Jewish community. I can also remain in tune with my public school students, who are of numerous cultures, ethnicities and faiths. I would like to continue to strengthen my role as an educator, both as a teacher and camp director, so that I can be a stronger teacher of character—one who gives children the tools to learn about themselves and value their own discoveries. I want to teach children to appreciate who they are, irrespective of the thoughts of others.

I also realize that my own children will reach a point where they will begin to make decisions for themselves along their spiritual journeys. As they do that, they will take pieces of their history It’s okay for my identity to always be evolvingwith them, their memories influencing their decisionmaking. I would never want them to forget who they are or where they came from, so why should I?

I always thought that I needed a fixed identity; I never realized that it was okay for my identity to always be evolving. Today I sit at a crossroads about my name, wondering whether or not to go by my Jewish name. I now realize that I will probably remain here for a while. But I know who I am. And at times, even when I am confused, this is also acceptable. It is okay to have moments of confusion. This is also part of who I am. I have also come to realize that although many of the things I choose to do enhance my identity, they do not necessarily dictate who I am. Moreover, I will forever shift back and forth between spaces, at times allowing these spaces to mingle and overlap each other.

As I grow older, I am beginning to understand that I will always be in a state of becoming.

Jennifer Stark is an elementary school teacher with the York Region District School Board and the assistant director of Camp Breakaway, a Jewish day camp located in Toronto, Ontario. She was also the youth program director of Chabad@Flamingo from 2010–2013. Jennifer resides in Thornhill, Ontario, with her husband and three boys.

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• Praise Your Spouse! (By Sarah Chana Radcliffe)

We’ve all heard that we should praise our children. We’ve even heard that we shouldn’t praise them (because, according to some opinions, praise can be harmful). No one seems to be telling us to praise or not praise our spouses, however. Oh, sure, we’ve heard about showing appreciation. We’ve even heard of expressing affection. And of course, there’s the old “give them some attention, too.” But praise? No.

Perhaps this is because the concept of praising a spouse sounds manipulative or condescending. We praise children because we want them to do certain behaviors more frequently (e.g., “You did a nice job making your It doesn’t seem right to apply this technique to adultsbed, Max!” “Good helping, Tali!”). It doesn’t seem right to apply this technique to adults. Instead, we’d rather criticize. Criticizing a spouse feels like a perfectly legitimate activity. When a spouse is neglectful, irresponsible, impolite or messy, we feel fine just saying so. But if that same spouse is attentive, responsible, respectful or neat, we don’t want to say, “Good job, Eli! Nicely done, Elyse!” In fact, we don’t want to say anything. Truth be told, we probably didn’t even notice.

We’ve trained ourselves to see everything that is wrong. But before we can offer praise, we obviously have to observe that someone did something right. Interestingly, once we start to look in the direction of right things, we start to feel happier. G‑d wants us to feel good, and therefore the Torah encourages us to focus our attention on what is “good.”

This extends to G‑d himself. Blessing G‑d, thanking G‑d and, yes, praising G‑d are all mitzvahs. Rambam explains that praising G‑d is part of the mitzvah of loving Him.1 It makes sense: Saying praise out loud helps us both feel and convey appreciation and love for G‑d.

It works this way in our relationships, too. When we praise someone, we feel good. We feel more love and appreciation. Therefore, when we praise our spouse, we come to love our spouse more. Sure, praise feels good to receive. But it feels great to give as well. Praising our spouse reminds us that the person we share life with is How does one praise a grownup?wonderful in his or her own way.

So, now that we see that the act of praising is as much for ourselves as it is for our partner, the question becomes: how does one praise a grownup?

Here are some tips for successful adult praises:

Be specific (because it helps your spouse know exactly which behaviors you appreciate).

Add feeling (because emotions enable the brain to learn better).

Be brief (because brevity will make frequent praise possible; also, excessive praise can tend to sound manipulative).

What should be praised? You can praise appearance, parenting skills, choices, performance, communication skills, behavior, personal qualities and more. Here are some examples of praises, which should be said with real energy and warmth:

“Wow! Great shoes!”

“The way you handled Esti was amazing! You were so patient!”

“You’re brilliant.”

“You really know how to deal with him!”

“You always keep your desk so clean!”

“What a clever response to your dad!”

“That’s a great choice!”

When you offer praise to your spouse, he or she feels seen, loved and appreciated. This translates into more affection directed your way. And the very act of offering this praise sends the energy of love through every cell in your body, improving your wellbeing. But, most importantly, the search for positive qualities leads to a greater appreciation and love for your spouse.

So, praise your spouse—it’s good for both of you!

Sarah Chana Radcliffe is the author of The Fear Fix, Make Yourself at Home and Raise Your Kids without Raising Your Voice. Visit her parenting page or access her teleclasses.

FOOTNOTES

1.Sefer ha-Mitzvot, Positive Mitzvah 3.

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• Learning to Love the Imperfect (By Rhona Lewis)

Picture a deserted coral cove on the Mombasa coast in the early afternoon. My colorful kikoi flutters in the sea breeze as I lower it slowly onto the smooth sand beside the cliff. Then I quickly sit down on the kikoi and dig the four corners into the hard sand to anchor it. The teal sea is quiet. An underwater field of coarse seaweed waves back and forth with the motion of the waves. Baby waves tumble into a bubbly froth at the shore. When my eyes grow tired of the dazzling sunlight, I lie down under the coral overhang. The quartz crystals clinging to the sharp coral glint in the dim light.

Now, picture the orchestra of nature playing lazily in the late afternoon at the edge of Lake Naivasha. Monkeys catapult through the yellow and green acacia trees, avoiding the long thorns that cover every twig and branch. Hippos snort in the shallow, muddy water. Two purple-and-gray Baby waves tumble into a bubbly froth at the shorehippos, their tiny ears ridiculously sized in comparison to their massive bodies, lumber onto the grassy shore to graze. I stand very still, but the wind changes and the hippos smell my intrusive presence. They look up, and lumber back into the camouflage of the murky water.

These picture-perfect scenes are the stuff of my childhood, yet I know they’re not mine. I feel like a stranger here. Although I was born in Nairobi, neither of my parents are Kenyan citizens, so I’m not automatically granted citizenship. But more than that, I’m a Jew. I belong to a different land.

Fast forward more than twenty-five years.

Picture the green Carmel mountain range undulating along Highway 2. “Here’s where Elijah and the prophets of the idol Baal brought their sacrifices,” I call out to our children, strapped safely in the back of our car. “Imagine seeing fire coming down from the sky to burn Elijah’s sacrifice!” Leaving the hills behind, fields of wheat, sunflower, cotton and corn wave in the heat of the Jezreel Valley plains. Fish ponds lie like enormous puddles, pumps working vigorously to oxygenate the water teeming with bakalah, cod, that are headed for the Shabbat table.

A couple of hours later we climb the Golan Heights. Mountain sides, covered with tawny grass and dried-out thistles, slide gently into the Jordan Valley, where the Kinneret glitters like a jade harp in the late afternoon sun. It’s hot, and the air is drier than dead bones, but my heart swells with love and pride. I want to stretch my arms out, pull the scenery It’s hot, and the air is drier than dead bonestowards me, and hug it tight, like a large gym ball, against my chest.

Because it’s all mine.

A day later, we follow a trail packed with hikers. I lose sight of my sons as they skip ahead. I bump into the woman in front of me, who’s cajoling her two-year-old into taking another step so that they’ll reach the stream that we’re all hiking towards. I notice an Eden water bottle stuffed into a scrawny tree, and empty snack wrappers flutter listlessly in the hot breeze. A small voice pipes into my consciousness, This isn’t picture-perfect nature like in Kenya. I shrug away the voice, and focus instead on the beautiful families that are out building memories with their children.

Outside our rented rooms, I lie on a wooden swing under the pine trees and watch the branches wave in the wind, patches of blue sky coming and going as the pine needles scratch the sky. I take a deep breath—and inhale the musty smell of cow dung from the cowshed fifty meters behind me. No, it’s not picture-perfect. But I love it because it’s mine—the country, the people, and even the cows.

Then it strikes me—my life is like that too. The child who rushes out every morning before I can remind him to eat a bowl of cornflakes and brush his teeth, the leak in my kitchen that has ruined an entire wall, the way the edge of my nostrils gets red and chafed whenever spring warmth sets off its pollen traps. It may not be picture-perfect, but I love it because it’s mine—packaged especially for me by G‑d.

Rhona Lewis was born and grew up in Kenya. She moved to Israel in 1991 and now lives in Beit Shemesh, where she divides her time between caring for her large, happy family and writing. She is currently working on a book of her memoirs.

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ON THE CALENDAR

What Is a Rebbe?

Before you can understand "What is a Rebbe?" you must first ask, "What am I?" Light, to be light, must have something to illuminate. by Tzvi Freeman

Rabbi Moshe Yitzchak Hecht had been the Chabad presence in New Haven, Connecticut, since 1941. The demands on him grew year by year, with a synagogue, a school, a yeshiva and many other responsibilities that required a staff several times that which he could afford.

In 1974, he wrote to the Rebbe complaining that in 33 years of work he felt he was back at the same place as when he started and that he simply could not continue.

He signed off the letter with a heart-rending plea that “the Rebbe should help and do all he can.”

The Rebbe responded—not with counsel, but with light:

I’ve already followed your advice. I’ve sent there Rabbi Moshe Yitzchak Hecht. But it appears from your letter and from those preceding it that you still are not familiar with him and with the capabilities with which this person is endowed.

Whatever the case, you should get to know him now. Immediately, everything will change—your mood, your trust in G‑d, everyday happiness, etc., etc.

Who Is a Rebbe?

Rebbe means “my master” or “my teacher.” Whether you are a small child learning alef-bet, or an expert scholar sailing the seas of the Talmud, you call your teacher, “rebbe.”

There’s another meaning to the title rebbe, one especially associated with a rabbi they called the Baal Shem Tov. The Baal Shem Tov was a teacher who touched not only your mind and heart, but could reach into your essential being and guide you to find yourself there.

Before you can understand “What is a Rebbe?” you must first ask “What am I?”

A rebbe then is a guide to your true self. Which means that before you can understand “What is a rebbe?” and “Who is a rebbe?” you must first ask “What am I” and “Who am I?”

Who Needs a Rebbe?

Imagine a rebbe as a ray of light. Light is not a thing for itself. Light is only light when it illuminates. Think of the space beyond our planet’s atmosphere; between the brilliant sun and the glowing earth is only darkness. For light to be light, you must provide something for it to enlighten.

If your major concern is getting from today to tomorrow, there is nothing to enlighten. If you consider yourself nothing more than a two-legged creature with an excess of neurons, Wikipedia and TED may be all you need.

But if you seek that which transcends physical sensation and satisfaction, if you feel a need to make sense of life, if you have ever asked yourself, “What am I doing here?” and you are looking for something deep inside yourself—then you need a rebbe to get you in touch with that inner self.

Context and Liberation

How does a rebbe do that? How could he show you something about you that you yourself could not discover?

Because as soon as you are connected to a rebbe, you are connected to a higher, wider context. A context in which you are no longer a lonely speck of dust in the vast, empty space, but a vital part of a greater whole. There, within that context, you discover where you are needed, what you are here to accomplish, and how you have the powers to fulfill that mission.

Context is everything. A sentence fallen out of a book can never make sense of itself without its story. Out of context, all meaning is distorted—often into its opposite. A precious ring in the snout of a boar, King Solomon the Wise tells us, just renders the beast yet more beastly. A swan out of context is an ugly duckling.

Connecting to a rebbe connects you to the whole.

Life out of context is called exile. Without your context, it’s not just that your place is missing. Without knowing your place, you cannot find your center, the very core of who you are.

Connecting to a rebbe connects you to the whole. And within that whole, you are liberated from exile.

Nucleus and Bonding

A rebbe is capable of doing that because he himself stands at the nucleus of that context.

All beauty in our universe begins with a nucleus. For a crystal to form, whether it be a snowflake or a diamond, a tiny nucleus of molecules must first become the basic structure from which a marvelous symmetry may extend. The same with life—whether it be a single cell, an entire tree or a human being—all begins with a tiny seed carrying the information that will unfold to form the limbs and organs of a mature organism.

All beauty and all life in our universe begins with a nucleus.

And we all form a single organism. Our bodies may be separate, but our souls are one. What makes them one? That they have a single nucleus. In that nucleus, all of us find our origin, and from it, we continue to be nurtured. Nurtured and bonded in a perfect union with one another and with the origin of all things. For that nucleus is the place where G‑d enters His universe. It is the place of a rebbe’s soul, and from there he invites you to join him.

We and G‑d

After all, what is a soul? It is G‑d breathing inside you; it is the divine presence invested within your physical body. It is what we call a neshamah—meaning a breath, as in the story of the creation of the first human being, “And G‑d blew into his nostrils the breath of life.” At every moment, G‑d breathes within us, and through that breath we are one with Him and He is one with us. In that breath, we are our Creator.

G‑d is one, and so He is found in our oneness.

G‑d is one, and so He is found in our oneness. Not as individuals, but as a whole; a singularity. Not as I, but as we. As a harmony of multifarious parts becoming one.

Which means that to find that oneness, that place inside you in which you are one with your G‑d, you must first connect your soul with other souls, which connect with yet more networks of souls, all forming a single cell around a single nucleus. That nucleus, in turn, is the nodal point at which G‑d’s breath enters. It is where all things become one.

In that nucleus, a rebbe stands, and from there he brings us together as one, to feel one another, to know us, to know ourselves, and to know our center, our core, the place where G‑d enters each of our souls. A rebbe connects us with our G‑d—and then gets out of the way.

Heads and Heads

Rebbe, they say, stands for rosh b’nei Yisrael. That means “A head of the Jewish People.”

Most of us think of a head as a control center. The head tells the heart, the lungs, the stomach, the fingers and toes what to do. Certainly, I am not interested in handing myself over to one who controls me. G‑d gave me my life to be me, not to be controlled by someone else.

But if you think of your own head, it is certainly not like that. That is, unless you are the philosopher who complained at the end of his days, “My whole problem, it turns out, is that I have no body, only a head.”

A head, before it is a head, is first part of a body.

The head we are talking about here is not a philosopher’s head, or an artificial head. It is the head of an organism, a body. Which means that before it is a head, it is first a part of this body. And so, the head is not concerned with consuming all other body parts into the head’s agenda. The head is concerned with the heart being a healthy heart, the stomach being a healthy stomach, the fingers doing what fingers are supposed to do and the toes keeping well within their own domain as well. The head is concerned with each body part fulfilling its own agenda.

So too a rebbe is firstly a servant of his people.

Knowing Your Name

Jerry Levine was an anchorman for Miami’s Channel 10 News, and a good one. He had won an Emmy for producing programs encouraging Floridians to participate in regular medical examinations. But in 1989, Rabbi Sholom Lipskar asked him to work for his organization, Aleph, assisting Jewish prisoners and military personnel and their families.

Jerry was young and thought, “Hey, here’s a great opportunity to try something new and different. And I can always get back into the news business if it doesn’t work out.”

So, at Rabbi Lipskar’s suggestion, Jerry wrote to the Rebbe to ask his advice, providing many details about himself and his personal goals.

The Rebbe’s response? A fax arrived on Rabbi Lipskar’s desk: “Tell me all his names.”

Jerry thought he had told the Rebbe all his names: Yosef ben Hirsch Leib ha’Levi. But when he went to talk with his mother about it, she told him it was Yosef Mordechai ben Hirsch Leib ha’Levi.

So he wrote again, this time with his full name. The Rebbe responded, telling him to ask the advice of a good friend.

“What I got from that,” Jerry says, “is that this is a different sort of leader.”

Any other leader would have been concerned with “What can this person provide my organization? How can he get us better media exposure?”

The Rebbe’s concern, in Jerry’s words, was that a Jewish boy didn’t know his own name. How did he know that? How did he recognize something was missing?

Why shouldn’t he? As a brain knows what the stomach needs, so a rebbe knows a Jew better than the Jew knows his own self.

That is the job of a rebbe—to help you find your name, your true self, and where you belong.

But it is not the knowing that is relevant here. It is the caring. That was the Rebbe’s first concern, because that is the job of a rebbe—to help you find your name, your true self, and where you belong.

Nothing For Yourself

Freddy Hager, came as a young man to see the Rebbe. He showed the Rebbe a picture of his grandfather, who had been a chassidic rebbe in Galicia.

The Rebbe asked him, “Do you know what it means to be a rebbe?” But Freddy didn’t respond. So the Rebbe answered.

“The Baal Shem Tov was the first rebbe. He would not go to sleep at night as long as he had anything of value left in his house. Whatever he had, he gave away to those who needed it.”

“That’s what it means to be a rebbe,” concluded the Rebbe. “Whatever you have, you have for others.”

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Salvaging a house plant is a lot like salvaging your own life. by Tzvi Freeman

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Missionary Renegade

Tuesday, January 7, 2014

Chabad Magazine – Tuesday, 6 Tevet 5774 · 7 January 2014

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