Remembering the Rebbe: Lessons from a Shliach's Childhood Home

Next week the Yahrtzeit (anniversary of passing) of the Lubavitcher Rebbe of Blessed memory will be marked across the globe. He loomed larger than life for me throughout my childhood, and though he passed away shortly after we moved to the North Shore, I continue to feel his presence each day of my life. I try to dedicate this day to reflect on his teachings, and celebrate his profound impact on world Jewry. I think of his strong and ongoing influence on my life and how that shaped me to a large degree into who I am, and what it is that I do.

My father, a Russian-born Israeli immigrant, comes from a long line of Chabad Chassidim. He came to this country to be close to the Rebbe, and together with my mother was among the first wave of Shluchim, emissaries to be appointed and sent by the Rebbe. Our "posting" was in Philadelphia, where my parents remain "stationed" till this day.

The lives of Chabad Shluchim have never been a typical nine to five. It's always been more a way of life than a career. My parents and my upbringing were no different. I learned as a child that a home is not only a place for a family to grow up in. We were taught, as Shluchim of the Rebbe, that our home could be that and so much more.

Though there were certainly enough times that our home was a private place for us to bond as a family and grow with one another, more often than not it served as an oasis for a tired and hungry soul to have a hot meal. Often they were lonely people, hungering for a morsel of human kindness as well.

People like Mr. Hechster, who was in Auschwitz and had concentration camp numbers tattooed on his arm.

Or Mottel T., a severely troubled Jewish Vietnam veteran, who drummed incessantly with his fingers on our dining room table.

Or Gershon W., our very own messenger from on high, a self-appointed messianic savior sent to redeem the Jews of Bustleton Ave. Our home was the only place he had to go in between frequent stints in the psychiatric ward of Nazareth Hospital.

Or Rabbi Farber, one of the many roving “Meshulachim” (Tzedakah collectors), an annual guest, who moved in, stayed with us and ate with us. He was always playing some kind of game where the fingers of both his hands were constantly locking and unlocking from each other; with him we were always left wondering what his real story was, especially when we would catch him sitting alone wiping a tear from his eye.

Whether it was the Messiah from Nazareth Hospital, Rabbi Farber, Mottel, or Gershon, or Herschel, who had epilepsy and refused to tell the truth about anything, seemingly on principle, or the many others like him, they all shared one thing in common. All of them always left our home feeling a bit lighter than when they walked in, comforted in the simple knowledge that they were not alone in the world.

My head spins with the memories of these people. I know that we did this for only one reason. We did it because this is what the Rebbe expected of us. We did it because we learned this from him.

Watching my Rebbe as I grew up made me realize that though he was the Rebbe for heads of state, high-ranking government officials, and influential Jewish leaders, he was also very much my Rebbe and yours as well. Our Rebbe.

He was the Rebbe for all the lonely sad people of this world, giving them renewed hope in humanity, daring to beam his deep and holy light, in the aftermath of the retreat of light itself. He waded into the valley of the shadow of death that engulfed an entire generation of broken survivors. He dared to confront a darkness that sent a shiver down the spine of darkness itself.

He lifted them with a worldwide army of Shluchim. These Emissaries for life served as his “Outstretched Arms;” devoted and selfless men and women serving as envoys of goodness and kindness, tasked with sharing the wisdom and joy of Judaism to every corner of the world.

He was the Rebbe for the survivors, the madmen, the wounded soldiers of the Israeli army, and even the messiah from Nazareth Hospital.

Though I would be accurate in paying tribute to him as being the Rebbe who possessed the deepest, most innovative teachings of our generation, I choose instead to pay tribute to him as the leader who showed the deepest love for the Jewish people in our generation.

I always related to him more as the “Kohen Gadol” (high priest) than the “Gadol Hador” (term to describe the preeminent Torah authority of a generation), though he was unquestionably that as well.

Just as the “Kohen Gadol” lovingly led the lost lepers back into the Israelite camp in ancient times, so too did this once-in-a-generation Chasidic Rebbe take the saddened, defeated and hopeless post-Holocaust Jewish community by their collective hand, and lead them gently back into the camp.

Though I could recall him as the Moses, or Maimonides of our time, and I would be entirely accurate, I prefer to remember him at this moment as Elisha the prophet of our times, breathing renewed life into the dead bones of an entire generation.

Dear Rebbe, I hope you look down on us with joy and pride from your heavenly place.