ב"ה

Rabbi's weekly Blog

As Robert felt uncomfortable at the Chabad House in Basel.

Friday, August 30, 2024 - 6:28 AM

Robert lived in Basel a few years ago for several years with his wife and three sons. They came from New Jersey to Basel. They would occasionally come to events at the Chabad House, and personally, Robert and I became good friends. We are still friends, and they now live back in New Jersey.

This week, he came to Basel and visited the Chabad House with his sons to say hello, see the bookshelf they helped establish in memory of his dear mother Malka, enjoy an excellent homemade yeast cake, say "L'chaim" together, and of course, put on tefillin.

During our conversation, we reminisced, and Robert recalled and shared with me and his sons a special experience he had, one that I would like to share with you because we can all learn from it.

It was on the first anniversary of his dear mother's passing, and he came to the Chabad House to pray and say Kaddish. I wasn’t in Basel that Shabbat, and Robert didn’t coordinate his visit with me, which is perfectly fine.

Robert began to say Kaddish, but somehow, very quickly, he felt he wasn’t keeping up with the pace. He was slow, and the Hebrew words, which he was reading from a phonetic text, meaning they were written in Latin letters, didn’t flow easily for him, and he felt quite embarrassed. Moreover, there was another congregant who was saying Kaddish quickly, and Robert felt that the congregation was not pleased with his slow, less polished recitation of Kaddish.

His discomfort and insecurity grew, and there was even a moment when he considered getting up and leaving the synagogue. But he quickly gathered himself and said to himself, "I came for my mother, I will stay for my mother."

Later, one of the congregants, who noticed Robert’s discomfort, approached him and offered to sit next to him. From that moment on, whenever they had to say Kaddish, the older, more experienced congregant stood with him, and together they recited the Kaddish slowly, word by word. The confidence, calm, and comfort returned.

Robert shared this story with his children exactly when we were putting on tefillin, and they had to find their way in the prayer book and recite the Shema. Robert wanted them to know not to run away from discomfort and insecurity if they arise because in the end, we are all human, and there’s a good chance you might feel uncomfortable in a synagogue you go to for the first time. But there’s just as good a chance that you’ll find a kind and sensitive person who will be there to lend a hand, an ear, and a lot of heart.

I admit that even though I already knew the story, it was difficult for me to hear him relive the experience. After all, he isn’t talking about just any synagogue; he’s talking about the Chabad House, and not just any Chabad House, but the one I am responsible for, where my soul is imprinted in its walls. I bear witness to heaven and earth that if there is one ultimate purpose for this place, it is precisely this: that every Jew feels at home here, whether it’s a slow or fast Kaddish, polished or stammered. Not only is there room for everyone, this is the place, and it is the very foundation of the existence of every Chabad House. And even though the story has a wonderful ending, where sensitivity did find its way to him and he left with a positive, formative experience, it was still hard to hear.

I learned from this then, and it’s a lesson that still stays with me: despite all your efforts and intentions, there is a chance that a Jew will not feel comfortable in your Chabad House. And that means reminding myself and the other congregants again and again, to remember and not forget, to come with and offer sensitivity, warmth, and love to all who enter the house of G-d, wherever it may be.

When he told me this again yesterday, I lifted my eyes to the heavens and quietly said: “Master of the Universe, I understand that I need to hear this again; apparently, I still have room for improvement here. Thank you for the reminder.”

To my friends who don’t come to the synagogue often, please, even if you had an unpleasant experience, don’t give up, come again.

To my friends who come to the synagogue often, please, when someone enters and makes you uncomfortable, consider that he is experiencing it sevenfold.

To my fellow rabbis, if you’ve read this text, well, it’s possible that G-d wanted to give you a reminder.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

A great man

Thursday, August 22, 2024 - 8:53 PM

There are still two and a half hours until the flight from Istanbul to Almaty, and about an hour and a half until the information about the gate for the flight to Kazakhstan will appear on the screen.

It’s hot here, not really air-conditioned, and I’m thinking about my journey to visit Rabbi Levik. Rabbi Levik is the great rabbi, the chassidic scholar, and the kabbalist, Rabbi Levi Yitzchak Schneerson, the Rebbe's father, who passed away on the 20th of Menachem Av 5704 (1944). This upcoming Shabbat marks 80 years since then, 1944 - 2024.

Rabbi Levik was exiled by the Soviets because he stood in their way of destroying Judaism in the Soviet Union, as he served as the chief and unwavering rabbi of the city now known as Dnipro, today in Ukraine, back then in the Soviet Union.

The Rebbe's father was sent to years of suffering in prisons and to a forgotten city of exile with extreme and nearly unbearable weather in Kazakhstan, where he eventually fell ill and passed away 80 years ago. Chabad chassidim wish to honor the Rebbe by essentially coming in his place to the grave of his father on his yahrzeit. (The American Chabadniks, who are not as familiar with the concept of organizing funds, getting excited, buying a ticket, getting excited again, and then flying a long way to reach a place where they will experience spiritual elevation, are particularly enthusiastic about this.)

I don't really know who Rabbi Levik was; I don't have the tools to appreciate the greatness of his personality, but from reading the diary of his wife, Rebbetzin Chana, of blessed memory, it becomes clear between the lines that she knew she was living with a great man. This was a woman who was the daughter of a rabbi, the wife of a rabbi, and the mother of the Rebbe, an intelligent and very wise woman, whose entire life revolved around extraordinary people. Yet, from her writings, it seems she understood that she was living alongside a man who lived life differently, a man who lived on a different plane than the rest of humanity.

Sometimes, I find that a concept I’m thinking about suddenly receives reinforcement from an unexpected source. This week, I met Dayan Raskin, also known as Dayan Rabbi Levi Yitzchak Raskin of London, whose father, Rabbi Shalom Ber Raskin, was 19 years old when he met Rabbi Levik in Almaty, Kazakhstan, during the last months of his life. I asked him if his father remembered Rabbi Levik. Dayan Raskin immediately said, "Of course he remembered, but one thing my father would always recall with teary eyes was how, after Rabbi Levik’s passing, Rebbetzin Chana cried, saying, 'A great man, who have you left us with?'"

In my humble opinion, each of us has moments of greatness. These are the moments when we are willing to give up what is important in the standard dimension of our lives for a life that expresses our core essence. Perhaps it’s not even a willingness to give up but simply an awareness that there is a completely different dimension of life—one that is deeper and more true—and in a moment of truth, we devote ourselves to it.

Greatness, in my view, is the recognition of our inner personality, our divine soul, and living according to it. The direct result of this would be more humility and less pride, leading to less harm and vulnerability. The material race would calm down, resulting in less disappointment and more joy. Our self-worth would become spiritual, growing and flourishing because it would no longer be defined by material achievement.

If we lived this way, if we placed this in contrast to our daily conduct, we would come closer to the definition of a "great man."

Rabbi Levik was a great man in his very essence, in every moment of his life, in every word he spoke, and in everything he did.

I am not traveling to become a great man; I am traveling to connect to the greatness of others.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

something I haven't yet cracked emotionally

Friday, August 9, 2024 - 6:46 AM

Here's something I haven't yet cracked emotionally. I mean, I pretty much understand it in my mind, but my heart somehow isn't fully in sync with the realization.

I have a friend who's an optician and owns a glasses store. We talk from time to time because, while he sees well physically and even helps others see well, when it comes to seeing beyond, what we call "seeing with the mind's eye" or perceiving reality, optics don't really help, and you need a good friend to challenge what seems obvious.

So, my friend and I occasionally meet and talk, challenging each other's perspectives. When it comes to having a positive outlook on the world, we've made quite good progress. He and I have gradually learned to see the world in a positive light, and that wasn't easy. It's not easy for someone who's been used to seeing the good as "so-so," just about to end, and the bad as a static catastrophe, to change direction and see the bad as a temporary "so-so" and the good as a stable, amazing, beautiful, and wonderful state.

But then came the next stage, which I still haven't cracked, and that's what people today call a "prosperity mindset." TikToks and Instagrams are full of it, but I tried it a bit earlier—living with a prosperity mindset.

It turns out that, regardless of a person’s bank account, there are those who, even with a million dollars in the bank and a few investment properties on the side, live with a poverty mindset or at least a "so-so" mentality, not with a prosperity mindset. That means they're always feeling like it’s about to end, and everything will blow up eventually, and who knows what tomorrow will bring. Then there are those who have just what they need for today, and they live with a sense of abundance. They do worry in principle, but in their feelings, everything is fine, and it’s going to get even better. Or in my words, their head worries a little, but their heart is truly calm.

Once I understood this and noticed that I belong to the first type, the one who worries and lives with a sense of lack even when they have enough, I started searching for a way to live with a "prosperity mindset."

My optician friend was the perfect match for this, since he’s from the same background as me, received the same education, and, whether he has enough or not, lives with the feeling that it’s about to end, and worry runs his life.

Our success with the positive outlook helped a lot here, and indeed, our lives changed. I wouldn’t be exaggerating if I said they changed beyond recognition. But still, there's something that hasn't yet been cracked.

This week, we talked after a long time, and right at the beginning, he told me that a woman who works at a store near him said to him: "Du lebst im Bewusstsein der Armut." ("You live in a poverty mindset.") “How can that be? I’ve changed, and I see everything positively. So, what is this mindset?” And don’t get me wrong, we're talking about a cheerful person, smiling, loves people, kind, and generous.

I remembered a Rashi I studied in the daily Torah portion lesson on the verse, “For the Lord your God has blessed you in all the work of your hands; He knows your walking through this great wilderness these forty years; the Lord your God has been with you; you have lacked nothing.” And on this, Rashi, who seems to have come straight from a TED talk, a TikTok video, or a consciousness workshop, says: "For the Lord your God has blessed you"—therefore, don’t deny (lit. don’t cover up) His goodness by pretending to be poor; rather, show yourselves as wealthy."

Wait, what does it mean to "show yourselves as wealthy"? And what if I am poor?

(By the way, is it possible that Rashi wrote this in Worms, Germany? Maybe he also wrote "Bewusstsein der Armut/Reichtums"?)

I asked my friend: When you give your child 100 euros for a treat during the holidays, how hard is that for you? I’m not talking about something you consider a waste, but an expense you understand is unavoidable. When you spend it, what’s the experience like? If the experience is a certain tightening in the heart, then the mindset is still one of poverty. And maybe your neighbor in the business, with her great sensitivity, noticed this vibe that you're giving off.

To you, my friends, I say that I’m not there yet myself. The understanding is there; I believe I understand well what Rashi is saying, meaning what, according to Rashi, God demands of us, which is to live with a prosperity mindset—"for the Lord your God has blessed you...you have lacked nothing." But, as mentioned, my heart isn’t quite there yet.

With blessings for complete redemption, personal and collective.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

Where is the lake?

Friday, August 2, 2024 - 3:32 AM

We couldn't manage a family vacation in the mountains this year as respectable homeowners do, but we did succeed in going on a short couples' getaway. Therefore, I thought of writing about the experience and thereby extending the vacation, at least in spirit or imagination.

Well, it is well-known in our family that I love water very much. Small or large waterfalls, rushing and quiet stream channels, and especially lakes. A lake broadens my soul greatly, and in Switzerland, which is rich in lakes, if the lake is located somewhere at the height of the Alps, how wonderful and pleasant it is since the soul expands from the altitude, the expanse, and the beauty, and all the ‚Ma Rabu Maasecha,' which is amplified, doubled, and tripled. But alas, I do not always reach the desired lake.

It goes like this: let's say the rented house is located at a height of 1500 or 1800 meters above sea level, so it's not too hot and not too cold. In the early morning, after morning prayers and breakfast, a person and his wife set out for the cable cars, preferably the open ones, which are like a bench rising between heaven and earth to a height of 2500 or 2700 meters. From there, he chooses a trail or route for a descent on foot from the mountain, usually a descent of an hour and a half to three hours. Quality hiking boots make all the difference, and the pleasant walk on the mountainsides between clouds, with snow that hasn't melted on one side and green summer expanses on the other, is the real deal. Wonderful conversations take place in such places between walkers, sometimes loud and noisy, sometimes smiling, and quite often a silent dialogue of long quiet, all full of thought.

This year, as mentioned, we spent a few days in the French Alps. We set out in the morning as described, and I said, why check routes in advance when you can just go with the flow? At worst, we'll end up somewhere different from where we started. We got off the open cable car, saw a sign indicating an hour and a half walk towards a lake. A brief look at the map there, and yes, there is a beautiful lake between the mountains. True, it was a fast day, the Seventeenth of Tammuz, but an hour and a half is nothing for us. We walked for three hours, descended the whole mountain, it was magnificent, splendid, and soul-expanding, but there was no lake, we didn't find it. I suppressed my deep disappointment and focused on the day that was.

The next day, we had a similar experience. This time we went down a trail near our lodging, people said, 'Go down there behind, half an hour between the trees and you'll reach a lake.' Again, I didn't check and just went with the flow, it was beautiful and pleasant, but we didn't find a lake. And I, who imagined sitting by the lake and perhaps even dipping my tired feet in it, found myself sitting on a stone by a winding road, basking in my disappointment.

As I looked inward to understand if I was disappointed because I didn't reach the lake or because 'I' didn't reach the lake, meaning, is the disappointment that there is no lake or that I made a mistake again, the question was cast to the Master of the Universe, "Dear Father, why did you send me day after day to deal with this? What is my lesson here?"

Pretty quickly, I realized it’s either-or, either you go with the flow as you like when setting out, and then it’s not certain you’ll find your lake and you’ll be disappointed, or you plan your outing properly, not as spontaneously, and then you’ll definitely reach the water and not be disappointed.

‘What do you prefer,’ my wife asked when I shared my thoughts with her, ‘to plan or to be disappointed? To go with the flow or to reach the water?’ ‘Both,’ I replied immediately. Yes, I want to both go with the flow without planning and also reach the water. Which is a lovely desire, perhaps a bit childish, but definitely charming. ‘And what is your lesson from these two lake-less days?’ she continued to challenge. I was silent; I had no answer, or perhaps I didn’t have the courage to acknowledge it. But the next day, I already knew: my significant lesson is dealing with disappointment. This means, in essence, knowing how to contain the disappointment from the mistake or miss so that it doesn’t overshadow the day that has passed and the one to come.

I trust you, my dear friends, to know how to connect this reflection to the Torah portion of Masei, for this is a story of a dual journey. Physical and spiritual, geographical and emotional, pedestrian and heartfelt.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

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