Rabbi's weekly Blog

Today's article is rather heavy, perhaps mainly for the more advanced, but what can we do? Tomorrow is the 18th of Elul, the birthday of the Baal Shem Tov, the Alter Rebbe, and the beginning of studies at the Tomchei Tmimim Yeshiva in Lubavitch, so there's no choice. 

If you still decide to continue reading, here's my advice: prepare yourself a "kelechke," which in Yiddish means a "glezelle," which in Hebrew means a small glass. Put something a bit sharp in it, and let's get started.

There's a well-known and quite dramatic story – both awe-inspiring and sacred – told by the sixth Lubavitcher Rebbe (the Rayatz). It's a story that, on the surface, is hard to digest, but if we delve into it a bit, in my humble opinion, it holds something of the novelty of Chassidus in general and specifically Chabad Chassidus, as it was given to us by the Alter Rebbe, the author of the Tanya, especially in the Tanya itself.

The story is about a chassid who was a wealthy man and gave a lot of charity, but fortune turned against him, and he lost all his wealth and even became indebted. He came to the Rebbe (the Alter Rebbe) and poured out his heart with much weeping and inner anguish, saying: "If the Holy One, blessed be He, has afflicted me and, Heaven forbid, decreed poverty upon me, I accept the judgment. But how is it possible that I should remain, Heaven forbid, in debt and not repay or not fulfill the promises I made to my relatives and family, including the matter of my daughters’ marriages? After all, I promised them when I was wealthy, which according to our holy Torah, I had the right to do. If I do not fulfill my promises now, it will be a desecration of G-d‘s name."

And he wept bitterly... concluding his words: "Rebbe, I must repay all my debts; I must give to all my relatives and family what I promised them, and I must provide for my two daughters what I promised them."

Now, try to imagine the following scene:

"The great Rebbe leaned on his holy arms in deep concentration, listening to his pleas and tears. After some time, the Rebbe raised his holy head and said with intense devotion: 'You are telling me everything you need, but what you are needed for, you do not mention at all.'"

When the chassid heard these words from the great Rebbe, they penetrated deeply into his heart's core. He collapsed entirely and fainted... When he awoke, he spoke to no one, but he began engaging in Torah study and prayer with a new vitality and devotion, forgetting everything else. Though he did not speak to anyone and fasted every day, devoting himself to Torah and heartfelt prayer, he was filled with great joy, and all his work was done with fervor and uplifted spirit."

Most people understand the relationship between a chassid and his Rebbe, and indeed the act of going to the Rebbe to receive a blessing, in the typical way: a person has a problem, difficulty, Heaven forbid, some challenge, and they go to ask for a blessing. Usually, they receive one, and it's wonderful.

But then the Alter Rebbe comes along and something new is born: a chassid comes to ask for a blessing that he thinks he needs, and the Rebbe, instead of answering him based on what the chassid thinks he needs, answers based on what he truly needs, thereby lifting him to another dimension. The Rebbe suddenly tells him, "You're asking me for something that will keep you in your world, but I want to take you into mine. I want to give you a new perspective on life, to take you to a different way of living, to transform you so you live differently." And like in the aforementioned awe-inspiring story, a Jew comes with his self, as he knows it, and the Alter Rebbe, raising his head in deep devotion to his soul – the part of God within him – connects to the chassid's soul and elevates him upward, sending him into a new world. This particular chassid was a vessel for it, and indeed he became a new person. (Don't worry, there was a happy ending – he eventually received a blessing and was able to repay his debts, etc.)

This story is the story of everyone who adheres to Chabad Chassidus. In the introduction to the Tanya, the Alter Rebbe writes, "Instead of coming to me for a personal meeting, what is known as a 'yechidus,' I am giving you this book that will do the work I would have done with you in 'yechidus.'" Wait, what does this mean for me? I'm a little Zalman sitting in Basel, dealing with regular struggles like anyone else, maybe like that chassid who came to the Alter Rebbe, and he's telling me: What I would tell you in a private meeting is written in the Tanya. Okay, so I open the Tanya, and there he's talking to me about a divine soul and its garments, about an intense unity with God, about who truly serves God, about a hidden love burning inside me. In other words, the Alter Rebbe is essentially telling me: "Zalman, fly upwards! There are entire worlds you've never known, there are layers within you that you haven't met, there's an entire dimension you haven't experienced. Step out of the material and physical world for a moment and come to meet your soul, your spirit, and your essence."

Lechaim, chassidim, Lechaim,

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

It's unpleasant to experience condescension. It's unpleasant to be around a person who looks down on you, and it's even more unpleasant when you ask for advice or help from a place of need, and the giver responds with a certain degree of condescension. 

I knew this; everyone knows this the moment they first experience condescension. What I didn't know is that sometimes, I myself can be condescending, or at least that's how the person speaking to me feels at times.

I have some memories in my mind, or perhaps more accurately, memories in my heart, of people who came to me, shared their pain, and I responded from a place of being knowledgeable, wise, the one who understands everything at once and knows what the other person is dealing with. It was gentle, wrapped in consideration, but the other person experienced condescension, bordering on disrespect.

These memories are not from the past year or even from two years ago, but not much longer than two years. I don't know if this happens today; I'm sure it does from time to time, but thank G-d I haven’t received feedback on it recently. I clearly remember the man or woman saying or writing to me later, “You should know it was hard for me to talk to you. I felt that you were coming from a condescending and disrespectful place.” I don't know if there's a more difficult experience than that; I felt terrible. At first, of course, I downplayed it internally—it's nonsense, I’m not condescending, they misunderstood, it's just their perception—but gradually, that annoying voice of my inner compass said to me, “You’re downplaying this to protect yourself, and that's fine, protect yourself as much as you want, but that won't help you grow.” 

When I gathered the courage and listened again to what they said, to the experience my conversation partner had, this time from a place of genuine, open listening, without defensiveness, I could clearly understand what they were talking about. It didn’t make it easier, but it did lead me to work on it.

In *Likkutei Sichos*, volume 24, in a discussion on the verse “and you shall make a parapet for your roof” (Deuteronomy 22:8), the Rebbe explains that in the context of personal work, the “roof” symbolizes arrogance and pride, and the parapet is needed to restrain this roof, to ensure it doesn’t cause harm—“and you shall make a parapet for your roof.”

The Rebbe then lays down the foundations for anyone who influences another person, and in my understanding, this includes relationships, parenting, and certainly for a Chabadnik.

Here are the words of the translated discourse: 

"The purpose of the 'parapet for your roof' is not so much to protect oneself from spiritual downfall but also for the sake of others, so that your roof—your arrogance and pride—does not cause the spiritual downfall of another Jew."

"When a person has pride, not only is it a flaw in their personal spiritual work, but it can also cause the downfall of the Jew upon whom they have influence. When one influences others with words that come from the heart, without personal interests or agendas, those words will surely reach the heart and have their intended effect."

"But if one's words are mixed with ego and pride, not only does this interfere with the success of their words and in drawing the other closer, it can even lead to the opposite—G-d forbid, their pride and words might distance the listener."

Wishing us success, 

Shabbat Shalom,  

Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

The journey from Basel to Antwerp took seven hours. Mendel, 13 years old, is traveling to the yeshiva, a journey to a place of Torah, as the sages refer to it. We left at five in the morning and arrived at noon, thank G-d. Mendel slept for half of the trip while I listened to various podcasts. During the rest of the way, we talked about the yeshiva and what awaits him there, life in Antwerp, the distance from home, and more.

Although the King leaves His royal palace in the month of Elul to meet the people in the field, Mendel is traveling from the field to the palace, for the yeshiva is the King's palace. There, among the pages of the Talmud and the teachings of Chassidut, the King sits in all His glory.

The car sped along the highways from Switzerland to France, through Luxembourg to Belgium. The roads are smooth, and from the window, the green European landscape of late summer is visible. The sky is clear. Mendel chose songs as if he were an experienced DJ, while my thoughts raced about the world unraveling around us. In just a few years, something has changed, and it seems it will never return to what it once was, at least not anytime soon. Starting with the long lockdowns and cancellations due to COVID, and now the terrible war that weighs constantly on the heart—it doesn't matter whether the Jew is sitting in Basel, London, or on the E25 in Europe.

My thoughts are running wild—what's happening here? Where is all this headed? How is the nation of Israel doing? And how does all of this connect with Mendel going to study in a yeshiva far from home?

Mendel plays and sings a song in Hungarian Yiddish ("Interen"), and I suddenly remember a speech given in rich and eloquent Hebrew by the Hungarian Jew, Elie Wiesel, over a decade ago at Yeshivat Har Etzion (it’s on YouTube). In the speech, he wrestles with the Holocaust and faith, and at one point, he shares: "What saved me, what perhaps saved my sanity—when people ask me and my generation, 'How did you remain mentally healthy?' I have one answer: what helped me was Torah learning, simply learning Torah. I immediately, just immediately, ordered from the principal of the school where I had been in France the tractate I had taken with me to Auschwitz, and I wanted to continue from the very page I had stopped. And I continued, and that essentially saved me."

I didn’t tell this to Mendel—why burden him now with Elie Wiesel and Auschwitz? But for myself, I knew that at the yeshiva, G-d willing, he would find an anchor for life. An anchor that can be mobile and available anywhere, an anchor that provides stability even when everything around is stormy. 

When we arrived, there was a father-son learning session planned. The chosen tractate was Tractate Sukkah, a tractate Mendel knows by heart from last year. I also know it well since we reviewed it together every Shabbat. When we opened it and delved into the material, it was, at least for me, a type of anchor, something familiar, something from home.

This is the way of Torah. This is what our ancestors did, and this is what we do too.

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Zalman Wishedski