They say that once, someone asked Knesset Member Meir Porush, “Who is your rabbi? With whom do you consult when facing a dilemma or a crossroads? Litzman consults the Rebbe of Gur, Eichler with the Rebbe of Belz, Halpert with the Vizhnitzer Rebbe, Gafni with Rabbi Shteinman or Rabbi Chaim Kanievsky, Deri with Rabbi Ovadia. Who is your rabbi? With whom do you consult?”
They say Porush replied: “My rabbi is the Western Wall. For every question, I consult with the Weastern Wall.”
I have the impression that G-d is gradually leading the Jewish world toward a reality in which every person becomes increasingly independent. That every Jewish man and woman takes personal responsibility for their Judaism. And more broadly, that eventually everyone will, in one way or another, “consult” with their own version of the Wall—a source from which they draw strength, inspiration, power, confidence, peace of mind, and more—so they can make a decision, a decision they will ultimately make on their own.
Already back then, when Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai asked Vespasian Caesar, just before the destruction of the Temple, “Give me Yavne and its sages,” he essentially understood that the era in which there was one geographical center to serve G-d had, for the time being, passed—at least for the duration of the exile. And ever since that plea for “Yavne and its sages,” every person with a Talmud in hand can become a spiritual center for G-d. It’s less about “Yavne” and more about “its sages.” Every city can now be a Yavne if it has its sages.
Later on, there were periods when a city had just one community, and there was only one beit din (rabbinical court) per city. But gradually, things expanded: more communities, more groups, more customs, more traditions, and more prayer rites emerged. Today, nearly everywhere, there are several batei din, several prayer traditions, and multiple leaderships. My dear friend Rabbi Mendy Chitrik, the rabbi of the Ashkenazi community in Istanbul, once gave a lecture in our community and shared that in one of the important cities in Turkey, there was a single custom and rite until the Spanish Expulsion. When the exiles arrived, they immediately became the majority and prayed according to their own rites and customs.
Still, throughout the years, each community or group had one living leader who led it. In recent centuries, each circle had its “gadol”—its great rabbi—whom they lived with, consulted with, and listened to. But even that is gradually changing. In our times, there are hardly any individuals of that towering stature as there were not so long ago—not among Sephardim, not among Ashkenazim, not among Chassidim, and not among the non-Chassidic world. It seems that more and more, G-d is shifting the responsibility for Jewish life onto each individual.
When I was 14, the Rebbe gave a chilling talk. It was on the 28th of Nissan, 5751 (1991). Chabad Chassidim around the world were shaken. In the village where I grew up, there was a palpable sense of fear in the air during those days—and I’m not exaggerating. It came following a deeply powerful and even painful address about how Moshiach had not yet come. And then suddenly, the Rebbe said: “What more can I do… I don’t know. The only thing I can do is to hand it over to each of you. And do everything you can to bring Moshiach immediately.” At the end of that talk, the Rebbe crystallized his message in a sentence that every Chabad boy and girl can quote: “I have done all that I can; from now on, you must do all that you can.”
In hindsight, that was a moment in which the Rebbe transferred even more of his own responsibility as Rebbe to us, the Chassidim. Throughout the Rebbe’s leadership of Chabad Chassidim, he empowered and delegated authority and responsibility to his emissaries and followers. The early emissaries received detailed guidance. Those who went out in the 1980s relied more on what they heard from the earlier ones. And when they did ask the Rebbe how to act, the answer was often to consult with local Chabad leaders or rabbis, to seek advice from a mashpia. Eventually, every Chassid was expected to appoint for themselves a personal mashpia, what we call “aseh lecha rav”—a personal mentor. Until the 28th of Nissan, 5751, when the Rebbe suddenly said it all, publicly and clearly, on a weekday, and it was captured vividly on video.
In my personal conversations with my children, I tell them: Take responsibility for your Judaism. It’s yours. It’s not mine. It’s not your yeshiva rabbi’s. It’s not your seminary teacher’s. It’s yours.
That’s my message to everyone: Take responsibility for your Judaism. Only then will it truly be yours.
Tomorrow, the 28th of Nissan 5785, marks 34 years since that moment. For me, it’s a time to once again examine how much responsibility I take for Judaism—my own personal Judaism and that of my people. It’s also a time to ask whether I’m truly doing everything I can. And if I am—can I perhaps expand the boundaries of what I’m capable of, just a bit more?
Shabbat Shalom and a healthy summer,
Rabbi Zalman Wishedski