Holy Sinners

INSIGHTS: Holy Sinners
The road to Heaven is paved with good intentions

PERSONAL INSIGHTS: THE REBBE
The Ache in my Heart
It was merely the expectation that I would see him again. Or, to be more precise, that he would see me.
The Believer
Their commander was not visible here, but his presence somewhere in the building was well-sensed. No audible command had been sounded, but all were poised for the moment it would be given

Holy Sinners
by Yanki Tauber

Lift up ... the offering-pans of these mortal sinners, and beat them into sheets with which to plate the altar; for they have been offered to G-d, and have become sanctified.

The sixteenth chapter of Numbers relates the story of Korach’s challenge to the authority of Moses and the priesthood of Aaron. Korach, joined by 250 of the spiritual elite of Israel, rebelled against the granting of the kehunah—the privilege of serving G-d in the Holy Temple—to Aaron and his descendants. They, too, desired the opportunity for such communion with G-d, and demanded of Moses that he admit them into the kehunah.

Their spiritual mutiny ended in tragedy. To prove their worthiness for the priesthood, these men made an offering of ketoret (incense) to G-d—the holiest and most potent of divine services, whose performance is strictly limited to kohanim at specially appointed times in the sacred intimacy of the Sanctuary. “A fire issued forth from G-d and consumed the two hundred and fifty offerers of the ketoret.”[1]

Yet G-d instructed that the copper pans in which they made their forbidden offering should be hammered into a covering for the altar. These pans have been sanctified, said G-d to Moses; their very metal has been hallowed by an act which, though sinful and severely punished, was motivated by a holy desire—a desire to come close to Me.

The copper plating of the altar holds an eternal lesson: if such is the divine regard for a piece of inanimate metal, certainly no human being is irredeemable. For no matter how deleterious his deeds, they hide a desire and striving, intrinsic to every creature of G-d, for the goodness and perfection of the divine.

Based on the Rebbe’s words to a group of high school students, circa 1955[2]

I am basically one of those “flesh and blood” sort of people. While the Rebbe’s writings and teachings are of great importance to me, while I continue to experience the Rebbe as a very active, involved part of my life, still, I miss the flesh and blood connection.

Perhaps I must apologize for not having risen to greater spiritual heights. For if I had attained these heights, then perhaps my spiritual connection with the Rebbe would suffice; or perhaps I would have more internalized the truth that a great tzaddik, once freed from his body, is freed as well from the limitations of his body.

But, if I am to use this opportunity to write, I must use it to be honest. And in honesty, in spite of my spiritual connection to him, I miss the Rebbe. My heart aches to once again have him as part of his and my flesh and blood relationship.

What was this relationship? Well, if I were to tell you how few times I even saw the Rebbe you might wonder at my grief. And knowing that I never spoke directly to him, your wonder would be greater.

No, I was simply one of those people who went to a few farbrengens (I never lived in Crown Heights), stood in line for dollars[3] once or twice, and sent letters when needed and received answers when they were necessary. I was thirty-six years old when I first saw the Rebbe some seventeen years ago.

But, you see, whenever I went to the Rebbe, or even when I wrote him, I felt known by him. Seen by him. And I mean these words—known and seen—in their most profound sense. I felt naked before him. And through him I saw myself fully exposed. Stripped of illusion and self deceit.

Whether I was privileged to a momentary glance when he caught my eye and nodded as I lifted my cup at a farbrengen to say l’chaim; whether, in a whoosh of excitement, I passed before him to receive a dollar; or whether, in one of those extraordinary times when he caught and held my eyes for what seemed like an eternity but was in truth only five or ten or fifteen seconds, I was stripped bare: known from my most superficial, petty self to the depths of my being, deeper than even I knew existed.

My conscious self cannot know, much less describe, what the Rebbe placed within me during these encounters. The incomprehensible ways he affected me; the life, inspiration, courage and commitment with which I left these brief meetings changed my life more than any human could ever expect a life to change.

But there was something else, something much simpler, more easily comprehensible, more connected to the simple flesh and blood existence of the Rebbe that had great power over my life.

It was merely the expectation that I would see the Rebbe again. Or, to be more precise, that he would see me.

I knew that I would, at some point in the future, stand fully exposed before him, his eyes piercing through my best “look good” to see who I really am.

And I wanted both he and I to feel proud at that moment. And I didn’t want to feel ashamed. And I knew that while the Rebbe had the greatest compassion and understanding of my very limited self, that still, he had great expectations of me. That he saw my highest potential, and believed that I could attain it. And though I knew that he would love me in spite of what I did or didn’t do to live up to his expectations, I wanted him to love me for what I did do to live up to his expectations.

Is this a childlike relationship? Perhaps. Would it be better, more mature for me to strive for my highest potential without requiring “outside approval”? Perhaps. But as I said, I am a simple, limited person of flesh and blood who has not reached such great spiritual heights. So be it.

The expectation of meeting soul to soul with a person who has reached heights so far greater than I can imagine, and the knowledge that this meeting would reveal the gap between who I was and who I could be, kept me straight. It helped me be more honest with myself. It invigorated my potential and forced it before my awareness, constantly. When I saw the Rebbe’s capacity for love, it enlivened and expanded my own capacity for love. When I encountered, directly, personally, the Rebbe’s capacities, it enlivened the whole of my own.

I have much advice to give myself in answer to my own question, as I’m sure many of you who read this have much advice, words of wisdom to share with me. Certainly there are countless, perhaps even more profound ways, to maintain communication with and receive inspiration from a tzaddik even when we cannot see him, hear his voice, and experience his physical presence.

But this does not ease the ache in my heart. Nor replace my personal encounters and my very fervent expectation of them. Nor have I found a way to replace that moment when I stand revealed before one who can both see me for who I am and love me at the same time.

As a man of flesh and blood, I find consolation neither in my memories nor in the Rebbe’s writings.

I find it instead in the ache in my heart, the place I keep the Rebbe. For each time I feel the ache I am reminded of him for whom it aches. I am reminded of what he taught me: That for every sickness there is a remedy, for every pain a consolation, for every act of G-d there is a purpose, for every lack there is a fulfillment, for whatever potential the Rebbe sees in me, there is the possibility of its realization.

Will I find the strength, wisdom, courage, devotion and faith during this most difficult time?

Sometimes I wonder. But then, in these moments, if I allow myself to truly feel the ache in my heart, to enter fully into the depths of this ache, a strange thing happens. I begin to see myself once again standing before the Rebbe, bringing before him my doubts and my fears, my lonliness and limitations.

And from the ache in my heart, in a soft and gentle voice, I hear his answer, clearly..

Translator’s note: the following are translated excerpts from an account by Israeli activist, writer and former Knesset member Geulah Cohen of her meeting with the Rebbe. The original Hebrew version was published in the Israeli daily, Maariv, December 18, 1964.

I’ve met wise people, I’ve met scholars, I’ve met artists, but to meet a believer is an altogether different experience. After meeting a wise person, you remain what you were before—wise or stupid; after meeting a scholar, you remain what you were before— learned or a boor; after meeting with an artist, you remain what you were before—artist or artisan. But when you take leave of a believer, you leave his presence different than you entered it. For even if the believer’s faith does not infect you, it affects you. For the believer believes in you, too.

The Lubavitcher Rebbe, Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson, the spiritual leader of the international Chabad movement, is a wise man, a learned man, but above all, he is a believer. And if faith is the art of truth, he’s also an artist. A particularly creative artist. His creation: an entire army of believers whose commander-in-chief he is. The faith army of Israel, dedicated to the G-d of Israel and the people of Israel.

The Midrash does not anywhere describe how the supernal angels are received in audience before the divine throne. But were it to describe this, it might well take its cue from the manner in which one is received by the Lubavitcher Rebbe. Of course, there is a secretary, a line, and reception hours, as with every human being. Here, however, the secretary doesn’t ask what you wish to discuss with the Rebbe—your questions to the Rebbe are between you and him. Here, though it might be necessary to wait weeks or months for your turn, anyone who so desires can be received by the Rebbe. And here, the reception hours are not during the daytime, but at night—all night long.

“Eleven in the evening?” I repeated in amazement when Rabbi Chodakov, the Rebbe’s secretary, notified me of the time of my appointment with the Rebbe.

“Tomorrow night at eleven,” came the clear reply through the phone from the Rebbe’s Brooklyn headquarters.

“Why not during the daytime?” The chassid to whom I addressed this query gave me a look as if I had asked the most bizarre question in the world. “During the day the Rebbe studies,” he stated with finality.

Instead of asking why the Rebbe doesn’t study at night and receive people during the day, I found myself thinking that, perhaps, this is as it should be; that perhaps at night the hearts speak more freely and the heavens are more open to listen.

When I read a book, I always skip the introduction. But the long introduction that preceded the moment of my meeting with the Rebbe taught me that there are introductions that should not be skipped, for the simple reason that in them the story really begins. The Rebbe’s chassidim are a part of his personality, just as Chassidism believes that all of humanity is part of G-d’s personality. My audience with the Rebbe began when I arrived at his headquarters and met his disciples.

I hesitate to refer to the young Talmud-studying men who filled the place as “students.” Yes, each sat with open book before him, but none of them looked like someone who is learning something he did not already know. They looked more like one who stands in a laboratory and manipulates spirit and the letters of spirit as a scientist manipulates matter, dissecting, deciphering, building structures and forging forms. And all this with a melodious song. What has not already been written on the Chassidic melody? What will not be yet written of it? For it has neither beginning nor end. It sounds like a continuation of your own melody, like a song that you are singing for someone else to come and continue for you. At that moment it occurred to me that the Ten Commandments ought to have been said with a Chassidic melody...

Those students who were not engrossed in their studies but stood around talking—perhaps of ordinary, everyday matters—nevertheless wore the expression on the face of a front-line soldier, and the hushed atmosphere was that of impending battle. Their commander was not visible here, but his presence somewhere in the building was well-sensed. No audible command had been sounded, but all were poised for the moment it would be given...

I, too, am awaiting word—word that I am to enter the Rebbe’s room. It’s already eleven-fifteen, eleven-thirty—when will my turn come? I’m about to ask one of the young men in the office, when a fashionably dressed young woman, heels clicking and a scream of blonde hair spilling out from under her hat, enters the room. I hear her voice before I can catch a glimpse of her face.

In lieu of a reply, the young man walks over to a mound of letters, removes one—the letter that the woman had written to the Rebbe—and tells her that the answer is inside. The woman grabs the letter from his hand, opens it, and reads. Her eyes freeze for a moment, then fill with tears—whether from joy or sorrow one cannot tell. Wordlessly, she leaves the room.

Immediately she is back. “If so, I have another question. Can one ask the Rebbe again?”

When the door closed behind me and I stood alone with the Rebbe in the room, it was midnight. But the Rebbe rose behind his desk to greet me with a midday smile.

If you will, before you is a handsome face, a black hat slanting above it and a gray beard flowing beneath it, expressing grace and benevolence. But if you will, a pair of eyes alone confront you, gazing at you not to see but to reveal. In such case, you feel quite uncomfortable if you have something to hide, quite uncomfortable if you have thought of uttering an untruth. You sense a need to do up all your buttons to the very last one—somehow it feels as if they have all become undone. Does the Rebbe really have such magical eyes, or have you brought this magic in with you, the result of the night and the impression made on you by his disciples? But now’s not the time to ponder questions of this sort. You came here for a purpose, didn’t you? So I begin to introduce myself.

But it turns out there’s no need—he already knows more about me than I’ve intended to tell him. He tells me not only what I’ve done, but also what he thinks I ought to do; not only what I’m doing, but also what he feels I’m not doing...

“I hear that you’re now working as a journalist. Nu, that’s also good. Writing is very good, but it’s not the main thing. The main thing is the youth. To the youth one must speak, not write. Why don’t you speak to the youth? The youth is waiting to be spoken to, and no one is doing it. They make speeches at them—but they don’t speak to them. And then they wonder why they aren’t motivated.

“The youth,” continued the Rebbe, “is waiting for a command—a command issued in the same voice that all the great commands in Jewish history were issued. Where are all the commanders? In the Knesset! What happened to all the leaders who burned with a holy fire? What are those who know how to command doing? Today they’re arguing about whether to increase or reduce the income tax by a percentage point...

“A basic law of physics is that no energy is ever lost. What once was will always be. The youth of Israel has shown its power in the past; this power still exists, and will return. All that lacks is the force that will rouse it...”

When I left the Rebbe’s room, it was past two in the morning. Scarcely a second had gone by before the students pounced upon me. “What did the Rebbe say?” they wanted to know.

My acquaintances who had accompanied me on my midnight trip to Brooklyn immediately wanted to know: “So, what did you think of the Rebbe?”

Today, many weeks after my encounter with the Rebbe, I can say only what I felt at the time. When I first entered his presence, I thought: “Here is a believer.” As I sat there listening to him speak, I reassessed: “No, a wise man.” When I left his presence, I said to myself: “Yet a true believer.”

[2]. Recounted by Rabbi Zvi Meir Steinmetz, the teacher who brought these students to their meeting with the Rebbe.

[3]. Editor’s note: Beginning in 1980, the Rebbe adopted the custom of distributing dollar bills for the recipient to give to charity. In this way, the Rebbe combined the opportunity to meet him with the opportunity to do a mitzvah. Every Sunday, thousands of people would pass before the Rebbe to receive a dollar and his blessing.