A Spooky Story about the Lubavitcher Rebbe

David Klinghoffer

I'm thinking of the night the Lubavitcher Rebbe died, which was exactly 15 year ago this coming Friday, June 12, 1994. I'm not Chabad -- a fellow traveler at best, and that only pretty recently -- but I have a vivid memory of being in Amagansett, New York, on a weekend beach trip with a friend. That night, which was a Saturday, we were both sticking our heads out of a skylight to catch the sound of the surf and the smell of the wind. Very strangely, we both suddenly had a feeling of being "spooked." Did you ever have an experience like that? It was a strong intuition of loss, as we mutually confirmed before we knew anything about what might have called it up. Returning to Manhattan on Monday morning, we learned that the Rebbe had died the previous day.

Of all the Jewish movements going at the movement, I consider Chabad the most successful and on balance the most admirable and appealing. My wife asked me the other day, half jokingly, why we don't put a picture of the Rebbe up somewhere in our house, as many Chabad admirers who are not Chabad themselves will do. Many, for example, is the Israeli taxi with a yarmulke-less driver and a picture of the Rebbe dangling from the rearview mirror.

Sorry. As I explained, that's not for me. I'm not a joiner and never feel quite comfortable with groups of any kind. Maybe that's why I'm a Jew. The word for Hebrew, in Hebrew, Ivri, has as one of its meanings being on the other side from something. A Hebrew is always in contrast and conflict with his surroundings. Abraham, the first Hebrew, is called that (Genesis 14:13) because he came from the "other side" of the Euphrates River. A Jew should always feel on the outs with the wider culture. When my spiritual and intellectual affiliations seem, superficially, at odds with each, that's my comfort zone. Maybe that's why the thing that initially turned me off liberalism, on arriving as a freshman at Brown, was the smug feeling shared by so many of my fellow students that only we, smarty-pants liberals, had it all figured out and three cheers for us.

But that's all an aside. Going back to my wife's question, I thought, why not put a picture of the Rebbe up on this blog? That I can handle. So here it is.

A Story

In the 1950s, the Lubavitcher Rebbe, walking on Eastern Parkway in Brooklyn, encountered two administrators of a local yeshiva gazing closely at a yellow school bus parked on the road. When the Rebbe asked them what they were looking at, they informed him that the bus was for sale and they were thinking of purchasing it for the yeshiva. “We desperately need our own bus,” they told the Rebbe.

“But this bus looks like an old shmateh,” the Rebbe said. “It seems like it’s on the verge of retirement. Why not purchase a brand new bus for the children?”

“If we could only afford that!” they exclaimed. “The price of this old bus is something we could fit into our budget.”

“Let me tell you something,” the Rebbe responded. “You know why you can’t afford the money for a new bus? Because in your mind, the old and run-down bus will suffice for your yeshiva. If it would be clear to you that your children need a new and beautiful bus, you would have the money to purchase it.”

What the Rebbe was saying is that in many cases, your standards are what ultimately define the quality and destiny of your life.

A Story

Over Sukkot I had the honor to sit in a Sukkah with a distinguished Chossid, Rabbi Zalman Posner, who shared with me the following moving story. As a young man he was once summoned by the previous Chabad Rebbe, Rabbi Yosef Yitzchak Schneersohn. The year was 1949, and as Reb Zalman told it to me, it was hard to understand all the words of the Rebbe, so it was crucial to also watch his hand gestures.

The Rebbe began dramatically (in Yiddish): When a neshomo (soul) has to come down to Earth, it doesn’t want to go. Why? Because heaven is warm and comfortable, while life on Earth is cold and dark (“kalt un finzter”). What happens? In heaven the soul is ordered: “You must descend below.” And to demonstrate the point the Rebbe took his index finger and repeatedly pointed downward in a deliberate motion, “you must go down below into the dark and cold world, and there you must bring light (“machen dort lichtig”).

The Rebbe then continued and instructed Reb Zalman to travel on a mission (shlichus) to a certain city, which may not be as comfortable as staying home, with the objective of beginning some spiritual light to the city.

“To this day I never forget,” Reb Zalman told me, “the Rebbe’s finger pointing downward, ‘you must go down and illuminate the dark and cold world.’”…

Ultimately, Reb Zalman would settle in Nashville, Tennessee, where he is a Rabbi and educator until today.