To Fight the Darkness
Now, of all times, each one of us is obligated to do, to deliver the spark into the “barrel full of faith.” And every Jew has such a spark . . . . I too have Chassidism who walk around in despair and ask me, “What’s all this labor for? What difference will it make?” And I answer them, “We live in a time of spiritual mortal danger, and in such a time we must do everything, even if there is a doubt whether it will help . . . . One never knows whether one’s actions have helped, of, G-d forbid, not.
The Rebbe
A lamplighter’s task is never easy, and success is never taken for granted. In a world currently raging out of control, demoralization may quickly grab hold. The Avner Institute presents a heartwarming anecdote from Moshe Litvin, who saw little miracles within a succah; and an excerpted interview by Israeli journalist Shlomo Shamir with the Rebbe, whose saintly father-in-law’s message delivered comfort, guidance, and hope.
“One Never Knows”
Moshe Litvin relates:
In an April 1969 interview with Shlomo Shamir, a reporter for Yediot Acharonot, the Rebbe spoke about the importance of action in the face of disappointment. The Rebbe told him a story that happened in the days of his father-in-law, the Frierdiker (Previous) Rebbe Yosef Yitzchak Schneersohn (also known as the Rebbe Rayatz).
Two yeshiva students had returned to Crown Heights after traveling to distant cities where they had gone to try to bring Jews back to Judaism. Having met with no apparent success, the students returned dejected. In the interview, the Rebbe recalled how he had conveyed the situation to the Rebbe Rayatz, who responded, “They don’t know what they accomplished.”
When I read this, I was reminded of an experience that happened to my family and me not long after we began to observe the Jewish way of life.
The time was Succoth. The place, Milwaukee, Wisconsin. It was the early 1980s. We had just moved to a new apartment that was within walking distance from the shul. It was not in a Jewish neighborhood; in fact, it was in the more “hip” area of town known as “Downer Street.” My wife and I thought it the perfect neighborhood from which we could bridge from our old life to our new.
We had lived in this apartment long enough to meet a very crotchety lady who lived in the next building. Her side window faced our faced window. She hated noise, especially at night, and had no problem letting us know about any distance caused by our children. (Not that the little darlings ever caused any disturbance, of course!) She walked about with a bent head that, on the few times she raised it to look at us, bore a scowl and a furrowed brow.
First Time
We had never built a succah ourselves. The year before, I hadn’t particularly cared whether we had a succah or not. But Rabbi Samuels, a shaliach (Chabad emissary) in Milwaukee, had cared. While I was out of town on business, he and Rabbi Munya Volvovsky had come to our previous apartment and constructed a succah for us in the pouring rain. I remember arriving home from the airport to find the two rabbis soaked and dripping, feet caked in mud, putting on the finishing touches. It was only several hours before Succoth and, when Rabbi Samuels finished building my succah, he went home to build his own. Ours was the last of many succahs he had built that week.
Anyway, the following year, I very much wanted a succah, and I made arrangements with Rabbi Samuels to help me build one on the front porch of my new apartment.
“Don’t worry, he said. “I’ll bring everything we need.”
We made an appointment for the afternoon of the day before Succoth. I waited and waited. I called and called. But he was busy building other succahs.
“Don’t worry,” he said, “I’ll be there early evening.”
Seven o’clock came and went. Eight o’clock came and went. My anxiety increased. But finally, I decided, “Okay, we’ll do it tomorrow.”
About midnight, I heard a knock at the door.
“Okay, I’m here,” said Rabbi Samuels. “Let’s go.”
“But it’s midnight,” I exclaimed. “Much too late.”
He led me to the window where I saw a U-Haul van loaded with boards, bamboo, and two-by-fours.
“Let’s go,” he repeated. “It’ll just take a second.”
“But my neighbor,” I stammered. “She’ll go nuts. She’ll go through the roof. I’ll never hear the end of it.”
Taking me by the arm, Rabbi Samuels led me downstairs. In moments we were lugging boards, bamboo, and two-by-fours up the stairs, banging and clanging all the way.
Anticipated Reaction
We began to construct the succah on the front porch with all the carpentry skills that neither of us possessed. Nothing fit. So we started sawing and hammering, and, when the sawing wasn’t quite right, we pretended that the boards were made of pliant material and beat them with hammers and kick them as hard as we could in order to force them to fit the required space.
During this procedure I begged Rabbi Samuels to stop. I pleased that we postpone the construction of the succah until the next day. Succoth dwindled in importance as I imagined by next-door neighbor on the phone with the police. Each time I looked over at her window, I could see the silhouette of her head against the light of her apartment. Though her face was shrouded in darkness, I could visualize the scowl, and I knew that the furrows of her brow had deepened by several inches.
As we hammered, kicked, and shoved the boards into place, the sound became magnified by the 1:00 a.m. silence of our quiet, residential street. I began to regret the first day I had ever walked into a Chabad House. I began to question why I was unable to recapture control of my own household and put a stop to this racket. I began to rage internally against this rabbi who would not listen to reason. And I began to wonder where I would be able to find another apartment in the coming weeks, taking solace in the fact that least we hadn’t unpacked all our boxes yet.
“Rabbi Samuels, please, we must stop. My next-door neighborhood will never let me hear the end of this,” I pleaded.
“Is she Jewish?” he asked.
“Yes,” answered, “but it doesn’t make any difference.”
“Then she won’t mind,” he answered, punctuating his remark with a huge thud as he kicked the last remaining board into place.
Wonderful Night
The next morning, I loaded the kids into the car to drive them to school. Out came my next-door neighbor, storming towards me, just as I expected.
Before she could open her mouth, I began sputtering my apologies: “Look, I’m really sorry. But . . . it really wasn’t my fault. You see, I have this rabbi, and he’s really a fanatic—”
“Sorry?” she interrupted. “Why are you sorry? That was the most wonderful night I’ve spent in ages.”
She stared off toward the driveway. “Why I haven’t seen anybody put up a succah in twenty years! I loved watching every minute of it! I remember how my father used to build our succah. But I thought people stopped doing that. And in this neighborhood! Right next door to me!”
She turned to face me. “Listen, I hope you don’t mind, but would it be all right if one day I came to sit in your succah?”
It was the first time I had seen her smile, the first time I saw her forehead without wrinkles. I was equally surprised the following Shabbos—when my neighbor showed up in shul.
The only one who wasn’t surprised was Rabbi Samuels. By then he had grown used to the abundant miracles that accompany a shaliach who sets about doing the Rebbe’s work with full faith and confidence even if and when, as the Previous Rebbe said, “They don’t know what they accomplish.”
“Barrell Full of Faith”
The following are excerpts of that inspiring interview with the Rebbe by Shlomo Shamir:
There are many among us who live in despair. They despair of our spiritual condition and don’t believe anything can be changed . . . . It’s very dangerous nowadays to walk around in despair, relying on help from Heaven alone . . . . Nowadays a Jew is not allowed to say, “G-d in Heaven will help me, for there is nothing more that I can do. Besides, even if I do anything, it will not help.” This is a terrible, dangerous mistake.
Now, of all times, each one of us is obligated to do, to deliver the spark into the “barrel full of faith.” And every Jew has such a spark . . . . I too have Chassidism who walk around in despair and ask me, “What’s all this labor for? What difference will it make?” And I answer them, “We live in a time of spiritual mortal danger, and in such a time we must do everything, even if there is a doubt whether it will help . . . . One never knows whether one’s actions have helped, of, G-d forbid, not.
I remember years ago, my father-in-law began to send our yeshiva students to faraway cities and towns in the United States to seek out Jews and bring them some Judaism. I remember how, one day, two students returned dejected from such a tour. “We traveled for weeks and made no headway. No one would listen to us,” they complained to me.
I told this to my father-in-law. He answered me, “They don’t know that they were successful. Only today I received a letter from an elderly woman in one of the towns they visited; she writes me that the sight of her bearded visitors awakened in her a flood of memories from her parents’ home; and she’s asking me to send her books and guidance on how to return to the Jewish way of life.”
We learn from this that the doer must never despair. And if you or anyone else asks, “Why me of all people? Why must I do and act?” I”ll answer with a question: “And why not ‘I’”?
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