A 19 Kislev farbrengen for students of the high school yeshivos

00:06 Speaker 1 It is the pen of the soul. Through a niggun, we connect and become one, one people, all of us friends. And for anyone who hasn’t yet had the chance, we ask you to raise a glass and say l’chaim, l’chaim! Don’t forget to say, “L’chaim, l’chaim and blessings.” L’chaim, l’chaim. The Frierdiker Rebbe, Rabbi Yosef Yitzchak, our Rebbe’s father-in-law, relates... Ah, no, no. The Frierdiker Rebbe relates: After the Alter Rebbe’s release from prison, the chassidim sat together and decided—the chassidim sat together and decided—that the imprisonment and Geulah were so important, such a milestone, such a special event in the history of the Jewish people, that a megillah should be written about the imprisonment and Geulah, just as Megillas Esther was written. The chassidim sat and discussed how to write the megillah and, most importantly, how to obtain the Alter Rebbe’s approval for this bold undertaking: writing the story of 19 Kislev as a megillah for future generations. The chassidim sat and deliberated. It took them several months to think and plan. Only in the summer did they muster the courage to send a delegation to the Alter Rebbe to ask his permission to write a megillah about 19 Kislev. The Alter Rebbe refused. The Alter Rebbe would not allow them to write a megillah about 19 Kislev, and he said the following. And I want, ladies and gentlemen, dear students—shh, please give me a little quiet. I want to quote the Alter Rebbe himself, the one who was redeemed from imprisonment, and show you how the Alter Rebbe summed up the essence of 19 Kislev in just a few words, already in 5559, over two hundred years ago. Listen carefully. The Alter Rebbe says—I first ask all the students, including the local students, to come inside, toward the Aron Kodesh—the Alter Rebbe says: “This day, this very day, will be established as a perpetual festival among the Jewish people, on which His great name will be magnified and sanctified, and thousands of

04:13 Speaker 1 Jewish hearts will be stirred to teshuvah and the service of the heart, for the event is engraved in the heart of the Jewish people above and written in the heart of the Jewish people below.” So what does the Rebbe mean to express in these words? 19 Kislev is not something to be written down; 19 Kislev is not a matter for a megillah. 19 Kislev is a day on which the Jewish heart will be stirred wherever it may be. 19 Kislev is a day engraved upon the hearts of the Jewish people throughout the generations. Dear students, you’ve heard, seen, watched a video, and received a small taste from the rabbis who spoke to you earlier. We still have the evening ahead of us. Today we will receive so much from those leading our farbrengen—Rabbi Mordechai Elon, Rabbi Yechezkel Sofer, Rabbi Zalman Gopin and others—about the meaning and significance of this day. But ladies and gentlemen, I think one thing: the very fact that we are sitting here together, nearly a thousand students from all over the country, nearly a thousand students who do not all know one another—here we have an expression of “On this day thousands of Jewish hearts will be stirred.” I would like us to thank, first and foremost, the people behind all this work: the Chabad for Yeshiva Students organization, Toras Chabad for Yeshiva Students, together with the students of the central Tomchei Temimim yeshiva in Kfar Chabad, and with the assistance of the Tzeirei Agudas Chabad Center. Ladies and gentlemen, they deserve a great deal of thanks, and first and foremost Rabbi Moshe Shilat, chairman of the Chabad for Yeshiva Students organization. I ask the modest Rabbi Moshe Shilat, who keeps out of the spotlight, to take his place on the stage. Ladies and gentlemen, shh, you may sit down, you may sit down. I’ll tell you when he comes in. Ladies and gentlemen, until the rabbi comes in, we want to say a few words about the essence of the day. As is known, the Alter Rebbe was released from prison on 19 Kislev in the year 5559, exactly two years to the day after the Alter Rebbe gave permission to print the Tanya. The

07:48 Speaker 1 Tanya is familiar to all of us. The Tanya is the foundational book of Chassidus. It is the book that brings together hundreds and thousands of Jews—hundreds and thousands of Jews—in weekly and daily classes. It is a book in which the Alter Rebbe placed the very essence of Chassidus. Two years after the book was printed, a decree was issued from Above, a decree was issued from Above, and the Alter Rebbe was imprisoned for fifty-three days, exactly corresponding to the number of chapters in the Tanya. And when the Alter Rebbe emerged from prison—when the Alter Rebbe emerged from prison, it meant that the decree from Heaven against the printing of the Tanya and the revelation of Chassidus had been annulled. We were given the power... given the power to reach the goal of “When will the Master come?”—the Baal Shem Tov’s famous question to Moshiach: “When will the Master come? When will you arrive?” Moshiach answered him, answered him: “When your wellsprings spread outward.” Ladies and gentlemen, while the refreshments are being distributed to the tables, I ask everyone to respect the occasion and not get up. The refreshments will reach all of us. We’ll ask the orchestra to play, and we’ll all sing together: Ai da di la la, ai el el la la.

09:50 Speaker 2 Ai da da, da di da da. Bam, bam, bam, bam, bam, ai da di la la, ai la la la, ai da. Ah ah ah, ai dai dai dai. When will the Master come? Outward. Ai dai dai, ah, when? Outward. When, when, when, when [unclear]. When, when, when, when [unclear]. Li li li li li li li, la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la. [unclear] outward, ai dai dai dai. When will [unclear]? When your wellsprings spread outward? When, when, when, when [unclear]? When, when, when, when [unclear]. Three times, the same thing. Ai di, ai di di, ai di di di di. Hey di di, hey di di, hey diya, hey diya, hey diya. Hey dirdi di, hey di di, hey dirdi di, hey di di, hey di di, hey di dirdi di di. Hey di, hey dirdi di, bam bam bam, hey dirdi di, hey di di, hey di di. Hey di, hey dirdi di, hey di, hey dirdi di, hey di di di, hey di di. Hey di di di dirdi, ai ai ai ai dirdi, hey di di di. Hey di di di dirdi, hey di di di dirdi, hey di di. Everyone together! Hey di di di ai di di,

12:57 Speaker 2 hey di, hey di di di bam bam bam, hey di di, hey di di di, hey di. Hey di ai dirdi di. Hey di di, hey di di, hey di di di di. Hey di ai dirdi di, hey di di di dirdi, hey di di di di di di di di. Hey di di di di

14:57 Speaker 4 Okay, dear students.

15:01 Speaker 5 Pass it over to me.

15:03 Speaker 4 We’re beginning the farbrengen and distributing the refreshments. Ladies and gentlemen, it is a great honor to invite one of the outstanding people in our company, someone who has spent decades spreading the wellsprings of Chassidus in language that is clear, fluent and understandable. Allow me to introduce Rabbi Yechezkel Sofer, who will lead the farbrengen with us, together, of course, with Rabbi Elon, who will arrive in a few minutes. I ask everyone to be quiet. Rabbi Yechezkel Sofer, please. I ask you to sit—

16:02 Speaker 6 You can sit down, sit down, sit down. L’chaim, everyone, l’chaim, all of you, l’chaim! I remember that forty years ago... There are still a few people who haven’t put a cookie in their mouths. It would be good for everyone to have a cookie in their mouth. Forty years ago, when I came to study here at the Tomchei Temimim yeshiva, I had the privilege of teaching a Tanya class at the Kfar HaRo’eh yeshiva, Rabbi Neriah’s yeshiva. Today is the anniversary of his passing.

17:37 Speaker 4 Allow me to welcome Rabbi Mordechai Elon, head of Yeshivat HaKotel.

18:59 Speaker 7 With Rabbi Elon’s permission, we’ll let Rabbi Gopi—Rabbi Sofer finish his story. Ah—

19:25 Speaker 8 I had the privilege of traveling every week by bus to the Kfar HaRo’eh yeshiva, Rabbi Neriah’s yeshiva; today is the anniversary of his passing. And it’s interesting that 206 years have passed since the Alter Rebbe’s imprisonment. That corresponds to re’eh—its gematria is 206. It’s interesting: How do you say re’eh in Yiddish? Kuk. Kuk also adds up to 206. Here we are sitting together.

20:19 Speaker 7 The initials stand for kodesh, kedushah.

20:20 Speaker 8 Yes. And since we are now on such a holy day, when the oil of the Torah was revealed, I want to share an allusion I saw to this. In Parshas Vayishlach—which is often the weekly parsha on 19 Kislev—there is a wonderful allusion. At the meeting of Yaakov and Eisav, we see how Yaakov is frightened by the report that four hundred of Eisav’s Hezbollah men are approaching. He prepares for battle, sets up a water barrier, and takes everyone across the Yabok River. Then it says, “Yaakov was left alone.” How did he come to be alone? If there was no one left to take across, why did he go back? Our Sages say that he had forgotten some small jars and went back for them. This always bothered me: Yaakov, the choicest of the Patriarchs—didn’t he have anything better to do? Was he such a miser? It was a dark, dangerous night; a terrorist could be hiding behind any bush, and indeed someone did attack him there. If he had forgotten one of the tribes, then of course it would be worth risking his life for a Jewish child. If one of the matriarchs had been lost in the dark, it would be worth crossing the river to look for her. You know what? Even if a servant had been left there—he’s a human being too; you couldn’t abandon him. But small jars, a few little plastic cups? For that he was going to risk his life? What a wonder! And who attacked him there? Not just anybody: Eisav’s guardian angel, the Samech-Mem, the sitra achra itself. And as we know, “From my enemies I gain wisdom.” It’s interesting. The sitra achra should have attacked one of the tribes; that way it could have destroyed part of the core of the Jewish people. Perhaps it could have attacked one of the matriarchs. But when Yaakov took the matriarchs across, the sitra achra didn’t stir. When he took the tribes across, it didn’t care at all. Yet when he came for those small jars, suddenly that opposing angel came out of hiding and decided to attack Yaakov, determined not to let him through under any circumstances. What was in those

23:39 Speaker 8 small jars? Then a thought occurred to me: a small jar reminds us of Chanukah. But why is it in the plural? Because, as the Rebbe always explains, if in the third month of summer the giving of the Torah revealed the water of the Torah, its revealed dimension, then in the third month of winter the oil of the Torah would be revealed. We have two small jars in Kislev. On 25 Kislev, the oil of the Chashmonaim, of mesirus nefesh; and the oil of the Torah—its inner dimension, its secrets, expressed in the teachings of Chassidus. Yaakov our father knew; he could see far into the future. He saw that a day would come—or, more accurately, a night: the night of exile, a dark night. He knew that Eisav could not touch Yaakov’s head; there, among the Patriarchs and the tribes, he had no chance. Against Yaakov’s heart, the generations of Tannaim and Amoraim, he had no chance. But at Yaakov’s thigh, down there in the footsteps of Moshiach—oy, what would happen if he came to attack those last generations? What would protect them against Eisav’s guardian angel? So Yaakov said: I must cross the Yabok River and bring back those small jars—the small jar of the Chashmonaim’s oil and the small jar of the oil of Chassidus. With their strength we endure through the difficult years of every generation and make it to Moshiach Tzidkeinu, of whom it is said, “I have found David My servant; with My holy oil I have anointed him.” This is the day Hashem has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it. The oil of the Torah is sealed with the seal of the Kohen Gadol, sealed with the Rebbe’s seal, and it enables us to kindle the candle of the soul—“Hashem’s candle is the soul of man”—within each and every one of us. L’chaim, l’chaim!

26:06 Speaker 9 L’chaim, l’chaim.

26:12 Speaker 10 Okay, with Rabbi Elon’s permission, we’ll begin with the traditional niggun. The Alter Rebbe relates that when he emerged from imprisonment, it was at the very moment he was reciting the verse in Tehillim, “He redeemed my soul in peace from the battle against me.” That connects us with what Rabbi Sofer was just saying: “He redeemed in peace”—a house of peace. The two jars of oil Rabbi Sofer spoke about. We’ll ask the orchestra and the students: “He redeemed in peace.”

27:03 Speaker 9 He redeemed my soul in peace from the battle against me, for many stood with me. He redeemed my soul in peace from the battle against me, for many stood with me. G-d will hear and answer them, He who sits enthroned from of old, forever. G-d will hear and answer them, He who sits enthroned from of old, forever. For they do not change, for they do not change. And they do not fear G-d. And they do not fear G-d. He stretched out his hands against those at peace with him. He violated, violated, violated his covenant. His words were smoother than butter, but his heart was at war; his words were softer than oil, yet they were, they were drawn swords. Cast, cast your burden upon Hashem and He, He will sustain you; He will never allow the righteous, the righteous, to falter. And You, and You, G-d, will bring them down to the pit of destruction. And You, and You, G-d, will bring them down to the pit of destruction. Men of blood, blood and deceit will not live out, will not live out half their days. Men of blood, blood and deceit will not live out, will not live out half their days. But I will trust, I will trust, I will trust, I will trust, I will trust, I will trust, I will trust, trust, trust. But I will trust, I will trust, I will trust, I will trust, I will trust, I will trust, I will trust, trust, trust.

31:50 Speaker 11 I ask all the students to take their places. Rabbi Mordechai Elon, head of Yeshivat Hakotel, please.

32:04 Speaker 9 How’s the... how’s the hall? Big—so, in short, a little... [unclear]. Time to sing now. Which niggunim? I think... So, in short. In short... Here it leads to niggunim. Blessed are You, Hashem our G-d, King of the universe, Who creates the fruit of the vine.

32:48 Speaker 3 Amen.

32:52 Speaker 9 L’chaim, l’chaim, l’chaim!

32:54 Speaker 3 L’chaim!

33:24 Speaker 9 Honored rabbis, shlita, Rabbi Gofin, shlita, Rabbi Yechezkel Sofer, shlita, my teachers and rabbis, roshei yeshivos, my friends and dear ones. I want to tell you a short story about what Geulah is, what a festival of Geulah is. I told this story before Yom Kippur, when it, uh, happened to me. At the beginning of this past Elul—I think it was still the eve of Rosh Chodesh Elul—a group of students doing holy work in Tel Aviv, who have now come here from the farbrengen in Tel Aviv, asked me to come and help launch an activity in one of the holy communities of cafés in the Sheinkin area. They were starting something and wanted encouragement, and so on. We went and spoke. I was sitting there in the café, looking very much the part. We were talking; I don’t remember why the conversation turned to Shema Yisroel. Shema Yisroel. There was a group there... After all, the expression “a distant Jew” is a contradiction in terms. How can a Jew be distant? But let’s say “a distant Jew.” Sitting there were Jews who were very, very, very close, though sometimes our eyes don’t see it. It was a very interesting mix. Among the people sitting there was one fellow whose eyes captivated me and held my attention. I knew that at the end of my talk I was in for an... ambush. Very unusual eyes. He watched me the whole time. When I finished speaking, he came up to me and said, “My name is Amit.” He began speaking with a completely Israeli accent, but I sensed something strange in it. I couldn’t place where it came from. Not English, not American. Something sounded odd to me, and I couldn’t understand how. I thought I heard a bit of a German accent. Here is the story. “My name is Amit.” He looked much younger than he was; he was already thirty years old. “I was born in Ashdod.” When he was a six-year-old boy, it was after

37:49 Speaker 9 The Yom Kippur War. There was a very serious crisis at home, and a crisis in the country, as those who remember that period know. There was also a major economic crisis. His father had apparently been through difficult days during the war. The family was from Ashdod. His mother came from a northern, Moroccan Jewish family—traditional, though not religious in the sense of... His father came from a family from Germany. In the midst of the crisis, they decided, to our great sorrow, that they had to leave Israel. That was it. They left the country. But where does a family from Ashdod go? Little Amit was six. He had a sister three years older, then nine, and a brother who was twelve. Where does a family from Ashdod go? It’s hard to say, but listen carefully. The father went to Germany—yes, Germany. On his father’s side, he was the only one in the family who had survived the Holocaust. The father went to Germany, but not to his hometown. That wasn’t enough. He looked for a village in Germany where he could be sure there would be no trace of anything Jewish or Israeli. They didn’t want to hear any more about it. That was it. Enough; they were finished. They searched and found a village called Eichstadt[?]. I’d never heard of it before, and I hadn’t missed it. Eichstadt[?]. I don’t know what it is—may it be destroyed and rebuilt. Fifty kilometers from Frankfurt. Amit tells me there were two thousand children in the school. He, his sister, and his brother were the only Jews among those two thousand children. From the moment they arrived, it was basically a complete forgetting. He remembers the struggles over Yom Kippur—not struggles, just the attempt. His father wanted... that there should be a proper meal, and his mother, who came from a somewhat more traditional Moroccan family, found it hard at first. But they overcame every difficulty. The boy started first grade in Eichstadt[?]. His name was Amit, and little by little he became “Amit” with a full German accent. And Amit from Ashdod grew up,

41:07 Speaker 9 And he’s talking to me, and I’m looking at him. Amazing—a simply amazing young man. I’m on the edge of my seat, wondering how he got to where he is. You haven’t heard the story yet. Wait. All of this is so we can understand a little of the idea of personal Geulah before we begin. The years passed. Amit finished elementary school, started high school, and finished it. He completed twelve years of school. His father became firmly established there and went into the hotel business. Amit finished high school there, at eighteen or nineteen, and went to Boston, in America, for university. He began studying business administration and hotel management. A bachelor’s degree, then a master’s degree. He finished his master’s and prepared to return to Germany. His path was clear, the business was clear, and he was getting ready to go back. A month before his return to Germany, he was taking his final exams. They were sitting together at Harvard University, three friends. As far as he was concerned, the others were just other people. By the way, he never denied that he was Jewish. I asked him, “Did you ever suffer from antisemitism? Did you ever feel anything like that?” He said, “I don’t understand what you mean. Why would I? No one. Nothing. People liked me very much. Quite the opposite. Every year there was a film about the Holocaust. A new Germany. Not at all. They didn’t see Jews. Why would there be antisemitism? Nothing. No.” So he was in America, and three young men were sitting in the university cafeteria, talking. I don’t remember the incident, but apparently there had been—I’m telling you a story from a little over two years ago—some incident involving an American citizen who burned a flag. I don’t remember. He burned a flag, and it caused a big uproar. The students were talking about it: Amit and two others, one American and one British. The three of them were discussing what should be done with

43:42 Speaker 9 The flag-burner. The American young man said to the English one, “Do you know what burning a flag means? It’s an attack on all the symbols, on all the principles.” The Englishman said, “Forget principles. We used to have principles in England too. There’s a queen and all that—it’s all for show. Spare me the nonsense.” The American got upset. He was proud; he loved America. He said, “You don’t understand a thing. Do you know what a flag means to us in America? To us, the flag is like the queen is to you.” The Englishman said, “Well, that’s not saying very much anymore. It’s not...” The American said, “You know what?” Amit was sitting there. “The flag to us”—this was a Christian American, a Christian young man—“the flag to us is like Shema Yisroel to Jews.” Those were the words he used. The other fellow didn’t understand, so he told him, “Do you know what Shema Yisroel means to Jews? That’s what the flag means to us.” I don’t know what it was that the Englishman hadn’t understood, but Amit was sitting there, and suddenly he asked him, “Tell me, how do you know what Shema Yisroel means to Jews?” I stopped Amit in the middle of the story and said, “Since you were six, you haven’t known anything about it. What are you telling me? How did this happen?” He said, “Wait a moment.” “How do you know what Shema Yisroel means to Jews?” So this non-Jewish Christian told Amit, who had asked him—and Amit had always said he was Jewish, but it had never bothered anyone. The Christian said, “Look, I’m a Christian, no question about it. I’m thoroughly Christian, by every standard.” But what did he say? “Look, my father comes from a Jewish home. In our house, when something breaks—some little thing, a glass or whatever—

45:42 Speaker 9 My father immediately says, ‘Shema Yisroel.’ If something breaks or something happens, he says, ‘Shema Yisroel.’ My mother is a Christian through and through, and she’s very particular about it. She knows the whole verse. If something breaks, she says, ‘Shema Yisroel, Hashem Elokeinu, Hashem Echad.’ She makes all her Christian gestures too. That’s what I heard from my mother, and I know that when something bad happens, that’s what people shout. So I told him that the flag to us is like Shema Yisroel.” Amit heard this story. He told me, “An hour later, I found myself walking along the sidewalk near the university. I found myself standing by a tree, and suddenly, for the first time I can remember, I was in tears.” I said to him, “Amit, I don’t understand. Explain to me where that came from.” He said, “Look, Rabbi, when I was in twelfth grade, they once gathered all the older grades—tenth, eleventh, and twelfth, about a thousand students—to watch a film together. It was a film about World War II. I remember the film. Everyone was watching it, and in the middle of it, I was the only Jew there. My older siblings weren’t there; they had already graduated. I was the only Jew,” he said. “I can tell you with certainty that in those last few years, I was the only Jew among all two thousand students. Definitely the only one. But there I was, watching it with everyone else...”

00:07 Speaker 1 There are Jews in the German army too, fighting. And when Russians fight Germans, Jews are fighting Jews too. He says, “I remember one scene in the film. Suddenly you see a German officer emerge from among the trees. He’s apparently badly wounded, shuffling along, limping, dragging his weapon with almost no strength left. Suddenly a Russian officer appears opposite him, with soldiers behind him. The German officer sees them, but he doesn’t raise his hands. Maybe he already feels this is the end, or maybe he can’t raise them—I don’t remember. But I remember him trying somehow to lift his weapon, and it slips from his grasp. The Russian officer comes up to him and tells the soldiers to move back. For him, this is a moment of pride. He approaches with his weapon and cocks it. One of the Russian soldiers helps him lift the German officer. He aims the weapon, cocks it, and points it at him. At that very moment, the German officer somehow raises his hand, looks upward, and cries out: ‘Hear, O Israel: Hashem is our G-d, Hashem is One!’ The Russian officer lowers his weapon and answers: ‘Blessed be the name of the glory of His kingdom forever and ever.’” He says, “I was there with everyone else. We saw it. I don’t know how many children—one thousand, fifteen hundred, I don’t know. I couldn’t sleep that night. It took me several nights. I felt that scene had something to do with me. Eighth grade ended. I got to Boston. A bachelor’s degree, a master’s degree. A month before I was due to return to Germany, a Christian friend in the cafeteria told me that to him, the American flag was like Shema Yisroel was to me. Do you know why I asked him to tell me twice how his mother says the whole verse? Because I couldn’t remember it. I knew there was more to it, but I couldn’t remember what it was. Do you know what happened when I was standing there in the street? Suddenly, near that open area by the tree, that scene came back to me. And then—

02:53 Speaker 1 He bursts into tears and tells me: “Rabbi, I said to myself: In a month I’m going to Germany. One day, when a Russian officer stands before me, I won’t have a single verse to say. I won’t have a single word. I’ll have a hotel; I’ll have a doctorate. But I won’t have one word of my own. I didn’t go back to Germany.” I don’t know exactly how he tells it. At some point I saw something—a lecture, somebody, some program on television there. There’s an Israeli channel there. I said something of yours, something from somewhere else. The weekly parsha—I don’t remember the details. “I decided to go to Israel. I arrived,” he says. “I have family there. We’d always kept in some contact. Wonderful Jews. One family on Kibbutz X, another on Kibbutz Y. I went there. Some of my cousins are here, some aren’t. Even the ones who are here couldn’t quite explain the rest of the verse to me. Tonight I found my way to Tel Aviv. This afternoon I saw a notice about a lecture here in a café. I remembered your name from that thing on the Israeli channel, so I decided to come in. I’m sitting here, and you start talking about Shema Yisroel. I sit here for two hours. And I have to have that verse with me always.” This was the day before the month of Elul. The first Shabbos of Elul, we were together in Jerusalem. Today Amit is at Machon Meir, spending some time in the yeshiva. An amazing young man. Unbelievable. On the eve of Yom Kippur he came to me and said: “I saw in the machzor that tomorrow, at Neilah, we say Shema Yisroel before we finish. After that we say, ‘Hashem is G-d.’ Do you know what I think?” he said. “That German officer in the film must have had a father or grandfather who taught him Shema Yisroel. He must have taught it to him one night. What did he remember? What didn’t he remember? I—

06:27 Speaker 1 don’t know. I also don’t know what happened to him at the end of the film. I don’t know whether he lived or died. But tell me,” he says, “do you think his father or grandfather, who taught him Shema Yisroel a hundred years ago, imagined that eighty years later a boy from Ashdod would sit in Ochstadt[unclear] and hear the verse he’d taught his son, after he’d already given up on him? And that twenty years after that, we’d meet in Tel Aviv? Maybe that’s Shema Yisroel, and then ‘Hashem is G-d’?” After Yom Kippur, I called Amit. I told him that this year’s Shema Yisroel at Neilah was completely different for me from every other year. So was “Hashem is G-d.” Let me have a verse, one verse. Let me have my own “He redeemed my soul in peace.” Let me have redemption from what I think sustains me. Let me also have redemption from everything that keeps that redemption from appearing. A simple, personal Geulah—that’s the beginning from which you can move forward and, little by little, look inward. Let’s play something.

08:10 Speaker 2 My soul thirsts for You.

08:16 Speaker 1 My soul thirsts for You. My flesh longs for You. In a dry and weary land without water. Ri-ya, ma-ma ma-ma ma-ma ma-ma ma-ma ma-ma ma-ma ma-ma ma-ma. My soul thirsts for You. My flesh longs for You. In a dry and weary land without water. Ri-ya, ma-ma, ma-ma, ma-ma, ma-ma, ma-ma, ma-ma, ma-ma, ma-ma. So I beheld You in the sanctuary, to see Your might and Your glory. So I beheld You in the sanctuary, to see Your might and Your glory. So I beheld You in the sanctuary, to see Your might and Your glory. So I beheld You in the sanctuary, to see Your might and Your glory. Yes, yes, I beheld You in the sanctuary, to see Your might and Your glory. Hey, my soul thirsts, thirsts, thirsts, thirsts for You. Thirsts, thirsts, thirsts, thirsts. My flesh longs for You. Longs, longs, longs for You. Ay, li-li-li-li-li-li, mm-mm, oy noy ni-ni-ni-ni noy.

12:44 Speaker 3 L’chaim, l’chaim. Rabbi Elon’s story reminded me of something similar, another very moving story that I heard from the man it happened to. When I was at the Chabad House at Ben-Gurion University, a professor from Australia once came there. His surname was similar to mine, though he wasn’t related to me. His name was Professor Sofer. They had also left Israel in the 1950s. They had been members of the famous Kibbutz Gan Shmuel.

13:32 Speaker 1 Shmuel Muniver[unclear].

13:33 Speaker 3 Yes, and they too had had enough of all the Yiddishkeit and all the Israeli life. They left and moved to Australia—and not just to Australia, but to Tasmania. It’s an island at the edge of the continent, a paradise on earth, with hardly any Jews. He’s a professor of mathematics, she has a doctorate in psychology, and they both got positions there. They had an elderly grandmother there. They left everything behind and gave their children a completely ordinary Australian upbringing. There was a Reform community there with a rabbi, but for some reason the rabbi’s term ended and he went back to the United States. They were left without a leader. They didn’t know what to do. Who would come to such a remote place? Suddenly, someone in the community had an idea: “We have a man here who came from Israel. He knows Hebrew, so he must be a Torah scholar. Let him step up; we’ll have a leader, we’ll have a rabbi.” They approached him, and he nearly fell off his chair at the suggestion. A member of Kibbutz Gan Shmuel, thoroughly secular by his own reckoning, was going to be a rabbi? He told them he was an atheist. They said, “That doesn’t matter. In our community, even an atheist can be a rabbi, as long as you lead it.” “No, I have nothing to do with religion. I don’t want people to know.” So they told him, “Look, this isn’t a religious matter. It’s more of a national thing. We’re Jews here, and... we need... What do you want, for the community to fall apart?” In the end they convinced him. Fine, he came. How did he lead the prayers? He didn’t know the siddur. He’d open it wherever it happened to fall—Yom Kippur, Rosh Hashanah, it didn’t matter. He’d sing “Hava Nagila” for them and things like that, and they were delighted. He knew Hebrew perfectly. It went wonderfully. But at home, trouble started. The children began asking him, “What’s that synagogue?” He told them, “Temple, temple—not a synagogue, a temple.” “What’s a temple? Why did you go?” He said, “Jews, I...” “What’s prayer? What’s

15:40 Speaker 3 “Hakadosh Boruch Hu?” And he has no answer. The children ask questions: “What does it mean that we’re Jewish? Why shouldn’t we be Christians like our friends? What’s the difference between a Jew and a Christian?” And he doesn’t know how to answer. They were people with values. They weren’t religious, but she said that, as a mother, it hurt her deeply. She felt ashamed that she had lived in Israel for decades, spoke Hebrew, and knew nothing about Yiddishkeit—nothing she could tell her children. It distressed her. They talked about it, but couldn’t see what to do. Then she says that one fine day she simply had a breakdown. She was alone at home and began to cry. She screamed, pounded the walls with her fists, and said: “Master of the Universe, if You exist—I read in Tanach that whenever the Jewish people were in trouble, Hashem sent them a judge to save them. There has to be someone who will save me. What’s going to happen?” She cried like that and let out everything inside her. Of course, she didn’t receive an answer in a heavenly voice. She poured out her heart and forgot about it. That very week, the miracle happened. Her husband was walking down a street in Tasmania, a remote place at the edge of Australia, when suddenly he saw something Tasmania had never seen since the six days of Creation: three religious Jews with beards, Orthodox rabbis, walking around the island. He couldn’t believe his eyes. He thought he was dreaming. He rushed up to them with such warmth. “Come, fellows, come!” They had no idea what he wanted. “You have to come to my house.” He invited them home, and then they told the rabbis about the whole problem. Who were these fellows? Maybe you’ve heard of them? Surely everyone’s heard of the millionaire Gutnick. His father was a rabbi in Melbourne. He wasn’t a Chabad chossid at first—a rabbi in Melbourne,

17:41 Speaker 3 so he and two other rabbis came from Melbourne, the capital, to Tasmania. They left the couple books, spent two days with them, and gave them a book on practical Jewish observance and other things, so they would have something to begin with. They really enriched their lives. The rabbis returned to Melbourne, but they stayed in touch. A couple of months later, around Chanukah, they said to this couple, the Soffers, “Perhaps you’d like to come spend Shabbos with us in Melbourne?” Why not? They were delighted. They came, and gradually grew closer and learned a little. While they were there, she suddenly asked, “There’s one thing I don’t understand. We’ve lived in Tasmania for years and never seen rabbis. You’ve never come before. What made you suddenly come?” He said, “Shall I tell you the truth? It was just one of those things. I wrote—” This is how Rabbi Gutnick, who has since passed away, told it: “I wrote a letter to the Lubavitcher Rebbe about religious matters in Melbourne, as many rabbis wrote to the Rebbe.” The Rebbe answered him, and at the bottom added a postscript: “It would be appropriate to visit the islands near Australia as well, such as Tasmania, etc.” That’s what the Rebbe wrote. He wasn’t a Chabad chossid, but when the Lubavitcher Rebbe himself wrote to him, he couldn’t ignore it. So he asked two rabbis on the council, “Let’s make a visit,” and that’s how we met you. She was stunned. “I don’t believe it. Do you have the letter?” He went and brought her the letter the Rebbe had written. She looked at its date and nearly fainted. It was the day she had stood at home crying out from the depths of her heart—and someone had sensed her. Chassidim say that “Rebbe” is an acronym for “head of the Jewish people,” a soul that encompasses them all. “Nasi” is an acronym for “a spark of our forefather Yaakov.” In every generation there is a tzaddik who is like a brain and a head. He senses

19:51 Speaker 3 even a tiny fingernail far away in Australia, yearning for Yiddishkeit. He feels it. He feels her pain and sends out the nerves—his shluchim—to bring that family, too, under the wings of the Shechinah. The ending of the story is very beautiful. Both of them eventually came to the Rebbe and asked whether they should leave the university and become fully... He said, “No, continue. You can make a kiddush Hashem.” And he gave her a task. This was a period—the people here are too young to remember—when transcendental meditation, TM, was spreading like an epidemic in Israel. Many Jews were drawn into it. So the Rebbe spoke to her and said that the technique itself wasn’t bad, but it must not be bound up with Indian idolatry. “Perhaps, since you work in psychology, you could develop a Jewish meditation program.” She said, “But I don’t know the foundations.” So he told them to go to the sources and study them. In short, they reached Tibet and a monk who, they were told, was the source of the meditation. Mr. Soffer went to him and began talking with him. He said, “I want to learn this from you.” The monk said, “You seem to be Jewish.” “Yes.” “What do you need me for?” he said. “You have the Tanya. You study Kabbalah with me, and I’ll study Chassidus with you.” So they studied together. He taught the monk Tanya, telling him it was Kabbalah, and the monk taught him meditation. Years later, a young Jewish student came to the Soffers from London. She had come to find herself and had traveled to that same monk, all the way to his place. He said to her, “What do you need me for? You have the Tanya.” He sent her to the Soffer family, and they welcomed her. Who would have thought they would ever meet? Hashgachah pratis. L’chaim, l’chaim.

21:54 Speaker 4 Meditation on the verse Shema Yisroel.

21:56 Speaker 3 Yes, yes.

21:57 Speaker 4 Meditation on the verse Shema Yisroel. You don’t say a word.

24:06 Speaker 5 The yeshivos Ateret, Kiryat Arba, Shaalvim, Mevaseret Zion, for the young men and younger boys—the memento they’re handing out here.

24:37 Speaker 6 [unclear] a little more. The last line: “He ascended through suffering to the heavenly yeshiva. 19 Kislev 5756.” And as I stood there, I thought—and it’s important to me to say this specifically here—I had the privilege of hearing Rabbi Neria speak more than once about the great mission of shlichus. I got my enthusiasm for the teachings of shlichus, which we need to hear from the Rebbe, from Rabbi Neria, may the memory of a tzaddik be for a blessing. He would repeat it endlessly: we need to study it here, among ourselves, throughout all the institutions, at every level, in every circle, among all the fellows. So, specifically on 19 Kislev, I want to tell you a little story that happened to me with Rabbi Neria. Today is Rabbi Neria’s yahrtzeit, and Rabbi Soffer, may he live for many long years, mentioned him earlier. One morning I was sitting in the yeshiva, and someone passed me a note during class. I don’t even remember what the class was about. We were studying Kiddushin then. The note said: “Rabbi Neria is looking for you on the phone. This is the second time he’s called.” All right, I finished the class and hurried over. I called Rabbi Neria and said, “I heard you were looking for me.” Rabbi Neria said, “Listen, I heard the class last night.” I had no idea what he was talking about. From his tone, I thought he was about to rebuke me for something, and I couldn’t understand what he wanted. He said, “I heard the class last night.” I said, “What class?” He said, “It was on the radio.” I hadn’t known. Apparently it was a recording of something. So now he was going to give me some criticism, and I didn’t even know what he was talking about. I couldn’t prepare myself or say “uh, uh” while I thought. “Well done,” he said. Ah! And so on. But all the while I was certain that a “but” was coming next. I knew it would come any moment. Slowly

29:21 Speaker 6 Slowly, slowly. Someone once told me, “With a Jew in Jerusalem, it’s best to start off tough, because then the rest will go well.” I knew what was coming. So he says to me, “But…” Then he says, “Look, you’re not doing the right thing, you’re not doing the right thing.” I ask him, “I understand, but what is the Rabbi referring to now? What am I doing wrong?” He says, “Because I’ve already spoken to you about this. Take some time and write. Take some time. You need to write. Why aren’t you writing? You need to write.” I tell him, “Rabbi, how can I? I feel that’s not what I should be doing now. I don’t have time for it; I’m with the fellows and teaching classes, and I don’t have time to write.” “No, you must. You need to.” Listen, I saw that I wasn’t going to get out of this. The conversation had moved on to very pleasant things, but he told me that this was the only reason he had called. I saw I couldn’t get out of it, so finally I gathered my courage and said, “Rabbi, you too…” This conversation was about ten years ago—more than ten. It was in 5756, quite a few years before his passing. I said, “Rabbi, you too wrote your books—the whole collection of wonderful books, Moadei HaRe’iyah, the anthologies, all the books; you surely know them—those major books, you really wrote them only in the last ten years. So by that calculation, I still have a couple of years.” No. Then I hear him smiling over the phone, and he says the following words. Listen carefully. I quote: “I knew that you were going to ask me about this.” Those were his exact words. “I knew that you were going to ask me about this, and I prepared my answer”

31:30 Speaker 6 “at the beginning of what I said.” Well, I could see he was ready. “Mordechai,” he says to me, “for fifty years I didn’t write. Do you know why? Because I had to prepare people who would read it in the first place. But you—what excuses do you have now? Start working,” he says. “Start working.” He used the expression the Rebbe always used: “Not according to your abilities—far beyond your abilities. Start working.” That stayed with me. This realization—I’m telling you, where are we living? What does shlichus mean? It means knowing that a person carries out a shlichus, and things keep going and going and going. They don’t stop at all. I thought about the well-known question of the early commentators: Why didn’t Yosef write a letter to his father? Everyone asks it; the Ramban asks it. Why didn’t Yosef write a letter saying, “Father, I’m alive. Father, I still exist”? What about honoring his father? The Ramban says it was because the dreams had to be fulfilled. The Akeidas Yitzchak says: Let the One who gave the dreams fulfill them; you should honor your father. Maybe, maybe, maybe the explanation is simple. And I think it’s already written somewhere. Maybe it’s simple. And this is a foundation of shlichus that we need to learn on a day like this. Yosef is a shliach. Yosef is the shliach of the one who sent him. “Are your brothers not tending the flock in Shechem? Come, and I will send you to them. And he said to him: Here I am.” Do you understand what “Here I am” means? A person says “Here I am” to what? What am I now going to do? I’m going to my brothers, who hate me and cannot speak to me peaceably. Here I am. With humility, with eagerness. I’m going now. By the way, Avraham also said, “Here I am.” Moshe also said, “Here I am.” This is the only time a person says “Here I am” after being told what the task is—so you can understand how hard it is to say it. Avraham was called, and he said, “Here I am.” Then he was told, “Take your son.” “Moshe, Moshe,” and he said, “Here I am,” and then he was told. “Are your brothers not tending the flock in Shechem? Come,

34:16 Speaker 6 and I will send you to them.” What can you possibly say? First of all, “Here I am.” You say “Here I am”? The shlichus gets harder and harder. “Yaakov left Be’er Sheva and went to Charan.” The Rebbe speaks a great deal about leaving Be’er Sheva, that deep place, and going to Charan, a place of anger, going to the lowest place. Going there and bringing out whatever can be brought out, to the very end, as much as possible, from below. As an aside, last week I heard something wonderful, wonderful, from a young man in pain, in the midst of great pain. A young man who merited to circumcise his son, and who is very seriously ill. Very, very seriously ill. A young man, and with Hashem’s help, let there be much prayer for him. He is ill. L’chaim, l’chaim, l’chaim, l’chaim! Meshulam Chanan ben Chagis Rachel, for a complete recovery speedily from Heaven.

35:13 Speaker 7 Amen.

35:13 Speaker 6 On the eve of Parshas Vayishlach, he brought his son into the covenant of bris milah and named him Shachar Yisrael: “The sun rose for him,” and Yisrael was “limping on his hip.” It was tremendously moving, tremendously, tremendously. This young man is traveling for surgery this week, and there was great emotion. Then he said something extraordinary. I spoke with him there, and he said to me: Why did Yaakov have to struggle so hard to receive that blessing—the one we were talking about? He said, “Do you know why he struggled? Because Yaakov said to Eisav’s angel: I am going to be the father of the exile. I am Yaakov—Yaakov, who said, ‘Here I am.’ I am going to be the father who teaches people how to draw out everything that is there in the darkness. You will not leave here, angel of evil. You will not leave here, angel of Eisav, before I draw from you every possible lesson in receiving a blessing from evil. You are despair, and I will draw the blessing out of you. You will not leave here until I draw every blessing I can from every blow. There is no blow from which a blessing cannot come.” “And he went to Charan”—to go to Charan, to go to Charan, to go to Charan, and bring everything out of there. I return to Yosef. Yaakov sends Yosef, and Yosef says, “Here I am.” He tells him: “Go now and see how your brothers are faring and how the flock is faring, and bring me back word.” “He sent him from the valley of Chevron, and he came to Shechem.” Two missions that are one. Because at the beginning it says explicitly, “Are your brothers not…”—the subject is your brothers. Why is the flock of interest? A leader needs to know two things: to see how his brothers are faring, and then to see how the flock is faring materially too, not only spiritually. Yosef had two dreams: one about the material world—your sheaves and my sheaf—and one about the spiritual world. One was earth and one was heaven, like his father’s dream: earth and heaven, ascending and descending. And then

37:21 Speaker 6 Yaakov sends Yosef—“he sent him from the valley of Chevron”—and tells him: You are going to be a shliach and see how your brothers are faring and how the flock is faring. Well, what am I to do? I’ll look, but what do I do then? “And bring me back word.” What does “bring me back word” mean? I’ll come and say, “Father, okay, they’re there.” Is that enough? I saw them, I was there—roll call, commander, everyone present. No, no, no. You are to see how your brothers are faring. Yosef explains the shlichus himself. He meets the man and says to him, “I am seeking my brothers.” And the man tells him what people tell a shliach: “You’re wasting your time. They have moved on from here.” They have moved away from brotherhood. What are you talking about? Do you know what the man told him? He told him: “Yosef, listen carefully. You know how to defeat Eisav, that I know. You know how to defeat… You’re very strong at that. Yishmael, Shechem—you’re very good at those things. Forget brotherhood. There are things you have no chance of accomplishing. You were given a shlichus with no chance of success. Some missions do have a chance. Yitzchak sent Yaakov: ‘Yitzchak sent Yaakov, and he went to Paddan Aram’—‘take a wife for yourself from there.’ He sent him to build a home. You can do that. But to create brotherhood within that home? Don’t waste your time. ‘They have moved on from here,’ moved on from here. They’ve moved themselves away. Let it go already.” Yosef could also go home and tell his father, “I was in Shechem, and they weren’t there.” His father told him to go to Shechem. But “Yosef went after his brothers and found them in Dosan.” Do you know from whom he learned to go after his brothers, apart from the shlichus itself? Where did he learn it? Do you remember what Yaakov Avinu did immediately after the ladder? Do you remember what he did? Now listen to what simple, straightforward Chassidus means. Do you know what Yaakov Avinu did

39:13 Speaker 6 Right after the ladder? What did he do? What did he do after the ladder? What was the first thing? Where did he go? “A ladder was set on the earth.” He woke up. “Hashem is in this place,” and “Of all that You give me, I will surely give a tenth to You.” So where did he go now? Where was he headed? To the people of the East. Whom was he going to meet there? Rachel. Whom did he meet first? The shepherds. Were those shepherds nice or unfriendly? Unfriendly. Hashem have mercy. Do you remember what happened there? He met the shepherds and said to them—what was the first word? How? What? The first word: “My brothers!” Do you know the source of the Golani soldiers’ expression “my brother”? It’s from the Torah. “My brothers.” “My brothers.” You have to know the tune: “My brothers!” Who were his brothers? Who? Those shepherds from Charan. “Where are you from?” What did they answer? “We are from Charan.” The exact verse says, “He said to them, ‘My brothers, where are you from?’” How should it have been written? “And they said”—no, no, no. “And they said, ‘We are from Charan.’” “And he said to them, ‘Do you know Lavan son of Nachor?’” Remember? In the song it’s Lavan son of Besuel, right? “Is Lavan well?” Right? That’s in the song because the rhyme has to be “lo, Rachel,” right? But in the verse they didn’t know the song exactly, so the rhymes came out all out of order. “Do you know Lavan son of Nachor?” “And he said to them, ‘Do you know Lavan son of Nachor?’” Well, do you remember the answer? How should it have gone? “And they said to him”—“And they said, ‘We know him.’” “And he said to them, ‘Is he well?’” “And they said, ‘Well.’” Incidentally, I don’t know if they actually meant to say “well.” “And they said, ‘Well, and here is his daughter Rachel coming with the flock.’” Our Sages say in Midrash Rabbah: “‘And here is his daughter Rachel coming with the flock,’ and they said, ‘Well.’” They were saying, “Oh boy, some chatterbox has descended on us, and we’re trying to work.”

41:24 Speaker 6 “Look, there’s a woman coming over there. That’s good—she knows how to talk. Go talk to her a little, for heaven’s sake. You’ll have someone to talk to. We can see you like talking. There, there—hashgachah pratis! Hakadosh Boruch Hu has sent you someone to talk to. That’s good: nine measures of conversation.” It says women took nine measures of conversation. A great rabbi from Jerusalem told me, “And the tenth is on call waiting.” So go talk a little. Talk, it’s fine, talk. Do you know why I’m bringing up Yaakov? It’s absolutely wondrous. Yaakov comes away from the ladder—first, I want to tell you something simple. If I came out of a dream of angels of G-d ascending and descending, “Hashem is in this place”—what a level, what spirituality, what a place you’d be in, what power you’d feel. From all that weightiness, what depths can you reach? Do you understand Yaakov’s very next word? To see unfriendly shepherds, gentiles from Charan, and say to them, “My brothers, how are you?” That takes a special person. He learned it from his grandfather. Do you know the pinnacle of the Binding of Yitzchak? The pinnacle, after the altar. Remember the young men with the donkey? Remember them? They stayed below, right? “Stay here with the donkey.” Why “Stay here with the donkey”? Remember? Because that’s all you can see, like the donkey. Stay here. Yitzchak and I are going to that place, rising higher and higher. The one who binds, the one who is bound, and the altar. They reach such a height, and twice it says, “The two of them went together.” “Together, together” is more than just together. Together, together—just the two of them. They are alone in the world, and they are the whole world. They and Hakadosh Boruch Hu: “G-d will see,” “Hashem will see,” “Hashem will be seen”—together. They rise higher. Do you remember the end of the Binding? Do you remember its last verse? The last verse of the Binding.

43:23 Speaker 6 To my mind, that is the pinnacle of the Binding: “Avraham returned to his young men.” Who were the young men? The ones there with the donkey, right? Yishmael and Eliezer, right? What were they doing down there? What could they see? What were they doing? Huh? Playing backgammon. What were they playing? How should I know? Listening to Reshet Gimel? I don’t know what they were doing. They were sitting down there, right? Sitting there, playing. Just then the others arrived. They turned the volume down a little and suddenly saw: “Avraham returned to his young men, and they arose and went together to Be’er Sheva.” Only someone who can ascend Mount Moriah, bring Mount Moriah back down, and walk together with the young men—that shows that every bit of it comes from within him. There is nothing superficial there. Yosef learned from his father how to redeem his brothers. But, my friends, do you know what Yosef never had the privilege of hearing? Not once did he hear his brothers say, “My brother.” He did not hear the word “brother” even once. What his father said to the shepherds in Charan, Yosef never heard at home. “They saw him from afar, and before he came near them, they plotted to kill him.” Do you know why that is so important? Because if you really want to be sure you hate someone, it’s better to keep your distance. If you stay on the other side of the screen, I know you’re a leftist, you’re right-wing, you’re Chareidi, you’re white, you’re Black, you’re turquoise, you’re burgundy. It’s easier to put you in a category. But come closer, and we might actually get to know each other. We might end up crying; we might even ask how things are. We might have a little l’chaim, maybe even hug. Heaven forbid, heaven forbid! You might even offer me a cigarette. Stay back! “They saw him from afar, and before he came near them, they plotted to kill him.” Do you know when Yosef Hatzaddik first heard the word “our brother”? The very first time? “And they said, each man

45:20 Speaker 6 to his brother, ‘But we are guilty concerning our brother, for we saw his anguish when he pleaded with us, and we did not listen.’” The first time. Do you know what he did then? He turned away and cried. Now do you understand why? Because he had been waiting since day one to hear it: “Our brother.” That was the mission. Do you know why he didn’t send a letter home? Because what would the letter have said? “Father, I’m alive.” Well, what does it mean that you’re alive? However you turn the letter around—he could have sent a fax, an email: “Father, I’m alive.” Turn that email any way you want. What does “I’m alive” mean? “I’m alive.” That was the mission: peace among the brothers.

46:14 Speaker 8 What about my brothers?

46:14 Speaker 6 What about my brothers? Am I not your brother? What about my brothers? The mission has failed. Listen carefully. Someone asks: What about honoring his father? The answer is simple. Yosef knew his father. There was nothing Yaakov wanted more than for Yosef to be alive—except one thing: for the mission to continue. Yosef is alive, but the mission has stopped. What kind of life is that? What are those lives for? Should Yosef send his father a letter saying, “I exist”? What would that mean? That the mission is over? He knew that would not be honoring his father at all. There was no point in sending him such a letter. And he didn’t. Do you know the last words Yosef will say to his brothers? Not to his brothers—to us. Not to his brothers; to us, to us. “And Yosef made the children of Israel swear, saying”—that’s the verse before the last one in Bereishis. The next verse is “And Yosef died.” His final words—listen to the verse.

00:00 Speaker 1 “They have gone from here.” Will you swear to me that when Hashem remembers you, you will take my bones from here? Will you swear to me that you will carry on the mission that began here? Will you swear to me that the mission of “They have gone from here” is not over—that you will set right that “They have gone from here”? It is written in the holy Zohar: twelve, the twelve tribes. The man told him, “Enough. You’re wasting your time. There’s no chance.” But a shliach carries out his mission. He doesn’t know what will unfold on that mission. He doesn’t know what pit he will end up in, and he doesn’t know what Potiphar he will end up with. He doesn’t know what Potiphar he will end up with. But do you know what gives him strength? Wherever he goes, his father’s image appears before him. His father goes with him, because he is a shliach, and a shliach goes with the one who sent him. Wherever he is, the one who sent him is right there with him. He is truly there with him, because a person’s shliach is truly like the person himself. He is there with him; his father’s image is there with him. With this I want to conclude and tell you, friends: When I stood there on Friday at the grave of Rabbi Neria, may the memory of the righteous be for a blessing—it was Erev Shabbos, Erev Shabbos, 14 Kislev—and saw what was written there, I remembered. I saw the words: “Through suffering, he ascended to the heavenly yeshiva on 19 Kislev.” I saw a mission. The grave is there in the cemetery in the village. You pass the cowshed and the orange grove. That was the mission. Sixty years ago, Rabbi Neria stood on a hill and said: There is a mission here that must be translated into action. A mission does not end. What mission does each of us leave with? What Geulah does each of us take away from 19 Kislev? On 19 Kislev we wish one another a good year in the study of Chassidus and the ways of Chassidus, in internalizing Chassidus, and in internalizing—learning to see things from within. A shliach is someone who sees everything from within,

02:25 Speaker 1 because everything he sees, he sees through the strength of the one who sent him, not from the outside. For us, there is no “They have gone from here.” Tomorrow morning, each of us goes back to his yeshiva, his classroom, his home, his branch. How do I continue this mission? How do we keep it going? How do we begin, from today, with this strength, this tremendous strength, this great holiness we are receiving, from this holy day, from this whole great reality we are living today? Even if only through the mission of “I am looking for my brothers.” The mission of “I am looking for my brothers” continues all the time. It is the mission of each one of us, each one of us doing a little of what he can. A little. What he can do starting tomorrow morning, for his home, for his brother, for his friend, for his branch, for what is around him. Whatever little he can do. Whatever “you shall spread out” he can accomplish. What other little bit of “you shall spread out” is there? I was thinking—and I’m getting to “You Shall Spread Out” after this; we’ll finish with “You Shall Spread Out,” right?—I was thinking of just one word before “You Shall Spread Out.” I was thinking about it this Shabbos. It’s very strange. There is a sicha of the Rebbe on “You shall spread out.” But I was thinking about the verse, which is very puzzling. The verses say that Hakadosh Boruch Hu tells Yaakov: “And behold, Hashem stood over him and said, ‘I am Hashem, the G-d of Avraham your father and the G-d of Yitzchak. The land on which you lie, I will give it to you and to your descendants. Your descendants shall be like the dust of the earth, and through you shall they be blessed, and you shall spread out westward and eastward, northward and southward. And behold, I am with you, and I will guard you wherever you go and bring you back to this land, for I will not leave you until I have done what I have promised you.’” I simply didn’t understand. When will “you shall spread out” happen? When will it be fulfilled? When will “through you shall they be blessed” happen? When? When I bring you back to this land, right? “And bring you back to this land”—and then, from this land... The Rebbe says it begins with “and the man spread out.” Perhaps from

04:58 Speaker 1 this we can say one more thing. I think I hadn’t understood “you shall spread out” before. I think Hakadosh Boruch Hu is saying to Yaakov Avinu, “Yaakov, tell Me what you want. What are you asking for?” Here is a Jew with his staff, crossing the Jordan. What is the one thing he wants to know? That he will come home, right? “And I return in peace to my father’s house.” Hakadosh Boruch Hu tells him: I will be with you. Are you taking upon yourself “you shall spread out” or not? If you take upon yourself “you shall spread out,” well, then it is worth saying, “I am with you, and I will guard you wherever you go.” If you commit to “you shall spread out westward and eastward, northward and southward,” then “I am with you, and I will guard you” is worthwhile. But if you don’t take on “you shall spread out,” then what for? “You shall spread out” is not a one-time thing. May Hakadosh Boruch Hu, with Hashem’s help, grant us the merit—yes, we wish one another a good year in the study of Chassidus and the ways of Chassidus—to merit the full, great “you shall spread out.”

06:03 Speaker 2 I have to add one word to what Rabbi Elon said. A vort from the Rebbe that has not yet appeared in Likkutei Sichos. Yosef was on a mission the whole time: he went, he was sent, and sent, and sent, and everything went down, down, down, until he reached the pit. Where did he begin to rise? Two words: “Why do your faces look troubled today?” One morning he turns to the chief cupbearer and the chief baker—the very mission you’re talking about. Two non-Jews. Why should Yosef care, a slave in the lowest situation imaginable? Why should he care? “Why do your faces look troubled today?” And that is where his ascent began.

06:39 Speaker 1 What are the first words he says to his brothers? The very first words. Come on, the first words. “I am Yosef.” Well, and what else? And what else?

06:46 Speaker 2 “Do not be distressed.”

06:46 Speaker 1 “Do not be distressed.” No sadness.

06:50 Speaker 2 I think that before we sing “You Shall Spread Out,” I’ll ask Rabbi Gofin to say a few words. Rabbi Gofin.

06:56 Speaker 1 Not “You Shall Spread Out.” At the end of the morning.

07:04 Speaker 2 Rabbi Gofin is the senior mashpia of the yeshiva here. I’d like Rabbi Gofin to say l’chaim, say a few words to us, warm up the atmosphere for us. Just so you know, the official program may have ended now, but now we’re sitting down for a farbrengen until daybreak. After “You Shall Spread Out,” everyone who can and wants to sit with us until morning is invited. Rabbi Gofin.

07:27 Speaker 3 I’ll tell a story. A story—a well-known story about Reb Shmuel. One of the Alter Rebbe’s chassidim was Reb Shmuel Munkes. Can you hear? Reb Shmuel Munkes was one of the Alter Rebbe’s chassidim. But he was poor, and he traveled to the Rebbe on—on foot. He didn’t have money to buy a ticket and ride in a wagon. He would walk. One time he went in the winter. He was walking to Liozna, to the Alter Rebbe, his Rebbe, through the snow and cold, carrying his pack on his back. Along came a horse and a Jew with a wagon. The man saw this poor Jew, so he stopped and wanted to take him along. The wagon was full of barrels of... He was a wine merchant, with lots of barrels of wine on the wagon, and he invited Reb Shmuel aboard. He asked him, “Where are you going?” Reb Shmuel said, “To Liozna.” “Well,” said the merchant, “I’m traveling in that direction. Come, get on the wagon.” He got on, joined him, and sat down among the barrels. It was cold, so he wanted a little glass of wine to warm his heart. He asked the merchant’s permission: “May I have a glass of wine?” “Yes, please.” He took a glass of wine. Yes, he said l’chaim; he didn’t just say l’chaim for nothing. He said l’chaim like a chossid. Then he arrived at the Rebbe, at the Alter Rebbe. He told the Alter Rebbe, “Rebbe, on the way here I learned something very important. All the way here, I sat among huge barrels full of every kind of wine—sweet wine, dry wine, semi-dry wine, strong wine. Every kind of wine, in very large quantities, was in those barrels, while I sat among them. And I was cold. It didn’t help me. I asked for and took one small glass, but that glass I put inside. I drank it,

09:34 Speaker 3 and I became warm. A lot of wine on the outside has no effect on me. A little wine that goes inside does have an effect.” Since we have heard so much here from Rabbi Elon, Rabbi Sofer, and Rabbi Goldschmidt—we have heard words of Chassidus, words of Torah, words of Ahavas Yisroel, words about shlichus, so very much—what remains now is for each person, before we disperse, to take one small glass from everything we have heard, but take it inside. Take something from what you’ve heard and put it inside yourself. Put one small glass inside, and that will make you a vessel for it. It will give you life, it will give you life and warm you. Well, I wish everyone a truly good year in the study of Chassidus and the values of Chassidus. Much success. L’chaim, l’chaim.

10:27 Speaker 4 And you shall spread out, and you shall spread out, and you shall spread out, and you shall spread out westward and eastward, northward and sou—don’t forget, one last time. And you shall spread out, and you shall spread out, and you shall spread out westward and eastward, northward and southward. And you shall spread out southward, and you shall spread out westward and eastward. And you shall spread out, and you shall spread out, and you shall spread out, and you shall spread out, and you shall spread out westward and eastward, northward and southward, westward and eastward, northward and southward, westward and eastward, northward and southward.

13:15 Speaker 5 Hey, and you shall spread out, spread out, spread out, spread out westward and eastward and southward—westward. Northward and southward—westward. And you shall spread out westward and eastward and northward and southward. And you shall spread out westward and eastward and northward and southward. And you shall spread out westward and eastward and northward and southward. And you shall spread out westward and eastward and northward and southward. Lai, lai, lai, lai, lai, ahhh, lai, lai, hey, ai, ai, ai, lai, lai, lai, lai, lai, lai, ahhh.

17:03 Speaker 6 All this is coming to you from Limbo Lee’s office. All this is coming to you from Limbo Lee’s office. May things be good for everyone.