A Bochur today in Tomchei Temimim

00:02 The question is: How do you compare a bochur in Tomchei Temimim today with a bochur who was in Lubavitch in 5665 or 5666? What do the two have in common? Looking at them from the outside, you don’t see the same kind of bochur. You know, a bochur in Lubavitch had [unclear]. Reb Eliyahu Simpson, z"l, was one of the older chassidim, one of the older Temimim in Lubavitch, and a chozer. He told a story about Shabbos Parshas Zachor 5665. Reb Eliyahu davened until four o’clock. [unclear] asked Reb Eliyahu, “What was the point of the maamar the Rebbe said on Shabbos Parshas Zachor 5665?” In Lubavitch, after the Rebbe said a maamar on Shabbos, they lived with that maamar all week. What did they do? They lived all week with the maamar the Rebbe had said on Shabbos. On Shabbos Parshas Zachor, the Rebbe said the maamar, and that same Shabbos Reb Eliyahu davened until four o’clock. He came over, met [unclear] there, and asked him, “What was the point of today’s maamar?” He didn’t answer. Reb Eliyahu said, “The point of the maamar is that you can daven until four o’clock and remain an angel. That’s the point.”

01:42 Now we’re talking about ourselves. When bochurim in the past davened all day, learned Chassidus every day, were present when a maamar was said, and the atmosphere of Chassidus filled their lives—how can a bochur today compare himself to them? The Rebbe, it seems to me, grappled with that question. We don’t understand what the bochurim were like back then; we only understand the bochur who is asking the question. The essence of Chassidus is bittul. Bittul means that a person makes himself smaller, constricts himself. [unclear] the gevurah of Atik. How does that work from below upward? How does he become [unclear]? The maamar says: contraction—he makes himself smaller, he bends down. When his nature is to move from below upward, how does he also come down? He has to change his nature. Jews, chassidim, davened; why? To nullify themselves—their sense of self, their independent existence. There is no “I.” None. In Lubavitch, it showed itself this way: a bochur had little coffee; he didn’t eat as much as he wanted. In davening, he didn’t want to think about himself, even though he could have. [unclear] This is the very essence of nullifying one’s own will, the bittul in which one’s independent existence does not exist: no “I,” no independent existence, no “mine,” no “myself.” Nothing. Only what the Rebbe wants, the Rebbe’s intention—that was the bochur’s avodah. A bochur today,

03:19 for example, reaches the time before Pesach and has to travel. He goes to a distant place and conducts a Seder with Jews there. There’s no minyan or anything else; he has nothing. What is all this about? He travels; he puts himself aside. When he sits at home, he’s in a comfortable room, saying the words of the Haggadah and their explanations. But here he travels. What is his intention? That the Rebbe’s will should be carried out. He puts himself aside. Why? Just one thing: he doesn’t count himself. That is the point of Chassidus. What is required? Whether the bochur davened for six hours or he travels, he isn’t thinking about himself. Or a shliach goes [unclear] to a place that has nothing, where there is virtually no Jewish life. He isn’t thinking about himself, but about what the Rebbe wants there to be in the world. What does the Rebbe want? That he establish a mikveh, that he [unclear] Jews—and that becomes his life. The bochur in yeshivah, as he sat in Tomchei Temimim a hundred years ago—what was his life about? Putting himself aside. The question isn’t whether he davened more, or learned more nigleh, or more Chassidus. The whole point is the same point. L’chaim, l’chaim, l’chaim.