The Night Jewish History And The World Changed Forever
By Rabbi Eli Friedman
The Rebbe during the early years
But the Rebbe wasn’t done. That night, to the utter astonishment - there is no other way to put it - of those gathered there, the Rebbe announced that the call of the hour was (not to rebuild, revive, rebound or replace, but) nothing less than to bring Moshiach. Actually.
The crowd stood there listening in amazement as the Rebbe spoke to them, a roomful of people still trying to figure out how to believe again in the coming of Moshiach, and invited them to bring him.
That night, the Rebbe unveiled a plan to reveal the Divine Garden which is the world. Without a grim introduction and without a sad tribute, without looking back, the Rebbe declared the launch of the greatest, grandest project the world had ever seen.
And that night, by doing all that, the Rebbe ended the Shiva. It was time to get up, change, wash up and go to work. We could and would never forget, but the Shiva was over. Life was asking to be lived.
Just before Rosh Hashanah in the fall of 1939, the sun had set on the Jewish People. And in the middle of that winter night in 1951, a few minutes before midnight, the sun rose for them again.
Overnight, the warm rays of the Rebbe dream elevated a generation. The radiance illuminated hearts and minds across the world as word of the Rebbe’s talks from that night spread.
Moshiach did not arrive that night, but he took root in the souls of real people with real lives, who set about working with Moshiach as the goal. And just like that, they weren’t trying to survive; they weren’t trying to make it. They were on a mission to bring Moshiach!
The question was no longer whether Judaism could survive all the evil; now it was a very serious question whether all the evil could survive Judaism.
These people who had just escaped with their lives were on a monumental mission to help others with their lives. These people who had seen a heartless, ugly world were assured that they could reveal a lovely, beautiful world. These people who had lived through hell on earth had been empowered to create Heaven on earth.
It was the Tenth of Shvat. The Shiva for the Holocaust was over, and that cold winter night turned out to be one of the warmest nights in history.
Every Yizkor - it was all about the war and the destruction and the millions. Even the happy days were sad days. Every birth, Bar Mitzvah, and Chupa was called a triumph, an answer, a act of revenge and defiance, an attempt to replace what had been lost and rebuild what had been ruined. Every “Mazal Tov!” was expressed with a smile and sob.
It just felt like the Shiva for the Holocaust would never end. How could it? Who would end it?
Finally, that night, at that gathering, it ended. It didn’t end because someone declared it over. It didn’t end because an anniversary had been reached. It didn’t end because the memory ran out. No.
It ended because a new Lubavitcher Rebbe was appointed that night, and he laid out a vision that was so joyous and so optimistic and so magnificently grand, that for many of the men and women there, it felt like finally, finally, for the first time since the good life before the war, life was giving death a run for its money.
That night, the Rebbe issued a statement all about love. Not compassion, not pity, not remembrance or tribute, but love. Love for Judaism and - gasp! - for G-d, and most importantly, for one another.
That night, the Rebbe spoke about taking responsibility. He declared that as heirs to the heritage of Abraham, who’d taken responsibility for teaching the world about G-d, we must shoulder the same burden and once again teach the world about G-d, how all of creation is in the image of its Creator, is at one with its Creator.
That night, the Rebbe spoke about beauty. He declared that the world is G-d’s garden, a lovely realm of charm and delight, simply divine and more precious than Heaven, and he spoke about how we can make it look the part.
That night, the Rebbe spoke about living with urgency, energetically, like people on a mission, willing to toil for its completion. He called for a groundswell of good deeds, Mitzvot performed with passion and exuberance, and over and over again he pushed for the people to care deeply for each other, take care of each other, uplift and inspire each other, and help each other do Mitzvot.
The call for living with urgency and energetically was in itself an audacious sign of life for a nation ravaged by mourning and grieving and despair.
One cold winter night in January, 1951, an overflowing crowd squeezed into a stately brick building on Eastern Parkway in Crown Heights, Brooklyn, and in not so many words, declared an end to the Shiva for the Holocaust.
The Nazis had surrendered only six years prior. Many of the hundreds gathered there were survivors of the camps themselves. All had lived through the Holocaust and were traumatized and devastated by it.
For many Jews at that time - old as well as young - the feeling was that the Holocaust had snuffed out Jewish pride and vibrancy forever, even for those who hadn’t been there. The impossibility of what had happened seemed to threaten the possibility that it would ever be okay to smile again.
Individuals here and there had patched together one semblance of a life or another, but as a people, as a nation, and especially as a community based on faith in G-d - it felt like the best times were behind them.
The shadow of the Holocaust loomed so large and imposing that it felt inescapable. Stories of tragedy and loss were commonplace. Every other face you passed on the street was a reminder. Every Yartzeit, every Kaddish, every memorial, every Yizkor - it was all about the war and the destruction and the millions. Even the happy days were sad days. Every birth, Bar Mitzvah, and Chupa was called a triumph, an answer, a act of revenge and defiance, an attempt to replace what had been lost and rebuild what had been ruined. Every “Mazal Tov!” was expressed with a smile and sob.
It just felt like the Shiva for the Holocaust would never end. How could it? Who would end it?
Finally, that night, at that gathering, it ended. It didn’t end because someone declared it over. It didn’t end because an anniversary had been reached. It didn’t end because the memory ran out. No.
It ended because a new Lubavitcher Rebbe was appointed that night, and he laid out a vision that was so joyous and so optimistic and so magnificently grand, that for many of the men and women there, it felt like finally, finally, for the first time since the good life before the war, life was giving death a run for its money.
That night, the Rebbe issued a statement all about love. Not compassion, not pity, not remembrance or tribute, but love. Love for Judaism and - gasp! - for G-d, and most importantly, for one another.
That night, the Rebbe spoke about taking responsibility. He declared that as heirs to the heritage of Abraham, who’d taken responsibility for teaching the world about G-d, we must shoulder the same burden and once again teach the world about G-d, how all of creation is in the image of its Creator, is at one with its Creator.
That night, the Rebbe spoke about beauty. He declared that the world is G-d’s garden, a lovely realm of charm and delight, simply divine and more precious than Heaven, and he spoke about how we can make it look the part.
That night, the Rebbe spoke about living with urgency, energetically, like people on a mission, willing to toil for its completion. He called for a groundswell of good deeds, Mitzvot performed with passion and exuberance, and over and over again he pushed for the people to care deeply for each other, take care of each other, uplift and inspire each other, and help each other do Mitzvot.
The call for living with urgency and energetically was in itself an audacious sign of life for a nation ravaged by mourning and grieving and despair.
