Elie Wiesel was a Romanian born author and professor. He was a Viznitzer chosid (as he made a point of informing the Rebbe at the start of each meeting), who met with the Rebbe a number of times, and was profoundly influenced by him. Following is an excerpt of his first yechidus:
“My first visit to his court lasted almost an entire night,” writes Elie Wiesel in his Memoirs, regarding how he came to Brooklyn, sometime in the early 1960s, in order to make the acquaintance of the Lubavitcher Rebbe. The Rebbe had read some of my works in French and asked me to explain why I was angry with G-d. “Because I loved Him too much,” I replied. “And now?” he asked. “Now too. And because I love Him, I am angry with Him.” The Rebbe disagreed: “To love G-d is to accept that you do not understand Him.”
In 1964, Wiesel published his second novel, The Gates of the Forest, a story divided into four seasons, the last of which, “Winter,” is a vivid, detailed account of that meeting in the Rebbe’s quarters. The account is grueling, heart-breaking, painfully vulnerable, and, at some points, just shocking. Auschwitz is the pivotal question of the conversation. “How can you believe in G-d after Auschwitz?” But as the conversation shifts from emotion to emotion, from argument to counter-argument, the Rebbe keeps pushing his visitor to reveal why he is really there, his deepest motivation for the visit. “What do you expect of me?” asks the Rebbe. To which the knee-jerk response is: “Nothing, absolutely nothing.” But the Rebbe is patient. By the end of the visit, the visitor will know why he came.
By the end of the long soul-searching session with the Rebbe, Wiesel came to confess, or rather to discover, why he really came to see the Rebbe. “You asked me what I expect of you, and I said I expect nothing. I was mistaken. Make me able to cry.”
In the original Yiddish version of the book that came to be called Night, Wiesel recalls how the death of his father in Buchenwald had traumatized his capacity for tears. The light of his world was extinguished, he writes. “But I did not cry, and this is what causes me the most grief: this inability to cry. The heart had petrified, the fountainhead of tears had dried up.” When Wiesel pleads with the Rebbe, “Make me able to cry!” we understand that this is not some incidental request blurted out during that yechidus, or some flourish added to a fictional novel for dramatic effect. The request is nothing less than Wiesel’s secret reason for coming to the Rebbe. Wiesel came to the Rebbe for the same reason that anyone ever went to Rebbe: he went to discover his true request. And so the face-to-face with the Rebbe, being seen by the Rebbe, allowed him to see his true self, and to articulate his deep-felt need to become transparent to himself. “Make me able to cry!”
And the Rebbe’s response? Did the Rebbe put his arms around the broken man and allow him to experience his long-awaited catharsis? Did he come forth with his famous paternal love and allow Wiesel to weep on his shoulder and mourn for the father lost in Buchenwald?
Again, the Rebbe responded in an unexpected manner. Yes, he did encourage Wiesel to find the needed catharsis for his grief. But not in weeping. Because weeping is not an adequate form of catharsis for the colossal suffering of Auschwitz and Buchenwald. The Rebbe shook his head. “That’s not enough. I shall teach you to sing.” “Grown people don’t cry; beggars don’t cry.” The Rebbe added, “Crying is for children. Are you still a child, and is your life a child’s dream? No, crying is no use. You must sing.”
[In 1973, Wiesel composed a cantata titled Ani Maamin: a Song Lost and Found Again. The song concludes with the following verses: “I believe in you, Even against your will. Even if you punish me For believing in you. Blessed are the fools Who shout their faith. Blessed are the fools Who go on laughing. Who mock the man who mocks the Jew, Who help their brothers Singing, over and over and over: I believe. I believe in the coming of the Messiah, And though he tarries, I wait daily for his coming. I believe].
Subheading: The Chassidic Approach to Song and Davening
So, what did you come to Lubavitch for? What do you want the Rebbe to bless you with? What are we all seeking to achieve and accomplish by being chassidim? Perhaps, we, too, want the Rebbe to teach us to sing!
Undoubtedly, as chassidim, one of our primary preoccupations is singing. I don’t mean singing nigunim, by farbrengens, or at times of hisorerus. Of course, they play an important part in our avodas Hashem as well (as is known the interpretation of the Alter Rebbe on כל בעלי שיר יוצאין בשיר ונכנסין בשיר).
But, besides that, we sing daily. A few times a day, as a matter of fact. When we daven, we’re singing to Hashem. We’re singing His praises, and our thanksgiving. Throughout davening we are describing it with various terms of singing (שירו, לה' פצחו ורננו, וזמרו זמרו לה' בכינור etc.). And, there is no question that the Rebbe, and chassidus, teaches us how to daven. How to daven properly; - how to sing! The question is: are we learning?
We were in the middle of discussing, in last week’s email, suggestions for some basic hachlotos to help us bridge the gap between Tishrei and the rest of the year (and, no! I did not receive enough responses to last week’s suggestion, barely a minyan). So, here’s another one. But first, a story (shared by Reb Bezalel Rotter, over yom yov, zechus horabim toluy bo):
One day, Rabbi Ushpal called over all of his students in Lubavitcher Yeshiva, and gave them a surprise quiz on.... Oleinu! He had noted that most of the boys were reciting oleinu by heart. So, he tested them, and they all failed the test! None of them were able to recite Oleinu flawlessly by heart. (Reb Bezalel concluded the story with the following sequel): About a year and a half ago, Rabbi Ushpal began appearing to Reb Bezalel, in his dreams, and admonishing him for having stopped carrying out the above resolution, until he began saying it from a siddur once more]!
Now, I suspect most/many of us would possibly pass the test of knowing Oleinu – or other portions of davening – by heart. But there are another three tests, I think, to see if our davening is as it should be (כדבעי' לילמעבד). And, I think, putting more effort and giving more attention to our davening is definitely a very effective means of drawing the inspiration of Tishrei into the year.
Over Tishrei, it was beautiful to see much publicity given to try to encourage people to work more on avodas hatefilah. There were farbrengens and panels and signs devoted to the subject. And, in general, it is extremely uplifting and inspiring to see, in whatever Lubavitcher shul you may daven in, and in any part of the world, how there are chassidim everywhere who take davening very seriously, who are actively engaged in getting closer to G-dliness. But I think there is an important point missing: As chassidim, we need to always daven better. Meaning, even those tefilos (or days) when – for whatever reason – we’re not doing the “official davening ba’avoda thing” – we still need to daven properly. Which includes saying every word and thinking about the basic pirush hamilos (and the basic chassidisher pirush hamilos), even when there is no lengthy hisbonenus taking place.
Sometimes we can see very chassidishe yidden, who daven ba’avoda and ba’arichus whenever they’re able. But yet, in those tefilos or occasions in which – for whatever reason – they are not davening “ba’avoda”, they fly through davening. (The way most of the minyanim are). Which seems to be overlooking something. What about basic davening, and the basics of davening?
And for this, I’d like to suggest, there are 3 tests: The first test is the test of saying the words. It is a simple test! When I hear a chazan flying through the words, and every time he has to say parts out loud (chazoras hashatz etc., and especially tehillim or less familiar tefilos), he cannot maintain the same speed, or it is full of mistakes, - then he failed the test. He is clearly not enunciating all of the words. So, if you are reading with your eyes, - slow down, make sure you’re saying and pronouncing each word properly.
But, even if you’re saying every word, are you giving yourself enough time to think about the basic meaning of the words? Even if you have an extremely fast head, most of us (and אנשים כערכינו) need more time just to know what we’re saying. Of course, we can think about it in a general manner, that the Eibishter is great (venomar omein...). But that was obviously not the intent of the anshei kneses hagedolah, who composed such a beautiful davening for us, in which each and every word is...
