As children of shluchim, both of us agreed shlichus was our future.
“I’ll go anywhere,” I said. “I just have two caveats: I don’t want to do college campus shlichus, and I don’t want to work with family.”
The fact that we ended up at a community college, right where I grew up, working alongside my brother, is mostly the fault of my very good friend, Rabbi Chaim Brook.
As the shliach at California State University, Northridge, Rabbi Brook met many students who’d transferred from a two-year community college in S. Monica.
“SMC needs a shliach!” he told me. “You’re perfect for the role!” Although I declined and politely explained my reasoning, there was no stopping Rabbi Brook. He even roped others into the effort, until we couldn’t say no anymore. We tentatively started researching.
Just before Shavuos in 2007, I flew to California for an exploratory trip. Over Yom Tov, my father was hospitalized. He passed away two days later. When Rabbi Kotlarsky, the vice chairman of Merkos visited to pay a shiva call, he told me he’d already secured funding for Chabad of SMC from Mr. George Rohr’s Seed Money Grant. Before he’d spoken the final wishes of comfort, we’d officially committed to opening Chabad of SMC.
Now, 17 years later, we are launching a building campaign of 4.5 million dollars to bring our new state-of-the-art student center and Chabad house to life.
First Sukkos on Shlichus
For our first Sukkos on shlichus, we got permission to set up a sukkah on campus that would remain there for the whole yom tov. One day on chol hamoed, a group of Jews for J showed up, and started giving out flyers right beside our sukkah. I called the campus police, but they just shrugged their shoulders.
“They’re just exercising their right to freedom of speech. It’s a public campus, and the first amendment allows them to be here. If there’s no actual harassment, we can’t do anything about it.”
I gathered some students, and formed a ring around the Jews for J missionaries. We sang and danced in a circle around them, making it very difficult for them to meet with any passersby. Eventually, they gave up and left.
Establishing Our Place
Fast forward to fall of 2008. It was VIP day, a sort of orientation for freshmen and their parents, giving them the opportunity to tour the campus and see what programs and clubs were on offer. Every organization that could, set up tables piled with freebies and fliers. Of course, we wanted to set up a table of our own. However, since clubs are extracurricular, they’re all represented together, rather than each club receiving their own table. Some administration officials soon came over with frowns furrowing their foreheads.
“What is your organization? Is Chabad a club?”
“I’m a club, and not a club,” I responded, in true Jewish fashion.
They pursed their lips and called for the campus police.
“I’m just exercising my right to freedom of speech,” I told them. “It’s a public campus, and the first amendment allows us to be here.”
In using their words against them, we established our rightful place at college proceedings. Although Chabad is considered a club, we are now invited to other special events - the only club to hold such a distinction. We’ve built a great relationship with the admin - and the campus police.
Kobi's Journey
Kobi* was a walking incongruity. His mother was Israeli, and he was born and raised in Israel, but held very leftist views. While in the IDF, he was arrested for joining an Arab protest against the IDF. When another activist student made a Yom Haatzmaut event, Kobi showed up with a Lebanese friend, both of them equipped with large signs denouncing the “Zionist state.” For the seder, he brought along a friend - from Egypt. When I explained that we lean left while drinking the four cups, Kobi quipped, “Of course! Who’d want to lean right?”
Kobi and I maintained a good relationship, but although he attended many of our programs and events, he remained aloof from Yiddishkeit. He agreed to have a mezuzah on his door, but not much more than that. After completing SMC’s program, he moved away and we lost touch.
It was a few months until I heard from Kobi again. It was Motzei Yom Kippur when he called, saying, “Rabbi, you’ll never believe what happened!” That morning, he’d had a sudden urge to attend shul. He’d never gone to any religious institute other than Chabad, so he searched for the nearest Chabad center, only to find a Chabad house around the corner.
Soon after he got there, the rabbi delivered his sermon.
“I’d like to repeat a story I heard from a rabbi in Los Angeles, Rabbi Levitansky,” he began.
Did he just say Rabbi Levitansky? The only rabbi in the world I actually know? How crazy!
Kobi was dumbfounded, and resolved to call me immediately after Yom Tov. We chatted for a while, catching up on the past few months. Again, I didn’t hear from him again until months later. This time, he was inviting me to his wedding.
I wonder if the bride is even Jewish, I thought to myself. Kobi’s next words almost made me fall from my chair in disbelief.
“Since I’m getting married in LA, I was wondering if you could read the Rebbe’s letter under the chuppah.”
“What?” I almost shouted, just trying to make sense of what I’d heard.
Kobi chuckled and explained how he’d made such a radical change. His Yom Kippur visit had renewed his desire to connect, and he began attending some events. That was where he met Karen*, a new baalas teshuva. He was interested in her, but his lack of Torah observance didn’t...
