A Rebbe's Bold Answer to a Senior Priest
Freely adapted by Yerachmiel Tilles
He sat quietly, shoulders hunched, trying to disappear into his seat. The steady rhythm of the train's wheels echoed through the carriage, masking the tension beneath his calm exterior. Around him, passengers chatted casually - unaware, or perhaps indifferent, to the silent fear that gripped him.
It was 5673 (1913), in the waning days of the Tsarist regime. The "Black Hundreds," violent gangs supported by the government, had carried out brutal pogroms in Jewish communities. Though the great pogroms had mostly subsided, danger still lingered in the air for any Jew traveling through the land. Reports were whispered - of passengers attacked, of being thrown out the windows of speeding trains, simply because they were Jews. Even in moments that seemed peaceful, the threat remained.
Rabbi Yitzchak Schneersohn, the rabbi on behalf of the city of Chernigov and a descendant of the Chabad Lubavitch dynasty, was no stranger to these threats. Though respected by the authorities for his modern education and sophisticated demeanor, he knew that every train journey held hidden dangers, even for him. He pulled up the collar of his coat and whispered a prayer under his breath - a quiet plea for protection as the train surged forward relentlessly.
He had no choice but to take this journey - he had been invited to the imperial capital for a grand celebration marking 300 years of Romanov rule. About four thousand people had been invited to take part in the celebrations. They were chosen from the elite of Russian society: senior officials, public figures, mayors, military and police commanders, and prominent religious and cultural leaders... and he, a token of tolerance in a time of tension. Among the grandeur, Rabbi Schneersohn remained alert. He knew well how quickly honor could turn to hatred - how easily respect could give way to violence.
When the train stopped at Vitebsk, two young men stood waiting on the platform, clearly Jewish in appearance. Instinctively, Rabbi Schneersohn called them into his carriage, which was considered one for distinguished passengers; in it he hoped to shield them from potential danger.
He was surprised when he instantly recognized one of them: the young Rabbi Yosef Yitzchak Schneersohn - only twenty-three years old, but already marked with an appearance of refinement and intelligence (he would later become the sixth Lubavitcher Rebbe, known as the Rebbe Rayatz). The second was Rabbi Mendel Chein, a devoted chasid who served as the rabbi of the city of Nezhin (who was murdered five years later by vicious gang members, may G-d avenge his blood). The two were not traveling to the imperial celebrations but to another city, yet by Divine Providence they had boarded the same train, on which many of the celebration's invitees were traveling.
Their dignified bearing did not go unnoticed. A senior Christian clergyman, also en route to the Petersburg celebrations, took a sharp interest. He began debating them, challenging the truth of Judaism and defending Christianity. But the Rebbe-to-be and Rabbi Chein stood their ground. Calmly, respectfully, with grace and wisdom, they refuted all his claims. The Rebbe cited textual evidence, exposing the falsifications in the "New Testament" and the distorted interpretations Christians tried to impose on verses from the Hebrew Bible. He spoke the truth with clarity and conviction. The priest, once confident, began to falter, and before long, found himself without answers.
But then, refusing to remain silent for that would be akin to admitting defeat, he faced the three Jews and, raising his voice in anger, accused them: "Why did you kill our messiah?!"
The entire carriage fell silent. The blood drained from the Chernigov Rabbi's face. For generations, that accusation had been a prelude to bloodshed. Who knows what would happen now? Fearing the worst, he lowered his eyes and prepared for what might follow.
But Rabbi Yosef Yitzchak did not flinch. He remained seated, calm and composed, his expression resolute. He looked the priest straight in the eye and replied firmly:
"In those days, the world was honest. Sin and impurity could not be concealed. That man was a traitor and he received the punishment he deserved."
The words rang out, clear and unapologetic. Every passenger heard them. No one moved. No one spoke. Even the priest sat in stunned silence.
At the next station, the two Lubavitcher rabbis disembarked. Rabbi Yitzchak Schneersohn watched them go, still shaken - and yet in awe. The train rolled on.
The priest sat lost in thought and remained silent for a long time. Then he turned to Rabbi Schneersohn. Quietly, almost humbly, he said:
"That young man - religious and scholarly - he is an honest person. The kind of soul who lived in ancient times, but is almost impossible to find today. Only a man of unwavering conviction could answer like that. He is a true Jew - for death and for life!"
The Rabbi was astounded. He had never imagined that the future Rebbe's direct and daring answer would arouse such deep admiration in the heart of the priest.
Years passed. In 1929, Rabbi Yitzchak Schneersohn once again encountered Rabbi Yosef Yitzchak Schneersohn, now the Lubavitcher Rebbe, this time in Paris. As they spoke, he recalled once more that moment on the train and how deeply it had moved him. He had shared the story with Zionist leaders like Ussishkin, Weizmann, and Sokolov, and they too had been struck by the power of it - by the courage, the dignity and the spiritual strength of a then young chasid, who stood up for truth without fear.
Reprinted from an email of KabbalaOnline.org.
