Growing up in a Chabad house meant we were automatically involved in everything: on Shabbos and Yom Tov, there was no “downtime.” There was always something to set up, people to talk to, food to make, and Yidden to learn with. I thought I knew it all. My wife, Leah, grew up on shlichus in the Inland Empire, where driving two hours each way to school was just a fact of life. With no friends within 50 miles, she found herself befriending the community’s older women, spending hours laughing with them and hearing their stories.
I was surprised to see how much mental effort it takes to run your own Chabad house. Knowing that the finances, planning, organization, and initiative all depend on you is a massive burden - but well worth it, of course.
My generation of shluchim, who’ve just opened our doors in the past few years, have a unique perspective on shlichus, especially those of us in large, well-established cities. Baruch Hashem, Los Angeles is dotted with Chabad houses in every neighborhood. Those seeking a closer connection with Hashem have no trouble locating a Chabad house within close proximity. What we focus on is the people who, somehow, still haven’t heard of Chabad. We knock on door after door, in search of those few Jews who don’t know about Yiddishkeit. It’s amazing and humbling to be part of this “second wave” of shlichus, and to know that we’re implementing the final stages of the Rebbe’s vision to reach every last Jew in the world.
I met Seth* like so many others - by knocking on his door with an offer of fresh challos. Seth seemed happy to meet me, and shared that he’d only recently found out he was Jewish. His grandmother had grown up in Cuba, and had been trained from an early age to never let anyone know she was Jewish. The importance of keeping it secret was so deeply ingrained in her mind, she only revealed it on her deathbed. At first, the entire family was shocked, but once the initial surprise settled, they were left with the bigger question - what does being Jewish even mean?
My eyes opened wide as Seth shared his incredible story. I was excited to introduce him to the richness of Yiddishkeit and thought he’d be equally as keen to learn. Unfortunately, since it was all so new to him, Seth remained cautious and reserved. He accepted my challah with thanks, but stammered a refusal to a Shabbos meal invitation. For months, our only interactions were initiated by me, when I visited his home to deliver Shabbos or Yom Tov packages.
Eager to compel him out of his stagnation, I renewed my efforts to get him to come to shul. Just after Chanukah, I invited him for our inaugural “Scotch and Sushi Shabbos,” a program we’ve since instituted on a monthly basis.
“This is a rough time for the Jewish people,” he responded.
“True,” I concurred, “but the message of Chanukah, which we celebrated just last week, still remains true. Yes, there’s a lot of hate out there in the world, but when we drove our menorah truck around town, we received so much love and positivity! Come and see for yourself how we fight darkness with light!”
Many months after our initial conversation, Seth finally stepped foot in our Chabad house - still hesitant, reserved, and cautious - but he was there.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been in a synagogue before,” he confessed. “I wasn’t even sure about coming tonight, but my wife - who’s not Jewish, by the way - told me I should spend time with my people; that it would be good for me.”
“Welcome! Come join us!” I invited him.
That first baby step soon led to others. I put a mezuzah on Seth’s door, and helped him put on tefillin for the first time in his life. Although he’s over 70 years old, Seth is ready to brave new horizons, and unpack the treasures his grandmother hid for so many years.
Since we focus heavily on not-yet-affiliated Jews, we knew it would be difficult to get them all into shul to hear the shofar on Rosh Hashanah. Instead, we adopted the Covid-friendly option used by shluchim worldwide, and held a public shofar blowing in the park. It was so successful and so well-received, we decided to hold our Chanukah party in the park as well.
We texted and emailed everyone on our list about the event, and also advertised it in community Facebook groups. “Join together in solidarity with our brothers and sisters in Israel,” we wrote. “Am Yisrael Chai!”
Just after we lit the menorah, a woman we’d never met before came up to introduce herself. She had tears running down her face, and her voice shook with emotion.
“My name is Amy*,” she told us. “This is my first time ever attending a Jewish event. After October 7, I felt a strong urge to connect with my Judaism, but I didn’t know where to start. When I saw your Facebook post, I knew I had to come. I want my kids to understand their heritage, and what’s going on!
“The other night, I wanted to do something Jewish; to feel connected. I remembered my mother gave me a menorah as a wedding gift. It’s been sitting in my attic for an embarrassing number of years, but I finally brought it down and cleaned it off. Unfortunately, I didn’t have any Hanukkah candles, and I didn’t know what to do! I ended up whittling some scented candles down until they were narrow enough to fit in the menorah.
“Seeing your Facebook post inspired me to dig out that menorah and come here tonight. If not for that reminder, I would’ve just continued on, trying to ignore that nagging feeling that something was missing.”
That was the start of Amy’s involvement. Her children joined our Kid’s Club, and I’m giving her son bar mitzvah lessons as well.
That’s how we see our role as shluchim - helping to dust off the neglected, forgotten menorahs in the attic, and set them aglow.
We built a Sukkah mobile in a flatbed truck, and I tried to pick high traffic areas to park in, to gain the most attention and visibility. One day, I parked just outside a public school at dismissal time.
