I

t took a bottle of beer to teach Aryeh Royde that he had it all wrong.

The young Belzer yungerman from Manchester thought he knew all about kiruv tactics. Eight years ago he was newly married had just moved to Monsey and spent Shabbosim with his older brother who had a constant stream of baalei teshuvah at his table.

“You have a good rapport with these guys” he encouraged Aryeh. “You should get into it.”

And so sharp-witted sociable Aryeh began to plow through the seforim diligently — Shaar HaYichud Chovos HaLevavos — he wanted to be prepared to debate G-d’s existence. When he felt he had the philosophy down pat he was ready for the showdown. He called Partners In Torah and asked to be matched with an intellectual. Within ten minutes he proved to his new phone chavrusa from Dallas the truth of G-d’s existence and the veracity of Torah — but something in the equation didn’t add up. Aryeh debated his phone-pal every week for two years but the Texan on the other end of the line still had no interest in keeping halachah.

Then something happened that would turn Aryeh Royde’s kiruv philosophy upside down.

Five years ago Aryeh Royde and his friend Eli Bineth another Belzer yungerman from Monsey joined a friend from Boro Park who was traveling to Dallas for a community kiruv Shabbaton. As a fringe benefit Royde would finally meet his phone-pal in person.

“During the Friday night oneg there was such warm chassidishe energy. Everyone was into the niggunim and this guy drives up in his car comes into the shul sits down next to me and asks me for a beer ” Rabbi Royde remembers. “I brought him a bottle opened it for him as a gesture of friendship and after that we just bonded. On Motzaei Shabbos at the kumzitz he sidled up to me and said ‘You know I’m forty years old and haven’t put on tefillin since my bar mitzvah.’ I told him I’d help him in the morning so we went to a small shul where no one knew him and he wouldn’t be embarrassed. He went through the entire davening and then said to me with tears in his eyes ‘Thank you for opening my beer.’

“If he was astounded by what was going on with his neshamah I was even more” Aryeh Royde admits five years later. “I had been learning with my Dallas phone chavrusa for two years and he still hadn’t put on tefillin. Yet here was this guy I barely knew. All I did was give him a bottle of beer and the next thing I know he’s putting on tefillin.

“What was going on here? We were just a bunch of friendly outgoing guys. We didn’t give lectures we didn’t prove Hashem’s existence — we were just nice. We smiled. We danced. We sang. The people saw Shabbos. And they saw real pleasure. When does a secular person sing with his family aside from when he’s drunk?”

Little did Royde know that that one Shabbos five years ago would become the formula for a national kiruv venture he himself would lead.

Kiruv in Monsey?

Today Aryeh Royde and Elye Bineth, founders of the “Traveling Chassidim,” pack up their families regularly and, joined by other young Belz families on a rotation basis, travel to cities around the US and Canada, promoting Jewish unity, joy, and spirit among the different backgrounds and affiliations within the Jewish community.

How did these two dignified mechanchim, with their buttoned-down coats and neatly curled peyos wrapped around their ears in traditional Belz fashion, wind up spending Shabbosim in out-of-town communities doing Carlebach-style services, dancing and singing with congregants late into the night? Is it a new frontier for chassidim, who have a reputation for being insular?

“Growing up with the inspiration of the Belzer Rebbe, we were always attuned to the idea of kiruv,” explains Rabbi Elye Bineth, who runs the US branch of Chaim Shel Torah, an international mentoring program that trains yungeleit to learn with teenage bochurim. “But we always thought kiruv is something you do in Israel. We thought America was a lost cause. Here you need professionals — Chabad, Aish HaTorah. Where should we do kiruv in America — here in Monsey?”

“We got hooked by Project Inspire, after seeing an ad for a kiruv training course,” says Rabbi Royde. The idea behind Project Inspire is to give every frum person the skills, and the inspiration, to be a “kiruv ambassador,” or, as project mentor Rav Noach Weinberg, ztz”l, put it, “to wake the sleeping giant.” The Belzer yungeleit in Monsey were a friendly, outgoing bunch, and they attended the seminar together. Then they were sold.

“After the kiruv training, we couldn’t just go back to our complacent lives,” Rabbi Royde puts the enthusiasm into context. “How could we let five million American Jews remain assimilated while we continued to bury our heads in Monsey? What could I do with my chassidishe friends that would be unique? How could I make my contribution?”

Elye Bineth continues: “It was before the Yamim Tovim of 2009, and Aryeh and I were sitting in my office brainstorming, thinking of what we could do. We came up with the idea of a community-wide Simchas Beis HaShoeivah for the Jews in the outlying areas. So we printed up flyers under the banner of Project Inspire, went to the big housing complexes in Nyack and other towns, and knocked on every door where we saw a mezuzah. In as nonthreatening a way as possible, we said we’d like to invite them to a special Succos event to promote community unity. It’s no secret that there’s a lot of animosity between the secular elements and the chassidim in Monsey. The chassidim have voted in certain candidates, changed zoning laws, and basically taken over. So we pitched this as a program of unity.”

How many showed up?

“Zero. No one even called to register,” Rabbi Bineth confesses. But they didn’t let one failure dampen their enthusiasm.

“We went to a marketing expert to see if he could analyze what went wrong with our approach,” Bineth continues. “He said the flyer was so threatening, people would say ‘What, come to Monsey? What are they going to do to me over there?’

“‘Hashem,’ I pleaded. ‘We did our hishtadlus. We really want to help. Just send us the right idea.’”

Soon afterwards, Rabbi Royde — a kollel avreich and afternoon mesivta rebbi in Talpios for learning-challenged boys — attended a Discovery Seminar held in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania. Rabbi Raphael Nemetsky of the town’s congregation came up to him and sighed, “You know, nowadays emes isn’t really mechayev. No one cares that you can prove to them what’s true.”

“You know what,” answered Royde, suddenly remembering the warmth they generated in Dallas several years before, “I have a group of friends. Maybe we’ll come to your city and show them a real chassidishe Shabbos.”

“Sounds great, but I won’t remember your names,” said Rabbi Nemetsky. “I’ll just put you down as the ‘Traveling Chassidim.’

“And so we were invented.

“A week later I brought my chassidishe kiruv friends to the annual Aish convention,” says Rabbi Royde. “We took a table together and while others were rushing out to lectures after the Shabbos seudah, we continued to sing. That’s what chassidim do at a Shabbos meal. The other tables loved it, and at the table next to ours was Rabbi Yaakov Couzens and his group from Aish Philadelphia. The next week would be Shabbos Chanukah, and he begged us to come and liven up his community. We said to him, ‘You know, we do this. We’re the Traveling Chassidim. We’re going to Wilkes-Barre in three weeks …’ And so, Aish Philadelphia was our first official Shabbos — our debut.”

Hitting the Road

For the past year, the Traveling Chassidim have been packing up and going wherever they are summoned.

“We usually go to kiruv communities, where there is a rabbi looking for programs to inspire his congregation. We don’t go to places where there is no Yiddishkeit at all, because at this point, we don’t have the capacity for that kind of follow-up. We leave that up to the rabbi and the community itself. We’re just the ‘entertainers,’” Aryeh Royde explains.

The “entertainment” is a Shabbos to remember. Friday night begins with a riveting, Carlebach-style Kabbalas Shabbos, followed by a communal seudah and chassidishe tisch. Shabbos day continues with a spirited davening, and now it’s Motzaei Shabbos, the highlight of the weekend with the special Havdalah and kumzitz. Rabbi Elye Bineth’s electric guitar accompanies his soulful tenor Havdalah (with the lights out as everyone holds a candle and sways to the niggun) — this, and the dancing, goes on for hours. Rabbi Bineth has switched his shtreimel for a kasket, and now he really looks the part of a Yiddish troubadour. A young child takes the mike. He’s singing the Yiddish ballad A Gutte Voch and the crowd is suddenly hushed. This is Reb Dov Loker’s son Meir. Dov Loker and his wife are among the regulars, and in fact his father-in-law, Mr. Ostreicher, has joined the Traveling Chassidim on every Shabbaton so far.

But for all the music and inspiration, there is nothing that competes with the … shtreimel. Even in Orthodox communities outside Brooklyn and Monsey, seeing a shtreimel on Shabbos is rare, all the more so among new communities that are moving closer to Torah. The men are fascinated by it, and everyone wants a turn to try it on.

“I’ve had the best kiruv teachers,” says Rabbi Royde. “I’ve learned how to handle deep philosophical questions. But when we began to do these Shabbatons, we were bombarded with this other burning question — so much more intense than the question of G-d’s existence or the truth of Torah. We walk into shul and they look up at our heads with these animal tails and say, ‘How do you make that?’ So I actually give a crash course in how to make a shtreimel.

“People are hesitant to learn about Judaism but they want to taste Judasim. We don’t teach it, we demonstrate it,” says Rabbi Royde. That’s why it’s so important for the group to travel with their families.

Always an Adventure

Nissi Bineth is used to packing up her five children — the oldest is seven and the youngest is four months.

“Some people might consider this a burden, but it’s always a thrilling experience for me,” she says as she stuffs toys, bottles, and parshah sheets into a duffel bag. “I look forward to it each time; it’s always an unknown, but each community has its own unique flavor. We never know what the conditions will be, but that’s part of the adventure. We were in Philly in a blizzard, and we were in Lawrence in a hurricane. Sometimes our accommodations are luxurious, sometimes we’re all squashed into one small room. But none of that really matters. The connections that we forge are so special and inspirational.

“The truth is, whatever we give, we get back. We were recently invited to a Shabbos bar mitzvah of one of the kiruv rabbis we’re in touch with. After Shabbos the father said to his son, ‘This was such a beautiful Shabbos. What are we going to take on ourselves after such a Shabbos?’ I just looked at my husband — and we both agreed: we, too, were obligated. Now, what would we take on after such a special Shabbos? And even on ‘off’ Shabbosim, my children insist on doing my husband’s Havdalah concert, with candles and lights out.”

Now that the core group has expanded to about fifteen families that alternate, and many others who are begging to join (the Roydes and the Bineths are regulars and are joined by another four families), Nissi Bineth has become the women’s “trainer.”

“It’s really the men’s thing,” Nissi says, “so when the women join, they are often more shy, maybe even a little fearful, especially the first time. Some are nervous. They tell me, ‘My husband really wants to do this, but I’m not sure I’m the type.’ ‘Don’t worry, after five minutes you’ll open up,’ I encourage them. And it’s true. The women of these communities are so happy to have us, and are so warm and forthcoming.”

Just Say Hello

Thornhill, Ontario. Chatanooga, Tennessee. Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania. Westpoint Military Academy. Wherever there are Jews who want inspiration, the Traveling Chassidim will show up. Launched by Project Inspire, and now under the auspices of the “World of Belz” under the guidance of the Belzer Rebbe, the Traveling Chassidim have become a big draw.

“We don’t usually meet people who have deep philosophical challenges,” says Rabbi Royde, who now gives seminars in kiruv training. “Most people just want to see what Yiddishkeit is really about. They want to see our families. They want to see the geshmak we have in a Shabbos.

“There are a few misconceptions that not-yet-frum people have about Yiddishkeit,” Rabbi Royde continues. “Our job is to break the barriers and dissolve those misconceptions — and you don’t have to be a ‘professional’ to do that. All you have to be is a mentsch, willing to connect with another Jew. The first misconception is that even if a person wants to get closer, he’s afraid his life will no longer be fun. So we have to show them that true pleasure is connection — to Hashem and spirituality.

“People also think that it’s all or nothing. I don’t want to give up my fun Friday nights, so how can I put on tefillin? We have to explain that every action, every deed, is positive in itself, that Hashem gets infinite nachas from every small step.

“But the greatest misconception is a social one. They think that we frum people look down on them. Actually, this is not so off, because unfortunately, frum people do look down on the secular, but it’s not supposed to be that way according to Torah. So here the first thing we need to do is get that attitude out of our own heads. Teach ourselves that it’s a misconception and show them it’s a misconception. You can be mekarev a Yid with nothing, just by saying hello on the street. Their neshamos want the Jewish connection, but their guf thinks we’re unapproachable.

“People look at us, in our chassidishe levush, and they think, ‘Those people are so religious, they’re probably religious snobs. Why would they be interested in me?’ I teach kiruv training to chassidim, and I always tell them, ‘Your separateness is your greatest asset, because when you are nice and welcoming, it’s so much more impactful.’”

Rabbi Royde, whose proper Queen’s English belies an uninhibited energy that pushes him to connect with total strangers, emphasizes that there are opportunities for kiruv all around us. In Project Inspire’s video last summer, Rabbi Royde was featured talking about how you can be mekarev any stranger you meet on the street just by asking if he’s Jewish. He relayed an incident that happened in his neighborhood — a young man on a bike, ponytail and all, stopped him to ask for directions. Rabbi Royde asked the young man if he was Jewish and when he answered in the affirmative, Rabbi Royde chatted with him for half an hour and exchanged phone numbers. The following week, Rabbi Royde called, reminded him that they had met on the street the week before, and set up a chavrusa with him every week on the grass in the park.

“That’s as far as the story goes on the film,” he says. But the end of the story? “We had a chavrusa in Chumash for two years, until he went off to university. When I met him he knew nothing, and by the time he went to college, he was keeping Shabbos. He comes to me for Shabbos whenever he’s in town, and last Chanukah he set up a big menorah in his dormitory. When I first met him he was planning on taking a Birthright trip, and when I asked him which, he said the one that has nothing to do with religion.

“So when people say, ‘Where do I meet secular Jews?’ — doesn’t anyone ever stop you for directions? Ask them if they’re Jewish. If they aren’t, you’ll never see them again anyway, and if they are, they’ll be happy you connected with them as one of the tribe.”

Can everyone in the insulated chassidic world become a kiruv ambassador, or is it just for outgoing, social types like Aryeh Royde?

“At the very least, be aware that people are viewing you. You can do kiruv walking into Walmart. Smile at the cashier. Be nice to the guy in line. Then their encounters with frum people will be positive.

“In my training course, I ask the chassidim, ‘How many Jews are there in America?’ So they start counting … a hundred Belzer chassidim in Monsey, a couple thousand Satmar in Williamsburg …

“There are five million unaffiliated Jews out there. This is a crisis of epic proportions, and everyone has to be responsible and aware. Not everyone has to become the Traveling Chassidim, but every chassidishe, litvishe, heimishe Yid should know that there are millions whose souls are waiting to be touched.”

Some of us are shy. Some of us say, “I know I should, but I just can’t. What if I make a fool out of myself? What if they don’t like me?”

“Most of us are afraid they’ll ask questions we can’t answer — like, why did G-d make a Holocaust?” Rabbi Royde continues. “But even basic halachic questions shouldn’t throw you off. If you don’t know the answer, validate the questioner and say, ‘You know, I don’t know either. Let’s find out together.’ It’s okay to be frum and not have all the answers. People also suffer from Boring Shabbos Table syndrome. ‘Why would they want to come to me?’ they ask. ‘I have such a boring Shabbos table.’ You should know that it’s not true. It might look boring to you — maybe you don’t have a ‘professional’ kiruv table, but when was the last time a secular family sat around their own table and sang, without the TV blaring in the background? To them it’s gorgeous.”

And the most important thing, says Rabbi Royde, is never to underestimate the capacity of another Jew.

“I got a call from a friend in Williamsburg recently,” Rabbi Royde recounts. “He has a tenant on his property in Fort Lee who he suspects is Jewish, so he’s passing on the information. This woman was an orphan from childhood and really never knew anything about her own background. For years she was sleeping on a park bench, and finally her life turned around and she became engaged. But a few weeks before the wedding, the groom had a heart attack and died. She got engaged again, this time to a black man, and a few weeks before the wedding, he drowned. She figured, ‘Marriage is just not for me,’ and went on with life. My friend had this hunch that this lady might be Jewish, so he asked her if she remembered anything from her mother. Yes, she said. Her mother used to sing a lot. And she started singing a song she remembered. It was the alef-beis, although she had no idea what it meant. And, she remembered, once a year they ate crackers inst ead of bread.

“Okay, so my wife and I set out to meet her. We went to visit her on Friday, armed with a pair of candlesticks and two books on Judaism. She wasn’t well — she was on dialysis — but my wife said, maybe in the zchus of the candles she would see an improvement. She was eager, and I wrote the brachos out for her in English. After Shabbos we called her to see how it went and she was excited. ‘I know Jews eat kosher, but I don’t know what that means,’ she told us. ‘How could I light candles and not eat kosher?’ So she ate nothing but apples all Shabbos.

“My contact with her was low-key. I would text her every Friday with candlelighting time, although I never told her about the time of Motzaei Shabbos. I didn’t want to overload her. But as I saw she was keeping certain things, I figured I’d better let her know about the twenty-four-hour restriction so she shouldn’t lose all the spiritual points she gained so far. ‘Thank you so much,’ she said, ‘Because I didn’t know, I’ve been keeping Shabbos until Sunday morning.’ Today she is grateful that Hashem saved her from marrying those non-Jews, and she’s looking for a proper shidduch. But I learned my lesson too. Never underestimate another’s spiritual capacity.”

A Job for a Yungerman?

Still, Monsey is not the Old City, and Aryeh Royde’s kollel is not the Aish HaTorah dining room. Is it “respectable” for a chassidishe yungerman to spend his days with people who are not yet frum?

“Well,” says Rabbi Royde, “the Baal Shem Tov was the ultimate chassid and the ultimate kiruv pro.”

“People ask me, what do you do, kiruv or chinuch?” shares Rabbi Elye Bineth, referring to his balancing act of Chaim Shel Torah, the Traveling Chassidim, his afternoon job as a rebbi in a special yeshivah, and his guitar. “If they ask, they don’t understand either, because in my mind it’s all the same. We have to be mekarev our own kids to Hashem. They are born empty and it’s our job to fill them. Kiruv is not only for the non-frum. We all need kiruv.”

On one hand, Rabbi Bineth heads an important chinuch organization. His father, Rabbi Moshe Shimon Bineth, is a dayan of Belz in Monsey. Yet every Motzaei Shabbos, Elye Bineth — an accomplished baal tefillah — flips his shtreimel for a kasket, takes the mike, and plugs in his guitar for a Carlebach kumzitz.

“Well, I think if I were running around the streets of Monsey with a guitar slung over my back, I’d have more of a problem. Truth is, I have the talent, I’ve always loved music, and in my position I can’t exactly join a band. Now the Eibishter has sent me an opportunity to use it  in a way that brings nachas to Hashem, and I’m grateful for that.”

Rabbi Bineth says the major fringe benefit of the spiritual energy of the Shabbatons is the effect on his family.

“It made us reevaluate what our Shabbos looked like,” he says. “It used to be we’d have a regular Shabbos meal and fall sleep. Now we do at home just what we do at a Shabbaton — after all, my children ask, are we hypocrites? So every Shabbos seudah is a Shabbaton. We dance around the room, the boys take turns wearing my shtreimel, we sing, swaying arm-in-arm.

“There is also the issue of exposure to so many different kinds of people, both those we bring into our home and those we meet on our trips,” Rabbi Bineth continues. “My wife and I discussed it at length. We are responsible people. And we’ve seen that it is healthier for the children to see these people, dressed like they’re dressed, in our home where they respect us and we set the standard. They are going to see these people on the street anyway, and this way they’re not jealous of all the ‘fun’ the secular people seem to be having.

“The bottom line,” says Rabbi Bineth, “is that kiruv doesn’t have to be left to the ‘professionals.’ It’s something each of us can do in our own way. We can all be a part of it.”

(Originally featured in Mishpacha Issue 348)