The Shepherd

There was once an orphaned Jewish boy who helped his mother support the family by watching a flock of geese in the field. He spent many hours in the company of shepherds, far from the noise of the city, and he began to copy the shepherds’ songs. Then the Baal Shem Tov’s disciple Reb Leib Sarah’s discovered him and recognized the refinement and loftiness of his soul. Reb Leib took the boy to the home of Rav Shmelke of Nikolsburg, who took him under his wing. Eventually he grew up and became the first chassidic rebbe in Hungary, Rav Yitzchak Isaac Taub (Reb Eizikel) of Kaliv.

But even after he was appointed to lead his human flock, he was accompanied by those shepherds’ songs. He would bring them into contexts of kedushah, explaining that every tune emanates from the heichal haneginah, the “chamber of song.” If some fragments of song fell into the possession of the yetzer hara, he maintained, it is a tzaddik’s job to bring them back to the chambers of sanctity. He said the proof was that when a gentile shepherd would teach him a song, the shepherd would forget it as soon as Reb Eizikel learned it.

Today, although six generations separate them, Rav Moshe Taub has recovered that energy of his ancestor, searching out the hidden holy sparks — those neshamos scattered around the world — gathering them back to the heichal haneginah.

The Kalover Rebbe was born in 1938 in the town of Arad, Romania. He bears the name of his grandfather, Rebbe Moshe Taub of Kalov — known as the Eis Ratzon — who passed away two years before. Although some chassidim relate that the Rebbe and his father — Rebbe Menachem Shlomo Taub, author of Chakal Tapuchin — spent the war shuttling between bunkers in Romania, the Rebbe’s son Rav Eliezer Tzvi Taub of the Kalover community in Beitar says the family was spared most of the horrors of the war. When the Nazis invaded Romania, they did not reach Arad. So while the Jews of Arad suffered from hunger, fear, and devastation, they weren’t being slaughtered by the Nazis.

After the war, Rebbe Menachem Shlomo emigrated to the United States with his eight-year-old son, the future Rebbe. The Rebbetzin and the other children had already traveled to America a year earlier. The family first settled in Boro Park and later moved to Williamsburg, where the Rebbe reestablished the chassidic court that had been destroyed in Romania. In 1978, after his father’s passing, Rav Moshe succeeded his father as the leader of the Kalover Chassidus.

Suitcase in Hand

But then a dramatic change began to take place in Kalov. Reb Binyamin Abdalchak, a regular mispallel in the Rebbe’s beis medrash, was also a frequent traveler between New York and Argentina. One day, Rabbi Abdalchak approached the Rebbe and told him that there were tens of thousands of Jews in Argentina in need of chizuk. Without thinking twice, the Rebbe packed up a few belongings and traveled to Argentina, where he attended a ceremony marking the laying of the cornerstone for a local shul.

Over time, the Rebbe’s influence spread to other countries, from Chile to Mexico, from Brazil to Peru, from Fez to Marrakech, from Nice to Marseilles, and to practically every state in the US. The signs that go up prior to his arrival promise there will be no solicitation. The Rebbe refuses money — he wants something bigger: Shabbos, tefillin, family purity.

The Rebbe once asked a member of his kehillah in Williamsburg why he rarely shows his face in the beis medrash, and the chassid answered, “The Rebbe should forgive me, but I think I’m here more often than the Rebbe is.”

“At first,” the Rebbe once related, “I didn’t know if I was accomplishing anything. But whenever I thought that, someone came along and said to me, ‘Rebbe, it’s because of you that I keep the Torah and mitzvos.’ For me, that was a sign from Heaven that I should continue my travels.”

The Rebbe has somehow found a common language with the most diverse Yidden, from Ivy League university students to Israeli high school kids. He radiates an intense love for every Jew, and then there’s the famous handshake, where he seems to send an electric current of holiness through those that greet him. Occasionally he’ll deliver an affectionate slap to a young man’s cheek, or knock on the forehead of a bochur in need of chizuk. And although doctors, lawyers, and other professional seek his counsel, he has a special rapport with teenagers, spending hours in irreligious Israeli high schools and youth centers around the world. He knows more about drugs than many professionals.

The Rebbe’s launching pad is the corner of Lee Avenue and Hewes Street in Williamsburg. Every two to three weeks, the Rebbe picks up his wanderer’s staff and bids farewell to his chassidim, who are already used to the routine. He’s been in Tunisia during a civil war, in Morocco during an uprising, and in Venezuela under the rule of the late Hugo Chavez.

“Last year,” relates Rabbi Chafif, who accompanies the Rebbe to Spanish-speaking countries, “I was in Caracas, Venezuela, with the Rebbe. Today in Venezuela people live in fear — they’re afraid to walk the streets after eight at night. But that didn’t stop the Rebbe from going out, even though he told me he once witnessed a murder in the streets of Caracas.

“Three years ago, we were in Chile,” Chafif continues. “I came from Argentina, and the Rebbe arrived from America. It was freezing; about 20 degrees outside. The Rebbe was suffering greatly from the cold, and fell ill in the middle of the night. The Rebbe’s host was a doctor, and bundled the Rebbe off to the hospital, telling him he needs to stay there for three days. In the morning when I came to shul and the Rebbe wasn’t there, I was told that he had been hospitalized during the night and would be bedridden for several days. But ten minutes later, the Rebbe appeared and told me he wanted to go to the mikveh. I said to him, ‘Rebbe, the mikveh is very cold.’ And the Rebbe said to me, ‘Even so.’

“That morning the Rebbe began receiving visitors. I told him, ‘The doctor says the Rebbe must rest.’ The Rebbe’s response was: ‘These are neshamos. I can’t give up on them.’

“After two hours of receiving visitors, the Rebbe again became ill. I suggested that we go to the doctor, but the Rebbe refused. ‘We are going to continue taking visitors,’ he told me. Two hours later, the Rebbe nearly fainted, and I insisted we go to the hospital. I said, ‘Rebbe, I will not translate anymore.’ So he had no choice. But no sooner did we arrive, than the Rebbe said to me, ‘Call the people and tell them we’ll be right back.’ After two hours of medical examinations, we returned to the shul, and the Rebbe continued seeing visitors until close to the morning.”

No Free Rides

Still, the Rebbe doesn’t hand out his brachos for free. There’s always a payback — a commitment to take on something in the realm of holiness — tefillin, Shabbos, some way of stretching oneself. And the connection doesn’t end when the audience concludes. Whoever comes for a brachah is asked to fill out a form with personal details. The forms are processed in the offices of the Chassidus in New York, Argentina, and Kiryat Sefer, and hand-picked avreichim are paid by the Rebbe to handle the follow-up; they call the thousands of people who’ve filled out those forms to make sure they’ll fulfilling their commitments to the Rebbe.

If the Rebbe has expectations from the thousands that flock to him, he also knows how to help them along with their commitments. “I once heard the Rebbe ask a Yid if he put on tefillin,” Reb Uriel Chafif reports. “When he responded in the negative, the Rebbe asked him, ‘If you had money, would you buy a pair of tefillin?’ The man said he would, and the Rebbe immediately took out his checkbook and wrote a check for $300. ‘Go buy tefillin,’ he ordered the man.

“A few months later, I was to meet the Rebbe in Argentina. Before my trip, the Rebbe called me and asked me to bring 70 pairs of tefillin. I didn’t have room for 70 pairs, but I took 30. The Rebbe gives out these tefillin in exchange for a symbolic sum — ten dollars, five dollars, however much the people want to give. He insists that they pay something, even a small amount, because he says that if they don’t, they’ll never use the tefillin.”

Despite the expenses of all these international trips, the Rebbe refuses to take a cent, even from his wealthiest patrons. “A year ago,” Chafif recalls, “Elie Horn, a Brazilian millionaire, came to see the Rebbe accompanied by his bodyguard. The Rebbe met with Horn and his wife, while I sat on the side and translated. At the end of the meeting, the philanthropist asked the Rebbe, ‘How can I help the Rebbe?’ I was sure the Rebbe would give in this time; we had been in Argentina for two weeks and in Brazil for a week, and the cost of airfare and other expenses for the Rebbe, his gabbai, and me had all been paid out of the Rebbe’s own pocket. But the Rebbe characteristically refused to hear of it. ‘I don’t want to take a cent,’ he said. ‘Help the Jewish communities here, not me.”

In addition to Reb Uriel, the Rebbe has another two traveling companions, Reb Yeshayah Lachs and Reb Yaakov Tzvi Rosenwasser, an American businessman who has dedicated the past 30 years to the Kalover Rebbe.

Like the maggidim of old, who would take their provisions with them on their journeys, the Rebbe, who rarely relies on local hashgachos, brings along challah, milk, tuna, cooked chicken and whatever else he needs. On the airplanes where he spends many many hours, he refuses to drink even a glass of water due to kashrus concerns.

The Rebbe has another self-imposed rule for his travels around the world. He keeps his eyes fixed on a sefer in order not to gaze upon improper sights, and that’s how he receives women who come to him for a brachah. And in the high schools throughout the world where he speaks, the Rebbe keeps his gaze downcast.

The Rebbe, for his part, never gives up. If he can reach out to one Jew, he doesn’t make calculations. “We once spent two days in Chile,” Reb Uriel recalls. “On the first day, we finished early. I suggested to the Rebbe that perhaps we should return to Argentina, but he said, ‘Let’s wait another hour, and if people don’t come, we’ll go back to Argentina.’ Fifty-nine minutes later, a Jewish man appeared. The Rebbe encouraged him and insisted that he commit to keeping Shabbos and wearing tefillin; then he showered his blessings on the man. When the man left, the Rebbe said, ‘Let’s wait another hour.’ Fifty minutes later, forty boys arrived. The Rebbe kept them there until two o’clock in the morning. The Rebbe was very happy; he said to me, ‘Hashem has protected us.’

“At our lodgings, when I go to bed, I see the Rebbe sitting and learning, and when I get up early in the morning, he’s still going strong. Once I asked him, ‘When does the Rebbe rest?’ He answered me, ‘One must utilize every spare moment for learning.’ He never turns off the light in his room. When I once asked him why, he told me, ‘A person should go to sleep only if he is extremely tired and has absolutely no other choice.’$$separatequotes$$”

Miracle Worker?

The Rebbe’s admirers like to share wonder stories about people the Rebbe miraculously cured from various illnesses. Reb Uriel himself recounts some of the Rebbe’s wonders. He tells about the paralyzed boy whose father committed to put on tefillin daily for his recovery. “When I left the room, the child moved his leg. Two days later, he was able to walk.” Or the story of the blind man who regained his sight when he promised the Rebbe he would start keeping Shabbos.

But the Rebbe himself dismisses these accounts. “I am not a miracle worker,” he declares. “My job is to create a vessel for everyone who comes through my door. Once the vessel has been formed, Hashem’s brachah can fill it.”

Yet that, says the Rebbe, is only if a person knows about the power of a brachah. Some Jews are so far away they don’t think they can ever merit spiritual grace. “The Baal Shem Tov was told that the sitra achra, the Satan, would be strengthened in relation to the degree of kedushah in the world. Today we are living thick in the middle of this, where empty people despise Torah scholars and want to destroy Torah. I understand that the baal davar is playing a role in this.

“In New York I received a phone call from someone who lived two hours away,” the Rebbe tells me. “A year after becoming religious, he told me that he had doubts about his emunah. I invited him to come see me, but he told me he couldn’t come, because of his father’s vehement opposition. Do you understand this? The father barely has any idea what Yiddishkeit is, but he is opposed to it. The yetzer hara traps people in its net with incredible ease.

“But baruch Hashem there are Jews who can be helped. There are people who are interested. But in Eretz Yisrael, the hatred and the atmosphere of incitement are very damaging. Many people don’t come, simply as a result of the opposition here to anything sacred. As soon as they hear anything having to do with Yiddishkeit, they run away.

“Not long ago, I was invited to a secular high school in Dimona. I talked to the students and gave them brachos — all with the principal’s approval, but the next day, the head of the parents’ committee made a major fuss. ‘This is a secular school!’ he complained. ‘How dare you bring a chareidi rav here?’”

It’s Never Enough

Thirty-five years, sixty-one countries, and hundreds of thousands of people later, it would seem that the Rebbe would feel he’s done enough. But in fact, says the Rebbe, it’s never enough.

“I’m speaking about millions of Jews,” says the Rebbe. “The numbers actually returning to Yiddishkeit are very small. In Eretz Yisrael there are Shabbatons and seminars, and people come to hear lectures and grow stronger — but what is that, in comparison to the six million Jews living in Eretz Yisrael? You think that if there are a few baalei teshuvah, then the entire country has become religious? When I went to Bar Ilan University, a few hundred students came to see me — out of the 21,000 who are enrolled. That’s a very small percentage.

“There are major nisyonos in Eretz Yisrael,” the Rebbe continues. “The churban among the chilonim is devastating. In America, the average secular youth goes to university and aspires to excel because that is the only way for him to make a living and be successful. If he lacks good grades, he will never be accepted anywhere, so he has to study and make an effort. In Eretz Yisrael, on the other hand, the aspirations are military. The army doesn’t look at grades, so a person can behave like a wild beast until he’s inducted, and then learn a skill. A boy might think, ‘I’ll just do the army and I’ll have a way to make a living, so why should I bother investing effort?’$$separatequotes$$”

The Kalover Rebbe smoothes his beard and looks at me piercingly, then begins to speak about the subject that pains him most.

“The greatest churban today is the Internet,” he declares, and it’s not just about looking at improper sites. “In the past,” the Rebbe continues, “a person had time to think about spiritual matters. If a Jew had free time, it was possible to talk to him about lofty things. But today, this is no longer the case. A person goes to shul and takes his cell phone with him. Wherever he goes, whether he is at home or at work, he has his phone. He’s constantly receiving news updates and sending messages. It prevents him from listening to himself, from hearing his soul.

“In this generation flooded with nisyonos, a person must stop and think about how he can help himself, how he can pull himself out of the technological mud into which he has sunk. A person who becomes addicted to these devices, regardless of how much yiras Shamayim he has, will have no time to open a sefer of mussar or chassidus. Once, when a working man had free time, he would use it to learn Torah or mussar. And if a person didn’t have the patience for that, he would at least open a light sefer, even a sefer of stories about tzaddikim. Today, anyone who has free time simply picks up his phone. People have no patience for holy things. A person wants to say a dvar Torah at the Shabbos table, but he has nothing to say, since he spent the entire week riveted to the computer screen. And on Motzaei Shabbos, as soon as three stars appear, he rushes to check the news and to see if any messages have come in.”

So what can a person do today to stay spiritually strong?

“If a working man wishes to strengthen himself spiritually, he must set up shiurim for himself, and he must make sure always to come to shul on time. He must not daven alone. This is the minimum needed to hold him up. But as long as this scourge continues, as long as people continue placing themselves willingly in the furnace, there is not much to do.”

It’s a world of spiritual anarchy, the Rebbe explains, where everyone knows everything, is exposed to everything, and decides to choose his own way. “Interestingly,” says the Rebbe, “there is only one area in which everyone is prepared to submit to authority, and that is the medical field. When a person is ill, even if he is an anarchist, he will follow the doctor’s instructions in order to save himself — even if it means changing his entire life around. If this applies to a human doctor, whose medical knowledge may be faulty or incomplete, how much more so must it apply when we speak about the Creator of all creations, Who alone understands the nature of a human being and what is best for him in the world. He gave us, in His Torah, the only way we can care for our spiritual health.”

Footing the Bill

Although he has been blessed with affluence, the Kalover Rebbe’s life is an incredible blend of simplicity and abstinence. He lives frugally and fasts often; his home is simple, and all of his money is invested in helping other Jews uncover their Jewish heritage. He uses his own assets to fund a number of schools in the Diaspora that have agreed to maintain separate classes, and personally foots the tuition for children and young people all over the world for whom he’s arranged admission to Torah institutions.

“Once in Argentina,” Reb Uriel relates, “an avreich came over and said to the Rebbe, ‘I owe the Rebbe a debt of gratitude.’ The Rebbe asked him why, and the man said, ‘Thirty years ago, I came to the Rebbe without a yarmulke. The Rebbe paid for a plane ticket for me to go to Eretz Yisrael and enroll in a yeshivah. Ever since then, I have been learning Torah.’

“A woman once came to the Rebbe with her husband and said, ‘We have no connection. We live in the same apartment, but we’re total strangers.’ The Rebbe looked at her note and said to me, ‘Translate exactly what I am going to say; do not add or subtract anything.’

“The Rebbe then took hold of the paper and began to shout, ‘You are a difficult woman. You are at fault for everything that is going on in your house. Your children will despise you, and you will ultimately be left alone.’ The woman was in shock. After a few moments, she gave in and said, ‘The Rebbe is correct, but what should I do?’

“The Rebbe said to her, ‘Ask your husband for forgiveness, and begin honoring him.’ Then and there, she asked him to forgive her, and they emerged from the room a new couple.”

****

It’s already three thirty in the morning, and the Rebbe is about to wrap it up. Eilat is asleep; the only sounds outside are the lapping waves of the Red Sea. Even the Rebbe is about to return to his lodgings and recite Kriyas Shema. Then a young man, gasping for breath, runs into the room. “I need to meet the Rebbe,” he tells Reb Yaakov Rosenwaser, who is handling the crowds on this trip. Reb Yaakov trembles; the Rebbe is tired. “Come tomorrow,” he tells the boy.

But the Rebbe has overheard the conversation, and he insists the boy be called back. Rosenwasser rushes out, then returns two minutes later with the boy in tow. For over half an hour the Rebbe sits with this bareheaded youth. The Rebbe will not see his bed tonight, but who needs to sleep when another Jewish soul wants to come closer to the Source?

(Originally featured in Mishpacha Issue 473)