Musings of a Shliach From Montana

There’s a Zusha song, “Don’t Leave Me On My Own,” that really touches my core. Zusha doesn’t generally sing my preferred genre of music, but this song spoke to my soul.

Paraphrasing from the Posach Eliyahu prayer that some recite on Friday evening before Minchah, the duo sings “לית יחודא בעלאי, עלאי ותתאי, בר מנך” and then they go on to share these words: “I can’t, can’t do this without You / We’re in this together / Don’t leave me on my own / In a moment, surrounded by the darkness, I know I can fall on You / I utter this with fire on my lips and hope that the words sing true…”

“There is no union above or below, except for you.” Ein Od Milvado, literally.

These lyrics are so incredibly powerful, expressing the fundamental Jewish idea that there is nothing in existence that isn’t G‑d. It is this knowledge that gives us strength, serving as our shining compass, through thick and thin. G‑d is not retired, chalila. He was, He is, and He will be. He is all-knowing and therefore He is with us at every moment—the good, the apparent bad, and the seeming ugly.

This idea is especially valuable as we approach Shabbos Bereishis, when the holiday season has just ended and we are entering the “real world” in which we don’t get to bask in the revealed holiness like we do on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur; don’t get to be enwrapped with the Divinity of the Sukkah; don’t get to dance with our Torahs. It’s in these regular workdays, in the grime of life, when the temptations are more visible and the distractions are in overdrive, that we must remember that G‑d isn’t relegated to the shul or to the sukkah, to tekias shofar or hakafos, but He is everywhere, Omnipotent, Omnipresent, and Omniscient.

In Judaism, the Infinite is revealed not only during Ne’ilah or Kol Nidrei, but in the simple, heartfelt berachah on an apple, the simple Minchah on a Tuesday in between meetings, and the simple Krias Shema She’al Ha’mitah said before we go to sleep after bedtime with the kids that felt like an eternity.

I was reading an old sefer I’ve had for thirty years called “LeSheima Ozen,” compiled by Rabbi Shneur Zalman Duchman, grandfather of Reb Sholom Duchman of Colel Chabad. In it, the author shares that in the days of the Tzemach Tzedek, the third Chabad Rebbe, one of his grandchildren was walking around crying while holding an apple in his hand. When the Chassidim asked the boy, “why are you crying?” he responded that he wanted the apple. When they told him, “If you want it, just eat it,” he responded, “My Zayde (the Tzemach Tzedek) said that we mustn’t indulge in that which we really want.”

The innocence of a child expressing the Torah value.

The story underscored for me the importance of internalizing Hashem in every facet of our life, not just in the exciting yamim tovim, but in the day-to-day. It’s in those simple moments of purity and connection that Yiddishkeit comes alive.

Lubavitcher Chassidim have a custom that after Simchas Torah the gabbai announces, “V’Yaakov holach l’darko” (“And Yaakov went on his way”). What’s the meaning of this minhag?

On a simple level, Yaakov symbolizes the Jewish people. Thus, “Yaakov went on his way” means that after the exhilarating yom tov season is over, the Jewish people return to their “regular” path, to their normal, everyday lives, albeit uplifted by the preceding holiday season.

Taking it a step further: We do not need to leave the sacredness behind after yom tov is over. Yaakov goes on “His way”—the way of G‑d—studying Torah and performing mitzvos. Each one of us can follow “His way” in our day-to-day lives. We do not need to leave the holiness of Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Sukkos, and Simchas Torah behind: We take them with us just as our forefather Yaakov did, as we hit the road—the long journey of the year ahead.

Hit the road, Jack.

I remember learning a farbrengen of the Rebbe, zt’l, while in yeshiva in which he discussed this point. He said (I’m paraphrasing from Yiddish), “In a Chassidic home we aren’t frightened to say l’chaim even on a simple Wednesday evening.” We all fall into the enticing trap of celebrating the great moments of Torah or Jewish inspiration, but the beauty of the Jew is how we allow that inspiration to carry us into Walmart, into our bedroom, into how we talk among friends when we are smoking cigars and sipping whiskey. There is no two-tier Judaism: We are Jews 24/7, and the holiness of the Jew shines when it’s imbued into the nonholy.

Years ago, my friend Akiva Sussholz recommended the Sefer Iyun Tefilah from Rab Shimon Schwab and, though it’s very much in the (non-Chassidic) tradition of German Jews, I have found it to have so many incredible Torah nuggets, prayer interpretations, and life lessons. On the morning berachah of “Pokei’ach Ivrim” that Hashem “opens the eyes of the blind,” he writes, “It’s appropriate to close one’s eyes for a moment and to ponder how different life would be if we couldn’t see, and then open them and celebrate how amazing our eyesight is, as it says in Koheles: ‘The light is sweet, and it is good for the eyes to see the sun.’”

I was thinking about this nugget recently, because it’s with those simple tefillos of gratitude and praise, moments of concentration and internalization, holy and thoughtful actions, that we connect with Hashem from our core. It’s not coming to us “milmala l’mata,” showered from above onto us like during the holiday season when it flows freely from on high, but it’s “milmata l’mala,” we are doing the heavy lifting, creating moments of kedushah with blood, sweat, and toil, moments that are lifted up to Hashem like a Ketores offering and are infinitely more valuable than that which we are given without any effort.

Hit the road, Jack! n

Rabbi Chaim Bruk is co-CEO of Chabad Lubavitch of Montana and spiritual leader of The Shul of Bozeman. For comments or to partner in our holy work, e-mail [email protected] or visit JewishMontana.com/Donate.