Reb Leib’s Shabbat HaGadol Sermon

By Nissan Gordon

Suddenly, in the middle of his speech, he broke off. After a short pause of a few minutes, he closed his eyes—as when reviewing Chassidut—and began to say:

“Gentlemen, in the first Mishnah of Pesachim it says, ‘Any place into which chametz is not brought does not require searching’… Where nothing was brought in, one need not search for chametz; chametz must be searched for within oneself…”

Only twice a year did Reb Leib, the Chassidic rabbi of our town, ascend the pulpit as a preacher: on Shabbat Shuvah and Shabbat HaGadol.

All year long he would simply review Chassidut every Shabbat after Minchah in the small Chabad synagogue of the Staroselker shul. This small synagogue was like an annex to the main one, and its name came from the fact that Chabad chassidim would gather there to pray for hours in solitude, pouring out their soulful longing for the Infinite through the words of the prayer book.

On Shabbat afternoons, as it began to grow dark in the synagogue courtyard, several groups of Jews would gather in the small Chabad house, and Reb Leib would review Chassidic teachings. His friend from yeshiva days in Lubavitch, Reb Yochanan the ritual slaughterer, would first “sing a melody,” preparing the atmosphere for Reb Leib, who sat hunched over more than usual, with a furrowed brow and a hand over his eyes, swaying back and forth to the wordless tune.

When the melody ended, Reb Leib would transform into a volcano, pouring forth one stream of fiery words after another without pause. Not everyone sitting in the dimness understood what he was saying, but all could clearly see that he himself understood it very well, and that every word from his mouth burned like a torch.

This Shabbat afternoon discourse was his only public appearance for the townspeople. Anyone who wanted to hear a sermon would go instead to the Misnagdic study hall, where the rabbi was an accomplished orator. There, once a year—on May 3rd—the rabbi would even deliver a sermon in Polish in honor of Polish Independence Day, attended by Polish officials who came to see how the Jews prayed for Pilsudski.

But Reb Leib on a pulpit as a preacher was almost unheard of. Giving a sermon requires descending to the audience’s level and explaining every idea and hint, and that was not his nature. He was, above all, a chassid. Even his becoming a rabbi was not because he chose it as a career, but because the Rebbe (Rabbi Yosef Yitzchak) instructed him on Simchat Torah 1921 in Rostov to go to Dokshitz and become a rabbi.

Even in the chassidic synagogue where he prayed, at first they did not want to call him up to the Torah with the title “rabbi.” But since the Rebbe had instructed him, he insisted firmly on the title. In his heart, he likely thought the gabbai was right—but he would often repeat that when the Rebbe told him to accept the rabbinate, he added, “Know who the Master is.”

Instead of preaching, Reb Leib would pray at great length. Daily he would crouch in his place behind the ark, wrapped in tallit and tefillin, spiritually soaring from the small, poor, gentile-surrounded town to the highest Heavens on the two wings of love and awe. Already in his youth in Lubavitch he was known as one of the exceptional individuals.

Was it fitting for such a man to stand on a pulpit and deliver sermons?

Yet once he had been officially elected and held the community records, he felt obligated as a chassid to speak. Without a Shabbat HaGadol sermon, doubts might arise about his legitimacy—and thus whether he was fulfilling the Rebbe’s mission.

The town, despite its poverty, was torn by bitter disputes over the rabbinate. Since Reb Leib arrived, he had not known a single peaceful day. There were fights in the synagogue, insults, divisions into opposing camps. Meanwhile, Hitler was already rising to power and weaving his plans to destroy the Jewish people—yet the town burned with internal conflict over who would be recognized as rabbi.

That Shabbat HaGadol, Reb Leib ascended the pulpit wrapped in a tallit and, without introduction, began rapidly reviewing the laws of kashering utensils for Passover—what must be burned and what immersed.

Suddenly, he stopped. After a pause, he closed his eyes and said:

“Gentlemen, in the first Mishnah of Pesachim it says, ‘Any place into which chametz is not brought does not require searching’… Where nothing was brought in, one need not search; chametz must be sought within oneself…”

He spoke a bit longer about the symbolic meaning of chametz and its removal—seeking out evil within and destroying it—then returned to the Mishnah and concluded.

Though he was at the center of the dispute, he always felt like a stranger to it. What did he need community records for, when he lived from the little yeast his wife sold? What did he need the burden of public sermons for, when he could instead sit and study? What was the value of electoral victory if the town was torn apart?

He was a man who searched for chametz within himself all year long.

After twenty years in the town, he sanctified G-d’s name during Passover 1942, when the Nazis annihilated the entire town.

In a memorial book published in Tel Aviv, survivors recount his final moments: when taken by the murderers, he expressed joy at the merit of dying sanctifying G-d’s name. It is told that before his death he danced and sang, “And they shall all form a single bond to do Your will with a full heart.”

It was not madness—it was elevation. Reb Leib had reached the level of love of G-d like Rabbi Akiva, who longed all his life for the chance to fulfill it.

From behind the ark, where he would pray for hours, one could sometimes hear the grinding of his teeth—holding himself back from an outward eruption of ecstasy. He burned inwardly, like the bush that burned but was not consumed.

But at the mass grave, he felt this was the final moment—and cried out loudly:

“And they shall all form a single bond to do Your will with a full heart,” like Rabbi Akiva, who returned his soul with the word “One.”