Honoring The Rebbe’s Memory – A Story

This Tuesday will mark the 17th year since the passing of the Lubavitcher Rebbe, Rav Menachem Mendel Schneerson. Looking at the growth of the Chabad movement worldwide, these past 17 years are a testament to the words of the Sages, “The righteous, even following their passing, are called alive.” All that the Rebbe stood for, felt passionate about, and initiated during his 45-year tenure as leader of Chabad has been elevated to the next level.

This readiness to adhere to the directives of the Rebbe until this day is reciprocal to the level of selflessness that the Rebbe afforded everyone who walked through his door or merely dialed into his secretariat for advice on any matter, any time of the day and at any juncture throughout the year.

It is this Rebbe, who inspired us for so long and instilled within us the valor to walk ever so courageously through the most trying times and situations on both personal and public levels and persevere, which I would like to attempt to honor. In years past during this same period of time, I sat searching for the right words that would do justice to the Rebbe’s memory, the type of words that would carry the message of the day to another Jew. But those words eluded me for many years. Year after year, after writing one or two paragraphs, I would murmur inwardly, “This just does not do it.” But here I am again, relentless and determined to inspire others through the Rebbe, the way he inspired me during my younger years when I was so fond of him. However, this time I think I have what it takes to carry home the right message, to bring continued life to the Rebbe’s memory in this world and to broaden its reach ever wider, to people who until now have kept being so illusive to it.

We tend to raise our goals to be on par with that of our leaders through stories that we can relate to. People often underestimate the power that lies within a mere story. The saintly Apter Rav said that in the era prior to the coming of Mashiach, the Jews steadfast observance to the word of G-d will be achieved primarily through the stories of the righteous people, both of today and yesteryear. That being said, we all at one point or another, some more and some less, have heard miraculous stories regarding the Rebbe. Many stories are so unbelievable, leaving the skeptics hard-pressed to accept their validity. But some stories come firsthand from the source, not embellishing even ever so slightly from the way in which they occurred, making it sort of impossible not to believe them. This type of story is accessible to all and gives everyone the opportunity to ride on the wings of a giant and live a much more meaningful life.

I will preface this story with a historical note about my connection to Lubavitch and to the Rebbe. My family’s connection to the Lubavitch dynasty goes back nine generations. At this time, I am unable to relate all the intricacies of my pedigree. However, my great-grandfather—my namesake—Yochanan Gordon and his wife, Zisha, lived in a town in Russia called Dokshitz, where together they raised a prominent Lubavitcher family. They had four children together: Nison, Shalom Ber, Yisrael, and Esther. Nison, my grandfather, and Shalom Ber, my great-uncle, have passed on; leaving Esther and Yisrael the surviving members of that esteemed family (may they live and be well). Yochanan was a shochet in Russia and a very dear friend and devout chossid to the previous Rebbe, Rav Yosef Yitzchak Schneerson, until 1949, when the rebbe passed away. Following the family’s migration to the U.S., they settled in Crown Heights, where my great-grandfather was the gabbai at 770 Eastern Parkway, which remains the headquarters of the Lubavitch movement until today.

My grandfather, Nison Gordon, was a noteworthy Yiddish journalist for about 50 years, a career which began as a young teenager back in Russia and which he carried over to the States as a prominently featured weekly columnist for the Algemeiner Journal until he passed away at the age of 71 in 1989. Following his passing, my family was afforded the opportunity to meet the Rebbe on a more intimate level than we had in the past.

The meeting was set. My immediate family and relatives were going to meet the Rebbe outside his office at 770 and receive his blessing and condolences upon the loss of our esteemed grandfather. As the line kept moving, my mother walked past the Rebbe and nodded as the Rebbe spoke, taking to heart his words of comfort and accepting his words of strength, and kept moving without introducing me—an eight-year-old boy holding her hand. The Rebbe, realizing that I had not been formally introduced, called us back into position. As we resumed our previous spot, he asked my mother, “Who is this?” My mother answered, “It is my son, Yochanan.” The Rebbe said he assumed that the name was taken from my great-grandfather; he continued, “Mistama er zal gein in direction fun di zaide.”

It sounds like a pretty hopeful assumption, something that all parents would probably wish upon their children and grandchildren. But we know how reality tends to take its course, and people have their personal goals and aspirations, which are not always in line with that of their parents and/or grandparents. After many years, I realized that his words were more than just a wish or a blessing. In chassidus, a name does not describe a person’s essence, being that a person’s name in the larger scheme is just a way of calling them or getting their attention. However, when one is named after an ancestor who charted a certain course and a grandchild carries that name, the name itself instills a motivation and drive toward all that the original carrier of that name strived for.

I probably felt inspired and in the back of my mind knew how far-reaching the Rebbe’s vision was. I had been accustomed to hearing about miracles in the lives of others rather than being the recipient of such an unnatural, almost miraculous, as well as hope-filled blessings. That being the case, I tucked that incident safely somewhere in the back of my mind and shared it with some friends throughout the years here and there, but did not let it weigh too heavily on my conscience to factor into any major decisions as the years passed.

I spent all my school years attending mainstream Litvish yeshivos. While I have had classmates of chassidic descent, the yeshiva was run based on the mesorah of the old European yeshivos—the Mir Yeshiva and the like. My mother’s parents (may they live and be well), while hailing from a chassidic dynasty as well, went through the Litvish system. My mother’s father spent a number of years learning in the famed bastion of mussar, Novardok Yeshiva under the auspices of Rav Avrohom Jaffen. So the decision was made by my parents to go this route, while I learned from time to time back at home and amongst our close family in Crown Heights of our family’s illustrious presence in the Chabad dynasty.

While the yeshivos I attended paid little or no attention to the effect that chassidus and its leaders had on the Orthodox world as we know it today, I would learn the weekly sichos of the Lubavitcher Rebbe with my father from Shabbos to Shabbos, which kept my soul charged, so to speak.

In the seventh grade, with two months to go until my bar mitzvah, we celebrated my putting on tefillin for the first time, in yeshiva. Of course the questions came pouring forth: why two months and not one month? Why the shin on the arm as opposed to on the hand? Being that there were a couple of other outspoken Lubavitch boys in my class, I did not have to fend for myself; I had pretty capable spokespeople. A few months later I decided on my own to put on two pairs of tefillin daily, Rashi and Rabbenu Tam. While my father up until that point had himself not done it, we both decided together to take that step. My grandfather, Nison Gordon, never imposed upon his children specific courses of conduct as in Rabbenu Tam or perhaps other Lubavitch customs which he did practice in the home. He preferred that his children make those decisions on their own when they saw fit.

It seemed that as the days, months, and years went along, I had this inextinguishable flame deep within my soul that expressed a yearning for chassidus and its teachings, lore and customs. While I had a rich background—some big shoes to fill—it wasn’t like I was being led as a young child strictly in one direction; the road was open for me and for some unknown reason (at least at the time), I kept gravitating towards the path of chassidus. For the most part, with the exception of a few nudniks here and there, I was given the freedom that I needed to practice as I chose. In about eleventh or twelfth grade, I decided to learn the sefer Tanya from the Alter Rebbe on my own. Thanks to Lessons in Tanya by Rabbi Yosef Weinberg, I was given an opportunity to make up all the lost time and get a deep understanding of a sefer studied, extolled, and revered by some of our greatest luminaries in the past 300 years.

I vividly remember flaunting the sefer and leaving it on the table where I had studied so others would see and perhaps read a few words here and there and realize what they have been missing. It seemed as if my scheme had been working, to some extent; the word was out—Yochanan Gordon was in fact Lubavitch. However, I was popular and belonged to a good circle of friends who have stayed friendly throughout my mesivta years and all the way through beis midrash until today.

The next stage in my life was to seek a marriage partner. Whom was I going to marry? But before I jump to any conclusions, with whom was I going to go out? I was certain that my parents were prepared to search far and wide for the perfect partner in life for me, a wife who would share similar ideals and goals for our family. At first we were fielding prospects from across the spectrum, notwithstanding any Chassidic affiliation or not. However, It seemed as though I was going out without any end in sight. I did not have enough guts to speak my mind, so I kind of went with the flow, hoping things would eventually fall into place.

One summer, during the Nine Days, my mother was away and my father and I were going to get dinner together at a local restaurant. I knew in the back of my mind that it was the perfect opportunity to speak my mind and get this issue off my chest. What was left to be seen was whether I would actually say something, or simply sweep the matter deeper under the rug. Deep in thought, I decided to break the ice. I began, “Do you remember when we met the Rebbe following Zaide’s passing? Do you remember how the Rebbe called back the line after Ima walked past without introducing me and, after hearing my name, the Rebbe commented, ‘Mistama er zal gain in direction fun di zaide?” “Yes,” he answered. “Well, that story has been on my mind lately and I feel like I have been going out with the wrong girls and have been wasting a lot of time.” It seemed as though my father had been thinking of the same story when he replied, “I have been thinking about that, too, but I think that you are sort of straddling the fence a little too much. You are too Lubavitch for the Litvish element and not enough Lubavitch for the Lubavitch girls.”

But somehow I knew that the Rebbe, so many years back, did not intend to make my life and my parents’ life difficult, but his words were meant for the good, as a signpost of the direction that I was to follow. After a little more searching, I believed I would finally find the right one and be on my way. After that conversation I was thrown into a whirlwind of confusion. There were times that I played with the idea of changing everything in an instant. But after I felt more confused than ever, I realized that it made no sense at that point to make such rash and extreme decisions. I was to continue looking for someone who had her feet grounded in both communities and was proud of her chassidish upbringing and looked forward to raising a family while taking from the best of both worlds. Thank G-d it did not take much longer before I began dating the girl that I would end up marrying. A bit more than two years later, we celebrated the first birthday of our son, Nison, who was named after my esteemed and beloved grandfather. It is our fervent wish and constant prayer that he follows in the footsteps of his Zaide, like the Rebbe bade me to do almost 19 years ago.

This story took 16 years to unfold. But I always knew deep in my heart of hearts that the Rebbe’s words would ring true at last. I had no doubt in my mind, and so I found the courage to go against my nature and finally speak up for what I knew would one day become a reality. It is this Rebbe whose honor we are commemorating. It is this Rebbe’s life that we are celebrating as he ascends yet another level in the heavenly realms closer to the Royal Throne of G-d, begging for our imminent redemption, as he had every day of his life.

When we make the pilgrimage to his burial site to celebrate his life and to enliven his memory, let us remember this story, and countless other stories of selflessness, and finally beg G-d to bring, in the merit of such a saintly individual, the long-awaited redemption so he and our Mama Rochel and all the tzaddikim who cried and continue to cry over this long and bitter exile can finally wipe away their tears and rejoice forever.