Op-Ed: Let the L’Chaim Mean To Life

by Berke Chein

I’m not a rabbi or a mental health professional. I’m a father, a husband, a Lubavitcher who grew up in “the system” of farbrengens, yeshivas, and the rhythms of our life. I’ve drawn from its beauty, and I’ve also felt where it hurts. I don’t write with all the answers. I write because staying silent only means the next generation inherits the same problem. I know, because it was my life too for a very long time.

Farbrengens are one of our greatest strengths. Around a table of niggunim, divrei Chassidus, and real words, generations have found inspiration and connection. A l’chaim, at its best, is meant to deepen joy, soften hearts, and open us to each other and to Hashem.

But too often, without anyone meaning harm, something else creeps in. Cups are poured and refilled. Boys start to believe that drinking is part of belonging. The scene is familiar: a lively farbrengen that ends with bochurim sick, slumped, or stumbling. Lots of people just shrug it off as normal.

This isn’t about the law, even though in most countries drinking under 18 or 21 is illegal. It’s about the culture we’ve created, and the message it sends. In yeshivas, at Shabbos tables, in homes and in shuls, alcohol has become a marker of identity. 

You learn a sicha, sing a niggun, drink a l’chaim. Maybe you black out. Maybe you cry and get applauded for your “honesty.” Then the cycle resets the next week, or on Purim and Simchas Torah when you’re told you’re “supposed to let go.”

But what if this isn’t letting go? What if it’s shutting down?

The harm doesn’t stop in yeshiva. The same boys who stumble through farbrengens turn into young men who can’t sit at a Shabbos table without a bottle. They might get married and their wives feel the distance, because he needs two or three drinks before he can open up and share his feelings. They may become fathers who think they’re hiding it, but their kids notice when Tatty is softer, louder, or more affectionate only after l’chaims. Some carry it into business deals, into simchas, into late nights that blur together. What started as a way to belong in yeshiva becomes the way they cope with life. And the cycle keeps going.

Alcohol can blur pain, soften edges, and make moments feel easier. But it can also drown out the very feelings that make us alive. It can take the place of real conversation, real connection, and presence. A l’chaim is supposed to mean to life. Too often it turns into a way of stepping back from life, of muting what hurts, of avoiding what’s real.

And part of the danger is how thin the line is. The same cup that can sanctify Shabbos or open hearts at a farbrengen can, with just a little more, cross into something empty or destructive. It’s one of the easiest things to abuse precisely because it feels so normal, so kosher, so much a part of our identity. That’s why silence isn’t an option.

Who Must Take Responsibility?

All of us as adults. At kiddushim, simchas, Shabbos tables, Yom Tov meals — what do children see? Another l’chaim poured instead of words of love. Older respectable looking men polishing off bottles and getting rowdy. Younger boys sneaking beers at a shalom zachor, and it gets laughed off because “we did the same at their age.” What do they take from that? Too often it’s this: When I grow up, I want to be just like Tatty.

Mashpi’im and teachers. At a farbrengen, if the warmth only comes once the drinks flow, is that real connection? Even if the mashpia is the only one drinking, is that guidance or is it avoidance? What are you teaching — how to feel, or how to numb?

Yeshivas. When bochurim are invited out for Shabbos meals where bottles flow freely, is that the atmosphere you want shaping them? Are you comfortable letting boys drink unchecked just because “that’s how it’s always been”?

Shluchim. When bochurim come for Merkos Shlichus or Yomim Tovim and bottles appear at the table, do you look away, telling yourself it’s not your place? Or do you realize that silence is also a message? These bochurim are on the Rebbe’s shlichus. What tone are you setting for them?

Parents. When your teenager comes home fluent in drinking culture, do you shrug and say, “I did the same and turned out fine”? Or do you stop and ask: what message is he learning about being a Chossid? About being an emotionally healthy human? Are you protecting him, or showing him how to disappear?

Sure, it’s not every yeshiva, every mashpia, every shliach, or every home. But there are enough stories, with enough people, that we can’t pretend it’s not happening.

This isn’t only a boys’ issue. Girls can struggle with drinking too. They deserve the same honesty, guidance, and presence.

If your child has already been drinking, don’t panic. Don’t shame them. Don’t ignore it. 

Be steady. Be kind. Say something simple: I see what’s happening. I want us to have a better way. To share, to connect, to feel.

Elul: A Time to Wake Up

Elul isn’t only for personal reflection. It’s a time for communal honesty. What kind of legacy are we leaving? What kind of culture do we want our children to inherit?

We are heading into a new year: 5786 — תשפ”ו. Let’s read it as שתופ. STOP.

Stop the drinking. Stop the silence. Stop waiting for someone else to speak. Start modeling something better.

Change doesn’t mean banning alcohol altogether. For some, the right amount is none. For others, it means keeping it small, measured, intentional. Farbrengens can still be fiery, simchas joyous, kiddushim uplifting. But you have to model something different. That simcha comes from presence, honesty, song, and love — not sedation. “I love you” shouldn’t need a shot glass. Real connection can’t come from numbing.

And remember: a l’chaim isn’t defined by what’s in the glass. The blessing is just as real on water, seltzer, or juice as it is on vodka. What matters isn’t the bottle, but the words and the heart behind them.

To Life, Truly

Tishrei is coming. Sukkos, Simchas Torah, the wine, the l’chaims — and the children who are watching. 

The shofar doesn’t yell; it wakes. Let this be the year we wake up as a community.

Let the l’chaim mean what it was always meant to mean: To Life.

If you or someone you love is struggling with alcohol, reach out to someone you trust. You don’t have to carry it alone. There are resources in or out of the community, and there are people who care.