Connected

I blogged about Gimmel Tammuz on Chuf Zayin Adar, which means that I can't just recycle the same material again. Oh well. In other news, Mazel Tov to my sister and brother in law on the birth of a baby girl. This puts me in mind of a favorite story of Rabbi Moshe Feller.

Rabbi Yehuda Krinsky was once invited to a non-Lubavitch Bar Mitzva, and he was invited to read the Rebbe's letter, which gives the wish that the boy should grow to be a Chassid, Yirah Shamayim, and a Lamdan. One of the people there wasn't such a big fan of Chabad, and he came up to Rabbi Krinsky and asked him about the order, "Why does the Rebbe say that the boy should be a Chossid first? Sure, it's great and all, but is it more important than being a fearer of heaven and a scholar?" Rabbi Krinsky answered:
Korach was a great scholar, and as is explained in the commentaries, a great fearer of G-d. What was his problem? He wasn't a Chassid; he didn't believe in Moshe Rabbeinu. We can personally excel, but if we don't have a leader, then what are we worth? Who's to say we'll stick on the true path?

Gimmel Tammuz is an important day. It's a day to do a little introspection to think about where we're coming from (a cliche-filled American past) and where we're going (more of the same). But seriously folks, though it's difficult not to parrot all the other billion or so articles regarding Gimmel Tammuz, it's still important. The Jewish people have been reading the same Torah, and celebrating the same holidays, for thousands of years. Just because something has been said before doesn't mean that it shouldn't be said again. Gimmel Tammuz is a big day, and it's important to treat it as such. Once again, I feel like I'm preaching, which I hate, because who am I to preach?
All right, this post is getting needlessly introspective. Everyone should just do what they got to do, and then everything will be all right.
If only it would be that easy.

Soon, we will walk hand in hand

To give my Taglit experience the treatment it deserves will take a lot more time and patience than I have now. Sorry. It will (probably) get done. Meanwhile though, I was asked to help with this years Merkos Shlichus blog, and this was my first contribution:

Sometimes it seems that in life we're always preparing. Preparation is undoubtedly a wonderful thing, and I would probably accomplish a lot more I I ever had time to do it. Since last year on Merkos Shlichus, I've learned and matured in many ways. At least once a week I'd think, "Hey, if I had only done X or Y when I was in Kansas...". But that year of preparation is over. Now it's the real deal. Am I excited? As we say in Minnesota, you betcha!
A year ago I really didn't know what to expect when I went out. This year, of course, I know what to expect. In fact, when I discussed blogging about Shlichus with a friend, he said, "Why bother going out at all? You can just make it up from the comfort of your home. It's all pretty standardized anyway, right?" I laughed, but I had to tell him that this wasn't quite true. Who would ever think to meet a guy dressed as the Kohen Gadol standing in a parking lot in Sedalia, Missouri? That's the only example I can think of at this moment, but it just goes to show you that truth is several times stranger than fiction could ever possibly imagine. Is Merkos Shlichus really about having cool stories to tell at Chassidic Farbrengens? Of course not. It's about bringing Jews closer to their Father in Heaven, which is where all that preparation comes into play. The only way you can give to other people is if you have something yourself. Preparation for Merkos Shlichus doesn't only involve buying books, maps, and food. Preparation means changing yourself, making yourself a vessel for the wisdom of the ages.
After writing the above, I'm feeling rather pretentious and snotty. The truth is that I'm just a Bochur, just a guy, hoping to make a difference in someone's life. On Sunday it's going to be Gimmel Tammuz, the fourteenth anniversary of the Rebbe's passing. A lot of smart and influential people have written much smarter and more influential things than I could ever hope to match. The truth is that I was a kid by Gimmel Tammuz, and I really don't remember too much about it. What I can say is that I hope that my going on Merkos Shlichus will in some way cure the limbo we've been stranded in since then. Every Mitzva we do, every Mitzva we try and help others do brings us closer to the final redemption. Who knows, maybe I won't even have to go out?

Oh yes, one more thing: Rishe Deitsch, don't think I didn't notice that you wrote that this year is the fifteenth Gimmel Tammuz. Does the editors note in the Nshei Chabad Newsletter not get edited?

I'm back!!!

Full details to follow...

Short and sweet

I'm going to Israel this coming Sunday for a week and a bit on Birthright. I know you're all extremely excited. What this means, of course, is that I probably won't be able to blog for a week and a bit. I'm sure you'll survive the separation though. And of course, there are always the archives for your reading pleasure.

In other news, I just got the new Lipa CD. Yes, I paid for it. Impressed, aren't you? I've only listened to it once, and so far I like it. Like most CD's, it's going to take a few dozen listens 'till I fall in love with it. In the past, I've pronounced my dislike for a CD after just a few listens, and then I feel like an idiot later, which of course isn't necessarily a bad thing.

Anachronisms

Last night the Yeshiva High School of the Twin Cities had a banquet to celebrate the end of Yeshiva. When I say "celebrate", of course, it has different meanings for different people. Some of the Bochurim are undoubtedly quite happy that it's all over, while others are probably quite sad. As for me? I remember doing the postmortem this summer after finishing up Merkos Shlichus in Kansas and Missouri; I felt that I had accomplished a lot, but that there was a lot more that I could have done. Nine or ten months later, I feel pretty much the same. Thank G-d I accomplished a lot but there's still that nagging feeling inside that I could have done so much more. Oh well, that's life.
In other news, Rabbi Yosef Eizicovics Farbrenged beautifully last night. He said a lot of shtuff, most of which applied to the Bochurim here; of course, there was also lots of other goodies, which I'll be happy to share here now: And here we go...

There was once a Jewish community in Russia which received funding for various activities, including a school, hospital, orphanage, poor house, softball league, and various other functions. The government notified them that there would be an inspection, to see that the money was going to a good cause, and the community was worried. They were mostly Misnagdim, and therefore mostly normal. Unfortunately, there was also a small number of Chassidim among them, who acted in ways that were slightly out of the norm: they walked around ignoring everything and everybody, thinking Chassidus; they Farbenged 'till the wee hours of the morning; they spontaneously danced in the streets; in general, they weren't the very best ambassadors for a nice snaggy community. The inspection was drawing nearer, and the community council couldn't decide what to do. Two days before the government was delegation was to arrive, one of the town's men hit on a brilliant plan.
The great day arrived, and all the Chassidim of the town were crammed into a Shul, lured by the promise of a massive Farbrengen, at the community council's expense, and warned not to leave until the next morning. The government delegation toured the town's Jewish institutions, and turned to go. They were on the way to the train station when one of them noticed a large building that had yet to be inspected. He mentioned this to the other members of the delegation, and they all went over to investigate. The city council, which was accompanying them, tried to persuade them not to go, but it was to no avail, and the Shul was entered.
The scene that greeted their eyes was, to put it exaggeratedly, incredible. There was a massive Farbrengen going on: Chassidim were dancing on tables with bottles in their hands, doing somersaults and other stunt-like activitys; others were still Davening Shacharis, and they paced around with deep concentration; still others were singing to themselves, looking for all the world like shepherds in the Urals. The community council didn't know what to say. When everyone on the tour was outside again the head of the government delegation asked the community leader a question, "Why didn't you show us this before?" The leader started to explain, "Well, you see, we, um...". "It's quite impressive," said the government head, "you Jews are truly brilliant. In all the Russian towns and villages, all the crazies wander around and bother everyone. This is the first time I've ever seen them all gathered together, in one place, where they won't bother anyone. This is truly incredible!"

The lesson? Craziness is no problem when everyone is together. Trite, but true.

Once there was a (rich) guy who was brought closer to Judaism through two Jews, a Shliach in beautiful New Jersey, and a Rabbi Kaminetzky, or maybe that's Kamenetzky. Regardless, as you may or may not have noticed, one was a Lubavitcher and the other a Misnaged. The guy had a baby boy, and called in the Shliach to find out the different honors that are part of a Bris. The Shliach explained everything, and said that in Lubavitch, the biggest honor is reading the Rebbe's letter.
At the Bris the father announced, "With the reading of the Rebbe's letter, Rabbi XXX, Shliach of XXX; and with the holding of the baby during the reading of the Rebbe's letter, Rabbi Kaminetzky." The Shliach stood up to read, and Rabbi Kaminetzky stood up to go. He simply refused to hold the baby while the Rebbe's letter was being read, and was prepared to embarrass himself, the father, and everyone attending because of it. He was ready to lose a rich supporter.
After the Bris was over the father said to the Shliach, "I always knew that there was some friction between Lubavitch and Misnagdim, but I never saw it until now."

And what can we, us fine-feathered fiends, learn from this story? A lot of things: A. There are haters in this world, B. There are people who don't like the Lubavitcher Rebbe very much. As Rabbi Yos says, with regard to the Rebbe, you're either with him or against him, there ain't no middle road.

Yoni Chanowitz, fellow Shliach here at MyYeshiva told over a story about the Rebbe Rashab. After the Rebbe had finished saying a Maamar a guy came over and said, "Devarim Hayotzim Min Halev Nichnasim El Halev (words which come into the heart go into the heart), and I didn't feel the Maamar you just said at all. Hhmm?" The Rebbe Rashab gave him a piercing glance, and said, "Don't blame me if you don't have a heart."

Ouch

Crossing

This past Shabbos there was a discussion about Rebbe stories. One person said, "What's the point? They're all the same! Someone in trouble, asks for Bracha from Rebbe, they're saved. What's the point?" This person was answered by our retiring and humble leader, "The point is exactly that. There are a million stories, and a significant number of them are true, that heave the Rebbe miraculously helping someone. Forget the specifics of the stories; the Rebbe effected some incredible miracles."
I was thinking about this, and last night, while listening to Dovid Gabay sing on Hasc 20 remembered a story on this very subject. I heard this particular tale from Shmuley Weinberg of Kansas City, Kansas, who heard it from Dovid Gabay's father about a year and a half ago when he (Shmuley) was stranded in some New York town on the way to the Rebbe's Ohel. Here's the story, without my trademark "enhancement", because many of the principles are still alive and probably wouldn't appreciate my making fun of them.
Many moons ago, circa 1993, Dovid's grandfather, who from now on will be referred to as "GrandGabay", got some sort of stomach illness. The doctors told his family in Israel that the only way to save GrandGabay's life was to remove most of his stomach. Dovid Gabay's family, in New York, didn't know if this was a good course to follow, and they somehow arranged to have the Rebbe be asked by one of his secretaries. The Rebbe was at that time only communicating with hand signals, or maybe with his head (I'm not sure), and the Rebbe three times motioned that the doctors shouldn't perform the operation.
The Gabays of New York relayed this message to the Gabays of Israel, but they weren't interested in listening. They told the NY branch that, "Everyone knows that the Rebbe had a stroke; everyone knows that he can't speak. Who says that he knows what's going on? Much better to listen to doctors." The Israelis wouldn't be swayed, and GrandGabay underwent the operation.
About ten years later, GrandGabay got sick again, and the doctors told the family that there was nothing they could do, "If ten years ago his stomach hadn't been hacked into, a totally unnecessary operation, then we could save him now, but..."

The lesson of the story? Do as you're told, and then we can have stories with happy endings.

Kiddie continues

Kiddie worked very hard, washing dishes with an abandon reminiscent of Dunkirk. He saw great vats of chicken fat being rolled into the back of the restaurant and then deposited in a vault beneath the kitchen. He never actually got paid, because he was working off his bill, but after three and a half years he was done. The manager, who had proved to be a compassionate and caring individual, threw Kiddie into the street with nothing but the clothes on his back and some foie gras that he had managed to secret away. Though it looked like his goose was cooked, he had only one thought on his mind: to be the richest man on Diamond Island. Three minutes later a bank truck came rolling by, and Kiddie, ever the astute observer, noticed some chicken fat spilling out the back. He ran over, scooped it up, and decided to follow bank trucks around until he could think of something better to do. After a month or so he had collected enough chicken fat to open up his own account at the bank. They took his deposit, and asked him if he'd like a ARM? "Sure!" said Kiddie, and he was presented with a brand new mortgage, to love and treasure, as if it was his very own. Kiddie figured that the best way to increase his capital was to get into the real-estate business, but he also knew that he couldn't afford this yet. Instead he went onto the street and asked people if they needed a loan. One man said yes, and Kiddie gave him all the chicken fat he had gotten from the bank, with the provision that the shtuff be returned within thirty days. If not, the man would be subject to usurious interest rates unheard of since the middle aged Jews brought down the innocent Christian Kings. Kiddie resented this anti-semitic analogy, as he was by nature a fair and balanced young man, and he was quick to make the point that in fact the Jews were the innocent ones, and anyway, his loan wasn't too usurious.
Through much trial and error Kiddie slowly learned how to cheat, rob, and thieve, until every person of Diamond Island knew his as the meanest, toughest, and richest man to ever live. His chicken fat filled vast warehouses, and the manager at the restaurant now always saved the best foie gras for his frequent visits. The waiter was, unfortunately, quite dead, but that's just the way shtuff happens, eh?
After Kiddie was on top of the Forbes "Chicken 500" list for the seventh year in a row, he decided that it was now time to go home. He was ready to make his village wealthier than it had ever dreamed of becoming. He loaded all his chicken fat onto great ships, and ensconced in a private cabin decked out with the latest electronics, and a beautiful blue trim with red accents, he set sail. The village, forewarned of the great man's arrival, hurried to the port to greet him. They peered into the mist, and saw the great ships of the sea begin to emerge. At first they thought the stench was coming from the rotting yet still flying (who knew?) seagulls which were circling the dock, but then they realized that in fact it was emanating from the fleet itself.
The wiser among them proclaimed that whatever material it was that was doing the stinking must be the padding and protection for the diamonds that were obviously encased within, and the more gullible of the crowd believed them.
Kiddie's ships pulled in, and he jumped off the deck and tried to hug his aged mother and just-barely alive father. They jumped away as the horrible stink that enveloped him began to cloud around them. The seagulls squawked away, and Kiddie said, "Hey folks, long time no see! What's the issue?" The village elders asked in one voice, "What's that horrible smell?" Kiddie, looked confused, and then excitedly said, "Oh, that? That's all my money!" The elders said, "Money? It stinks!" Kiddie said, "It's just regular chicken fat, you know, I don't go in for the fancy stuff with the preservatives; it's a waste of money." "Chicken fat?!" "Chicken fat." "Chicken fat!?" "Chicken fat." "AAAAHHHH!!! The diamonds! Where are the diamonds?!"
In a perfect story, all the inhabitants of the village would now fall dead, and Kiddie, realizing his bone-headed stupidity, would die as well, with the sailors going back to Diamond Island and having the party of the century. But it's not a perfect story, and no one died. Yet.
Kiddie, who at least did realize his stupidity, put his hands in his pocket and took out a few diamonds, the only ones he had collected over the many years of his absence. The first thought that crossed his mind was, "Yuck! I've been wearing the same pants for many years of my absence? That's absolutely disgusting!" The villagers didn't seem to mind though, and they took Kiddie home, invested the diamonds in some good Cleveland real-estate (as if), and everyone lived happily ever after. Until they died. The end.

The Dubno Maggid explained that this story is really a Mashal for the soul's descent into the world. It's coming for diamonds, Mitzvos, but it gets confused, and collects material shtuff instead. Rabbi Schapiro Farbrenged, many years ago, that this is a big mistake. People think that the diamonds down here are worthless, and their value is only realized upstairs in the great big ballroom in the sky. But the truth is that Mitzvos are just as valuable down here as they are up there; you just have to use your brain a little. Kiddie may have been cunning, but he wasn't the smartest french fry in the Happy Meal.
You know, I enjoyed writing the Mashal a lot more than the Nimshal. I wonder why?

Kiddie's fats

I was perusing my old journals from my studenting (did I just make up a word there? You betcha!) days in YOEC, and came across an interesting twist on one of the Dubno Maggid's famous parables, courtesy of Rabbi Mendel Schapiro. I'll write the whole parable, because A. it'll take up space, and B. I think I can make it pretty funny.

So there was a Kiddie who lived with his family in some really poor and miserable snothole somewhere in the depths of Siberia, or maybe somewhere else that was equally depressing, like Cleveland. His family, like the rest of the community, didn't even have blankets to keep their little toesie-wosies warm in the winter. Things got so bad that they all decided to band together and send the little Kiddie to the famed "Diamond Island", where the streets are paved with cheese-sorry, I mean diamonds. Yes folks, this little Kiddie was in for the journey of a lifetime. The goal, of course, was for Kiddie to get a whole bunch of diamonds and bring them back to the village, so that nobody's feet would ever go cold again, among other benefits of being fabulously wealthy and just a bit decadent. As no one had any money, the Kiddie was told that he would have to walk. This wouldn't be too much of a problem, as he had two feet, and Kiddie started to travel. Four months later he reached the port, and five months later, after a long and grueling, not to mention tedious and slightly serendipitous, journey, Kiddie reached the world renowned Diamond Island. Like all the other passengers on the boat, he ran off the quay and jumped onto the beach, gathering into his arms precious diamonds, all of them natural, and began to stuff them into his trousers. His pants obviously didn't hold too many diamonds, and Kiddie wandered off into the town to find some food, for by now he was quite hungry. He wandered down the streets until he chanced upon a grand restaurant, which promised to feed him more foie gras than he had ever possibly dreamed of. Coming from Ohio, or was that Siberia, he has never even seen a goose, so the possibility of eating its liver didn't really excite him. The mention of gourmet hamburgers did excite his palate, so he cleansed his mind and walked into the restaurant, ordering the best burger that money could buy. The cook put some foie gras on top of the burger, beneath the lettuce but above the onion, and Kiddie enjoyed the meal tremendously. After it was all over, and he had drunk his last after-dinner drink, he snapped his fingers and the waiter came over. The waiter moved to put the bill, which was several volumes long, on the table, but Kiddie stopped him, putting a small but exquisite diamond on the table with an airy air, and saying, quite grandly (as befitted the establishment), and of course with a snobby and nasally English accent, "I believe that should take care of it. Keep the change, and keep up the good work, my good man." The waiter put the bill on the table. Kiddie produced another diamond, this one enormous and not very exquisite at all, and handed it to the waiter. The waiter said, in the acidic tone that only people who have lived for many years in Oslo can attain, "I'm sorry, I don't believe you quite understand the method of payment in these parts." "What!" cried Kiddie, swooning in his chair and simultaneously knocking a plate of foie gras to the ground, "What could possibly be the issue!?" The waiter signaled to the manager, who approached with the oily friendliness normally associated with old men in Italy, and told him that there was a slight problem. The manager sized up the difficulty instantly, and slowly a smile began to replace the smile that was already pasted on his face, which resulted in some momentary facial confusion before all the muscles sorted themselves out and everything returned to normal. "What do we have here, eh?" asked the manager, pretending that he didn't know what was going on. Kiddie took the initiative, and said, "Your waiter doesn't seem to be inclined to accept my form of payment." The manager said, "Interesting, interesting. I think that in this particular case, young man, the customer is not right. If you'll deign to read the fine print on the menu, you may notice that we don't in fact accept stones as payment for our goods." Kiddie quickly read the bottom of the menu, and discovered that the manager was correct in his assessment of the situation. "How can I settle my debt in an honorable manner?" he inquired, mystified, bewildered, and aghast, "what do you have against precious stones? Lev Leviev would kill to get hold of these things!" The manager began to explain, "I can tell that you are an astute student of economics. There's something called supply and demand. Essentially, the more there is, the less its worth. In your miserable mid-America state, there aren't many diamonds, and therefore diamonds are worth much money. Here on Diamond Island, diamonds are a dime-a-dozen. In fact, diamonds are virtually worthless. So you see, I don;t think we'll be able to accept this payment." Kiddie asked, "And what do you view as valuable?" The manager replied, "Chicken fat."
Kiddie began to laugh. The manager joined in for a few seconds, and then, gasping for air, said, "Hilarious, isn't it!" A thin sneer then practically leaped across his face, and he said, "But that's just the way it is. Pay up or die." The waiter began to squeeze Kiddie's throat, and Kiddie made some quite realistic gurgling sounds which are unfortunately not reproducible here. As the last few ounces of life were leaving Kiddie's body the manager said, "There is one option, however." Kiddie gurgled a question, and the manager continued, "You could work as a dishwasher for-" and he checked the bill, "just around three and a half years." Kiddie, now released by the waiter, said, "I'll do it."
To be continued...

Effulgences of all shapes and sizes

I saw a nice bit of a Sicha yesterday, Shabbos afternoon, about the 14th Mishnah in the first chapter of Pirkei Avos, "If I am not for myself, who is for me; when I am for myself, what am I; and if not now, when?" One of the Rebbe's explanations of this is that it refers to education. If I am not for myself, who is for me? If I don't teach, who will? And if my students can't give over what I've taught them, what have I taught? And if my students aren't taught now, when will it happen?

Rabbi Oster, Hanhala member in YOEC and all-round good guy, related by a Farbrengen a couple years back that a Chassid once came to the Tzemach Tzedek and complained that he was having a hard time keeping the Mitzvos. "Why?" the Tzemach Tzedek asked. "Because I don't believe in Hashem", replied the Chassid. "And why don't you believe in Hashem?" questioned the Tzemach Tzedek. "Because I've never seen him." The Tzemach Tzedek said, "Tell me, do you keep the Czar's laws?" "Yes", replied the Chassid. "Why, have you ever seen him?" asked the Tzemach Tzedek. The Chassid replied, "No, but my brother has." The Tzemach Tzedek said, "Even though you've never seen Hashem, I have, so go do what you have to do."

Moving right along; there's a rule in Judaism that a person shouldn't go to sleep with a question on his mind, because he could wake up a heretic. So too, an author shouldn't end off a chapter in a book with a question, because usually people stop reading when they complete a chapter, and by the time they start again they might have abandoned all the laws of Moses and his Torah. The Alter Rebbe in today's Tanya finished a chapter with a question; why does the world exist if Hashem is everywhere; shouldn't it be nullified like the rays of the son in the sun? How could the Alter Rebbe end off with a question?
The answer is that the rule of not ending with a question is directed to Sifrei Chakira, books which attempt to prove Hashem's existence. They often begin by asking a bunch of questions, and then answering them. These questions, if not answered properly, could easily cause a person to apostatize. The Alter Rebe is asking a different type of question. He asks, "How does the world exist?" As Chassidim explain, it's really not a problem to go around for a day wondering how, and if, we really do exist.
One more issue with today's Tanya. All right, it's not really an issue with Tanya itself, just the translation. On page 855 of Lessons in Tanya it translates the word "Ziv" as "effulgence". Does anyone know what "effulgence" means? I didn't until I looked it up on the always handy Dictionary.com, which, if you can believe it, was once the subject of a Rabbi Zeilengold speech. Point is, could not the translator have found a more widely used word? I merely ask.

This reminds me of a famous story that the Rosh told over on Zos Chanuka three or four years ago. There was once a Bochur who really wanted to join the Haskala movement, but he couldn't convince himself that traditional Judaism was wrong. The local Maskil recruiters told him to drink the waters left over from his Negel Vasser, and then he would realize the fallacy of Judaism. He did so, and voila! He became an Apikores!
Obviously, he ignored the fact that drinking impure water did terrible things to his intellect. Anyway, the Rosh said that nowadays this wouldn't happen, because we're not holy enough. Nevertheless, you should still make sure to empty your Negel Vasser as soon as you're able in the morning. He said that he had never seen this in any Sefer, and it was an old wives' tale, but nevertheless, a Jewish old wife knows a lot, and if she tells you to do something, then you should do it.

Last of the vim and vigor

Here are the last of the four stories from Rabbi Yisroel Wilhelm. And once again, enjoy.

The Rebbe's seventieth birthday in 1972 was the most hyped up to that time. Everyone was there for the Farbrengen, and when the Rebbe walked in pandemonium broke loose; everyone trying to catch a glimpse of the Rebbe. One Bochur was also pushing and shoving, and eventually he pushed down on someone's shoulders in order to get a better view. He looked down at the person whose shoulders he was on, and realized that they belonged to the Rebbe. He fled 770 to his bedroom in Yeshiva and refused to come out, because he was so embarrassed, mortified, and various other forms of self-loathing. It got to the point that the administration of the Yeshiva wrote a letter to the Rebbe asking what they should do about this Bochur, because he was refusing to come out of his room or even to eat. The Rebbe responded, "I appreciate the Hergesh", or roughly translated, "I appreciate what he's going through."

Josh Gordon, head Shliach of the Valley (in California) once decided to build a new building. There was only one impediment. He had no money. Not only did he have no money for the building, he had no money to plan to get money for a building. He decided to approach the local Federation and ask them for 100,000 dollars to help plan the general campaign. He went with Rabbi Einbinder, second in command, to ask the rich people at the annual board meeting of the Federation to help. Rabbi Einbinder did all the talking, and then the two Rabbis went out of the room while the rich people conferred. A few minutes later they were called back in, and the leader stood up and said, "Rabbi Gordon, we're not sure if your proposal is a joke, or if you meant it seriously. You want us to give you money to help you find money to build a multi-million dollar building? Do you have any expectation of receiving any funds? I'm sorry, but we can't help you."
Rabbi Gordon, who up to this point had yet to say anything, got up and said, "I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but I'm a Shliach of the Lubavitcher Rebbe, and I have a personal promise from him that this building is going to be built. It's going to look very embarrassing for the Federation if Chabad builds a massive building and you guys didn't help at all."
They gave the money. The building went up. Everyone was happy.
Incidentally, Josh Farbrenged a little while back in Colorado for the Shluchim who live there. He talked about Shlichus, and how some people think that it gets easier as you get older. He said that in fact it gets harder. People think that eventually they won't be in debt. Never happened. People think that eventually their message will be received more easily. Never happened. It takes work, lots of it. And you know what Rabbi Gordon said? It's worth every second.

This next, and last, story I don't remember so well, but the point remains.
Abba Refson, Rabbi at the Ohel, tells of the guy who pulled up in a limo, went straight into the Rebbe's Ohel, and started to pray or something like that. Abba Refson asked him what was up. He answered with the following story: I came from Russia to America in the sixties, and I thought I was coming to the golden land. Well, it turned out that it wasn't quite so stolen, and I spent many months just barely staying financially afloat. I began to get depressed, and I didn't know what to do. A friend suggested that I visit a Rabbi in Crown Heights who always had time for Russian Jews. I went to visit, and I was ushered right in. The Rabbi sat down with me, and we talked for a long time about my financial problems. I left his office feeling much better, with a plan for the future. Later I found out that he was the Lubavitcher Rebbe. I never saw him again, but whenever I felt down I pictured him in my mind and remembered that there was someone who cared about me.