Walking the Walk at Vanderbilt University Part I

Rabbi Shlomo and Nechama Rothstein, Chabad at Vanderbilt University, Nashville, TN

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By: Chaya Chazan

My wife grew up in Berkeley, California, where her parents assisted the Ferrises with their shlichus. For her, shlichus was a familiar and comfortable way of life, and it was clearly something she wanted for herself.

For me, the process was a little more lengthy. I grew up in Baltimore, where, though the Chabad community was small, I had access to every kosher amenity available. My only exposure to shlichus was my father’s stories of how his life had changed, through his interactions with shluchim on campus when he was in college and beyond. He spoke about them with awe, love, and respect, but I just didn’t see myself following that path.

When I was in yeshiva in Chicago, I became friendly with Berel. He’d been through lots of ups and downs, and lived on the fringes of Chicago’s Chabad community. We struck up an uncanny friendship.

I began learning with him, and one time, I was passionately expounding on a talk given by the Rebbe about shlichus. Berel looked at me with a raised eyebrow and commented, “If you’re so passionate about it, why don’t you do it?”

Those words stayed with me for a long time.

The yeshiva also asked many shluchim to farbreng with us at various times, and I was impressed by the vitality and excitement they had in carrying out the Rebbe’s vision. That wouldn’t be such a bad life to live, I thought to myself.

As I got older, I experienced shlichus for myself. One Chanukah during my yeshiva years, I got permission to light menorah with college students on campus. I loved it, and felt my work had an important impact at a crucial crossroads in life.

After my wife and I got married and started thinking about applying for shlichus positions, college campuses seemed like the perfect option. My wife had grown up with it, being so near Berkeley College, and I was inspired both by my father’s stories and my own experiences on campus shlichus.

I called a friend who served on the vaad of Chabad on Campus and asked him to tell me which college campus needed a shliach the most.

“Speak to Rabbi Yitzchak Tiechtel in Nashville and Rabbi Levi Klein in Memphis about Vanderbilt,” he told me.

“I’d love to meet and see if it’d be a good fit,” Rabbi Tiechtel said.

So we hopped in a car and drove down to Nashville. Baruch Hashem, everything fell into place, and it seemed like a match made in heaven!
———————-
Vanderbilt, established over 200 years ago in Nashville, Tennessee, ranks among the top 15 schools in the country, and is an extremely prestigious university.

In the early 2000’s, the board was brainstorming ways to edge their way into the competitive college rankings. They analyzed the successes of the top schools and realized one common denominator: their Jewish population. They also knew that the key to creating a diverse and enriching environment was to ensure Jewish students felt comfortable on campus.

They built a Hillel house, and began recruiting from areas with heavily Jewish populations, and managed to grow the Jewish population on campus from a mere 2% to 15%! There are close to 1,300 Jewish students enrolled in Vanderbilt, and it is now considered one of the best university options for Jewish students.

In a way, the path was paved for us. Two students, who were both very friendly with Rabbi Tiechtel, had started a Chabad student group. As an official student club, they were able to request a chaplain – namely, my wife and me.

The university chaplain called her friend, a chaplain at USC in Los Angeles, and asked her opinion: Should she accept these “Chabad guys?”

Her friend knew the Wagners, the shluchim in USC, and immediately gave her a hearty endorsement. “Chabad is great!” she enthused. “You should most definitely welcome them as affiliated chaplains!”

While that helped us get started, we still had lots of paving to do on our own. After a few rounds of interviews, we were granted a year of probationary chaplaincy status. It was thrilling to unpack our boxes in a tiny, two-bedroom apartment at the edge of the campus, knowing we’d finally achieved our goal – we were the Rebbe’s newest shluchim! It filled us with excitement and a feeling of powerful invincibility.

We needed those elixirs to keep our faith up through the struggles with which we were soon presented. It was hard not to feel like we were grouped on the unfortunate side of the haves and have nots. The Hillel center was new and attracted crowds of students, while we pulled out folding chairs to squeeze a mere 15 seats into our tiny living room. The students were largely from upper middle-class homes – it was probably the first time they’d ever eaten food purchased with food stamps, although they didn’t know about that.

With Purim coming up, we wanted to plan a memorable party that would attract students to our Chabad house.

I’d heard students talking about a favorite haunt of theirs, The Oyster Bar, that was located close to campus. It sounded like the perfect place to host a Purim party.

So, I called the manager and asked about renting the space for Purim night.

“Sure,” he said. “How many oysters will you need?”

“Uh, I thought you were a bar,” I stammered, in confusion.

“We are,” he answered, patiently. “An oyster bar.”

“Can – can we do it without any oysters?” I asked.

The manager sounded almost offended, but he ultimately agreed.

We hired a comedian, hooked up some rocking Jewish music, brought in some kosher food, a megillah, and took over the place! We had a nice crowd, and they all enjoyed themselves immensely – even without the shellfish!
——————
We know the greatest impact we have is on individuals. We don’t measure “success” by how large our crowds are; we focus on fostering individual connections, and meeting students one by one.

Tabling is a great way to meet new people. Every day, we unfold a table and fill it with Jewish paraphernalia – tefillin, Shabbos candles, flyers about upcoming events, and more. As friendly and welcoming as we try to be, we know we can’t compete with the overwhelmingly inviting cuteness of a baby. It was more than just lack of childcare that compelled us to bring our 8-month-old son along.

Inevitably, his adorable smile and giggles won us a new friend. Dr. Baum originally approached to pinch Mendel’s cheeks and tickle his chin, but we quickly got to talking. We found out he was the medical advisor on campus. We struck up a fast friendship, and he even took on the role of faculty advisor for our student group.

Although we made quite a few friends through tabling, we soon saw it wasn’t the most effective way to reach our students. They were busy rushing from class to class, and didn’t have time to stop at our table. So, we adapted.

We started visiting residence halls in the evenings, setting up tables with college student essentials – hot, fresh, steaming food. All evening, we dished out bowls of matza ball soup and scooped falafel into pitas, using food as the ultimate tool to overcome invisible barriers and crush stereotypes.

It was easier for the students to realize that the warmth emanating from their steaming soups echoed in our hearts; that we could offer spiritual nourishment as well as delicious dinners.

When Pesach drew near, Rabbi Yitzchak Tiechtel generously invited us to join his communal seder. He booked a beautiful hotel, gathered all the food and decor; all we had to bring was the guests.

We concentrated, again, on the individual. It was March, so we started a campaign called Matzah Madness. We went all over campus, offering students a piece of matzah, smeared with frosting and topped with colorful sprinkles. The students loved the gimmicky name and the sweet treat, and we were able to sign up 75 students for that first seder!

When we meet our students where they are, we’re able to have a deeper, lasting impact.
————–
Darren* was the “it” guy on campus. Smart, popular, fraternity brother – he seemed to have it all. I wanted to convince him to join us for the seder, hoping his friends would follow.

“Oh, yeah! Passover seder!” he responded. “What day is that?” But when I told him, his face clouded over. “That’s our fraternity formal,” he explained. “We have a whole, elaborate trip planned. I’m sorry, Rabbi. I won’t be able to make it.”

Although he wasn’t able to attend the communal seder, I made sure to send matzah, wine, and Pesach foods along with the fraternity so they could celebrate the seder on the road.

Darren graduated over fifteen years ago, but he still talks about it to this day!
——————-
I liked Benji* a lot. He was a Vanderbilt alum, super smart, and funny. He was also the rabbi of another Jewish student group. We were friendly with each other, despite the spark of competition between us.

We soon settled into a comfortable rhythm, respecting each other’s space and becoming good friends. We started a weekly chavrusa, and I spent a lot of time considering what I wanted to learn with him. Eventually, I settled on a deep exploration of the fundamental ma’amer of our generation – Basi Legani. The discourse, originally written by the Frierdiker Rebbe, was the first ma’amer the Rebbe said, and its recitation signalled the acceptance of Chabad leadership. From then on, the Rebbe had analyzed a different section of the original ma’amer every year on that same day.

We’d barely waded into the vast depths of Chassidic thought, when Benji informed me that he, regretfully, had to cancel our chavrusa sessions for the foreseeable future. He assured me it wasn’t anything personal, but he wouldn’t say more than that. I connected the dots for myself, and watched with some sadness how our promising friendship faded away.

Soon afterwards, Benji got a job as a computer programmer, and I didn’t see him anymore.

About fifteen years later, I saw Benji wrapping his tefillin in shul one morning. I greeted him with a friendly smile and wave, and he timidly smiled back. Day by day, the greetings grew warmer, and I was looking forward to picking up our friendship where it had dropped so suddenly years before.

“Sholomo, I’m leaving,” he told me one day, rather abruptly. “I’m moving to Ohio.”

“You’re leaving? But we’ve barely started getting to know each other again!” I protested.

“True,” he conceded. “But our brief friendship has had a long-lasting impact. When I interviewed in Ohio, they asked me what I was learning. I told them I learn Chitas every day.”

“Chitas!” I repeated, stupefied. “Including Tanya?”

“Of course!” he replied. “I listen to Rabbi Gordon’s shiurim online every day!”

He chuckled. “They looked just as confused as you do right now. I told them that throughout my years in yeshiva, I learned a lot of Gemara and Halachah. But I only realized the life-altering impact Torah learning had on me when I started learning Basi Legani with you. The ma’amarim, with all their discussions of Chassidic thought, completely changed my life. Even when we stopped learning together, I knew I needed to continue learning Chassidus. I chose to learn Chitas and Tanya every day, and it has continued to be my greatest boost.”
——————-
Ollie* walked into our Rosh Hashana minyan with a group of guys I knew weren’t Jewish, so I figured he wasn’t either, and had come along just out of curiosity. He didn’t have typical Jewish features either, so I didn’t even question him about it.

I was surprised when he returned for Yom Kippur, and again for Sukkos. We had a tiny sukkah, and each person had to cram in uncomfortably to fit inside.

Is such discomfort really worth the “experience?” I wondered. Maybe there’s something else pulling him here.

I sat and talked with him and found out that his mother was Jewish.

“When I was a kid, my favorite part of the service was the Temple choir,” Ollie told me. “I love music, and that’s always been my strongest connection to Judaism. When I came on Rosh Hashanah, it was my first time attending a Chassidic service. I thought I’d miss the professional harmonies and piano accompaniment, but the heart-rending tunes and moving melodies spoke directly to my soul. I felt the power of the music more than I ever have before.”

That was the beginning of a long friendship. Ollie continued visiting regularly, becoming a “staple” of our Shabbos morning minyan. He joins in the singing enthusiastically, and farbrengs every Shabbos. He graduated, but is committed to continuing his Jewish learning in the Jewish Summer Fellowship.
———————-
“Shlomo!” wailed Abe*, a recent Vanderbilt graduate. “What do I do now?”

“What’s going on, Abe?” I asked. Abe is very intelligent, and I knew he wanted to continue in law school after graduating. “How did the LSATs go?”

“That’s just it!” he exclaimed. “I don’t get it! I took the LSATs a while ago, and I walked out feeling pretty confident. But when I got the results, I saw I really hadn’t done as well as I wanted. I was disappointed, but chalked it up to partying too much, getting too little sleep, and not eating well.

“I decided to focus on my health and wellness, and try it again when I felt better. A few months later, I took the LSATs again. This time, I was well rested and felt the best I’d felt in years. So why did I get the exact same grade I got on the first one?”

I heard the despair in his voice, and I tried to help him come to an inner understanding of his life.

“You’ve worked so hard to give yourself a healthy, robust life,” I said. “Why not add a spiritual element of wellness? You’ve always loved putting on tefillin, so why don’t you include that in your daily routine? Additionally, creating a vessel helps G-d’s blessings flow.”

Abe didn’t need much convincing. He’d been at Chabad long enough to understand how a mitzvah would enhance a wholesome life.

I met up with him the next day and got him a pair of tefillin. He put them on every morning, and soon bought his very own pair!

Needless to say, Abe did very well on his third attempt, and is now studying in a prestigious law school.

*Names changed to protect privacy
Rabbi Shlomo and Nechama Rothstein, Chabad at Vanderbilt University, Nashville, TN

Serving Yiddishkeit and Deli Sandwiches, Chabad at Vanderbilt University Part II

By: Chaya Chazan

Trey* originally came to Chabad for the social aspect -and because that’s where his friends were. That quickly turned into something much more serious. We farbrenged a lot and enjoyed many deep conversations about life, theology, and Torah.

I challenged Trey and another student to learn every day. They accepted, and visited my office daily to study Tanya. We slowly made our way through the sefer, mastering the fundamentals of Chassidic philosophy.

Trey continued his Jewish learning in Maayanot, and when he moved to Chicago for a college internship, I made sure to connect him with Rabbi Bentzi Shemtov, the shliach on campus.

Trey keeps Shabbos, wears tefillin every day, and dresses in a yarmulkah and tzitzis. Although he still looks like a typical college grad, his familiarity with the lingo makes him sound like a bona-fide bochur! My son is in yeshiva in Chicago, and he invited Trey to spend a Shabbos with him and his friends.

My son told me that when two of his friends visited Trey’s office on their regular mivtzoyim route, they asked the secretary if they could speak with Trey. They pulled out their tefillin and were about to ask him if he’d put them on that day, when he surprised them by exclaiming, “Oh, mivtzoyim! Awesome! Let’s do it!”

They looked at each other in surprise, especially when they realized Trey was getting ready to tag go along with them! He took a long lunch and enthusiastically followed them downalong their route, asking people to put on tefillin. He’s now the official third partner and accompanies them every week!
——————–
Jeremy* had that Long Island swagger and an air of “coolness” not belied by his pineapple-like hairdo and loud fashion choices.

“I know all about you,” he said when we first met. “I grew up religious, so I know your whole shtick. I left that behind me a long time ago, and nothing will change now. Get a good look, ‘cuz you won’t be seeing me around!”

Despite Jeremy’s best effort, we did see him around. He couldn’t ignore us, and the conversations slowly grew from simple, Hey, how are yous, to more deeper, lengthiery conversations.

Soon, the kid that’d seen and done it all was introduced to the wonders of Chassidus. It was incredible, watching him soakto see how he soaked it up like a plant thirsting for water. Yiddishkeit clicked for him in a way it never had before, and he was able to begin his relationship with Hashem on a fresh, new page.
————-
Jeremy didn’t necessarily daven himself, but his father had taught him the right way to do it. Jeremy was dismissive of our recitation of Kegavna in Kabbalos Shabbos, one of changes the Alter Rebbe made to the Ashkenazi nusach.

“What’s this Kegavna business?” he’d scoff. “Why don’t you daven properly?”

The next week, I did my usual weekly Kegavna Meditation, speaking about continuous creation, how the world is truly one with Hashem, and how we can tap into that special Oneness by letting go of anger and judgement.

Jeremy approached me after davening, his eyes shining. “Wow! That was mind blowing!” he exclaimed. “I can’t wait to explain it all to my dad and tell him exactly why we do Kegavna!”

When I can convince someone to open a sefer and learn Chassidus in depth, I’m excited to do that. But I know that Chassidus is so powerful, even a short, off-the-cuff explanation can be life-changing.
——————–
Jeremy had worked long and hard on himself, and was finally at a place where committing to keep Shabbos and Yom Tov felt feasible.

We spent an amazing Rosh Hashanah, Shabbos Shuva, and Yom Kippur together. With the solemn parts of Tishrei behind us, I looked forward to the joyous celebrations of Sukkos. Of course, Jeremy was our guest for the first Yom Tov meal in our sukkah.

“I think I’m going to have to break Yom Tov,” Jeremy admitted, quietly.

“What? But why?” I asked. “You already did the ‘hard’ parts; this is meant to be the fun, easy part!”

“I know,” he replied. “But I have a test coming up on the second day of Yom Tov. The professor is Israeli, but she’s very anti-religious, and I’m scared to even ask her to push off the test! I really want to keep my commitment, but my grades are very important to me…”

“Jeremy, this is not how it’s going to go down,” I assured him. “I’ll come to your class tomorrow and talk with your professor.”

Jeremy didn’t believe me at first, but I insisted I was serious.

The next day, I got ready to leave. I hesitated for a moment, contemplating my lulav and esrog. Not bringing them would cut deeply into my mivtzoyim time, but maybe bringing such conspicuous symbols of Judaism would enrage the anti-religious teacher and doom my case before I even started….

Ultimately, I decided to bring them along.

As soon as I walked into the professor’s office, she smiled in delight. “A lulav and esrog!” she gasped. “Are those for me?”

“Of course!” I responded, trying to maintain my composure.

“This brings back such memories,” she sighed reminiscently. “When I was a college student, newly arrived from Israel, I felt so lost and homesick. I remember walking through Union Square and spotting some Chabad teens with their lulav and esrog, stopping passersby to make the blessing and shake them. It made me feel so at home, giving me a sense of belonging I sorely needed at the time.”

She was excited to shake the lulav and esrog again, reliving all the pleasant memories she associated with them.

“Sukkot is my favorite holiday,” she sighed, sniffing the esrog.

“I know someone else who loves Sukkos,” I said, pausing expectantly.

“…Jeremy?” she asked.

“Jeremy,” I nodded.

“Okay, I… understand,” she said. “But should I push off the test for the whole class, or just for Jeremy?”

A quick glance at her class list told me almost everyone was Jewish.

“Why not delay the test entirely?” I suggested. “Let everyone in your class celebrate Sukkos properly.”

The professor agreed and wished us a happy holiday.

Jeremy could hardly believe it.

“I also have to write a paper on the last day of Yom Tov,” Jeremy added, nervously.

“Come on, Jeremy!” I encouraged him. “Is the grade of this one paper worth breaking Yom Tov in the long run?”

After much encouragement, Jeremy decided to write it on Chol Hamoed instead.

Even though he’d already submitted his paper, Jeremy was nervous all Yom Tov long.

“I know I got a ‘C’ on that paper,” he repeated. “I have to check my grade online!”

I encouraged Jeremy to stay strong, and he managed to hold out until Yom Tov was over. He pulled out his phone and quickly checked his online gradebook. His jaw dropped, and he held out his phone to me with shaking hands. “Check this out, Rabbi,” he said.

This paper deserves a ‘C,’ the professor commented. Your argument is poor and delivered unconvincingly. However, it reminds me of a paper I wrote when I was in a similar circumstance in college. I made the same argument you did. I can’t give myself a ‘C,’ so I’m giving your paper an ‘A.’

It was a clear message from Hashem, showing Jeremy exactly how much his commitment and dedication meant.
——————–
The school year had just started. I was sitting in my office when the campus chaplain burst in.

“Rabbi, there’s an emergency in the freshman dorms! They’re asking for a rabbi!”

I rushed across campus and found Zack absolutely distraught. He’d just been informed that his brother had taken his own lifecommitted suicide. Tears streamed down his face as he sobbed uncontrollably. My heart ached, and I sat by his side, holding his hand, and just being a supportive presence as he vented his grief.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” a woman said, peeking into the room. “Zach, your dad is on the phone.”

I spoke with Zach’s father, Gary*, as well. He told me he’d catch a flight right away, even though he had a flourishing law office in Qatar. I figured Qatar hadn’t offered him much – if anything – in the way of a Jewish community, so I offered to be his rabbi if he wanted. We developed a deep relationship over time, both with Zach and Ken.

Ken’s first Chabad experience was the Pesach seder. Living in Qatar for so long, he’d thought of Chabad as a religious group for devout rabbis. Walking into a tent, flanked by beautifully set tables and filled with over 200 college students from every walk of life seemed like a magical, otherworldly experience.

“This is amazing!” he kept repeating. “What an incredible impact! I really want to get involved!”

I filed those words away, and mused over them a bit. Ken made it obvious that he was a man of means, and I knew he wanted to help. I couldn’t decide whether to ask him to help us launch a kosher food truck, or build a larger Chabad house, both long-time dreams of ours.

Thoughts swirling in my mind, I wrote a letter to the Rebbe, detailing my quandary. A few moments later, I opened my inbox and saw an email from a Chabad publication, containing a transcription of a yechidus. The man had asked the Rebbe whether there was any value in giving a Jew a kosher lunch, knowing that he’d eaten non-kosher for breakfast, and would eat non-kosher again for dinner. The Rebbe answered categorically that no matter what else he may choose to eat, there was definitely value in giving a Jew kosher food for lunch.

I was stunned. I printed a copy of the email and called Ken.

“What do you say we meet up for lunch?” I asked him. “There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

We chatted about nothing in particular over delicious deli sandwiches, and I was rehearsing my pitch in my mind, when Ken cleared his throat.

“I’ve been thinking,” he began, “about Chabad’s impact. I’m impressed how you’re always meeting people where they are, and trying to fill their needs. And somehow, no matter what you’re doing, there’s always food around. I also want to do something in my son’s honor. So I had an idea. It’s a bit radical, because it was seen as low-class when I was growing up, but now it’s accepted, and you guys are always up to date on the newest fad…. It’s a way to merge your tendency to give people what they lack while keeping you mobile…”

I stared in disbelief. “I came here to discuss something with you too. Let’s say it together, on the count of three. One… two… three… kosher food truck!”

Ken gasped and then laughed heartily. I told him my side of the story, and showed him the printout I’d brought along. Ken was amazed and agreed to fund the entire thing on the spot.

Ken, Zach, and I threw ourselves into the project with gusto, and after a year and a half of hard work, the food truck was finally opened. Unfortunately, it closed down after only a few months, as the management was too overwhelming.

Ken was suffering from a mental health crisis of his own. The painful divorce, followed by the loss of his son, had robbed him of his joie de vivre. I remember, a few months later, when he called me and asked if G-d wanted him to sacrifice his life to make the world a better place. Of course, I told him that G-d wanted to him to live above all, and we had many deep conversations. We then lost touch, as his family had him transferred to a psychiatric institute. Unfortunately, in a tragic twist of fate, he followed his son and took his life a short while later.

Before ending his life, Ken asked if I could revive the food truckbring it back to life. He saw it as an extension of his son, and it gave him comfort to know the food truck would continue to fill the role it’d always been meant to play. I told him we’d do absolutely everything in our power to revitalize it. After his passing, it became a matter of urgency; the food truck represented Ken’s legacy and path of teshuva.

The food truck was a full-time job of its own, and I couldn’t see how I’d manage the business while also taking care of my Chabad house. When I went to visit my sister a short while later, I suggested that she and her husband, Gavriel and Menucha Isenberg, join our shlichus with the primary roles of managing the food truck and launching JGrads, a chapter of the Chabad house, focusing on graduate students.

Baruch Hashem, they’re doing a phenomenal job. The food truck has become a staple on campus, with hundreds of students enjoying it a hot, deli sandwich every day. Many graduate students who may not have been reached otherwise join them for Shabbos meals every week, farbrenging and taking the next step in their relationship with Hashem.

The success of the food truck proved the importance of having kosher meal options, and inspired the campus to open a kosher dining hall.

Ken and his son live on in every bracha recited and every bite taken from the Holy Smokes food truck.

*Names changed to protect privacy