We’re Here Until Moshiach Comes

Rabbi Zalman and Shterna Lewis, Chabad at S E Coast Universities, Brighton, England

DOWNLOAD PDF
By: Chaya Chazan

My wife and I grew up in the 80’s, so we were raised in homes and schools inspired by the Rebbe’s electric messages of those years to do all we could to bring Moshiach. My wife was born and raised on shlichus in Long Beach, California, and I grew up in the Lubavitch community in Stamford Hill in London. Both of us recall a teenagehood filled with mivtzoyim, and a passion to connect even just one Jew with Hashem.

I’m often asked, When did you decide to become a rabbi? I have to honestly answer, I still haven’t! For those of us who grew up in the 80’s and 90’s, the Rebbe’s consistent talks about shlichus, mivtzoyim, and doing one last mitzvah to bring Moshiach were so encompassing and compelling, there didn’t seem to be any other option!

My family had visited the historic seaside city of Brighton a few times throughout my childhood, and I remember meeting the local shliach, Rabbi Pesach Efune. He’s friends with my father, so when he heard we were looking for shlichus, he invited us to join him, taking on responsibility for the college campuses in the area.

Baruch Hashem, we celebrated our 22nd anniversary of shlichus just this week!

In addition to the University of Brighton and the University of Sussex, both in the city, we also serve a few other schools further out. I spend two days of every week on the road, visiting our students in Canterbury, Kent, and Southampton, Hampshire.

There are only a couple hundred Jewish students on the main campuses of Brighton and Sussex, and most of them chose to attend university here specifically because it does not have a prominent Jewish presence. It makes our job more challenging – but that’s what we love about it! We try to show our students that Judaism isn’t something to run from, but something to embrace wholeheartedly.
——————-
When we first moved to Brighton, a journalist from The Jewish Chronicle, the oldest and well-respected Jewish newspaper in the UK, asked to do a feature on us.

“So, how long will you be staying in Brighton?” she asked, her pen poised above her notebook.

I was confused by her question. “Until Moshiach comes,” I answered.

Her pen hesitated for a moment and she looked up at me in disbelief. “Oh! I thought the Efunes hired you for a couple of years, and then you’d join one of the bigger, more established Jewish communities, while another couple came to take your place!”

I just shook my head, a smile on my face.

The headlines the next day read, New Chabad Couple to Brighton – Until Moshiach Comes!
——————-
A fellow shliach told me the son of one of his community members had just started at the University of Brighton and asked me to keep in touch with him.

I texted the number he gave me, introducing myself and asking if he wanted to meet up.

Sure, he replied.

When we met, I asked if he wanted to put on tefillin.

“No way, mate! I’m vegan!” he answered, recoiling at the very thought.

Although he remained wary and noncommittal, he agreed to join our Sinai Scholars group. Slowly, over the years, as he learned more and more, I saw him undergo a complete metamorphosis. His entire mindset shifted, and he began looking at religion and G-d with open, unbiased eyes. He channelled all his passion for social justice into Yiddishkeit, breathing new meaning into his life.

After completing his degree, he enrolled in a yeshiva in Eretz Yisrael, where he is still studying!
—————-
When we first started out on shlichus, we had a small apartment, closer to the main Jewish neighborhood. At the time, there was a Hillel House in another area of the city, which provided sleeping accommodations for Jewish students. We would occasionally move in and spend Shabbos there, running lively meals for the students.

Among the many students who joined us for Shabbos were two special students who’d recently become shomer Shabbos.

“Rabbi, why don’t we have a minyan for Kabbolas Shabbos when you come?” they urged me.

“Because last I counted, there are only three of us, and we need ten!” I joked, thinking they’d give it up.

“We can find seven more students,” they insisted.

“Really?” I asked. “I know many guys that are happy to join for some good food and fun, but not prayers on a Friday night!”

“We’ll figure it out,” they insisted.

To my surprise, they managed to pull it off! When I walked into the davening room Friday night, there were eight other students there.

“What about the tenth?” I asked.

“Oh, yeah. We have to call Zach* down.”

A few minutes later, a sulky young man shuffled into the room, taking a seat in the back. With a full minyan present, we began davening. We sang all our favorite songs, joining hands for a rousing dance as we concluded Lecha Dodi. As we whirled around the room, I saw Zach, still sitting in the back, completely impassive to his surroundings. I urged him to join us, but he just shrugged and remained seated.

The minyan was such a success, it became a tradition from then on. Every time, Zach would do his part, meandering in to complete the minyan, but always remaining in the back, untouched and unaffected by anything happening around him.

Years later, I got a call from Zach.

“Hi, Rabbi Lewis. Remember me? I’m in the UK for a bit, and I wanted to show my wife my old stomping grounds. Can we join you for Shabbos?”

“Of course! We’d love to have you!” I replied, excitedly.

When Zach’s wife walked in, dressed modestly and with a wig covering her hair, introducing herself as Yocheved*, I was stunned.

“We’re making aliyah,” Zach explained, hugely enjoying the surprise he’d sprung on me. “Our stuff is in transit now, so we’re here for a Shabbos before continuing on to Eretz Yisrael.”

“But… how? Why? When? I… I don’t understand!” I sputtered. “Zach, how did this happen? From what I remember, you didn’t seem to care for Yiddishkeit at all! You just sat in the back – never joining in or even showing interest.”

“You planted the seeds,” Zach replied simply. “Now let’s get ready for Shabbos.”
———–
It was our second Pesach on shlichus. The Efunes were hosting a communal seder in the shul, which we and our students would be joining, and they had preparations well in hand. With some extra time, I decided to visit campus and tackle a list of Jewish students I’d received. I didn’t know most of them, and I wasn’t even sure everyone on the list was Jewish, but I decided to start from the top and work my way down.

The first name was Pierre Fournier*. I could only assume he was French. Sure enough, when I dialed his number, an accented voice answered, “Bonjour.”

“Bonjour, Pierre. My name is Rabbi Zalman Lewis. Where will you be for the seder?”

“The seder? When is it?” he asked.

“Tonight!” I answered. “I’d love to talk to you about it – can we meet? I’m at the library on campus now.”

“I’m right there,” he replied. “I’ll meet you in a couple of minutes.”

Pierre arrived a few minutes later, his arm around his Italian girlfriend.

“There’s a communal Passover seder in the Chabad house tonight,” I told him. “Please join! The address is -”

“Can I bring my girlfriend?” he interrupted me, a challenge in his voice.

“Of course,” I answered, without hesitating. I gave him the information, and he told me he’d come.

I was happy to see him at the seder later that night, his non-Jewish girlfriend beside him. I welcomed him warmly, and we struck up a conversation. After Pesach, we set up a weekly chavrusa session, where we’d learn a sicha of the Rebbe on that week’s parsha.

Pierre had also met the rabbi at the Reform temple, who was Belgian. Delighted to find someone who could converse easily in his mother tongue, they instantly connected and developed a close bond.

A few months later, the Reform rabbi moved to another city. The change had been quite abrupt, so the temple was left without a rabbi. They asked Pierre if he knew how to lead a Kabbalat Shabbat service. Since he grew up in a traditional home, he did, and agreed to lead services on Friday nights.

Every week, he’d lead the davening and share a small Dvar Torah at the Reform temple. He’d use the sicha we’d learned that week, teaching the Rebbe’s words to his “congregation.” After services were completed, he’d join us for the seuda.

Eventually, he stopped attending the Reform shul and began taking his commitment to Yiddishkeit more seriously.

When he completed university, he returned to Paris, where he met – and married – a lovely young Sefardic woman named Yehudit*.

A few years later, Pierre and Yehudit visited us for Shabbos. While Yehudit and my wife chatted downstairs, Pierre and I sat in the library.

“Rabbi, do you remember the first time we met?” Pierre asked, suddenly serious.

“Of course!” I replied.

“Then why did you say yes when I asked if I could bring my non-Jewish girlfriend to the seder?” he asked.

“Pierre, you can trust I made sure there was no Halachic problem. But more importantly – would you be sitting here in my library, married to your wonderful Jewish wife, building a Jewish home, or sending your children to Chabad schools if I’d refused?”

“No,” he admitted.

“So then what’s the question?” I asked, softly.
——————
Fiona* was a “regular” at our Shabbos seudos. As we got to know her better, we came to appreciate what an amazing person she was.

For many months, I’d been nudging Tom*, another young Jew, to join us for Shabbos. Finally, he gave in and accepted our invitation. He and Fiona chatted and began dating, eventually getting married. After the birth of their son, they honored me to be sandek at his bris!

Fiona’s sister, Haley*, lived in Exeter with her husband, Paul*. They’d met at a Purim party hosted by Chabad of Brighton many years earlier, and still maintained the connection.

Haley asked me to teach her son, Harry*, for his upcoming bar mitzvah. His birthday was on Chanukah, and they’d celebrate with a party in Brighton on the following Shabbos. That year, his Hebrew birthday fell out on Sunday, December 25. I was excited, and immediately called Haley.

“I have a great idea!” I told her, enthused. “You have winter holidays over your son’s bar mitzvah. Why not come to Brighton for the whole week? That way, your son can celebrate his Jewish birthday properly. He can get an aliyah on his actual bar mitzvah day, and begin wearing tefillin! You can stay until the next week, when you’ve scheduled his bar mitzvah party here.”

“That won’t work for us,” she said, regretfully. “But thank you for thinking of us!”

The idea had taken hold of my mind, and I wasn’t ready to let it go just yet. I called Rabbi Efune.

“What if we brought the bar mitzvah to her?” I suggested. “There will be no traffic, so we can make it to Exeter in just 4 hours. This way, Harry can have a proper bar mitzvah and get an aliyah on his actual Hebrew birthday!”

Rabbi Efune agreed to my crazy plan, and I excitedly called Haley back.

“We’re bringing the minyan to you!” I explained. “We’ll be there at 9:00 AM, Sunday morning, with a sefer Torah!”

“But – ten Jewish men!” she stammered. “I don’t think there are ten Jewish men in all of Exeter! How will I find enough people?”

She spoke with The Jewish Chronicle, who published her quandary under the amusing title, Bar Mitzvah Boy Seeks Three Wise Men for X-mas.

That Sunday morning, Rabbi Efune and I woke at 4:00 AM to begin the long drive to Exeter. When we arrived, we found more than a minyan! The newspaper story had made a great impact, and Jews from near and far traveled to Exeter just to make a bar mitzvah boy’s day.

As thankful as Haley and Paul were to us for making their son’s bar mitzvah so memorable, Harry himself was in shocked awe.

“I can’t believe you came all this way,” he kept saying, over and over.

He was so impressed by the dedication and care, he began taking a deep interest in his Judaism. We learned together over video call once a week, and, at 16, he told his parents he wanted to go to yeshiva.

I helped him get into the same yeshiva I’d attended, and, baruch Hashem, he did very well there.

He got married in Crown Heights, in front of 770, and he and his wife are currently seeking a shlichus position!
—————-
Every Chanukah, I buy 500 donuts from London’s famous bakery, Geisinsky’s. I stand outside the library and hand them out to all passersby. If I think they might be Jewish, I try to get their contact information as well. Sometimes, it takes hours to give out all the donuts!

One year, the weather was particularly frightful, and I was standing in the cold for hours, handing out donuts. I only had a few left, when a student walked by my table. I glanced at him quickly, noting he didn’t look Jewish, and offered him a free donut with a smile.

As he thanked me and took it, he added, “I’m Jewish, Rabbi.”

I was delighted to meet another Jewish student and invited him to join us for Shabbos.

That was the beginning of a long and fruitful relationship. He began visiting more often, learning all about his Jewish heritage. Eventually, he attended a yeshiva, committing to a life of Torah and mitzvos.

Because of that donut, he is now raising a beautiful Jewish family with Torah values.
—————–
Mr. Harris* has a jewelry store near the Brighton train station. Knowing Mr. Harris had been connected to Chabad of Brighton through Rabbi Efune for many years, my son, Mendel, would make a point to stop by his store every week on his way home. Although Mr. Harris never agreed to put on tefillin, Mendel would chat with him and share a short Dvar Torah on the parsha of the week.

After a few months of consistent visits, Mr. Harris asked Mendel to bring him a mezuzah for his store. I passed on the message to Rabbi Efune, knowing he had a connection to Mr. Harris.

Rabbi Efune later told me what led Mr. Harris to request a mezuzah. “He told me your son has been visiting him every week for months now. It made him feel uncomfortable to have a sweet, caring teenager visit him each week to share a Torah thought without having a mezuzah on his door!”
—————–
Gila* reproached me, saying, “I walk my dog past an Israeli-owned bakery every day. The owner, Gadi*, told me you’ve passed by his store many times without even dropping in! He wants to meet you.”

I didn’t even know which store she was referring to, but I remembered Gila’s rebuke when I sent my sons on mivtzoyim before Pesach. I asked them to find Gadi and give him a box of shmurah matza.

A few weeks later, I was walking down that street and passed by a bakery. Business was quiet at that hour, and the owner was staring at me through the window. I pushed open the door and asked, “Are you Gadi?”

“Yes!” he replied. “It’s so nice to finally meet you.”

We began chatting, and Gadi told me all about his family. His father had been a respected rabbi in Algeria, and he had many Torah-observant siblings living in Israel.

“When I’m home in Israel, it’s easier to keep the mitzvot,” he told me. “But when I’m here, I don’t keep anything. A few weeks ago, when your sons gave me the matzah, I was shocked and embarrassed to realize I hadn’t even planned a seder! But since I had matza, I was determined to do it right. I went straight home and told my wife I’d be making charoset, buying chazeret, and that we’d be having a seder that night. Thank you for sending your sons!”
——————–
One morning, I was returning home after dropping off my daughters. I was waiting for the light to turn green, when a pedestrian crossing in front of my car looked at me and spit in my direction. I was very disturbed by this entirely unprovoked and casual act of antisemitism, and decided to pull over to try and grab a picture of the person in case it would be important later. I parked down the street, further from my home than I usually would, and ran out to find the culprit. Mysteriously, he’d disappeared without a trace.

“Zalman, where’s the car?” my wife asked an hour later, as she rushed to get the younger kids out the door to take them to preschool.

“It’s past the bus stop,” I told her. “I parked a little further this morning.”

My wife rushed out with the toddlers, and I continued working in my office. A while later, the doorbell rang.

“Larry*! It’s so nice to see you!” I said to the student standing on my doorstep. “It’s been a while! What brings you here?”

“I just got off the bus, and I noticed this on the floor,” he said, handing me a small Torah plushie. “I don’t know any other families around here that would have a toy like this, so I assume it’s yours.”

“It must be,” I said, taking it from him. “My toddler must have dropped it this morning, as they were walking to the car. Thanks for returning it! By the way, since you’re already here, would you like to put on tefillin?”

“Sure!” Larry agreed.

As Larry rolled up his sleeve and I unwrapped the tefillin from their pouch, I suddenly froze.

“Larry! Do you realize what incredible hasgacha pratis this all is? This morning, an antisemite spit in my direction, which made me park further than I usually do – which meant my toddler dropped his Torah toy while walking past the bus stop… all so that you’d find it, bring it here, and have the opportunity to put on tefillin!”

*Names changed to protect identity