“What Happened to You in Miami?”

by Rabbi Moshe Levin, Director of Chabad Pico-Bais Bezalel in Los Angeles, California

“Oh, fancy pants.”

That’s what an elderly Chassid said to me when I returned to 770 after spending time in Miami. He looked me up and down—black hat a little sharper, jacket freshly pressed—and dropped the line like a gavel. “What happened to you in Miami?” he asked. I told him about Rabbi Sholom Ber Lipskar. He smirked. “Ah. Fancy pants.”

At first, I was stunned. That’s what he saw? The sharp clothes? The polished look? But then it hit me: He wasn’t wrong. Rabbi Lipskar did carry himself with elegance. But it wasn’t about vanity. It was about dignity. This wasn’t dressing up for show—it was showing up for your mission. You represented the Rebbe. You didn’t just act the part. You became the part.

That moment stuck with me because it revealed something deeper: Rabbi Lipskar didn’t teach you how to play the role—he taught you how to live it. He made you feel like you were someone. Not someday. Now.

I met him in 2000, while learning in the Yeshiva in Miami. He invited a few of us over for Shabbos. From the moment he welcomed us in, he radiated strength—but not the kind that intimidated. His presence didn’t shrink you. It lifted you.

That Shabbos, they hosted a communal meal—a Shabbaton. You could feel the electricity. Everyone at the table had to speak. Share a mitzvah they took on. A Jewish experience that moved them. You didn’t sit at Rabbi Lipskar’s table to schmooze. You sat there because you were on a mission—even if you didn’t know it yet.

And then there was his Shul. One of the most stunning in America. But the real beauty wasn’t the architecture. It was the energy. The sense that this wasn’t just a synagogue. It was a launchpad. You didn’t walk in to observe—you walked in to belong.

At one point that Shabbos, he introduced someone to perform a Tanya rap. Yes—a rap. “There’s a war being fought, give it some thought, don’t get caught—24 hours a day…” Not exactly standard Yeshiva fare. But Rabbi Lipskar lit up. If it inspired someone—if it helped them connect—it was holy. That was his brilliance. He didn’t see your quirks as obstacles. He saw them as assets. You weren’t just tolerated—you were needed.

As Shabbos wound down, we were standing on the curb waiting for our taxi. Rabbi Lipskar turned to us and said, “The taxi’s coming in 15 minutes. What can I possibly give you in 15 minutes?” He wasn’t joking. He was serious. HOW CAN I MAKE THESE NEXT FIFTEEN MINUTES MATTER?

And he did.

He told us about a time he had written to the Rebbe, sharing his curiosity about science and wisdom beyond Torah. The Rebbe’s answer: “It’s all in there. Everything you’re seeking is in the Torah.” That clarity? That confidence? He handed it to us like a torch. Fifteen minutes—and he gave us something we didn’t even know we needed.

That question—what can I give in 15 minutes?—never left me. It became a way of life.

A few days later, he invited us to a birthday party. A man in his community, Mr. Hurary ע”ה, was turning 50—just beginning his Jewish journey. Rabbi Lipskar stood up and said, “This is the Rebbe’s 50th year of leadership. And your 50th. Let’s talk about what that number means.” In that moment, this man wasn’t a newcomer. He was a stakeholder. A part of something far bigger than himself. That was Rabbi Lipskar’s gift—he didn’t make you feel welcome. He made you feel essential.

He carried that same approach in private, too. Years later, at the Kinus – International Conference of Chabad Rabbis, I offered him a ride after his talk. I got another 15 minutes.

He told me how the Rebbe once called him in for a private audience and instructed him to take a full year—not to build, not to teach—but to learn. To study how other synagogues functioned. The Rebbe didn’t just send soldiers into the field. He trained generals. And Rabbi Lipskar became one.

Another time, he told me about an invitation to a private audience with the Rebbe. Because it was an invitation, he didn’t request anything. He just wrote his name and his mother’s name. When he walked in, the Rebbe greeted him with a smile: “Good evening, Sholom Ber.” Then the Rebbe spoke about how some souls are born into circumstances that give them greater influence. That wasn’t praise. That was responsibility. Rabbi Lipskar didn’t see that as pressure. He saw it as purpose.

And yet, with all his stature, he was never out of reach. I once called him about a complicated situation—someone considering intermarriage. I had spoken to others. No one really helped. He did. Fifteen minutes.

He spoke about the family being united in their message, “we love you but no, this won’t ever be accepted.” Then he said, “Have coffee with them. Don’t lecture. Share with them what it means to be part of something eternal. Show them how when two people share a spiritual language, even big challenges feel small. But when they don’t—even small challenges feel impossible.”

And a key point:

“Focus on one mitzva they can connect to”.

Then he told me a story. A man, living with a non-Jewish woman, had promised to start putting on Tefillin. With nowhere else to do it, he put them on in the bathroom. One day, she caught him. She said, “It’s me or the Tefillin.”
He didn’t flinch.
She left.
And that moment—that choice—changed his life.

That’s what Rabbi Lipskar did. He made you realize that a single moment, a single mitzvah, a single decision—could change everything.

So yes—maybe I came back to New York a little more polished. Maybe I looked like “fancy pants.” But it wasn’t about the clothes. It was about the confidence. The clarity. The understanding that you were on a mission, and that mission deserved your best.

We lost a general. A force. A soul who didn’t just carry the Rebbe’s message—he amplified it.

But if Rabbi Lipskar taught us anything, it’s this: DON’T GET CONFUSED. “GO OVER THE TOP.”
Show up. Speak with purpose. Walk with pride. Know who you are. And never waste a moment.

Fifteen minutes can change a life. He proved it.

May we soon, BIKAROV MAMASH, be reunited with this giant in the Rebbe’s army. And we will. Imminently.