Transmission

It was a late spring evening in 1991 and the Rebbe had just returned from the gravesite of his father-in-law, the previous rebbe. He had spent the entire day there, on an almost empty stomach, reading letters and reciting psalms. Now he said the evening prayers, then turned to the people to speak. Words such as had never before been heard from his mouth.

He spoke to us about his frustration, how his goals had not been achieved. He had done everything he could to awaken the Jewish people from their slumber and complacency, that we should demand a world the way the world was meant to be, that we should want with all our hearts to break out of our spiritual prisons. But, the Rebbe lamented, it was all to no avail. The world remains within its shell, and us, its captives, still in our chains. The time of which he had always dreamt, the goal to which everything he had ever done was aimed, had not been achieved. And the Rebbe had no explanation why.

"The only thing I am able to do," the Rebbe continued, "is hand the matter over to you. Do everything you can —even if it demands the unconventional, the maverick but down-to-earth —do everything you can that people will truly yearn —not because I have told them to yearn, but because they truly yearn from their own hearts and their own understanding —and demand, 'How much longer!?'"

"If there were only a few souls, even just ten of them, that would be sincere and stubborn and demand from G–d —we would already be there today"

"So I have done my part. From this point on, you do whatever you can."

But the Rebbe did not retire. On the contrary, although approaching his ninetieth year, he accelerated. Every week was another public gathering. Every Sunday, the Rebbe stood for hours, greeting visitors with blessings and advice —and a dollar to give to charity. More teachings and writings than for years before came out at that time.

But the message was clear: The torch that had been passed from leader to leader, from prophet to sage since Abraham, that torch had now been passed to each of us, to anyone who would grab it. And we are to cross the finish line.

After eleven months, the Rebbe tidied his desk, leaving there nothing but a photo album of the families of those who work for him. He travelled for the last time to the gravesite of his father-in-law, where he fell from a major stroke. Although unable to speak more than a few words, he continued providing guidance and counsel from his bed and armchair. Two years later to that very same day, the Rebbe suffered another stroke. Three months and a few days afterwards, the Rebbe passed on.

…

The Rebbe believed in our orphaned, post-holocaust generation. We won't let him down.