Reflections on My Father’s Shloshim. There is a quiet but weighty custom when it comes to a matzeivah (headstone): to be exceedingly careful with the words that are etched into stone. Not to embellish. Not to exaggerate. To capture something true—something essential—because those words are not merely descriptive; they are, in a sense, a testimony. The neshamah (soul) is held accountable to them. At the top of my father’s matzeivah are the words: “Moiker Rabbanan”—one who honored and appreciated Torah scholars. It is a simple phrase. But it says much. My father, Mendel New, did not just “respect rabbis” in the abstract. It was something you could see, something you could feel. Whether it was visiting Rebbes, rabbis and fundraisers who came from Israel, local rabbis from other communities, and of course, his deep reverence for the Rebbe—there was a consistency, a sincerity, a genuine sense of respect that defined him. These memories came flooding back over this past Pesach. From a young age, on the night of Shvi’i (the seventh day of) Shel Pesach, after the Yom Tov meal at home, my father would take us to the home of Rabbi Groner, the community rabbi whom he respected so deeply and worked alongside for over four decades. Each year, Rabbi Groner would host a farbrengen that stretched late into the night—filled with Chassidic stories, heartfelt niggunim, and words that challenged a person to grow. Those farbrengens were unforgettable. They had everything: inspiration, warmth, and—true to Rabbi Groner’s personality—a certain theatrical flair that made them as engaging as they were elevating. But more than anything, they were wrapped in an atmosphere of Chassidic camaraderie, where titles and pretense were left at the door, and what remained was something real. My father did not grow up in a Chabad home—his father was a Gerrer Chassid. The culture of a farbrengen was not something he inherited. And yet, he embraced it fully—out of respect for Rabbi Groner, out of appreciation for its authenticity, because he recognized that a farbrengen is a space where the soul speaks more honestly. The next day, Acharon Shel Pesach, (the last day of Pesach) the community would gather again—this time for Seudas Moshiach. This too was not something my father grew up with, but something he came to cherish deeply after marrying into my mother’s Chabad family. In Melbourne, it became one of the highlights of the year: long wooden tables, simple benches, and a room filled beyond capacity with yeshiva students, Yeshiva community members, and members of the broader community—all drawn by the unique atmosphere of commemorating the anticipated final redemption and the last stop of the journey that began at the exodus from Egypt, with four cups of wine, Matzah, niggunim, and inspiring speakers. And then there was the Rebbe’s matzah. For many years, a piece of matzah from the Rebbe, distributed on Erev Pesach in New York, would make its way to Melbourne—arriving, almost miraculously, just in time for Seudas Moshiach on the last day of Pesach. But after traveling 12,000 miles, it no longer arrived whole. It arrived as crumbs—morsels. I remember how carefully the package would be opened, how each person would step forward, reverently receiving the smallest piece. And somehow, that tiny fragment felt powerful. It’s hard to explain how something so small could carry so much. But perhaps we understand it intuitively. A tiny pill can affect the entire body—we may not fully grasp the science, but we know and trust the effect. In much the same way, that morsel of the Rebbe’s matzah carried something far greater than its size: a taste of Moshiach—infusing the soul with faith, strength, idealism, purpose, joy, and the drive to help bring redemption closer. Perhaps herein lies a connection to this week’s Torah portion: Parshas Shemini. In one of the most intense moments in the Torah, after the passing of Nadav and Avihu, the Torah records Aharon’s response in just two words: “Vayidom Aharon”—and Aharon was silent. No speeches. No explanations. Just presence. Because sometimes, the deepest truths are not taught through words, but through the quiet consistency of what we do. As I reflect on my father’s life and its impact on me, I realize that many of the most powerful lessons he gave were never spoken—they were lived. They were in the way he took my hand, year after year, and brought me to a farbrengen on Shvi’i Shel Pesach, in the way he made sure we showed up for Seudas Moshiach, in the way he placed himself—and us—in environments of growth, authenticity, and connection. In so doing, he didn’t sit me down and explain what matters most in life. He showed me. Silently. And those silent actions spoke volumes—about what to value, what to prioritize, and what a Jew should strive toward. We don’t always need grand speeches to shape a life. Sometimes, all it takes is a small act, a steady example, a quiet hand leading the way. And sometimes, all it takes is one morsel of matzah to nourish a lifetime of faith. Good Shabbos and Shabbat Shalom Rabbi Ruvi New Dedicated in loving memory of Menachem Mendel ben Yisroel HaCam.
Rabbi Ruvi New receiving Matzah from the Rebbe, 5 Nissan 1991
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