Grounding Your Stand

Jews have always been wandering from place to place. But what did the Rebbe say about leaving communities?

The Wandering Israelite

They say that in a certain neighborhood in Detroit, Michigan, the Jewish community once relocated to a newer area, selling their old synagogue building to a nearby church—unfortunately enough.

Another 30 years passed. The “new” neighborhood had aged, and once again, the community picked up and moved, building a new synagogue and planning to sell the previous one… to the very same church.

This time, though, the priest asked to be consulted on the new building’s design—after all, based on history, he knew he’d probably end up owning it eventually!

From the days of Avraham Avinu, the first Jew, we’ve always been a wandering people. The journey begins in Lech Lecha, when G-d tells Avraham, “Go! Leave your land!” Avraham leaves what is now Iraq and heads to the Land of Canaan—only to find a famine waiting for him, prompting another move to Egypt.

Yaakov Avinu was no different. He fled the Land of Israel to Charan (modern-day northern Syria), and later in life, after returning to Israel, another famine drove him down to Egypt.

This week’s double parsha, Matos-Masei, recounts the 42 journeys our ancestors took over 40 years in the desert, from Egypt to the border of the Holy Land. Some stops lasted 19 years; others lasted a single day—or even just one night.

And they never knew in advance how long they’d stay. Even Moshe didn’t know. As the Torah says, “By G-d’s word they camped, and by G-d’s word they traveled.”

The Wandering Jew

G-d gave the Jewish people this experience of constant travel in the desert to prepare them for the long exile ahead—an exile in which we would find ourselves wandering from place to place, never fully settled for long.

We are now in the period of the Jewish calendar that mourns the destruction of the Beis HaMikdash. During the time of the Second Temple, Jerusalem was torn apart by a bitter feud between two groups.

One group, known as the Biryonim, insisted that there could be no compromise when it came to Jerusalem. “This is G-d’s chosen place,” they said. “This is the holiest spot for the Jewish people, and we must fight for it to the last drop of blood.”

On the other hand, Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai led a group that believed differently. He argued that saving Jewish lives was more important than saving stones. “We must compromise,” he said, “and preserve the people, even if it means surrendering the city.”

But the Biryonim would not allow anyone to leave Jerusalem during the Roman siege—not even to negotiate.

So, as the Talmud recounts, Rabbi Yochanan spread word that he had fallen ill. Then he spread the news that he had died. He was placed in a coffin, and his students, Rabbi Eliezer and Rabbi Yehoshua, carried it out of the city gates—ostensibly to bury him, but really to bring him to Vespasian, the general commanding the Roman siege.

When Rabbi Yochanan finally met Vespasian, he didn’t ask to save Jerusalem. He asked for something else: “Give me Yavneh and her sages.”

Yavneh was the new center, the fresh opportunity, the future of Jewish life. And miraculously, Vespasian agreed—not only to Rabbi Yochanan’s request, but also to allow other scholars and family members to leave the city before its destruction.

Tragically, Rabbi Yochanan never returned to Jerusalem. As the flames consumed the Beis HaMikdash, the Midrash tells us: “Rabbi Yochanan sat and watched the walls of Jerusalem to see what would become of her… When he saw that the Temple had been destroyed and the Hall had been burned down, he rose, tore his garments, removed his tefillin, and sat down to weep with his students.”

And so, even at the time of the Temple’s destruction, Jewish life had already begun to migrate—from Jerusalem to Yavneh.

History repeated itself in the 20th century. Those Jews who left Europe before the Holocaust, who made their way to the United States or Israel, were spared. Those who stayed behind were tragically trapped.

Abandoning A Community

Now, all of this wandering is understandable when it’s a matter of life and death—whether it was the famine in the times of Avraham and Yaakov, the destruction of the Beis HaMikdash, or the Holocaust.

But here’s something interesting to consider: What does Judaism say about entire Jewish communities relocating—not because of danger, but simply for convenience? All across the world, and especially in America, Jewish neighborhoods tend to shift every 30 or 40 years. Why is that, and what’s the Torah’s perspective?

In 1940, the Previous Lubavitcher Rebbe arrived in the United States. At the time, the largest Jewish community in New York was centered in the Lower East Side, with over 500,000 Jews living there. It would have made perfect sense for the Rebbe to settle there, among fellow immigrants from Europe.

But to everyone’s surprise, the Rebbe chose instead to settle in Crown Heights, Brooklyn. At the time, it was a prosperous, upper-class neighborhood—home to wealthy Jews who could afford the area’s high living standards. Through the 1940s and 1950s, Crown Heights remained a thriving Jewish neighborhood.

Then came the 1960s. The neighborhood began to shift demographically, and Jews started slowly “running away” to other, more secure or affordable areas. By the end of the decade, that trickle became a flood. People were practically giving their homes away just to get out. Religious and secular, doctors and rabbis, everyone moved. Everyone—except the Rebbe.

The Rebbe stayed. And he made it clear he wasn’t going anywhere.

In fact, I know someone who, on the Rebbe’s advice, bought a house in Crown Heights in the early 1970s for $27,000. By the 1990s, it was worth over half a million. Today? It’s worth nearly a million dollars.

So clearly, the Rebbe’s vision paid off—but why was he so insistent? Why was he so adamant that Jews remain in Crown Heights?

Because according to Jewish law, if your departure from a neighborhood will weaken the local Jewish presence, you’re not allowed to leave. And there are several reasons for that:

So why is it a problem to abandon a Jewish neighborhood?

1. It hurts other Jews.
   There are always people who don’t have the financial means to move: the elderly, widows and widowers, and the poor. When the rest of the community leaves, these individuals are left behind, isolated in a now-empty neighborhood.
   
2. It harms local businesses.
   When successful families leave, they take their support with them. The local kosher bakery, grocery store, butcher shop—all of these rely on the steady support of the Jewish community. When that community disappears, these small businesses often collapse.
   
3. It endangers local synagogues.
   According to Jewish law, a building that was originally constructed as a synagogue cannot be repurposed for anything else—not a store, not a private home, not even for the rabbi! It must remain a shul. So when people abandon a neighborhood, they often leave behind synagogues that end up being desecrated or lost.
   
4. It sends the wrong message.
   We live in a global village. When Jews run from neighborhood to neighborhood, it sends a message to the rest of the world—including our enemies in the Middle East—that this strategy works. “If we push hard enough,” they think, “they’ll give up and leave.” But when Jews stay rooted, refusing to budge, it sends a powerful message: we’re not going anywhere. It strengthens Jewish morale everywhere—especially in the Land of Israel.

This doesn’t mean it’s forbidden to move. Of course, people relocate all the time for valid reasons—jobs, schools, growing families. But what is not okay is to run from a neighborhood simply because you “don’t want to live there anymore.” When leaving weakens a community, we are meant to think twice.

Let us hope that very soon, we will all relocate together—to the Land of Israel, with the coming of Moshiach. Amen.