וְעֵינָיו הָיוּ מְאִירוֹת כַּשֶּׁמֶשׁ וְכַיָּרֵחַ מַמָּשׁ. בִּפְרָט בְּשַׁבָּת קֹדֶשׁ, הָיוּ עֵינָיו מְאִירוֹת מְאֹד מְאֹד, וּפָנָיו הָיוּ מְאִירוֹת וּמַאֲדִּימוֹת מְאֹד בְּשַׁבָּת קֹדֶשׁ. וּמִי שֶׁלֹּא רָאָה עֹצֶם קְדֻשָּׁתוֹ וְרִשְׁפֵּי שַׁלְהֶבֶת דְּבֵקוּתוֹ בְּשַׁבָּת קֹדֶשׁ, וְסֵדֶר הַקִּדּוּשׁ שֶׁלּוֹ בְּלֵיל שַׁבָּת עִם סֵדֶר הַשֻּׁלְחָן, וְהַנִּגּוּן שֶׁהָיָה מְזַמֵּר "אַתְקִינוּ סְעוּדָתָא" "אֲזַמֵּר בִּשְׁבָחִין" וְאֵיךְ שֶׁהָיָה מְזַמֵּר שְׁאָר הַזְּמִירוֹת "כָּל מְקַדֵּשׁ", "מְנוּחָה וְשִׂמְחָה", וְ"אֵשֶׁת חַיִל", וּ"מֵעֵין עוֹלָם הַבָּא", וּמִי שֶׁלֹּא רָאָה זֹאת, לֹא רָאָה טוֹב מֵעוֹלָם. וְכָל מִי שֶׁעָמַד אָז בְּאוֹתוֹ מַעֲמָד הָיָה מֵעִיד שֶׁלֹּא יִהְיֶה נִרְאֶה כָּזֹאת עַד שֶׁיָּבוֹא מְשִׁיחַ צִדְקֵנוּ. וְאִלּוּ כָּל הַיַּמִּים דְּיוֹ וְכוּ' אִי אֶפְשָׁר לְבָאֵר אֶפֶס קָצֶה וְעֹצֶם הַיֹּפִי וְהַקְּדֻשָּׁה הַנּוֹרָאָה וְהַיִּרְאָה הָעֲצוּמָה וַעֲרִיבַת נְעִימַת דְּבֵקוּת הַנִּפְלָא שֶׁהָיָה אָז, בַּעֲנָוָה בֶּאֱמֶת אֲשֶׁר לֹא נִרְאָה כָּזֹאת בָּעוֹלָם. וְכָל זֶה לְפִי תְּפִיסַת דַּעְתֵּנוּ, מִלְּבַד סִתְרֵי נִסְתָּרוֹת שֶׁהָיָה לוֹ בָּזֶה. קֹדֶם הַקִּדּוּשׁ הָיָה נוֹטֵל הַכּוֹס בְּיָדוֹ וְהָיָה עוֹמֵד זְמַן רַב עִם הַכּוֹס בְּיָדוֹ לִפְנֵי הַשֻּׁלְחָן בִּשְׁתִיקָה, וְלֹא הָיוּ שׁוֹמְעִין מִמֶּנּוּ כִּי אִם קְצָת קוֹל הִשְׁתּוֹקְקוּת. וְעָלָה אָז לְמָקוֹם שֶׁעָלָה. אַחַר כָּךְ, אַחַר שֶׁשָּׁהָה הַרְבֵּה מְאֹד פָּתַח פִּיו בִּנְעִימוּת נִפְלָא: "יוֹם הַשִּׁשִּׁי" כוּ'.
The Rebbe’s eyes would literally “glow like the sun and the moon” (Shabbat morning liturgy, Nishmat ). This was especially true on the holy Shabbat, when his eyes would shine and his face would glow. The Rebbe’s great holiness and fiery bond with God on Shabbat were really something to see. There was the way he said Kiddush on Friday night and his customs at the table. There was the awesome melody with which he sang Atkinu Seudata and Azamer BeShevachin. There was the way he sang the other Shabbat table songs, such as Kol MeKadesh, Menuchah VeSimchah, Eshet Chayil and MeEyn Olam HaBa'ah. If you have not seen this, you have never seen anything good (cf. Sukkah 51a). Those who were at the Rebbe’s table on a Shabbat would be ready to bear witness that such a sight would never be seen again until the coming of the Mashiach. If all the seas were ink (Shabbat 11a), it would still be impossible to describe even an inkling of the great beauty, the awesome sanctity, intense awe and the sweet, pleasant, wonderful closeness to God that was there, with genuine humility. One could say that such a scene was never before witnessed. I am only speaking about our own meager understanding of what was taking place there. Beyond that, there were deep mysteries far above our understanding. Before Kiddush, the Rebbe would take the cup in his hand and stand in absolute silence for a long time. All we could hear was a faint yearning sound coming from his lips as he reached the lofty spheres to which he ascended. Then the Rebbe would begin the opening words of the Kiddush in a wondrous chant: “Yom HaShishi – The Sixth Day.”
In 1968 I had my first encounter with the Lubavitcher Rebbe at 770 Eastern Parkway, Brooklyn, New York. It changed my life. I was a second-year university student, my summer vacation was drawing to a close, and I was due to return to Britain on the Sunday before Rosh HaShana. The day before, the Rebbe held a fahrbrengen. This was a huge gathering of thousands of Hasidim at which the Rebbe spoke for several hours, pausing every twenty minutes or so for a niggun, a hasidic song which was sung with great gusto by everyone present. During one of these singing interludes I went up to the Rebbe to say thank you and farewell, but he looked at me with surprise, told me I did not have to return just yet since the Cambridge University term did not begin until several weeks later, and urged me to stay for Rosh HaShana. That was when I discovered that when a rebbe suggests something, you do it. So I came to spend Rosh HaShana with this extraordinary man and heard him blow shofar, an almost otherworldly experience. One of the local Hasidim invited me for lunch on the first day, and there I found another guest, with a fascinating story to tell. It turned out that he was a successful composer of pop songs – I knew some of his compositions – and had abandoned Judaism several decades earlier. What brought him here, he said, was that he had been driving alone one day in a remote part of the mid-West when it occurred to him that Rosh HaShana must be imminent. At that moment, a tune came into his head, a hasidic niggun, which he had been taught as a child. The melody awoke in him a Jewish identity that had lain dormant for years. There and then, he stopped the car, turned around, and headed for 770 Eastern Parkway. It was as if he had suddenly realised that he was lost, and the music from his childhood was calling him home.