Lamps and Lives

ESSAY: Lamps and Lives
A five-foot, 150-pound, seven-branched piece of gold speaks of the singularity and plurality of life

INSIGHTS:
The Cost of Light
How much do we give up when we give?
Train Journey
The railroad as a metaphor for life

And G-d spoke to Moses, saying: ... When you raise up the lamps, the seven lamps should give light toward the face of the menorah... And this is the work of the menorah: it was of beaten gold, from its base to its flower it was beaten work...

On three different occasions, G-d instructed Moses on the making and the kindling of the menorah (candelabrum) in the Holy Temple. In the 25th chapter of Exodus, a detailed description of the menorah is given as part of G-d’s instructions on the construction of the Sanctuary. In Leviticus 24, G-d commands Moses regarding its daily lighting.[1] Finally, we have the above-quoted verses from Numbers 8, which open the Torah section of Beha’alotecha.

a) That all of its lamps should be turned toward its center stem (“the face of the menorah”),

b) That the menorah should not be made piecemeal and its parts welded together; rather, the entire candelabrum—its base, its center stem, its six arms and its decorative forms (22 goblets, eleven globes and nine flowers), standing seventeen tefachim high (about 60 inches) and weighing a full kikar (approximately 150 pounds)—should be hammered out of a single block of gold.

Both these laws were already stated in the earlier passages detailing the menorah. Their repetition here emphasizes their centrality to the function and significance of menorah.

“The soul of man is a lamp of G-d.”[2] Like the lamp, the function of the soul is to illuminate its surroundings. The soul, “literally a part of G-d Above,”[3] is placed within a material body and world so that it should radiate its light to the darkest reaches of the created reality.

The candelabrum in the Holy Temple had seven lamps, corresponding to the seven primary traits of the human character. Some souls excel in the trait of chessed (love, benevolence), others in the attribute of gevurah (self-discipline, fear of G-d); still others exemplify tiferet (harmony, compassion), netzach (ambition), hod (humility, devotion), yesod (communicativity, connectedness) or malchut (regality, receptiveness). Together we form a seven-branched menorah, radiating seven qualities of light which fill the Temple of G-d and spill out to the world beyond its walls.[4]

This is the deeper significance of the two laws reiterated in the Beha’alotecha verses. The second law emphasizes the singular origin of the diverse community of man. The entire menorah must be hammered out of a single piece of gold, for all seven types of soul derive from a single source. All are equally “literally a part of G-d Above,” in origin and in essence one.

The first law expresses the common objective of the menorah’s lights. All lamps are turned toward “the face of the menorah.” Even after they have branched off into seven distinct lamps, even after they are burning with seven different lights, all are directed toward the same place. All are striving toward the same goal, notwithstanding the differences in the nature and orientation of their quest.

Two great biblical commentators, Rashi (Rabbi Shlomo Yitzchaki, 1040-1105) and Nachmanides (Rabbi Moshe ben Nachman, 1194-1270), differ in their characterization of the Beha’alotecha verses.

Rashi refers to these verses as Parashat HaMenorah, i.e., “The Menorah Section.” Nachmanides, on the other hand, sees their primary purpose as instructions on how to light the lamps. In other words, according to Rashi, the raison d’etre of these verses is to reiterate the second law—that the menorah be “hammered work”—a law pertaining to the construction and form of the menorah itself. According to Nachmanides, their main purpose is to relate the first law, which relates to the manner in which the menorah’s lamps should be lit.

The menorah describes the community of souls as originating as a singular entity, which then branches off into seven lamps that are different and distinct yet are all pointed toward a common goal. This general picture can be viewed from two perspectives. One can place the emphasis on the common origin, and see the common focus of the seven lamps as an expression of their intrinsic singularity. Or, one can emphasize the fact that this single menorah has produced seven lamps which, even as they strive toward their common goal, do so each in its own way, each with its own unique and distinct personality.

This is the underlying significance of the difference between Rashi and Nachmanides. Rashi sees life as an exercise in oneness. The diversity of human nature is but a superficial illusion; you need but scratch its surface to find that we’re all basically doing the same thing. This is the message of the menorah: I have a base and I have flowers; I have seven branches; but I am of a single piece.

Nachmanides, on the other hand, sees intrinsic worth and significance in the diversity of human nature. Our differences are not just means to the common end, but central to life’s purpose. Yes, we all derive from one place; yes, we are all striving toward the same goal; but the different ways in which we travel this course are what make the menorah of life, and are themselves of enduring luminary value.

Based on an address by the Rebbe, Shabbat Beha’alotecha, 5730 (June 20, 1970)[5]

And G-d said to Moses: “Gather to Me seventy men of the elders of Israel... And I shall cause to emanate from the spirit that is upon you, and place it upon them. And they shall bear the burden of the people together with you...”

Was Moses’ prophecy perhaps diminished? No. This is comparable to a burning candle from which many candles are lit, yet its own light is not diminished. So, too, Moses lost nothing that was his...

On the most basic level, this is the difference between physical and spiritual giving. In physical giving—as when one makes a charitable donation or lends a hand to help a fellow—the giver’s resources are depleted by his gift: he now has less money or energy than before. In spiritual giving, however, there is no loss. For example, if a person teaches his fellow, his own knowledge is not diminished—if anything, it is enhanced.[6]

Upon deeper contemplation, however, it would seem that spiritual giving, too, carries a “price.” If the disciple is of inferior knowledge and mental capability than the teacher, the time and effort expended in teaching him is invariably at the expense of the teacher’s own intellectual development; also, the need for the teacher to “coarsen” and simplify his ideas to fit the disciple’s mind will ultimately detract from the depth and abstraction of his own thoughts. By the same token, dealing with people of lesser moral and spiritual caliber than oneself cannot but affect one’s own spiritual state The recipients of this “spiritual charity” will be elevated by it, but its giver will be diminished by the relationship, however subtly.

Indeed, we find an example of such spiritual descent in Moses’ bestowal of the leadership upon Joshua. In contrast to the appointment of the seventy elders, where he was told to “emanate” his spirit to them, Moses is here commanded to “Take Joshua, the son of Nun, and lay your hand upon him... and give of your glory upon him”[7]—not only to “lay his hand” on Joshua, but also to give him from his glory. Thus the Midrash comments: “Lay your hand upon him—like one who kindles a candle from a candle; Give of your glory—like one who pours from one vessel into another vessel.”[8]

In other words, there are two kinds of spiritual gifts: a gift that “costs” the giver nothing (“kindling a candle from a candle”), and a gift that involves a removal of something from the giver in order that the recipient should receive something (“pouring from one vessel into another”). While Moses’ appointment of the seventy elders was achieved at no cost to himself, his bestowal of leadership upon Joshua involved both elements of spiritual enrichment: “emanation” and “giving.”

At times we must indeed sacrifice something of ourselves for the benefit of a fellow. But there are also times when we might rise to a height of benevolence that transcends the laws and limitations of give and take. Times when we commit ourselves to our fellow so absolutely, when the gift comes from a place so deep and so true within us, that we only grow from the experience, no matter how much we give of ourselves.

A railway system offers two modes of travel: by express train, or via a local line. The express train takes its passengers swiftly and directly to their destination. The local train, which most passengers use (either because the express train does not stop at their station, or because they cannot tolerate its speed) travels more slowly and makes many stops along the way.

These stops are of two types. There are minor stations, at which the train stops for but a short while to take on passengers. And there are major stations that are of a much lengthier duration, for here not only human passengers are received into the train but also livestock and other cargoes. This is a time-consuming operation, for animals are frightened by the commotion (for good reason—they are on their way to being de-animalized and converted into human nourishment), and the cargo being loaded is heavy and bulky.

Before the train pulls out from the station, it sounds its whistle to notify the passengers who are busy with their bundles (or who have perhaps forgotten that they have a journey to make) that it is time to embark. Once, twice, thrice the whistle blows, and when this, too, is to no avail, the train begins to slowly move, to show that it means business and that this is the last chance to hop on before it picks up speed and leaves the station behind.

Regarding the ultimate Redemption and the era of universal peace and perfection it will usher in, the prophet prophesies: “I, G-d, will hasten it in its time.”[10] Whereupon the Talmud asks: If the Redemption shall come “in its time,” then, by definition, it has not been hastened; and if it is hastened, it is not “in its time”!

The Talmud explains that the prophet is speaking of two possible routes by which the Redemption may come about. If mankind is in a state of “merit,” it will be hastened; if, however, we are “not meritorious,” the Redemption will come “in its time.”[11]

Chassidic teaching adds that, in a certain sense, a redemption that comes “in its time” is greater than a “hastened” redemption. A hastened redemption is one that is imposed on a still-imperfect world from Above; the nature of reality has not itself changed, but has been overwhelmed by an infusion of divine light. On the other hand, a redemption coming “in its time” means that the world has been transformed from within, at its own pace, by its own internal processes. Thus it is deeper and truer than a “hastened” redemption.

Every person’s reality consists of three basic components. At the core of our being is our “G-dly soul,” the spark of divinity that drives our quest for self-transcendence. This is the “man” in man—that which distinguishes the human being from all other creations.

Enfolding the G-dly soul is an “animal soul,” whose drives and instincts man shares with all other living things. These include the drives for self-preservation, self-propagation and self-fulfillment. In man, these might take on more “civilized” and “sophisticated” forms, but they remain, in essence, animal drives and instincts.

Extrinsic to both the G-dly and animal souls is our physical body and physical environment. This is the third, most material and “lifeless” element of our reality, devoid even of the limited spirituality of the animal soul.

A hastened redemption embraces only the G-dly soul of man, which is by nature receptive to the divine. The other two components—the animal soul and the material world—are only affected from without. They might be “swept along” when the divine spark of the G-dly soul erupts into flame, but they themselves have not truly been redeemed.[12]

Life is thus comparable to a railway. There are express trains that take the direct route to the end of the line. But these carry only passengers of the highest class. “Small-town” passengers, animals and inanimate cargo are too cumbersome for so speedy a ride.

The local train carries them all: stragglers, animals aspiring to be absorbed by the human, raw materials aspiring toward human utility. There are many stations on this journey, of longer or shorter duration according to need; there are second and third warnings for those lagging behind; there are many types of cars, designed for the particular needs of every type of passenger.

All this makes for a more laborious progress toward the ultimate destination. But while the express train achieves its objective more swiftly and smoothly, its achievements are narrower in scope and shallower in depth than those of the local train.

What is true of the railways of history also applies to our individual journeys. In our quest towards personal redemption, we also have a choice of these two routes. We can strive to stimulate what is highest and most G-dly within us, and assume that everything else will be “swept along.” Or we can take the slower, more laborious route of refining and developing also the “animal” and “inanimate” elements of our personality and world, toward a less speedy, yet more profound redemption.

[1]. The Leviticus verses also appear, almost verbatim, in Exodus 27 (vv. 20-21). But as Rashi explains in his commentary on Leviticus 24:2, “This (i.e., the Leviticus verses) is the section on the commandment of the lighting. The section ‘And you shall command...’ (the Exodus verses) was said only as [part of the instructions regarding] the work of the Sanctuary, to explain the function of the menorah.”

[4]. The windows of the Sanctuary were narrow on the inside and broad on the outside (I Kings 6:4. Normally, windows set within thick stone walls are constructed wider on the inside, so as to maximize the amount of light entering from without). This, explain our sages, was to symbolize that the Temple did not require light from the outside, but was itself a source of light for the world (Rashi on verse; Midrash Rabbah, Vayikra 31:6 and Bamidbar 15:1).

[12]. Thus the Chassidic masters interpret the exchange between brothers Jacob and Esau following their meeting in Genesis 33. When Esau invites Jacob to join him in his mountain kingdom of Se’ir, the father of Israel replies: “My lord knows that the children are tender and that the suckling flocks and herds are a care to me; if they are driven too quickly for one day, all the flock will die. Please, let my lord go on, ahead of his servant. I will lead on slowly, according to the pace of the work before me and the pace of the flocks, until I come to my lord, to Se’ir” (Genesis 33:13-14).

Our sages explain that Esau was inviting Jacob to the grand finale of history, when “The saviors shall ascend Mount Zion to judge the mountain of Esau, and the kingdom shall be G-d’s” (Obadiah 1:21). Jacob’s reply was that while he, himself, was ready for the Redemption, his “children” and “flock” were not. So, though it might take many generations until “I come to my lord, to Se’ir,” Jacob did not wish to avail himself of the offer of a hastened Redemption, electing instead to “lead on slowly, according to the pace of the work before me and the pace of the flocks” (Torah Ohr, Vayishlach; see Rashi on Genesis 33:14).