Partner

ESSAY: Partner
There is no higher aspiration—we are told—than to become a full partner in the endeavor of life. But is not “full partner” a contradiction in terms?

INSIGHTS: Separatism
An argument that is many arguments on many levels, all wrong

And the man took a golden ring, a half-shekel in weight; and two bracelets of ten shekels weight of gold for her hands

Genesis 24:22

“A half-shekel”—to allude to the shekalim contributed by the people of Israel, “a half-shekel per head”[1]

Rashi, ibid.

The first marriage of which we read in the Torah is the marriage of Adam and Eve. Theirs, of course, was a marriage wholly made in Heaven: G-d Himself created the bride, perfumed and bejeweled her, and presented her to the groom.[2] One does not get the impression that Adam was much involved in the selection process.

The first instance in which the Torah tells the story of a marriage achieved by human effort is in the chapter that describes the search for a bride for Isaac.[3] Here are detailed the workings of a conventional shidduch: a matchmaker (Abraham’s servant Eliezer), an investigation into the prospective bride’s family[4] and character,[5] a dowry,[6] the initial encounter between the bride and groom,[7] and so on.

The Torah, which often conveys complex laws by means of a single word or letter, devotes no less than 67 verses to the marriage of Isaac and Rebecca. Many of the details are related twice—first in the Torah’s account of their occurrence, and a second time in Eliezer’s speech to Rebecca’s parents. For here we are being presented with a prototype to guide our own approach to marriage—both in the conventional sense as the union of two human beings, and in the cosmic sense as the relationship between G-d and man.[8]

One of the details which the Torah includes in its account is the fact that “a ring, a half-shekel in weight” was one of the gifts that Eliezer presented to Rebecca at their meeting at the well in Rebecca’s hometown in Aram Naharayim.

Our sages explain that this was an allusion to, and the forerunner of, the half-shekel contributed by each Jew toward the building of the Sanctuary. As G-d instructs Moses in the 30th chapter of Exodus:

Each man shall give the ransom of his soul to G-d.... This they shall give: ... a half-shekel.... A shekel is twenty gerah; a half-shekel [shall be given] as an offering to G-d... The rich man should not give more, and the pauper should not give less, than the half-shekel...[9]

Why half a shekel? We know that, as a rule, “Everything that is for the sake of G‑d should be of the best and most beautiful. When one builds a house of prayer, it should be more beautiful than his own dwelling. When one feeds the hungry, he should feed him of the best and sweetest of his table.... Whenever one designates something for a holy purpose, he should sanctify the finest of his possessions; as it is written,^[10] ‘The choicest to G‑d.’”^[11]

Thus, in many cases Torah law mandates that the object of a mitzvah (divine commandment) be tamim, “whole”: a blemished animal cannot be brought as an offering to G-d, nor can a blemished etrog be included in the “Four Kinds” taken on the festival of Sukkot. Even when this is not an absolute requirement, the law states that, whenever possible, one should strive to fulfill a mitzvah with a whole object. For example, it is preferable to recite a blessing on a whole fruit or a whole loaf of bread, rather than on a slice (hence our use of two whole loaves at all Shabbat and festival meals).[12]

Why, then, does the Torah instruct that each Jew contribute half a shekel toward the building of a “dwelling for G-d”[13] within the Israelite camp?

The Torah’s repeated reference to this contribution as a “half-shekel” is all the more puzzling in light of the fact that in these very same verses the Torah finds it necessary to clarify that a shekel consists of twenty gerah. In other words, the amount contributed by each Jew as “the ransom of his soul” was ten gerah. Ten is a number that connotes completeness and perfection: the entire Torah is encapsulated within the Ten Commandments; the world was created with ten divine utterances;[14] G-d relates to His creation via ten sefirot (divine attributes), and the soul of man, formed in the “image of G-d,” is likewise comprised of ten “powers.”[15] But instead of instructing to give ten gerah, the Torah says to give half of a twenty-gerah shekel, deliberately avoiding mention of the number ten and emphasizing the “half” element of our contribution to the divine dwelling in our midst.

For such is the essence of marriage. If each partner approaches the marriage   with a sense of his or her self as a complete entity, they will, at best, achieve only a “relationship” between two distinct, self-contained lives. But marriage is much more than that. The Kabbalists explain that husband and wife are the male and female aspects of a single soul, born into two different bodies; for many years they live distinct and separate lives, often at a great distance from each other and wholly unaware of the other’s existence. But divine providence contrives to bring them together again under the wedding canopy and accord them the opportunity to become one again: not only one in essence, but also one on all levels—in their conscious thoughts and feelings and in their physical lives.[16]

Marriage is thus more than the union of two individuals. It is the reunion of a halved soul, the fusion of two lives originally and intrinsically one.

To experience this reunion, each must approach his or her life together not as a “ten,” but as a “half.” This “half-shekel” consists of “ten gerah”—each must give their “all” to the marriage, devoting to it the full array of resources and potentials they possess. But each must regard himself not as a complete being, but as a partner—a part seeking its other part to make it whole again.

The half-shekel ring given to Rebecca for her marriage to Isaac was the forerunner of the half-shekel contributed by each Jew toward the building of the Sanctuary, the “marital home” in the marriage between G-d and man.

The soul of man is “part of G-d above”[17]—a part that descended to a world whose mundanity and materiality conspire to distance it from its supernal source. So even a soul who is in full possession of her ten powers is still but a part. And even when G-d fully manifests the ten attributes of His involvement with His creation, He is still only partly present in our world. It is only when these two parts unite in marriage that their original wholeness and integrity is restored.

So to build G-d a home on earth we must contribute half of a 20-gerah shekel. We must give ourselves fully to Him, devoting the full spectrum of our ten powers and potentials to our marriage with Him. But even as we achieve the utmost in self-realization in our relationship with G-d, we must be permeated with a sense of our halfness—with the recognition and appreciation that we, as He, are incomplete without each other.[18]

Based on an address by the Rebbe, Shevat 27, 5715 (February 19, 1955)[19]

“When I see Your heavens,” sings the Psalmist, “the work of Your fingers, the moon and the stars which You have ordained... G-d our Lord! How majestic is Your name in all the world!”[20]

Indeed, the grandeur, complexity and mystery of the universe bespeak the wisdom and majesty of its Creator. But our world also contains much that, at least to our eyes, is trivial, fractious and deceitful. How do these relate to the singular truth of the Author of reality?

The Kabbalist masters explain that G-d created the whole of existence in the form of a seder hishtalshelut— a “chain of evolution”— in which every reality derives from a higher, more abstract reality that is its mirror and source, which in turn derives from yet a higher, even more abstract reality that is its mirror and source, and so on through the innumerable links in the chain of creation. Thus, what on a higher, more spiritual plane of reality is a subtle, and wholly positive, contrast between two forces, evolves in successive stages of the seder hishtalshelut into diversity, disparity, disharmony, and—ultimately—outright conflict between the various components of G-d’s creation. What on a higher plane of reality is a subtle and wholly positive “contraction” or self-restraint of a divine force, evolves into successively cruder forms of limitation and constriction, and ultimately deficiency and abscess, in G-d’s world.

This is true of every object and force in the physical world, from a grain of sand to the law of gravity: each is the final link in a chain of existences reaching upwards to its most spiritual, abstract form.

The same is also true with regard to thoughts and ideas. Often, we might hear someone espousing an idea or presenting an argument that is obviously mistaken and misguided. But the very possibility for such an idea to exist and be propagated is the result of a higher, less obviously erroneous idea, which is itself  the result of an even more subtle error, and so on to the highest link in the chain of ideas.

For example: There are those who argue that since “G-d desires the heart,”[21] it is unnecessary to bother with the actual observance of the mitzvot. It is enough that “My heart is in the right place” and “I am a Jew at heart.”

Such a divorce of deed from faith and feeling is obviously antithetical to the very essence of Judaism. But even among those who accept the importance of the mitzvah (“commandment” or “good deed”) in their relationship with G-d, there exists the tendency to distinguish between different periods or areas of life. For example, there are those who are careful to fulfill their duties to G-d and man during the “Days of Awe” of Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur, but place much less importance on their actions during the rest of the year.

What are the roots for such differentiation between times of the year? We find the same approach among those diligent in their observance of the mitzvot all year round. A person might zealously fulfill every clause in the Shulchan Aruch (Code of Jewish Law), yet divide his life  into “holy” days and “secular” days. On Shabbat and the festivals he enters into his “holy” mode, in which his every thought and deed is directed toward his spiritual development and his service of G-d; the rest of his life, while conforming to the laws of the Torah, is wholly devoted to his material pursuits and the enhancement of his material existence.

A higher, more subtle link in this chain of “separatist” thinking is the idea that while each day of the year must include spiritual and G-dly pursuits, these may be confined to fixed hours devoted to Torah study and prayer. The remainder of the day, when one has no choice but to devote oneself in one’s material affairs, belongs to another domain of life—a domain which, by nature and definition, is separate and disconnected from the “islands of holiness” in its midst.

Finally, there are those who maintain that the Torah must permeate every nook and cranny of one’s life, yet practice a separation of domains within Torah itself, distinguishing between its “revealed,” pragmatic side and its “hidden,” esoteric dimension. Those parts of Torah that are readily digestible by human reason—e.g., the stories of the Torah, the laws put forth in the Talmud and Shulchan Aruch—are to be assimilated into every area and activity of life; but the esoteric parts of Torah—e.g., the teachings of Kabbalah and Chassidism—are the province of saintly mystics who sever all connection with the material world and devote themselves solely to the spiritual realm of life.

All these arguments have the same essential contention at their core: that the spiritual and the material are, and will always remain, two distinct domains. The various levels on which this contention exists derive from and follow one another: a separation between the spiritual and pragmatic aspects of Torah in the mind of one Jew, leads to a separation between the spiritual and pragmatic parts of his days in the mind of his fellow; which leads to a separation between the spiritual and pragmatic days of the week in the mind of a third Jew; which expresses itself in a fourth Jew’s confinement of his relationship with G-d to the holiest days of the year; which ultimately results in a fifth Jew’s complete severance of his actions from his faith.

All these arguments are based on truth. “G-d desires the heart” is a statement from the Talmud; it is the prophet Isaiah who describes the period from Rosh HaShanah to Yom Kippur as a time to “Seek G-d when He is to be found;” [22] Shabbat and the festivals are designated by the Torah as distinctly “holy” days, on which G-d’s relationship with the world is elevated to a higher, more spiritual plane; our sages tell us when a person is studying Torah, praying or performing a mitzvah, his very person becomes a “vehicle of divinity”—during these times he is certainly closer to G-d than while attending to his personal affairs;[23] and it is also true that the “esoteric” dimension of Torah is a more spiritual articulation of the divine wisdom and will than its “pragmatic” part.

The basis for all these arguments (which are, in essence, the same argument) is true; it is their conclusions that are erroneous. Yes, G-d created the spiritual and the material as two distinct domains. Yes, a vast gulf separates faith from deed, holy days and activities from ordinary ones, and mystical truths from pragmatic ones. But the entire purpose of life is to bridge this gulf, to integrate these domains. This is why G-d took the spiritual soul and placed it within a physical body and life: so that we translate our faith into deeds, draw the holiness and spirituality of Yom Kippur into the year and of Shabbat into the workweek, fuse our sacred and secular activities into a singular goal of serving our Creator, and unite the sublime and the practical in our mind’s endeavor to grasp His truth.

Based on an address by the Rebbe, Passover 5715 (1955)[24]