The Prostration of the Shepherds

ESSAY: The Prostration of the Shepherds
For the first 200 years of Jewish history, the credo of the shepherd held sway; then the shepherds submitted to the sovereignty of their very different brother

INSIGHTS
Fire and Earth
Immune on the outside, vulnerable within, an earthen vessel seals its oil to keep it safe from the Greeks
The Lamplighter
The anonymous nothing who made it to the top
Chanukah
We triumphed over the enemy, but what did we fight for?

And Joseph was the ruler of the land; he was the supplier of food to all its people.

Joseph’s brothers came [to Egypt] and prostrated themselves to him ... and Joseph remembered the dreams he had dreamed about them...

Genesis 42:6-9

Twenty years earlier, Joseph had dreamed two dreams which foretold the events of that day. In the first dream, “we were binding sheaves in the field, when suddenly my sheaf arose and stood upright; and behold, your sheaves stood round it and bowed down to my sheaf.”[1] In the second, Joseph saw “the sun, the moon, and eleven stars bowing down to me.”[2]

Joseph’s brothers, who were already jealous of their father’s special affection for him, “hated him even more for his dreams and his words.”[3] Jacob, however, “kept the matter in mind”[4] and “awaited and anticipated its fulfillment.”[5]

For that to happen, Jacob had to mourn the loss of his beloved son for twenty years, Joseph had to experience slavery and incarceration, and his brothers, anguished remorse, for that same period. Twenty painful years so that the sons of Jacob might prostrate themselves before the viceroy of Egypt, who, unbeknownst to them, was the very dreamer they had sold into slavery. Why was it so important that this submission take place? Why did Jacob “await and anticipate the fulfillment” of Joseph’s dreams, despite his realization[6] of the terrible animosity they provoked among his children?

The New Jew

Abraham, Isaac and Jacob were shepherds, as were the sons of Jacob.[7] They chose this vocation because they found the life of the shepherd—a life of seclusion, communion with nature, and distance from the tumult and vanities of society—most conducive to their spiritual pursuits. Tending their sheep in the valleys and on the hills of Canaan, they could turn their backs on the mundane affairs of man, contemplate the majesty of the Creator, and serve Him with a clear mind and tranquil heart.[8]

Joseph was different. He was a man of the world, a “fortuitous achiever”[9] in commerce and politics. Sold into slavery, he was soon chief manager of his master’s affairs. Thrown into jail, he was soon a high-ranking member of the prison administration. He went on to become viceroy of Egypt, second only to Pharaoh in the most powerful nation on earth, and sole supplier of food for the entire region.

Yet none of this touched him. He remained the righteous Joseph who had studied Torah at the feet of his father.[10] Slave, prisoner, ruler of millions, controller of an empire’s wealth—it made no difference: the same Joseph who had meditated in the hills and valleys of Canaan walked the streets of a depraved Egypt. His spiritual and moral self derived utterly from within and was totally unaffected by his society, environment, or the occupation that claimed his involvement twenty-four hours a day.

The conflict between Joseph and his brothers ran deeper than a multi-colored coat or a favorite son’s share of his father’s affections. It was a conflict between a spiritual tradition and a new worldliness; between a community of shepherds and a politician. The brothers could not accept that a person could lead a worldly existence without becoming worldly, that a person could remain one with G-d while inhabiting the palaces and government halls of pagan Egypt.[11]

For two hundred years, the shepherd’s credo held sway. But Jacob knew that if his descendants were to survive the Egyptian galut (exile)—and the millennia of Babylonian, Greek, Roman, Eastern, Western, economic, religious and cultural galuyot that history held in store for them—this must be subordinated to the credo of Joseph. If the children of Israel are to pass through every social convulsion of the next four thousand years and persevere as G-d’s people, they must become subjects of Joseph.

Based on an address by the Rebbe, Kislev 20, 5727 (December 3, 1966)[12]

Fire and Earth

Chanukah celebrates the miracle of “the single cruse of oil, sealed with the seal of the Kohen Gadol (High Priest),” that escaped contamination when the Greeks defiled the Holy Temple and its contents. The cruse contained enough oil to light the menorah for one day; miraculously, the oil burned for eight days, until new oil could be prepared under conditions of ritual purity.[13]

The purity of the oil was guaranteed because it was sealed within a “cruse” (pach, in the Hebrew)—an earthen jug.[14] The laws of ritual purity distinguish between earthenware and vessels made of other materials. On the one hand, the law regarding the earthen vessels is more stringent: once an earthen vessel is contaminated, it only becomes pure when it is broken (i.e., it loses its original form and is remade anew), while wooden and metal vessels can be purified through immersion in a mikvah.[15] On the other hand, an earthen vessel becomes impure only when the source of impurity enters into it, while other vessels are contaminated also through contact with their outside surface.[16] So if the oil had been found in a wooden or metal container, its being “sealed with the seal of the Kohen Gadol” would not have sufficed, since this could not ensure that pagan hands had not touched it on the outside, contaminating the vessel and its contents. Because it was in an earthen jug, the fact that it was sealed guaranteed that the oil it contained was pure and fit to light the menorah.[17]

Man as Vessel

The halachic definition of an earthen vessel (keli cheres) is a container or tool fashioned of earth (mud, clay, etc.) and hardened by fire.[18] Spiritually, the “earthen vessel” is one who possesses two key traits: humility (“earth,” as in “my soul should be as earth to all”[19]) and passion (“fire”).[20]

A fertile spiritual life is nourished by these two different, indeed antipodal, qualities. It is fashioned of humility—permeated with a recognition of the inferiority of mortal man and an utter submission to the divine authority. But this is no listless clod, loyal and pious but devoid of initiative and achievement; it is earth fired with passion, clay glowing with the desire to elevate itself and come close to G-d.

This synthesis of earth and fire makes for a vessel immune to contamination through its external surface: no superficial iniquity can corrupt this soul. Because he is humble, he is unsusceptible to the banalities of ego and materialism; because he is driven by a love of G-d, he escapes the snares of indolence and inertia.

However, the earthen vessel remains vulnerable to contamination from within; indeed, he is more vulnerable to “internal” impurities than his less humble and less fervent fellows.[21] Precisely because he is humble, he is receptive to elevated ideals; precisely because he is aflame, he is readily inspired by lofty passions. So he must take great care not to fall prey to the impurities that infiltrate the mind and heart in the guise of spiritual and idealistic values, but which in truth stem from the pagan usurper of the sanctuary of G-d.

He must therefore secure himself with “the seal of the Kohen Gadol”—with the unequivocal commitment to G-d that stems from the innermost core of his soul and resists every foreign influence. Thus he will safeguard his luminescent potential as oil fit to light the menorah, to disseminate the divine light to the world.

Based on an entry in the Rebbe’s journal dated “Chanukah 5696” (1935)[22]

The Lamplighter

It's the first night of Chanukah, and a single flame is glowing the night away at the right-hand end of the menorah.

One flame? Aren't there two?

Two? Oh, you mean the shamash. He doesn't count.

Night after night, the shamash dutifully goes about his task of lighting lights. Each evening, he welcomes the newcomer and settles him in his rightful place in the growing row: two flames, three flames, four flames... The shamash coaxes them to life and then stands watch over them, lest one falter and require a fresh boost of light.

Still the shamash doesn't count. An imparter of light to others, he never attains the station of a Chanukah light in his own right.

Despite this--indeed, because of this--the shamash towers above all the other lights of the menorah. To forgo one's own luminary potential in order to awaken a flame in others--there is no greater virtue.

Based on an address by the Rebbe

Adapted from the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

Chanukah
by Mendy Herson

Problems come in different shapes and sizes. Challenges vary from one place and time to another. When we celebrate the Chanukah victory, we are rejoicing at the triumph over an unusual enemy, an adversary that is at once historically atypical yet disturbingly familiar.

The sources describing the Chanukah story indicate that the Syrian-Greek oppressors weren’t blanketly anti-Semitic. When the ancient Greeks conquered geographical areas, they were generally careful not to destroy the indigenous cultures. They just wanted the vanquished ethnic groups to meld into the larger mosaic of the Greek Empire. Their handling of the Jews wasn’t really an exception.

The Greeks had no intrinsic problem with the Jews’ adherence to most Jewish civilization and practices. They found this respect for tradition and history a praiseworthy trait. What stuck in their throats was our “obsession” with G-d and the super-rational. Compassion for one’s fellow human? Beautiful. Family gatherings to celebrate ethnic pride? Splendid idea. But why must we keep bringing G-d into the mix? The Greeks knew something about Judaism that many American Jews haven’t noticed.

The word “mitzvah” doesn’t mean “good deed,” as it’s often colloquially used; no etymologist could ever make that mistake. The word means “commandment.” A commandment presupposes a Commander, in this case--G-d. So, when I teach my child that “it’s a mitzvah” to provide for the needy, I’m saying a lot more than “it’s a nice thing to do”; I am telling my youngster that G-d has told us to donate to charity. There’s a big difference. Religion is defined as adopting a way of life in deference to a Supreme Being. It’s losing our own selfish desires in favor of G-d’s Will. That may grate against the common “I’ll do whatever I want” psyche, but--like it or not--that’s what religion is.

Doing  good things because we find them meaningful and beautiful isn’t what a Jewish life is all about. Conducting ourselves properly because we’re trying to get to heaven is also missing the point. These are both self-centered attitudes. If I help a poor person because it gives me a good feeling, because it makes my life feel meaningful, what should I do in the case where I feel nothing for the need, where I won’t feel good through giving? Should I refrain from helping? Absolutely not--not by Jewish thought.

If I choose not to steal solely because I feel it’s wrong, what happens when I think I can rationalize it, when it seems “appropriate”? If I don’t take someone else’s property because I don’t think I should--I’m the sole arbiter--then I will steal when I think it’s justified--except if there’s fear of getting caught. If I refrain because G-d told me to, then it’s a different story. If I think this case is an exception, then I still need G-d’s approval (good luck with that one). The primary thing, however, is that the good be performed, even if it’s for selfish reasons. But let’s not mistake the tolerable for the ideal.

That’s what the Greeks were after. They idolized beauty and intellect, and they wanted the Jews to operate on that level. They pressured the Jews to retain what they considered palpably beautiful and intellectually stimulating. And Judaism has plenty of the above.

But they had no need for human surrender before G-d, for mitzvos which have no given reason--and there are those in the Torah. They had no use for a supra-natural Presence. They focused exclusively on the pleasurable, the sensual, the creature-comforting, the hedonistic.

We allude to this in the Chanukah prayer inserted into our Amidah--the v’Al Hanissim. There, we refer to “the wicked Hellenic government who rose up against Your people Israel to make them forget Your Torah and violate the decrees of Your will.” What they were out to eradicate from society was the idea of Your Torah and Your will.

Everybody knows that we celebrate our freedom of religion on Chanukah. The Supreme Court has even declared the menorah a universal symbol of that freedom. But what kind of freedom did we really fight for?

This Chanukah, look past the glitz of Chanukah gifts and parties. Enjoy yourself, but remember what we battled for, and give G-d some thought.