Mixed Feelings

ESSAY: Mixed Feelings
Spiritual adventure or prison of the soul? Galut is both. Indeed, it can only be one when it is also the other

INSIGHTS: The Mysterious Sin
Still a mystery after two thousand years

A TELLING STORY: The Oath
The story of an honest man loath to swear to the truth

And Israel settled in the land of Egypt, in the country of Goshen; and they took hold of it, and grew and multiplied very much.

Genesis 47:27

Thus the Torah describes the beginnings of the first galut (exile) of the Jewish people, as Jacob and his seventy children and grandchildren relocated from the Holy Land and settled in the land of Egypt.

On the face of it, it was quite an agreeable beginning. One of their own, Joseph, was the de facto ruler of Egypt. Goshen, the choicest bit of Egyptian real estate, was theirs to settle. Settle it they did, finding it fertile soil for their individual and communal growth, in both the material and the spiritual sense.[1]

But the Hebrew word vayei’achazu in the above-quoted verse, which we have translated “and they took hold of it,” also translates as, “and they were held by it.” Both interpretations are cited by our sages: Rashi translates vayei’achazu as related to the word achuzah, “land holding” and “homestead”; the Midrash interprets it to imply that, “The land held them and grasped them ... like a man who is forcefully held.”[2]

A similar paradox describes Jacob’s feelings toward his new home. On the one hand, Jacob’s seventeen years in Egypt are considered to have been the best years of his life.[3] One the other hand, the Haggadah states that Jacob descended to Egypt “forced by the divine command.”

The Haggadah’s statement seems inconsistent with our sages’ depiction of Jacob as a merkavah (“chariot” or “vehicle”) of the divine will, whose “every limb was totally removed from physical concerns and served only as a vehicle to carry out G-d’s will every moment of his life.”[4] Would a merkavah feel “forced” to fulfill a divine command?

In truth, however, it was because Jacob was so absolutely attuned to the divine will that he felt forced into his exile in Egypt. For this is what G-d desires of us: that we should be fully invested in the endeavor to develop our galut environment, and at the same time experience a perpetual longing to escape it.

This duality defines our attitude toward galut. On the one hand, we know that no matter how hospitable our host-country may be, and no matter how we may flourish, materially and spiritually, on foreign soil, galut is a prison. We know that galut dims our spiritual vision, hinders our national mission, and compromises our connection with G-d. For only as a nation dwelling on our land with the Holy Temple as the divine abode in our midst can we perceive the divine presence in the world, fully realize our role as “a light unto the nations,”[5] and fully implement all the mitzvot of the Torah—the lifeblood of our relationship with G-d.

But we also know that we are in galut for a purpose. We know that we have been dispersed throughout the world in order to reach and influence the whole of humanity. We know that it is only through the wanderings and tribulations of galut that we access and redeem the “sparks of holiness”—those pinpoints of divine potential which lie scattered in the most forsaken corners of the globe.[6]

So galut is an achuzah in both senses of the word: a homestead to develop and a prison we must perpetually seek to escape. Indeed, it can only be the one if it is also the other. If we relate to galut solely as a prison, we will fail to properly utilize the tremendous opportunities it holds. But if we grow comfortable in this alien environment, we risk becoming part of it; and if we become part of the galut reality, G-d forbid, we could no more succeed in our efforts to develop and elevate it than the person who tries to lift himself up by pulling upwards on the top of his own head.

So when Jacob led the seventy members of his household—the seventy seedlings from which the Jewish nation was to grow—into Israel’s first exile, he did so as one “forced by the divine command.” As a divine “chariot,” Jacob had no will, desire or striving save the will of G-d. But Jacob knew that actually wanting to go to Egypt would undermine the very purpose of his mission there.

Jacob knew that the secret of Israel’s survival in exile is the refusal to become reconciled with it, the refusal to accept it as a state that is normal or acceptable—much less desirable—to the Jew. He knew that only he who remains an unwilling stranger to galut will succeed in mastering it as his “homestead” and exact from it a bountiful spiritual harvest.

Therein lies the deeper significance of Rashi’s commentary on Genesis 46:3-4, where the Torah recounts how G-d appeared to Jacob on his way to Egypt and said to him: “Fear not to go down to Egypt, for there I will make of you a great nation; I Myself will descend with you to Egypt, and I Myself will bring you up again.” Citing the words, “Fear not to go down to Egypt,” Rashi adds, “Because he was pained over the necessity to leave the [Holy] Land.”

On their most basic level of meaning, Rashi’s words come to explain the cause of Jacob’s fears and of his need for divine assurance. On a deeper level, Rashi is telling us why this fear was indeed not justified. G-d assured Jacob that he need not fear to go down to Egypt “because he was pained over the necessity to leave the [Holy] Land.” Because Jacob experienced pain over the need to leave the holy environment of the Land of Israel—because he would never feel at home on alien soil—this itself was the greatest guarantee that he and his descendants would survive the Egyptian exile and emerge triumphant from the challenges of galut.

Based on the Rebbe’s talks on Shabbat Vayigash 5725 (December 12, 1964) and on other occasions[7]

When the prophet Jeremiah prophesied that the sins of Israel would bring about the destruction of the Holy Temple and their exile to Babylonia, he also predicted the duration of their punishment: “So said G-d: After seventy years in Babylonia, I shall remember you. I shall fulfill My good word to you, to bring you back to this place.”[8] But when the Second Temple was destroyed 420 years after their return from Babylonia, and the Jewish people were again driven from their land, no pre-set limit was given for their exile.

The Talmud offers the following explanation: “The first exiles, whose sins were known (for we read how the prophets rebuked them for idolatry, promiscuity and bloodshed), the limit of their exile was also known; the latter exiles, whose sin is not known, the limit of their exile is also unknown.”[9]

But on that very same page, the Talmud tells us that the Second Temple was destroyed because of “baseless hatred” between Jews. Why, then, are we told that their sin is unknown?

Said the Chassidic master, Rabbi Velvel of Zbaricz: Such is the nature of “baseless hatred.” Each side sees itself wholly in the right. It is the other who is the sinner, the other whose inflexibility is the cause of the dispute. So the strife and animosity go on without end, for one cannot rectify a situation for which there is no guilty party, and one cannot repent of a sin whose origin remains an utter mystery...

In one of the narrow lanes of the Jerusalem neighborhood of “Beth Israel” stands a large, handsomely built synagogue. For a hundred years, a marble plaque affixed to its north wall has borne the legend:

“For everlasting remembrance in the House of G-d. This synagogue has been erected by the generosity of a donor, whose name shall remain hidden and concealed, who contributed the sum of 110 napoleons of gold.”

For many years, it was presumed that the funds were provided by one of the wealthy citizens of Jerusalem who wished, through anonymity, to preserve his good deed from the taint of pride. Few knew the true identity of the donor and the story behind his donation.

Rabbi Shlomo Zalman Porush was a man of modest means, though large sums of money passed through his hands. He was the secretary of one of the “kollel” societies which supported the poor Jews of Jerusalem with funds collected for that purpose throughout the Diaspora. Rabbi Shlomo was responsible for the sustenance of several hundred families whose support had been pledged by the Jewish community of Minsk and its environs in White Russia.

One year, as Passover approached, the arrival of funds was delayed. Rabbi Shlomo knew that the money would be forthcoming, but in the meantime, the families for whom he was responsible had to be provided with matzot, wine and other festival needs. He therefore turned to a neighbor of his, Reb Faivish Stoller, a carpenter who worked hard all his life and had managed to put aside a considerable sum. Faivish agreed to loan him his life-savings—200 napoleons of gold—until he could be repaid with the money arriving shortly from abroad.

Soon after Passover, the long-awaited messenger arrived from Minsk. The purse he brought contained only 110 napoleons, but an accompanying letter promised that the remainder was on the way. Rabbi Shlomo lost no time in bringing the money to his neighbor.

Several weeks later, the rest of the money arrived. But when Rabbi Shlomo brought the 90 gold coins to Reb Faivish, a most unpleasant surprise awaited him. The elderly carpenter, whose memory had begun to fail him, had lost all recollection of the first payment and was adamant in his insistence that he had received nothing of the 200 napoleons owed.

No written contract recorded the loan or the payment, for the two men had had absolute trust in each other. Now they had no recourse but to present their case before the bet-din (rabbinical court) of the venerated chief rabbi of Jerusalem, Rabbi Shmuel Salant.

From a halachic standpoint, this was a textbook case: the borrower admits the loan, but claims that a partial payment has been made, which the lender denies. This is a classic example of modeh b’miktzat (“one who partially admits” an otherwise insupportable claim); in such a case, the burden of proof rests with the lender, but the borrower must take a “biblical oath” in affirmation of his argument.

Upon hearing the verdict of the bet-din, Rabbi Shlomo turned pale. Never in his life did he imagine that he would be required to take an oath in court, never mind a “biblical oath” performed upon a Torah scroll! He begged to be given several days to think over the matter.

When the bet-din reconvened, Rabbi Shlomo announced that he was prepared to pay the disputed 110 napoleons out of his own pocket rather than take an oath. He only asked that he be given a few weeks to raise the money. Faivish Stoller agreed, and it appeared that the matter had been settled. But Rabbi Shmuel Salant would not allow this arrangement. “I’m sorry,” he said to Rabbi Shlomo, “but this is not a private matter that can be settled between the litigants. It involves communal funds. As one who is entrusted with charity moneys, your honesty must be beyond reproach. Unless it is decisively established that the money was paid as you claim, people will talk. I therefore insist that you take the oath.”

Again Rabbi Shlomo requested, and was granted, a short respite. For three days he fasted, wept and recited psalms. On the fourth day he came before the bet-din and swore that he had paid 110 napoleons to Faivish Stoller.

Shortly thereafter, Rabbi Shlomo put up his modest home for sale. To his family he explained that he had intended to sell the house in order to avoid taking the oath, and now he did not want to benefit from money he had “saved” by swearing on a Torah scroll. To the proceeds of the sale he added almost all of his savings to make the sum of 110 napoleons, which he presented to a committee that was raising money to build a new synagogue. His only stipulation was that no mention be made of the source of the money.

Several months later, Faivish Stoller appeared in the small apartment to which Rabbi Shlomo had moved after the sale of his home. Without a word, he placed on Rabbi Shlomo’s table a purse containing 110 napoleons of gold, which he had uncovered in a drawer in his workshop.