The Psalmist and the General

INSIGHTS
Heat and Cold
There’s one thing that’s worse than an unholy passion—no passion at all
Foot Ball
Move swiftly, and never underestimate the power of the lowliest of your limbs
Vacation or Holiday?
The secret lies in the word itself

Av and Elul, the eleventh and twelfth months of the Jewish year, are end to end in the calendar but worlds apart in character and temperament. In Av we grapple with the darkest moments of Jewish history.[1] Elul is also a somber month, but hers is a solemnity buoyed by joyous yearning. Elul is the month of divine mercy—the month in which the Almighty draws nearer to the soul of man and the soul of man is stimulated to teshuvah, return to her pristine essence and rapprochement with her
G-d.

The diverse characters of Av and Elul were forged in the genesis of Jewish history. In the first year following the Exodus, Moses ascended three times to the summit of Mount Sinai, each time for forty days. The first ascent (Sivan 7 to Tammuz 17), was to receive the Torah from G-d. Following Israel’s worship of the Golden Calf, Moses spent a second period of forty days (Tammuz 18 to Av 29), pleading with G-d to forgive His people. This second period is characterized by our sages as a time of divine anger and judgment. Finally, Moses spent a third period of forty days (Elul 1 to Tishrei 10) atop the mountain, during which time he secured G-d’s full forgiveness for Israel and received from G-d the “second tablets” to replace those which had been broken as a result of Israel’s sin. These were forty days of mercy and goodwill, culminating in Yom Kippur which was then established by G-d as a day of teshuvah for all time. Thus, the month of Av, which belongs to the second forty-day period, is a month of din—harshness and judgment—while Elul, which belongs to the third forty-day period, is the month of divine mercy (rachamim). [2]

The different modes of relationship embodied by Av and Elul are expressed not only in the events and observances of these months, but also in the lives of those who came to be identified with them. An example of this concerns two families who played a role in the re-establishment of Jewish life in the Holy Land in the fourth century BCE.

When the Jewish people returned to the Land of Israel, after seventy years of exile in Babylonia, to resettle the land and rebuild the Beit Hamikdash (Holy Temple), they faced many obstacles and hardships. The community was small and poor (most Jews chose to remain in exile) and threatened by many enemies. In contrast to the gold-gilded glory of the First Temple (built by King Solomon at the peak of Jewish power and prosperity), the Temple they built was made of simple stone and mortar. The Temple treasury could not even afford to pay for firewood for the altar.

Several families came forth to resolve this crisis. Each donated a large quantity of firewood; when the supply brought by one family was exhausted, another family brought its donation. In this way, eight families supplied wood for the first critical year of the Beit Hamikdash’s existence.

To reward their generosity, the prophets of the time instituted that the date of each family’s donation should be fixed in the Temple calendar. Each year, when a particular family’s day came along, the family was granted the privilege to again supply wood for the altar, even if the Temple coffers were full and its woodroom stocked with firewood. These donations were accompanied by a special ceremony and the day celebrated as a festival by the donating family.[3]

Two of the “Wood-Offering Days” are of special significance: the 20th of Av, on which a family called “Pachat-Moab,” from the tribe of Judah, brought wood to the Beit Hamikdash; and the 20th of Elul, which was the day of the “Adin” family, also from the tribe of Judah. The deadline for wood-cutting in the land of Israel is the fifteenth of Av, which marks the height of summer; after this date, the heat of day diminishes and the wood that is cut is more moist and prone to worming (it was forbidden to use worm-infested wood for the altar).[4] These two families brought wood to the Temple at a time when their own wood supply could no longer be replenished with wood of good quality; hence their gifts were held in special regard. This is why the Talmud singles out these two families and engages in a lengthy discussion regarding their genealogy.[5]

Who were “Pachat-Moab” and “Adin”? Our sages conclude that the Pachat-Moab family were descendants of Yoab ben Tzeruyah, the general of King David’s armies, while the Adin family traced its lineage to King David himself.[6]

Thus we can understand the connection between these two families and the dates they occupy in the Jewish calendar.

The paths that human life follows are many and varied. There are scholars and businessmen, musicians and farmers, teachers and laborers. On the most basic level, all vocations and callings fall into two general categories: those that are spiritual in nature and those that deal with the material world.

The existence of the man of spirit is a tranquil one. He deals with reality on the conceptual level, where battles are waged with ideas, pathways blazed with a prayer and mountains climbed with a song. He changes the face of society with his thoughts and yearnings; he rarefies the substance of material earth by stimulating the spiritual workings of the heavens. He has no obstacles, only aspirations; no enemies, only goals.

In contrast, the practitioner of material life must struggle against a resisting environment. He must fight the falsehood, greed and outright evil in his world; he must battle the corporeality in his own nature and the obstinacy of a physical reality that obscures its spiritual essence and divine purpose.[7]

These two prototypes of human life were personified by King David, whose life was devoted to studying Torah and composing psalms of praise to G-d,[8] and Yoab ben Tzeruyah, who led Israel’s armies in battle against their enemies. Thus, Yoab’s descendants affirmed their relationship with the Beit Hamikdash—the vector of man’s service of G-d—on the twentieth day of the harsh, trial-rife month of Av, while the descendants of David did so on the twentieth day of the merciful month of Elul.

The soldier in the battlefield of material life and the navigator of the tranquil realm of the spirit are equally crucial to the fulfillment of the divine purpose in creation. They are also interdependent: the soldier requires the guidance of the scholar, and the spiritualist’s work is ultimately realized only in the lives of those who take up the challenge of implementing it on the physical level. As the Talmud states: “Were it not for David, Yoab could not wage war. And were it not for Yoab, David could not devote himself to Torah.”[9]

Based on talks delivered by the Rebbe on the 20th of Av[10] in the years 5711 and 5729 (August 22, 1951 and August 4, 1969)[11]

The most solemn and sacred part of our daily prayers is the amidah (“standing” prayer), where the soul achieves the height of intimacy in its communion with its Creator. So sacrosanct is this prayer that the Talmud instructs: “Even if a king greets him, he should not respond; even if a snake is coiled around his heel, he should not interrupt.”[12]

However, the Talmud goes on to qualify this law by explaining that the “snake” in question is one whose venom is not life-threatening. Thus, if a scorpion, whose sting can be fatal, threatens a person while he is praying, he should interrupt his prayers.[13]

Like the human being it comes to instruct, the Torah consists of a “body”—a code of law that governs the physical life of man—as well as a “soul”—an inner dimension that addresses our spiritual selves. And every part of the Torah’s body has its counterpart in the Torah’s soul. Every law in the Talmud and Shulchan Aruch encapsulates within it a deeper significance, instructing the inner life of man in addition to his external behavior.

The same is true of the legal distinction between a “snake” and a “scorpion” as regards the interruption of prayer. Our sages tell us that a snake injects a person with a “burning” poison, while a scorpion’s poison is “cold.”[14] Translated into the terms of “the service of the heart” that is the inner essence of prayer,[15] there are two types of spiritual maladies that threaten the soul in its quest to come close to G-d. The first is a “burning poison”—the heat and passion of earthly desires. A second spiritual threat is the poison of “coldness”—the apathy which leaves a person indifferent to everything and anything, material and spiritual alike.

In Maimonides’ description of Abraham’s quest for truth and his recognition of the One G-d, we read that, initially, Abraham was “immersed amongst the foolish idol-worshippers of Ur Kasdim; his father, mother and the entire population—he amongst them—all worshipped idols.”[16] Asks Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi: why is it important that we know that the first Jew once worshipped idols? But it is precisely because Abraham worshipped idols, answers Rabbi Schneur Zalman, that he came to recognize the divine truth. Because he cared, because he passionately and devotedly served what he had been misleadingly taught to regard as worthy of worship, his sincere desire matured into a desire for G-d. Had he been indifferent to the idols of his native land, he would never have searched for and discovered the true G-d.

Thus the Talmud says: “Even if a snake is coiled around his heel, he should not interrupt.” Even if you feel threatened by a poisonous heat, keep on praying. Place yourself in G-d’s hands and beseech Him to guide you to the truth. If your intentions are pure, your profane heat will be transformed into a holy fire.

On the other hand, if a person is threatened by the frigid poison of a scorpion, he must interrupt his prayers. When a person is faced with the icy sting of indifference—even if it is only his “heel” (i.e., a lowly and marginal part of the self) that is threatened—he must conduct a full re-assessment and re-orientation of his spiritual life. Nothing positive and holy can ever spring forth from coldness.

“From everything that one sees or hears about,” taught Rabbi Israel Baal Shem Tov, “one should derive a lesson in the service of the Creator.”

Perhaps the most popular sport on earth today is the game of soccer, or “football” (as it is called outside of the United States). As is the case with every phenomenon in G-d’s world, this game can serve as a model and metaphor for our mission in life.

The objective of the game is to move a ball into a “goal” or “gate.” This would be fairly easy to achieve were it not for the fact that facing the players is an opposing team which will do everything in its power to prevent them from scoring a “goal.” But then again, if there were no opposing team, the full extent of the players’ skill and power would never be actualized. For such is the nature of man: our most potent potentials are awakened only by challenge and adversity.

The ball can be maneuvered with various parts of the player’s body, but the game is played primarily with the feet. The game requires much skill, but no less important is the player’s speed—much depends on whether a player can outrun his opponent and move more quickly than he.

The earth is a sphere—a fact noted nearly two thousand years ago by the Jerusalem Talmud.[18] The objective of life is to move this “ball” into the shaar haMelech—the “gate of the King.”[19] By fulfilling the mitzvot of the Torah, we move the world toward the goal of its creation.

At our every step, we are challenged by a formidable “opposing team,” composed of our own negative traits and habits and a host of external foes, who obstruct our advance toward the goal and seek to move the ball in the opposite direction. But it is the perpetual presence of this opposition that provokes our deepest potentials and maximizes our achievements.

The two key factors in achieving victory are speed and use of the feet. The most skillful player will be quite ineffective if his movements are slow, plodding, and unenthusiastic. Similarly, a person’s life must be animated with alacrity and joy in order that his deeds should translate into scored goals and a true impact upon his world.

The other important lesson is never to underestimate the power of the feet. To advance the ball towards its goal, we make use of the full array of our faculties, from “head” to “foot”—our minds, our capacity for feeling, our talents and our physical energy. But our most important faculty is the “feet,” which represents our capacity for action and “mindless” obedience. Although it constitutes the “lowest” and least sophisticated of our faculties, it is our unequivocal commitment to the divine will and the physical action of the mitzvot that has the greatest impact upon our world and is the most powerful force for its advancement and ultimate realization.

The Rebbe once commented that in America we go on “vacation,” however in England and the Commonwealth it is called a “holiday”

Taking off
The etymological roots of the word “vacation” are from the Middle English vacacioun, and from Latin vactivactin – meaning freedom from occupation. The word ‘vacation’ also relates to vactus meaning to be empty or at leisure, escaping life's responsibilities. After one gets burnt-out from the hectic work-week one goes away to an isle of paradise removed entirely from regular life. Being disconnected from reality while on vacation can get so tiresome and empty that one needs a vacation from vacation!

Refresh
By contrast, ‘holiday’ means making each day holy. You can take vacation all right and have lots of fun, but the focus and intention is to refreshing yourself so that when you come back you are filled with new vigor and stamina. Then even the mundane regular activities will be filled with spirit and joy.

[1]. Including the tragedy of the Spies (Numbers 13-14), the destruction of both the First and Second Temples and the respective expulsions of Israel from their land, and the defeat of the Bar Kochba revolt. More recently, the month of Av has been the scene of the expulsion from Spain in 1492 and the onset of the Holocaust in 1939.

[6]. The Talmud cites several opinions on the matter, but the above conclusion is the one that best coincides with biblical and midrashic accounts (see Nehemiah 7:11 and Rashi on II Samuel 23:8).

[8]. In recent centuries, many artists, historical novelists and filmmakers have created an image of David as a warrior king. But the accounts of his life and deeds given by the Torah, Midrash, Talmud and their commentaries yields an entirely different picture. King David was the leading Torah scholar of his generation and a link in the “chain of tradition” that transmitted the entire body of Torah law from Moses onward; he headed the sanhedrin and thus was the highest judicial authority in Israel; he was the “sweet singer of Israel,” the composer of the book of Psalms who rose nightly at the stroke of midnight to sing G-d’s praises until dawn. Though he participated in several wars against Israel’s enemies (indeed, one of the reasons that David could not build the Beit Hamikdash was because, as G-d said to David, “You are a man of war and have spilled blood”—I Chronicles 28:3), in most cases, it was Yoab who led the troops in battle while David remained with his scrolls and harp.