The Times of Our Lives

ESSAY: The Times of Our Lives
A new future is often associated with a break from the past. But there are junctures in time where two time-essences overlap and the one blesses her very different sister

To the physicist it is the fourth dimension, to the mystic it is the first creation. To most of us, time is simply a faceless tyrant, an abstract force impelling us from a receding past through a fleeting present to an ever-elusive future.

But viewed from the perspective of Torah, the seemingly homogeneous plain of time is revealed as a complex, multi-faceted terrain. The hour, the day, the week, the month, the year, the millennium—these are not arbitrary grids imposed on time to make it more “manageable,” but demarcations intrinsic to its very nature, each defining an area of time with its own characteristics and qualities.

Thus the Torah tells us that the seven days of the week are embodiments of the seven divine attributes—love, severity, beauty, victory, splendor, foundation and sovereignty—which define G-d’s involvement with our reality, as established in the original seven days of creation.[1] We also learn that the twelve hours of the day and the twelve months of the year correspond to the twelve configurations of the divine name,[2] which serve as channels for various divine energies that vitalize our existence and shape our lives. The same applies to all time designations employed by the Torah: as G-d’s blueprint for creation,[3] the Torah does not merely delegate certain observances and experiences to certain times, but, in doing so, also describes the nature and structure of time as forged by the Creator.

The concept of the month as an embodiment of a certain characteristic or quality implies a unique perspective on the Jewish calendar.

The calendar is commonly regarded as an expanse of several hundred ordinary days “dotted” with festivals and dates of special import. In truth, however, the festivals are not islands of poignancy in a sea of vapid time, but expressions of the spiritual character of their respective months. The eight days of Passover represent an intensification of the quality of the month of Nissan, the month of redemption; Purim is a one-day eruption of the unbridled joy that characterizes the month of Adar; the awe of Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur and the joy and unity experienced on Sukkot are various elements in the “coronation” of G-d as king of the universe, which is the theme of the month of Tishrei; and so on.

In other words, the twelve months of the calendar are twelve time-qualities which flow into each other, each with its unique personality and character. The festivals are the peaks and plateaus of these time-qualities—points at which a particular month’s properties achieve a greater intensity and emphasis.

The last Shabbat of each month is Shabbat Mevarchim HaChodesh—the “Shabbat that blesses the month.” On this Shabbat, a special prayer is recited which names the coming month, identifies the day (or days) of its Rosh Chodesh,[4] and beseeches G-d to “renew it... for life and for peace, for gladness and for joy, for deliverance and for consolation.” [5] According to Chassidic teaching, the “blessing of the month” evokes the flow of sustenance and spiritual energy for the coming month.

Thus, the final days of each month form a juncture in the terrain of time in which two time-qualities overlap. For example, this Shabbat is the 29th of Av; as such, it is an integral part of the month of Av, a time-segment whose quality is mourning and consolation—mourning over the destruction of the Holy Temple and the breakdown in our relationship with G-d that this represents, and consolation in the potential for renewal that lies in every regression.[6] On the other hand, it is also the Shabbat that calls forth the qualities of the coming month of Elul—a month characterized by divine compassion and intimacy with G-d.[7]

The same is true of every Shabbat Mevarchim: rooted in one month and time-quality, it evokes the time-quality of the following month, stimulating the flow of spiritual energy that saturates the next of the twelve time-segments that comprise the calendar.

Therein lies a lesson in how we are to experience and utilize the various time periods of our lives.

Often, we reach a point in our lives at which we are inspired to “turn OVER a new leaf”: to reassess our past, and readjust, or even radically transform, our prior vision and approach to life. All too often, this is accompanied with a “break” from the past, a disavowal of all prior achievement; it is as if all we have done up to this point must be eradicated to give way to our “new” self.

But as the monthly Shabbat Mevarchim teaches us, different and even antithetical qualities of time form a chain in which each link is an outgrowth of its predecessor. Yes, a new year, month, week, day, hour or moment must always provoke us to a new understanding, a new feeling, a new achievement: the very fact that we have passed from one time-frame to another means that we must exploit the new potential implicit in this new environment. At the same time, however, we must appreciate how each new moment is “blessed” by the moment before, which nourishes and enriches its very different neighbor with its own qualities and achievements.

Based on the Rebbe’s talks on Sivan 28, 5735 (June 7, 1975) and on other occasions

G-d formed every beast of the field and every bird of the air, and brought them to the man to see what he would call them. And whatever the man called every living creature, that was its name.

Says the Midrash: “When G-d came to create man, He consulted with the angels.... Said they to Him: ‘This man, what is his worth?’ Said He to them: ‘His wisdom is greater than yours.’ G-d brought before them the beasts, the wild animals and the birds and asked them, ‘This, what is its name?’ and they did not know. He then brought them before man... and man said, ‘This is a shor (ox), this is a chamor (donkey), this is a sus (horse) and this is a gamal (camel)....’ [8]

Naming things seems easy enough. One selects a syllable or two, coins a word and attaches it to an object. If one wants to be scientific about it, one selects a distinctive feature or two, transfigures them into a Latin-sounding name of eight or ten syllables, and—presto!—one has a name. Why, then, is the ability to name names indicative of a wisdom greater than that of the angels? And why does the Creator consider this ability on the part of man as the one thing that most characterizes his worth as a human being?

The world was created by divine speech. G-d said, “Let there be light... oceans... trees... fish...” and these words came to constitute the essence of every created entity.

In other words, what we experience as physical light is not merely something that the divine words “Let there be light” caused to come into being; it is the very word light being continually articulated by the Creator as a verbal expression of the desire that it exist. The same is true of all other creations: a cow, a fish, a tree, a stone—these are all our physical perceptions of the divine words they embody.

[The “ten utterances,” which are quoted in the Torah’s account of creation, actually specify only the names of a few primary creations (light, water, land, etc.) and several general categories (stars, trees, fish, birds, etc.). But these elementary creations contain within themselves—on both the linguistic and physical levels—the myriad particulars of the created existence. Ultimately, every created thing has a name in the Holy Tongue, a name that, if not explicit in the “ten utterances” of the first chapter of Genesis, is nonetheless implicit therein, by the means of gematria or one of the several other systems of letter transfiguration of the Hebrew language.[9]]

Therein lies the difference between the Holy Tongue (lashon hakodesh) and other languages.

In all other languages, a word is assigned to an existing entity. If there was a reason why a particular word was originally married to a particular object, this is not a matter of great relevance. If the English word ox were to be chosen for that obstinate, silly-looking animal with the long ears, while the word donkey referred to the heavy-set fellow with the horns, this would not make a whit of difference. Language would still be performing its commonly assumed function: identifying objects by some agreed-upon arrangement of verbal sounds and letters.

But language, in its truest, “holy,” sense, is far more than that. In the Holy Tongue, a word precedes its subject, creates it, and constitutes its very being. It articulates the divine desire that it be, expressing its Creator’s perception of its qualities and function—of the end toward which He created it.[10]

So for Adam to call even a single creature by its original, quintessential name, he had to know it utterly. He had to possess the wisdom and insight to penetrate its external form and recognize the “holiness” within—the divine utility and purpose that lies at its heart.[11]

Every creature possesses the potential to articulate its Creator’s goodness and perfection. But it is man who actualizes this potential through his development and utilization of his fellow creations and his incorporation of them in his service of the Almighty. Only man has been imbued with the essentially divine quality of “free choice”; thus, only his actions have moral significance. All of creation can, therefore, realize its divine purpose only through him.[12]

This is the deeper significance of the Hebrew word vayikra, “and he called,” used by the Torah in describing Adam’s calling the name of every creature. As its English counterpart, the Hebrew word kara connotes both “calling” and “calling forth”; Adam’s calling of names was a demonstration of his ability to call forth and bring to light the “name” and essence of every created thing, by recognizing and developing its potential to serve him in his service of G-d.

When man harnesses the ox to the plow and uses the proceeds to perform a self-transcending act such as charity, prayer or Torah study, every element of creation that was involved in this act—the energy of the ox, the vegetative potential of the soil, the nourishing water and sunlight—achieves something it could never have on its own. It transcends the limits of its own external being and realizes the purpose for which it was created.

Based on the talks of the Rebbe, Simchat Torah 5731 (October 23, 1970) and Kislev, 5750 (December 23, 1989)

This is an excerpt from "Beyond the Letter of the Law" published by The Meaningful Life Center. To order contact wisdomreb@meaningfullife.com

One Friday afternoon, a man knocked on the door of Rabbi Yizchak Eizik, rabbi of Vitebsk. “Rabbi, I have a din-Torah (a matter of litigation),'' he said. “I request that you to hear my case and hand down a ruling.”

“The truth is,” said the rabbi, “that I'm quite busy now with the preparations for Shabbat. Perhaps you and your litigant can come after Shabbat, and I'll hear you both out.”

“I'm a melamed,” said the man, “who teaches children from morning to night. The only time I'm free is on Friday afternoons.”

“Very well,” said Rabbi Yizchak Eizik, “I'll hear your case now. But we must summon your litigant. It is forbidden for me to hear your arguments when he isn't present.”

“Okay,” said Rabbi Yizchak Eizik, after a long pause. “Have a seat, and I'll try your case.”

Said the melamed: “G-d has blessed me with a daughter, who has now reached marriageable age. But I have not a kopeck in my pocket---no money for clothes, wedding expenses, much less a dowry. My claim is that G-d is legally obligated to provide for my daughter's wedding.”

“The Torah states that ‘There are three partners to a person: his father, mother and G-d.’[13] Two of the partners are paupers, but the third partner is, by His own attestation, quite wealthy: does He not declare ‘Mine is silver, Mine is gold’[14]? It is therefore the duty of the rich partner to assume the expenditures of our joint endeavor.”

The Rabbi retreated to his study to check the relevant sources and ponder the case. After a while he emerged with his verdict. “The melamed is in the right,” he declared. “The Almighty is duty-bound, by Torah law, to provide for the young woman's marriage.”

When the melamed neared home, he saw a luxurious coach pulling driving away from his dilapidated hut. “You won't believe what just happened,” said his wife, the moment he came through the door. “Some nobleman was here with his wife. The lady has it in her mind that someone has given her the evil eye, and has heard that the melamed's wife knows the proper charms to ward it off. I did as she asked, and then the nobleman asked me how much they owe me. I decided to go for broke, and named the sum we need for dowry and wedding expenses. Without a word, he put the money on the table and went.”

[1]. As are the seven years of the shemittah cycle, the seven shemittot of the yovel cycle, and the seven millennia of history.

[2]. The Hebrew letters which spell the ineffable name of G-d, have twelve possible configurations.

[4]. Each month begins with either one or two days of Rosh Chodesh (“head of the month”; if the previous month had 30 days, then the 30th of the previous month and the first of the new month serve as the new month’s Rosh Chodesh).

[5]. It is also customary to announce the exact moment of the molad halevanah (“birth of the moon”) that marks the beginning of the coming month.

[6]. Thus the 9th of Av is both the day of the Temple’s destruction and the birthday of Moshiach (see Jerusalem Talmud, Berachot 2:4).

[7]. See the following article, A Haven in Time; see also The King in the Field, to be published In the Ki Tavo issue of WIR (vol. VIII, no. 54).

[10] The same is true of a person’s name: it forms the channel through which his soul radiates life into his body, doing much to define his nature and character. In the words of Elazar ben Pedat, “One’s name has an influence on one’s life” (Talmud, Berachot 7b). Our sages have therefore said that parents’ naming of their child is “a small prophecy.”

[11] The angels may have been able to know the essence of a creature from the perspective of the spiritual realm they occupy. But to relate to a fodder-chomping ox and discern the way in which its physical, animal qualities can be directed to serve the divine purpose in creation was beyond their spiritually defined (and confined) abilities.

[12] In the words of the Talmud (Kiddushin 82a): “The entire world was created to serve me, and I was created to serve my Creator.” Chassidic master Rabbi Mendel of Kotzk thus advised: “A person should always have two pockets in his garment: in one he should keep the verse, “I am but dust and ashes,” and in the other the Talmudic adage “For my sake was the world created.”