In Pursuit of the Divine

ESSAY: In Pursuit of the Divine
Seeking G-d where He can be found

INSIGHTS: Inflation
A month after he has been unequivocally banished from our homes, a most unexpected guest is made welcome at the seder table

A TELLING STORY: Making it Count
The most important hour of a shopkeeper’s day is when he counts the day’s receipts

In Pursuit of the Divine
by Ari Sollish

And G-d spoke to Moses at Mount Sinai, saying: speak to the children of Israel and tell them... for six years you may plant your fields, prune your vineyards and harvest your crops. But the seventh year is a year of resting for the land... you may not plant your fields nor prune your vineyards.

Leviticus 25:1- 4

Why is the commandment of shemittah [the law to rest the land every seven years] associated specifically with Mount Sinai; were not all of the commandments given at Mount Sinai? Rather the Torah is telling us that just as shemittah was taught at Mount Sinai both in a general manner and in specific detail, so too all of the mitzvot were taught at Mount Sinai both in a general manner and in specific detail.

Rashi on verse

We live in a time of unprecedented material prosperity and technological advancement. The benefits of these technologies affect every aspect of our lives, from education to entertainment, from business to health. As the computer/technology revolution propels us on a journey towards material and physical contentment, we may ask whether these advancements can in any way be integrated with spiritual growth. Many philosophies contend that spirituality is an ethereal, transcendental state, unencumbered by physicality and corporeality. Judaism however has a different perspective:

Twice daily we affirm G-d’s unity by proclaiming, “Hear, O Israel, the L-rd is our G-d, the Lord is One.”[1] In reality, the meaning of G-d’s unity is not only that there are no other forces or powers existent in creation, but even more so, that there is nothing else which exists besides for Him, including creation itself.[2] Just as images conjured up in a person’s mind have no real existence of their own outside his mind and are all composed of the same substance called “thought,” the same is true regarding G-d and His creation: the totality of creation is merely the physical manifestation of Divine energy, which is the true and only “substance” in existence.

So although the world appears to be a viable reality, distinct from G-dliness, the very opposite in fact is true: the only reality is the Divine reality, of which the world is merely a projection. Just as G-d is utterly quintessential, having no beginning or end, creation similarly feels itself as a quintessential existence, without beginning or end. The reason why the world feels itself as a self-sustaining entity is that it in fact is nothing other than G-dliness.[3]

This then is the true meaning of the verse, “I am G-d; I have not changed.”[4] Many great philosophers have concluded, based on this statement, that after creating the world G-d promptly gave over its control to other forces.[5] It is impossible to say, they maintain, that G-d remains intimately involved with creation and yet is not affected by it. The mere notion that the Supreme Being, the Ultimate Truth, could even be associated with such a lowly, fragmented world evokes cries of protest. Accordingly, you can forget about miracles, Divine Providence, or anything of the sort.

In light of the above explanation, however, a completely different picture emerges. The reason why G-d is not affected by creation is not that He is completely detached from it; on the contrary, the fact that He and His creation are one is what makes it possible. Therefore, the meaning of G-d’s proclamation is: just as there existed only G-d before creation, the same holds true even after creation —there is still only one existence, that of G-d, for He is the very definition of existence, indeed, the substance of creation. Thus, nature itself is Divine; the very physicality of earth,
G-dly. 

These two perspectives differ not only ideologically, but practically as well.

How is one to attain spirituality? According to the philosophers, one must transcend the limitations of this world, essentially cutting oneself off from materiality to reach a sublime state conducive to spirituality. As long as one remains trapped within the confines of this world, they say, he will never truly experience spiritual fulfillment, for G-d is effectively “locked out” of His own creation.

Judaism teaches, however, that spirituality is realized not through leaving the natural order, but rather by peeling away the external layers of obscurity to reveal the Divinity inherent in creation, the G-dliness that is manifest expressly in this world. So while others believe that G-d and the world are contradictory and that the natural must be shunned to reach Divinity, we believe that G-d is not limited to the realm of the spirit, and is found in His creation as much as in the cosmos.

And this is the purpose of our existence, the why and wherefore of creation. “G-d desired to have an abode in the lower realms,”[6] our sages explain. Our mission is not to create something that does not exist, rather to reveal the G-dliness that is already embedded within creation, to prove that there in fact is no dichotomy between spirit and matter, the infinite and the finite.

That is also why the mitzvot are primarily physical acts performed with physical objects, for it is only then that we are able to reveal how divinity exists within even the most mundane and material aspects of creation, which is the objective of our being.

Based on the above explanation we can better understand the statement of Rashi quoted at the beginning of this essay. Why did the Torah choose the mitzvah of shemittah, the obligation to refrain from all land-related work every seven years, as the basis of derivation that all of the mitzvot were taught at Mount Sinai both in a general manner and in specific detail? The Torah should have used a more “fundamental” mitzvah, such as giving charity or observing the Sabbath.

But in fact, it is specifically shemittah that expresses the whole purpose of the mitzvot. During the shemittah year, one was not permitted to work the land in any fashion. This expressed one’s complete faith and unwavering devotion to G-d, to trust that He would provide the necessary sustenance in an entirely supernatural way. Yet, in all other aspects, the seventh year was an ordinary one, for other forms of work could be performed; only the work pertaining to the land was prohibited.

This then epitomizes the concept of the mitzvot: to reveal the supernatural within the natural, the Divinity within the mundane, the spirit within the matter. This is why the mitzvah of shemittah is the source from which derive all of the other mitzvot, for it conceptualizes the purpose of mitzvot, and ultimately, the purpose of creation.[7] So the next time you have the opportunity to do a mitzvah, don’t pass up the chance, dismissing it as a trivial, meaningless act. Know that the whole journey, indeed, the single mission that unites all of mankind and the entire passage of history, is depending on it.

Based on addresses of the Rebbe given Shabbat Parshat Behar 5718 (1958) and on various other occasions[8]

Inflation
by Yanki Tauber

What are the differences between the First Passover and the Second Passover? On the First Passover, [leaven] is forbidden to be seen or to be found [in one’s possession]; on the Second Passover, leaven and matzah coexist in one’s home...

Talmud, Pesachim 95a

A mitzvah is a commandment—G-d instructing man what He desires for man to do or not do. Understandably, then, virtually all of the Torah’s 613 mitzvot are unilateral declarations of divine will: one does not see many “proposals” for mitzvot being presented to G-d, or “negotiations” between the supreme legislator and His earthly constituents.

One of the rare exceptions[9] to this norm is the mitzvah of Pesach Sheini, the “Second Passover.” The First Passover, as we all know, commences on the evening following the 14th of Nissan, the night that the Jewish people were liberated from Egypt. The Second Passover comes one month later, on the 14th of Iyar, and was instituted as a result of a petition by several individuals who were unable to participate in the First Passover.

At the heart of Passover is the korban pesach (the “paschal lamb”), which was offered in the Holy Temple on the afternoon of the 14th of Nissan—indeed, all other observances of the festival (the eating of matzah and maror, the prohibition against leaven), as well as the festival’s very name, are related to the Passover offering. The laws of korban pesach mandate that only those who are in a state of taharah (ritual purity) may offer and partake of it. One year after the Exodus, as the Jewish people were preparing to celebrate their first Passover outside Egypt, a group of Jews approached Moses. They explained that they were ritually impure because they had come in contact with a corpse; the law would therefore preclude their bringing a korban pesach. But they refused to reconcile themselves to this. “Why should we be deprived?!” they cried; why should we be excluded from observing the festival of redemption, as will the entire community of Israel? G-d responded by instituting a second Passover especially for those who, for whatever reason, were prevented from offering the korban pesach in its appointed time.[10]

Those who offer the korban pesach on the 14th of Iyar follow the same basic procedure as those who brought it one month earlier, on the First Passover. There are, however, several legal and procedural distinctions between the two Passovers, the most important of which concerns the prohibition against leaven. On the First Passover, leaven is strictly forbidden from noon of the 14th of Nissan (the earliest time at which the korban pesach can be brought) until the conclusion of the festival; throughout this period, no leaven may be eaten, used in any way, or even be present in one’s domain. On the Second Passover, however, this prohibition does not apply. While the korban pesach is to be eaten with matzah, the unleavened bread, there is no mandated exclusion of leaven; in the words of the Talmud, “leaven and matzah coexist in one’s home.”

Leaven is dough that has “risen”—flour and water that have come in contact and have been allowed to ferment, with the effect that the mixture has bloated and exaggerated its mass. Leaven is thus the symbol of egotism and pride—a “leavened” soul is one in whom the ferment of self-importance has caused him to lose sight of his true place in G-d’s world, with the result that he recognizes only his bloated self and its inflated wants.

This explains why the prohibition against leaven on Passover is so severe and uncompromising: in no other instance does the Torah not only forbid the consumption of, or derivation of benefit from, even the smallest quantity of a substance, but also its very existence in our possession. But egotism and pride is not just another undesirable trait—it is the source of all evil in the heart of man. Every sin and vice originates in an assertion of ego—with the sense that the self is supreme and that its needs and desires take precedence to all else. Thus, in his Laws of Human Character,[11] Maimonides advises that in all traits a person should pursue the “Golden Mean,”[12] with a single exception: pride. Pride must be vanquished utterly.

This is not to say that there is nothing positive in the stimulation of ego. Indeed, no phenomenon in G-d’s world is intrinsically negative, for all derives from Him, and He is the essence of good.[13] But while we have been empowered to exploit many ostensibly “negative” traits toward a productive and G-dly end, there also exist forces that are so potent, and whose potential for corruption is so devastating, that we must renounce them as beyond our capacity to deal with. One such element is pride: we must reject it unequivocally, as any attempt to make positive use of it is bound to fail and be counterproductive.

There are times, however, when the positive core of a most negative phenomenon rises to the surface, when its G-dly essence asserts itself over all iniquitous expressions and corrupting possibilities. Such was the case with the group of individuals who approached Moses in the desert: their “me” instinct asserted itself not in the form of a desire for dominance or corporeal gratification, but in a soul-searing desire to serve their Creator. The cry “Why should we be deprived?!” expressed not a need to have and be, but a yen to give and serve, to recognize and submit to the divine grantor of their freedom. In their petition, the ferment and “leavening” of their selves was not the antithesis of humble and self-effacing matzah, but rather its complement. Leaven and matzah coexisted in their souls, ego giving rise to commitment, self-realization giving rise to an affirmation of man’s indebtedness to
G-d.

On the “Second Passover,” the festival that came into being out of their “selfish” cry, there is no need to banish leaven from our homes. For when the self thus asserts itself, it is a welcome participant in our celebration of the freedom we achieved at the Exodus—the freedom to be G-d’s people.

Based on the Rebbe’s talks on various occasions [14]

You shall count for yourselves, from the morrow of the Shabbat, from the day on which you bring the raised omer—seven complete weeks shall there be. Until the morrow of the seventh week, you shall count fifty days

Leviticus 23:15-16

One of the Chassidic masters explained the significance of Sefirat HaOmer—the daily counting of the days and weeks from Passover to Shavuot commanded by the Torah—with the following parable:

A person finds a chest full of gold coins, takes it home, and then proceeds to count them. His counting has no effect on the actual number of coins in his possession: he now has no more and no less than he had before he counted them. But counting them makes them real to him; he can now digest the significance of his find and deliberate how to make use of it.

On the first day of Passover, we were granted the entire “treasure chest.” The moment of the Exodus—the moment of our birth as a people—encapsulated within it our entire history. Then, on the following day, began the count: the process of examining our gifts, quantifying and itemizing them, translating them into the resources of our daily lives.