Peace

INSIGHTS:
Peace
The master plan
The Third Crown
The one that G-d kept for Himself

In the third month from the children of Israel’s exodus from the land of Egypt ... they arrived in the Sinai desert

The number “three” figures prominently in everything connected with the giving of the Torah. The Torah was given in Sivan, the third month of the Jewish year, on the third day of a specially ordained three-day period of preparation. It was given through Moses, the third child of Amram and Jochebed, to the children of Israel, who were divided by G-d into three classes (Kohanim, Levites and Israelites). And the Torah itself consists of three parts: Torah (the “Pentateuch”), the Prophets, and the Scriptures. In the writings of Kabbalah, the Torah is identified with the sefirah (divine attribute) of tiferet (“harmony”), the third of the seven supernal sefirot.

A “scholar from the Galilee” quoted in the Talmud expressed it thus: “Blessed be the Merciful One, who gave a threefold Torah to a threefold people through a third one on a third day in the third month.”[1]

Chassidic teaching explains that Torah embodies the very essence of the number three, for “the Torah was given to make peace in the world,”[2] and three is the number of peace.

The number “one” implies a monopolizing individuality. Where “one” dominates, there cannot be peace, for “one” insists on the absoluteness and exclusivity of its being, to the negation of all else. Where “one” dominates, everything else (if there is anything else) must surrender its identity before its all-nullifying singularity. True, there is no conflict, for there is only one; but neither is there peace, which is the harmonious integration of two (or more) distinctive elements.

“Two” represents diversity. As the number implies, we are dealing with two parallel entities. One may be superior to the other, yet they are equal if only in that each is a distinct existence. Twoness is often the cause of conflict, but even when it is not, it still precludes true peace. As long as each entity retains its separateness and distinction, the most they can achieve is a non-combative coexistence. Dichotomized by their respective individualities, they cannot merge into a synthesized whole.

So what is peace? If it is neither “one” nor “two,” neither the affirmation of difference nor its surrender, what is it? Indeed, peace is a paradox—a paradox expressed by the number “three.”

Peace is when two distinct entities find common ground in a third reality that transcends the differences between them. A third element which embraces them both to orient them towards a higher goal. A third element within whose broader context the unique and even opposite features of each complement and fulfill the other. A third element which preserves their differences—and exploits them as the very ingredients of harmony.

The mind and the heart, for example, are two very different systems, with differing and conflicting approaches and priorities. The mind is cold, aloof and objective; the heart is heated, involved and gloriously subjective. Yet they both inhabit the same individual and serve as active forces in his life.

In a person who leads an uncompromisingly singular existence—let’s call him a “one” personality—either the mind or the heart will become the exclusive arbitrator in all areas of his life. Either the heart will yield to the mind and become a passionless void, or the mind will surrender its discriminating judgment to the heart’s biased affections.

In the case of a “two” personality, both mind and heart will each hold their ground, and the person will go through life torn between two perspectives on every issue that confronts him.

But then there is the individual in whom the mind remains a mind and the heart remains a heart, yet each is an integral part of a third and inclusive entity—the human being. Humanness does not negate intellect or feeling—it includes them both, and includes them in a way that combines the two (and numerous other faculties) into a cohesive approach to life.

In other words, when each of the two elements sees itself and its inclinations as a self-contained entity, there will never be true peace. But when each sees itself as part—a distinctive part, but a part nonetheless—of a greater whole, the result is the paradox of peace: the paradox of diversity and disparity as the harbingers of unity.

The world—a chaos of diversity and seeming randomness. Here and there we may discern patches of cohesiveness, observe communities and systems driven by a unanimity of purpose. But on the whole, the world seems a jumble of elements, forces, species, nations and individuals, each with its own nature and agenda. We know that there must be something that holds it all together; we know that somehow, underneath it all, we’re all on the same bandwagon, headed toward a common goal. But on the surface, we seem doomed to conflict, as each pursues his, her or its individual aspirations.

If only we could somehow get ahold of the master plan, of the grand blueprint for existence! If only we could read the Creator’s mind, to discern His intended use for each creature’s particular traits and tendencies! If only we had a vision of the “third element” of creation, a vision which incorporates all created things as the component parts of a single organism!

If we had that blueprint, we would no longer have to struggle to force some sort of balance between individual and communal desires to keep the world from tearing itself apart. If we had that blueprint, there would be no need to compromise differences for the sake of peace, since the properly guided pursuit of each being’s and community’s differences would result in the realization of the quintessential harmony which underlies all.

Torah, given in a flurry of threes, is that blueprint. Torah lays down the do’s and don’ts of life, not as a curb on individual freedom but as the description of every man’s deepest and truest aspirations. It outlines the manner in which every element of creation is to be developed and utilized, not as a program to change them but to bring to light their innate essence and function.

When Moses informed the people of Israel of G-d’s intention to give them the Torah, “The entire nation answered in one voice and said... ‘Everything that G-d has spoken, we will do and we will hear.’”[4]

Our covenant with G-d not only entails doing the divine will, but also “hearing” it—comprehending it and identifying with it. Yet, as our sages point out, the people said “We will do” before they said “We will hear.” For our observance of the divine commandments is not contingent on our understanding. First comes the unequivocal commitment to do what G-d commands. It is only after we made that commitment that we pledged to serve G-d not only with our actions but also with our minds and hearts, by studying His wisdom to gain a love and awe of His truth.

The Talmud relates that, “At the moment that the people of Israel put ‘We will do’ before ‘We will hear,’ 600,000 angels came, [one] to each Jew, and fixed two crowns upon his head: one for ‘We will do,’ and one for ‘We will hear.’”[5]

But why two crowns? The Talmud implies that the crowns were awarded not for the declarations: “We will do” and “We will hear” themselves, but for the fact that the people of Israel “put ‘We will do’ before ‘We will hear.’” So why did they each get two crowns, “one for ‘We will do,’ and one for ‘We will hear’”?

The Chassidic masters explain: Giving precedence to “We will do” over “We will hear” is not just a virtue in its own right, signifying an unquestioning commitment to the divine will—it also has a profound effect upon the “doing” and “hearing” themselves, elevating them to a completely different level of achievement and comprehension.

When a person’s fulfillment of a divine commandment (mitzvah) is based on his understanding of its significance, the deed is bounded by the limitations of his mind and heart. Furthermore, each mitzvah has its own set of limitations and equivocations. Some mitzvot are more “understandable”; others, less so. Some are more emotionally stirring; others, less so. The mitzvah is thus reduced (at least in the experience of its observer) to a human deed, subject to the limitations and fluctuations of the human condition.

But when the observer of a mitzvah puts “We will do” before “We will hear,” he is saying: “I will fulfill the divine will not on my terms, but on G-d’s terms. I am doing this not because and to the extent to which I understand it, but because G-d commanded me.” His deed is thus elevated from a finite and temporal human act to the infinity, eternity and unequivocality of the divine.

The same applies to the “We will hear” aspect of our service of G-d. In and of itself, the human effort to comprehend the divine remains just that: a human effort, delimited by the scope of human intellect and the particular prejudices of each individual mind. Certain aspects of the divine will are more comprehensible; others, less so. Certain mitzvot are more readily identified with, while others are more difficult to “relate to.” The only way to gain an uncircumscribed apprehension of the divine truth is to live that truth, fully and unequivocally, in our daily lives and everyday activities. It is only when the student of G-d places “We will do” before “We will hear” that his “We will hear” achieves a true understanding of the divine.

According to this, however, the crown-bearing angels should have placed three crowns on each of the 600,000 souls gathered at Sinai! For the elevated doing and understanding that earned them their two crowns both derived from a third, underlying virtue: their unquestioning submission to the divine will, expressed by their placement of deed before comprehension.

There was once a king whose countrymen made him three crowns. What did the king do? He took one and placed it on his own head, and two he placed on the heads of his children.[6]

The two crowns delivered by the angels to each Jewish soul, one for “We will do” and the other for “We will hear,” represent the magnificence of a deed done solely for G-d, and the depth of understanding gained by one who pursues wisdom to the sole aim of serving its divine author. There was, however, a third crown—a crown that is the source and root of the other two—which the angels did not bring: the crown of Israel’s unequivocal commitment to their G-d.

This crown G-d entrusts to no angel, awards to no soul. Instead of placing it on the heads of His children, He does something that is an even greater demonstration of His regard for them: He wears it on His own head. This is My pride and glory, G-d’s crown says. This is where My wearing it is tantamount to your wearing it, for this is where you and I are one.[7]

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

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.

[3]. Likkutei Sichot, vol. XXI, pp. 110-114; Sefer HaSichot 5751, vol. II, pp. 550-553; et al.

[7]. The crown that G-d received at Sinai is alluded to in the verse, “Go out, daughters of Zion, and behold King Solomon with the crown with which his mother crowned him on the day of his betrothal...” (Song of Songs 3:11). “King Solomon,” say our sages, is a reference to “the Holy One, Blessed be He, the King to whom is peace,” while “The day of His betrothal” is the day of the giving of the Torah at Mount Sinai (Midrash Rabbah, Shemot 52:5; Talmud, Taanit 26b).