The Colors of Blood

INSIGHTS: The Colors of Blood
It travels thousands of miles through the human body, dispensing life and combating corruption, and replicating the spiritual bloodstream of the universe

A TELLING STORY:
My Encounter With The Rebbe: The Baseball Game
A thirteen-year-old boy joins the Major Leagues
A Change of Heart
Those who saw the boat capsize in the middle of the river will never again regard the word “regret” lightly

Within every man a great river flows. More than a river—a great river system, with dozens of major arteries, hundreds of tributaries, thousands of rivulets and tens of billions of minute channels. Fourteen hundred times every day, this great river system—laid end to end it would extend some 60,000 miles—carries its life-sustaining fluid to every cell of the human body, supplying them with oxygen and nourishment, carrying off wastes, and combating adversarial cells that seek to harm it.

Man is a metaphor. Indeed, one of several meanings of the Hebrew word adam (“man”) is “I resemble.” For man is a microcosm of creation—in the words of the Talmud, “As the soul fills the body, so G-d fills the universe.”[1] Thus Job declares, “From my flesh, I perceive G-d”[2]—by contemplating the workings of our body and the manner in which it relates to and is animated by our soul, we gain insight into the workings of creation and the manner in which it relates to and is sustained by its supernal source.

The Torah is the “blood” of the cosmic body. Torah is the flow of divine influence that extends to every “cell” of creation, imbuing it with the breath of life, nourishing and developing it, and combating the negative forces that threaten to corrupt it.

The two primary active ingredients of human blood are the erythrocytes, or red blood cells, and the leukocytes, or white blood cells. The red blood cells carry oxygen to the body’s cells. The white blood cells combat infection and resist the invasion of bacteria and other foreign bodies.

The Torah also has its “red blood cells” and “white blood cells,” its nutritive and combative elements. By instructing and enlightening our lives, the Torah sustains and matures our spiritual essence, developing in us, and in the environment we inhabit and interact with, the potential for goodness and perfection that G-d imparted to His creation. The Torah also combats evil with a series of prohibitions and sanctions against practices that compromise the spiritual integrity of the body-universe. But the greater emphasis is on the positive, nurturing role. The Torah’s “ways are pleasant, and all its paths are peace.”[3] Combating evil is still an unfortunate necessity —until the day that “the spirit of impurity shall cease from the earth”[4]—but it is not what Torah is about; the gist of Torah’s role is to imbue our lives with spiritual sustenance. This priority is also reflected in the human metaphor of the cosmic bloodstream: the 25 trillion red blood cells in the human body outnumber its white blood cells by a ratio of 700 to 1.

In discussing the flow of divine influence into our world, kabbalistic teaching speaks of a phenomenon it calls “the reversal of mediums” (achlifu duchtaihu). For example, at times it is deemed necessary for “benevolence to come in a vessel of severity, and severity in a vessel of benevolence.”[5]

The best way to understand this principle is to examine how this applies, on the human level, to our relationships with others. Love is the drive to give and come close to another; an overdose of love, however, may distance rather than bring close and harm rather than assist. If a father were to hug his child with the full intensity of his love for him, he would cause him grievous hurt; indiscriminate charity may foster dependence and low self-esteem on the part of the recipient, to his own ultimate detriment. Thus, love must often be packaged in a “vessel of severity” and restraint. The same applies in the reverse: when it is necessary to discipline and restrain, one must channel severity via a “vessel” of benevolence. Justice that is not administered with compassion may cause the very opposite of what it comes to achieve, breaking the transgressor it comes to rehabilitate and destroying the society it comes to preserve.

The same applies, on the physical level, to the “benevolent” and “severe” cells in our bloodstream. The red blood cells have an extremely complex structure, designed to regulate the quantity and manner of its nourishment of the body’s cells; otherwise, they would oxidize rather than oxygenate them. In other words, the “vessel” that carries this giving influence must be designed to regulate and withhold, lest the benevolence it dispenses cause the very opposite of what it is meant to achieve. The reverse is true of the combative white blood cells: their “severity” is tempered and contained by a vessel of “benevolence,” lest they destroy good cells along with the bad and poison the body with their toxicity.

Therein lies the deeper significance of the colors of the various blood cells. The nourishing cells are colored red, the color associated in kabbalah with the divine attribute of judgment and severity (gevurah), reflecting the fact that their benevolent function must be “colored” by restraint. On the other hand, the combative cells are colored white—the supernal hue of chessed, the divine attribute of benevolence and love—indicating that this potent force must by administered via a gentling “vessel.”

Thus it is with Torah, the lifeblood of the universe. Torah brings the divine into our lives, yet imparts it as ideas, experiences and deeds that are incorporable into our human, finite selves. Were it not for this “packaging,” our humanity and individuality would be utterly nullified before the all-transcending, all-pervading, divine essence invested in the Torah; but in the form of Torah’s “red blood cells” we can ingest and internalize the divine nourishment, fusing the cosmic body to its supernal soul.

In its combative role, Torah is utterly intolerant of evil. But it is tolerant of human frailty, repelling corruption without destroying the corrupted.[6] It implements its exacting standards of virtue and truth in the form of “white blood cells”—via a vessel of benevolence and compassion.

Based on an address by the Rebbe, Shevat 1, 5722 (January 6, 1962)

My Encounter With The Rebbe
The Baseball Game

Editor’s note: One of the most phenomenal aspects of the Rebbe’s personality was his effectiveness as a communicator and motivator. The untold thousands who were privileged to meet and correspond with him personally, all felt the Rebbe’s ability to relate to them in a most personal and individual manner. No matter that he or she was but one of the many hundreds to meet with the Rebbe for a brief minute or two that night; no matter that his or her letter was all but lost in the three mail sacks that daily arrived at the Rebbe’s office—the Rebbe would immediately focus upon their individual situation, address their needs and abilities, and proceed to enlist them in his relentless efforts on behalf of the Jewish people and of all humanity.

The following account (translated from the Hebrew weekly Kfar Chabad) is told by a young man who met the Rebbe on three occasions. Below is the first of these encounters (the other two are printed in WIR Vol 12 No 11 and Vol 6 No 13)

The first time I met the Rebbe we discussed baseball. It was a month before my bar-mitzvah, and my grandfather, a devout Jew and second-generation American, wanted me to meet the Rebbe and receive his blessing in preparation for my attainment of Jewish adulthood. My parents had all but abandoned religious practice of their faith, so it was Grand-father who assumed the primary role in my Jewish education, giving me lessons in the rudiments of Yiddishkeit several times a week and taking me to the synagogue on Shabbat.

My first surprise was the Rebbe’s youthful appearance. I had expected a chassidic sage with a long white beard, but the Rebbe, who was in his early fifties at the time, had the appearance and manner of a man 15 years younger. My second surprise was the Rebbe’s first question to me: “Which is your favorite sport?”
“Baseball,” I replied.
“How do you most enjoy the game,” asked the Rebbe, “when one team plays or when two teams play against each other?”
“Rabbi,” I said, “you can’t play baseball with only one team.”
“Why?” asked the Rebbe
“Rabbi,” I patiently explained, “the entire point of the game is which side is going to score more runs than the other. You must have two teams.” I was relieved to see that the Rebbe understood.
“So who usually wins?” the Rebbe pressed on.
“Whoever plays best,” I said, proud of my inspired reply.
I don’t know what Grandfather thought of our conversation, but the Rebbe continued to direct all his attention to me. “Tell me,” he now asked me, “do you and your friends play much baseball?”
“Sure. We play a lot.”
“Do you also go to watch the baseball games at the stadium?”
“Sure.”
“But why do you have to go watch others play, if you know how to play the game yourselves?”
Again I felt the frustration of needing to explain the obvious. “Rabbi,” I said, politely suppressing my smile, “when we play, it’s just a bunch of kids playing. With the Major League teams, its the real thing.”
“Joseph,” said the Rebbe, a warm smile illuminating his face, “your heart is a baseball field. There are two teams competing there: the ‘good inclination,’ the yetzer tov, and the ‘evil inclination,’ the yetzer horah. But up until now, it was a kids’ game. Now, with your bar-mitzvah, the real game begins. G-d is giving you a special gift—a major league yetzer tov, with the skills and talents to beat the yetzer horah and guide you through a righteous and constructive life. Remember, Joseph, just like in baseball: whoever plays best, wins...”

***

Grandfather repeated the Rebbe’s baseball analogy at my bar-mitzvah and I fondly remembered my visit with the young personable rabbi. Beyond that, I do not recall the Rebbe’s words making much of an impression on my 13-year-old self. But as two events in my young adult years were to testify, the Rebbe’s words affected me far more deeply than I was aware at the time.

The first event took place three years later, the 16th year of my life and my second in High School. My class had won a school-wide competition and was awarded a weekend trip to a luxurious resort in New Orleans. I came home that evening bursting with excitement and joy; my parents, however, received the news in uncomfortable silence. Finally, mother said to me: “Joe, there’s a problem. Yom Kippur is that weekend. As you know, we’ve always observed Yom Kippur. We fast and we attend services at the synagogue. We have never desecrated the holiness of the day, and we expect the same of you.”
“Mom,” I protested, “you don’t understand. This is an opportunity of a lifetime! All year we’ve been dreaming of winning this prize. I’ll never forgive myself if I miss it!”

The arguments at home continued all week. My parents said they understood how important the trip is for me; nevertheless, they maintained, there are certain hallowed values which one must set above all else. I countered that I’ve always kept Yom Kippur and I shall continue to do so all my life, but nothing will happen if I made this one exception for a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

In the end, my parents, who prided themselves with their liberal approach to child-rearing, said to me: “Joe, you know that we never forced our convictions on you. We’ve told you how we feel about the matter. Now, the decision is yours.” The “decision” was easily made: New Orleans, here I come!

The night before the trip I was watching a baseball game at a friend’s home. The game ended with a breathtaking comeback in the last inning by the team that had been trailing by several runs throughout the game. Over the cheering of the crowd we heard the broadcaster say: “Well, after all is said and done, there are no two ways about it in baseball: the team that plays best, wins!” Suddenly, I remembered my conversation with the Rebbe. I stayed home that Yom Kippur.

***

The second event took place five year later, during my college years. The year was 1962 and everyone on campus was searching for “meaning to life.” Two friends, who had fallen in with a group of Mormon missionaries operating on campus, invited me to a lecture and discussion. Soon I was attending regularly. My meager Jewish education was no match for their sophisticated presentation; soon I began to see my own faith as shallow, bourgeois and devoid of spiritual content, and theirs as inspiring and rejuvenating. The more involved I became, the more I felt that, for the first time, my life had meaning and direction.

My only problem was how to break the news to my parents. I knew that, liberal views notwithstanding, they would be extremely upset by my conversion. I decided to say nothing as of yet and wait for an opportune time to tell them of my new life. I even harbored hopes of eventually bringing them to see the light themselves.

Shortly before I was to be baptized as a Christian and Mormon, I played shortstop in our weekly baseball game on campus. We played atrociously and lost badly. As we left the field, I found myself walking alongside the captain of the winning team, slapping him on the back, and saying: “Well, there are no two ways about it in baseball: the team who plays best, wins!”

I was barely able to finish the sentence. I’m sure my friend wondered why I suddenly turned white. As did my Mormon teachers as to why I suddenly severed all contact with them.

The first step in teshuvah (repentance) is regret. One must regret one’s transgression of the divine will and the distance this has placed between himself and G-d,

Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi once said: “True regret is the regret of the peasant from Shklov.”

He then explained: On a stormy day, a peasant from the vicinity of Shklov arrived at the Dnieper River and made to cross its waters in a small boat. Those who stood at the riverbank warned him against his folly. “Look at the winds, look at the waves,” they said, “you’ll never make it across.” But he paid no heed to their words. Halfway across the river, his boat capsized. Before he disappeared under the waves, he was heard to cry out: “What a fool I was! I should have listened to them! I shouldn’t have gone out!”

“To truly experience teshuvah,” concluded Rabbi Schneur Zalman, “is to experience the same degree of regret over one’s past actions as was experienced by the peasant from Shklov as the raging river swept him away.”

Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber