August 5th, 2015
Oil permeates the entire substance of a thing
Shulchan Aruch, Yoreh De’ah 105:5
When wine enters, secret emerges
Talmud, Eiruvin 65a
Oil is in. Oil shuns superficiality—you won’t find it riding a fad or angling for a photo opportunity. When oil comes in contact with something, it saturates it to the core, permeating it in its entirety. When set aglow, oil is the master of understatement. Soundlessly it burns—not for the oil lamp the vulgar cackling of firewood or the faint sizzle of candle wax. Its light does not burst through the door and bulldoze away the darkness; instead, it gently coaxes the gloom to shimmer with a spiritual luminescence.
Wine is a tabloid reporter. Wine is a boisterous brute who slithers past the security guard of mind to loosen the lips, spill the guts and turn the heart inside out. Wine smears the most intimate secrets across the front pages of life.
Chanukah is oil, Purim is wine.
Chanukah is the triumph of the Jewish soul. The Greek rulers of the Holy Land had no designs on the Jew’s body; it was the soul of Israel that they coveted, seeking to indoctrinate her mind with their philosophy and her spirit with their pagan culture. The Jew fought not for the freedom of his material self but to liberate his spiritual identity from Hellenist domination.
Haman and his cronies did not bother with such subtleties. They had one simple goal: the physical destruction of every Jew on the face of the earth. Purim remembers the salvation of the Jew’s bodily existence.
Chanukah is commemorated with oil. Chanukah celebrates the innerness of the Jewish soul, the essence which permeates and sanctifies every nook and cranny of the Jew’s life. Chanukah celebrates the secret glow of the spirit, which, rather than confronting the darkness, infiltrates it and transforms it from within.
On Purim we pour out the wine. Purim is a noisy party, a showy parade, a costumed extravaganza. Purim celebrates the fact that the Jew is more than a soul—he is a body as well. Purim celebrates the fact that our Jewishness is not only an internal spirituality but also a pragmatic reality; that it not only permeates our beings from within—it also spills out into the externalities of our material lives.
Based on an address by the Rebbe, Chanukah 5716 (1955)
Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber
[3] Talmud, Shabbos 21a.
Tags: body and soul, wine, Israel, Secrets, reality, Illumination, jewish identity, transformation, Jewish nation, light, destruction, spiritual and material, internal, sanctification, oil, Haman, assimilation, Chanukah, purim
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August 4th, 2015
By the Grace of G-d
5 Tammuz 5743
Brooklyn, NY
Blessing and Greeting:
I have just received your letter of 3 Tammuz.
To begin with a blessing, may G-d grant that henceforth you and all your family should have only goodness and benevolence – in the kind of good that is revealed and evident.
At the same time, you must make every effort to regain the proper state of mind, despite the pain.
You should remember the teaching and instruction of the Torah which is called Toras Chayim, Guide in Life, and Toras Emes, the Torah of Truth, meaning that what it teaches is not just to ease the mind, but the actual truth. Thus, the Torah, taking into account human nature/feelings in a case of bereavement, and the need to provide an outlet for the natural feelings of sorrow and grief, prescribes a set of regulations and period of mourning.
At the same time the Torah sets limits in terms of the duration of the periods of mourning and the appropriate expression, such as shiva (the first seven days), shloshim (thirty days), etc. If one extends the intensity of mourning which is appropriate for shiva into shloshim, it is not proper, for although shloshim is part of the overall mourning period, it is so in a lesser degree. And since the Torah says that it is not proper to overdo it, it does no good for the neshama [soul] of the dearly departed. On the contrary, it is painful for the neshama to see that it is the cause for the conduct that is not in keeping with the instructions of the Torah.
A second point to bear in mind is that a human being cannot possibly understand the ways of G-d. By way of a simple illustration: An infant cannot possibly understand the thinking and ways of a great scholar or scientist – even though both are human beings, and the difference between them is only relative, in terms of age, education and maturity. Moreover, it is quite possible that the infant may someday surpass the scientist, who also started life as an infant. But the difference between a created human being and his Creator is absolute.
Therefore, our Sages declare that a human being must accept everything that happens, both those that are obviously good and those that are incomprehensible, with the same positive attitude that “all that G-d does is for the good,” even though it is beyond human truths is that the neshama is part of G-dliness and is immortal. When the time comes for it to return to Heaven, it leaves the body and continues its eternal life in the spiritual World of Truth.
It is also a matter of common sense that whatever the direct cause of the separation of the soul from the body (whether a fatal accident, or a fatal illness, etc.), it could affect only any of the vital organs of the physical body, but could in no way affect the spiritual soul.
A further point, which is also understandable, is that during the soul’s lifetime on earth in partnership with the body, the soul is necessarily “handicapped” – in certain respects – by the requirements of the body (such as eating and drinking, etc.). Even a tzaddik [holy man], whose entire life is consecrated to Hashem, cannot escape the restraints of life in a material and physical environment. Consequently, when the time comes for the soul to return “home,” it is essentially a release for it, as it makes its ascent to a higher world, no longer restrained by a physical body and physical environment. Henceforth the soul is free to enjoy the spiritual bliss of being near to Hashem in the fullest measure. This is surely a comforting thought!
It may be asked: if it is a “release” for the soul, why has the Torah prescribed periods of mourning, etc. But there is really no contradiction. The Torah recognizes the natural feeling of grief that is felt by the loss of a near and dear one, whose passing leaves a void in the family, and the physical presence and contact of the beloved one will be sorely missed. So the Torah has prescribed the proper periods of mourning to give vent to these feelings and to make it easier to regain the proper equilibrium and adjustment.
However, to allow oneself to be carried away by these feelings beyond the limits set by the Torah – in addition to its being a disservice to one’s self and all around, as well as to the neshama, as mentioned above – would mean that one is more concerned with one’s own feelings than with the feelings of the dear neshama that has risen to new spiritual heights of eternal happiness. Thus, paradoxically, the overextended feeling of grief, which is due to the great love of the departed one, actually causes pain to the loved one, since the neshama continues to take an interest in the dear one left behind, sees what is going on (even better than before), rejoices with them in their joys, etc.
One thing the departed soul can no longer do, and that is, the actual fulfillment of the mitzvoth, which can be carried out only jointly by the soul and body together in this material world. But this, too, can at least partly be overcome when those left behind do a little more mitzvoth and good deeds in honor and for the benefit of the dear neshama.
More could be said on the subject, but I trust the above will suffice to help you discover within you the strength that G-d has given you, not only to overcome this crisis, but also to go from strength to strength in your everyday life and activities in full accord with the Torah.
In your case, there is an added G-d-given capacity, having been blessed with lovely children, long may they live, with a strong feeling of motherly responsibility to raise each and all of them to a life of Torah, chuppah [marriage], and good deeds, with even greater attention and care than before, and in this, as in all good things, there is always room for improvement.
Now to conclude with a blessing, may G-d grant you much Yiddishe nachas [Jewish happiness] from each and all your children, raising them to Torah, chuppah, and good deeds in good health and peace of mind, and in comfortable circumstances.
With blessing,
[signature]
P.S. I do not know if you were aware of it when writing your letter on 3 Tammuz. But it is significant that you wrote the letter on the anniversary of the beginning of the geula [redemption] of my father-in-law of saintly memory – an auspicious time for geula from all distractions and anxieties, to serve Hashem wholeheartedly and with joy.
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Tags: mourning, life after death, grief, death, soul, grief & grieving, body and soul
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August 4th, 2015
By the Grace of G-d
8 Tishrei 5722
Brooklyn, NY
Mr. Aron Dov Sufrin
26 Linthorpe Rd.
London, N. 16
Greeting and Blessing:
With further reference to your correspondence and your efforts to help others in their religious and spiritual life, I am enclosing my letter to Mr. ——-. If further elaboration is necessary, I trust you will give it to him.
With regard to the question of how best to influence certain people with whom you come in contact, the answer depends on the character of those persons and sometimes also on other factors relating to family, background, and environment. Therefore, the best thing when such a problem arises is to consult with local friends who are more or less familiar with the circumstances.
However, I can make a general observation, namely, that the approach should be that of friendliness and cordiality, but at the same time with firmness and sincerity. This means that when one is up against a difficulty, the way is not to give up the effort, but rather to try another approach which might be more suitable for the particular person. An approach which may have to be either direct or indirect, but in a way that would find the person more responsive.
The list of pidyonos (requests) included in your letter of the 9th of Elul were duly received and were read at the holy resting place before Rosh Hashanah.
With reference to your last paragraph in your letter of the 4th of Elul, needless to say, there is no basis at all for thinking along those lines, and may G-d grant that you and your wife will bring up your children to a life of Torah, chuppah, and good deeds, in good health and to a ripe and happy old age.
Wishing you and all your family a chasima ugmar chiasma toiva [be sealed for a good New Year],
With blessing,
[signature]
Image by: Barron Fujimoto (Jedi Master Yoda) [CC BY-ND 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd/2.0)]
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Tags: educaion, mentor, influence, sensitivity, balance
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August 4th, 2015
I see it, but not now; I behold it, but it is not near. A star shall come forth from Jacob, and a scepter shall rise up from Israel…
from Bilaam’s prophecy on Moshiach, Numbers 23:17
[Regarding the time of the Redemption,] the Heart does not reveal to the Mouth
Zohar, part I, 8a
Fundamental to our faith is the daily anticipation of the Redemption: not only a belief in, but also a constant expectation of, Moshiach’s imminent coming. In the words of Maimonides, “one who does not believe in him, or does not anticipate his coming” disavows the whole of Judaism.[1]
The Torah is replete with references to “the end of days” and the state of universal harmony and perfection that it will bring. However, there is no clear indication as to when it will come: we haven’t been given a time or date for the final Redemption. The Zohar goes so far as to say that, with regard to the time for the Moshiach’s coming, “The [divine] heart does not reveal to the [divine] mouth,” implying that G-d cannot articulate it even to Himself!
Why, indeed, has this been kept a secret from us? Why has such a crucial element of our faith been a mystery for thousands of years? And what does it mean that G-d’s “heart” does not convey it to His own “mouth”?
Speaking a World
The Torah, “speaking in the language of men,”[2] describes the divine act of creation as an act of speech: G-d said “Let there be light,”[3] “Let the earth sprout forth greenery,”[4] and so on, and the various elements of existence came into being.
Chassidic teaching takes this a step further: the world is the speech of G-d. The divine utterances of Genesis are not merely mediums or forces which bring the creations into existence, but are the very essence of their being. What we perceive as a stone, a human being or a physical law is, in truth, the divine communication that it should exist.
Why speech? Why is “and G-d said” the appropriate metaphor to borrow from human experience to describe what happened at creation? Because despite its apparent formidability, our world can hardly be said to exist at all. Is what we experience as “reality” in fact real? Yes and no, say the Chassidic masters. On the one hand, it is wholly dependent upon its Creator, every fraction of time, for being and life. As one Chassidic thinker put it, if G-d no longer wished that our world should exist, G-d forbid, He need not destroy it—the moment He ceases to will it into being, it no longer is. A “reality” of such dependence and subjectivity hardly qualifies as an existence in its own right—all it “is” is the expression of another, infinitely greater being’s desire that it be.
On the other hand, our world is imbued with a sense of selfhood and distinctiveness of being. Although the fact that we sense our own existence and that of our environment to be real does not prove anything (for all we know, our sense of existence may be an illusion), the Torah gives credence to this reality. It states: “In the Beginning G-d created the heavens and the earth.”[5] It also tells us that He created them with a purpose in mind—that He desires that we develop them in a certain way and that we refrain from other deeds which corrupt His creation. Furthermore, the sense of “self” which we experience is an integral part of this purpose: G-d specifically wanted a world which would perceive itself as a reality apart from its Creator, and that this “lowly realm” should choose to develop itself as a “dwelling for G-d”—an environment receptive and hospitable to His reality.[6] Illusion or not, creation’s self-definition as a distinct reality has a truth to it, a validity granted it by its Creator.
To express the paradoxical nature of creation’s reality, the Torah borrows the term “speech” from human experience. Man creates on three basic levels: thought, speech and action. Were the Torah to say that G-d “made” a world, this would imply a creation as disconnected from its creator as the products of man’s physical actions are from theirs: a person builds a building, paints a picture or writes a book, and his creation is now a distinct and independent existence, even possessing a “life” of its own. On the other hand, to describe reality as a divine “thought” would imply that it exists only within its Creator’s reality. Speech, however, describes an existence which, on the one hand, is distinct from its source, yet on the other, is utterly dependent upon it and possesses no reality other than that dependence.
When a person speaks, he creates something which extends beyond his own existence. The thought which he had conceived, and which, up until now, has existed only within his mind, is now translated into words which “leave” his person to attain a separateness from their creator. Nevertheless, they are utterly dependent upon him for existence: the moment he ceases to speak, the entity we refer to as his “speech” no longer exists. In other words, their existence can only be defined in terms of his ongoing involvement to create them.
So it is with our world. G-d desires that it exist, and that it constitute a reality which is (at least in its own perception) distinct from His own. On the other hand, the world has no independent existence; it possesses no reality other than G-d’s constant involvement to create and sustain it. In other words, G-d did not make a world—He spoke it.
Retreating Into Thought
A person may articulate a thought to himself and “create” no further; but every word or act of his is also a thought, conceived first in the mind and then given an existence distinct of himself as words or actions.
The same is true of G-d’s creation: the “spoken” world we inhabit represents the lowest and most external layer of His creation, and is preceded by a higher, more intimate version of creation—a reality which may be described as “G-d’s thought.” When we say that this thought reality “precedes” our conventional speech reality, this is not to say that it precedes it in physical time—physical time is itself a product of G-d’s creation; rather, it is the self-same world we inhabit, yet on an “earlier” (i.e., closer to its source) plane of awareness and self-definition. This is a world which sees itself not as an entity distinct from its Creator, but as a concept within the divine mind—as something submerged within the divine reality.
For six days a week we live in the “spoken world” generated by the divine utterances of Genesis. But for one day each week, we enter a higher plane of awareness, as our world “recedes” from its spoken state to the realm of divine thought. As the Torah relates in its account of creation, for six days G-d spoke the world, projecting His concept of creation into the “separate” reality we know. On the seventh day He ceased to speak. He did not, however, cease to create—were He to do so, the world would have ceased to exist. Rather, He withdrew from the externalization of speech and confined Himself to the internal creation of thought. He continued to articulate our world, not as something “outside” of himself but as a self-contained conceptualization of His vision of creation.
The seven days of creation are an ongoing cycle. Every Shabbat, G-d withdraws from His more external mode of creation, elevating our world to the level of divine thought. On Shabbat we still live in the very same world we inhabit during the other six days of the week, but on Shabbat the “I am” of our world is muted, its illusion of distinctiveness more transparent. On this day, man can more readily transcend the disconnectedness of the material reality and experience a union and identification with his essence and source.
Subconscious Thought
Within the realm of thought itself are many levels of definition and tactility.
Conscious thought is closest to the outward projection of speech. It, too, is composed of images and words. Although expressed in a “language” more abstract and nebulous than that of speech (a single fleeting thought may take hours to articulate verbally and may contain many nuances of understanding which are not translatable into spoken words), it has a language nonetheless, and is thus a “world” comprised of definitive entities. While a person’s conscious thoughts do not exist outside of himself, they occupy a distinct place within his mind.
If we apply this metaphor to the divine thought-reality of Shabbat, we might say that on Shabbat we enter a state of being that might be described as G-d’s “conscious thought”: a realm that is “within” the divine reality but whose union and identification with its source is not absolute: it is a distinct creation, albeit a wholly internal one.
Thus, Shabbat is only a “taste” of a higher reality—a reality that can only be described as the “subconscious thought” of G-d.
Subconscious thought has no language, no definition, no parameters—nothing to distinguish it from the mind which contains it. The definitive thoughts to which it gives birth seem to spring out of nowhere—from the essence of the mind itself. We know that they must already “exist” in some earlier, more arcane incarnation—in what we, in “the language of men,” call “subconscious thoughts.” Yet these form no identifiable part of the conceiver’s mind, but are seamlessly woven into the very fabric of its essence.
The Torah tells us that at the very beginnings of creation, “the spirit of G-d hovered” above a still vacant and formless world.[7] This “spirit of G-d,” say our sages, is the spirit of Moshiach[8]— G-d’s primordial “subconscious” conception of creation.
The era of Moshiach is therefore described as a time of “absolute and eternal Shabbat.”[9] For if on Shabbat our world is elevated to the realm of divine conscious thought, the era of Moshiach is a time when we will inhabit the “subconscious” of G-d. Again, it is our world, the same world we live in today, different not in substance but in awareness. Its self-perception is not that of the external world of “speech,” nor even that of the submerged but still distinct world of “conscious thought,” but one of seamless unity with its Conceiver and Creator.
Thus our sages describe the age of Moshiach as a reality which “the heart does not reveal to the mouth.” Our present-day world is the divine “mouth”—a world whose relationship with its Creator is like the relationship between spoken words and their speaker—while the era of Moshiach is a time when our world will graduate to its primordial place in the subconscious “heart” of G-d. Therefore, just as the world of the subconscious cannot be expressed as conscious thoughts, and certainly not verbalized as words, so, too, the time of the ultimate Redemption is unarticulateable to a speech-defined existence.
Yet it is this most intimate heart of G-d that will become our everyday experience and reality, when we complete our task to make our lives and world a “dwelling for G-d.”
Based on numerous talks by the Rebbe, including an address delivered on Nissan 12, 5750 (April 7, 1990)[10]
Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber
[1]. Mishneh Torah, Laws of Kings 11:1; Introduction to Perek Cheilek, The Twelfth Principle.
[2]. Talmud, Berachot 31b, et al.
[6]. Midrash Tanchuma, Nasso 16; Tanya, ch. 36.
[8]. Midrash Rabbah on verse.
[9]. From the Shabbat addendum to the Grace After Meals.
[10]. Sefer HaSichot 5750, p. 397.
Tags: Divine dwelling, reality, higher reality, Moshiach, Divine will, creation, perception, Shabbat, action, mind, Secrets, time, heart, utterances, unity, transcendence, internal, redemption, purpose, speech, thought, cycles, independence, Divine energy
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August 4th, 2015
The court is obligated to straighten the roads to the cities of refuge, to repair them and broaden them. They must remove all impediments and obstacles… bridges should be built (over all natural barriers) so as not to delay one who is fleeing to [the city of refuge]. The width of a road to a city of refuge should not be less than thirty-two cubits[15]. “Refuge, Refuge” was written at all crossroads so that the murderers should recognize the way and turn there.
Mishneh Torah, Laws Regarding Murder and the Preservation of Life, 8:5
The “cities of refuge” were six cities in the Land of Israel designated as havens for murderers. A person who killed would flee to the nearest city of refuge, where he would be safe from the vengeance of his victim’s closest relative (the “avenger of the blood”) until he was brought to trial before the sanhedrin (a tribunal of twenty-three judges that tried capital cases).[16] It was the court’s responsibility to ensure the accessibility of the cities of refuge by improving the roads leading to them and posting signs with the words miklat, miklat (“refuge, refuge”) to show the way.
On the spiritual plane, there also exist six “cities of refuge” for the spiritual “murderer.” Life, in the true and ultimate sense, is connection with the divine source of being and vitality;[17] an act of transgression against the divine will is a subtle form of “murder,” as it hinders the flow of vitality from G-d to creation. The words of the Torah, say our sages, are the “cities of refuge” for the destroyer of spiritual life;[18] if he flees into the Torah and immerses himself in it, the Torah will protect him from the adverse results of his deed. Specifically, there are six “constant mitzvot” that apply to every Jew, at all times, and in all circumstances, so that they are readily accessible to one who seeks refuge from his faults and failings, whomever he might be and wherever and whenever the desire to rectify his life might strike him.[19]
But a haven is of little use if it is inaccessible or its location is unknown. As is the case with the physical cities of refuge, it is the community’s responsibility to “straighten the roads… to repair them and broaden them… remove all impediments and obstacles” and post signs at all crossroads.
This imperative has special meaning to us today, when the roads of life are teeming with spiritual refugees. It is our sacred duty to station ourselves at all the crossroads and serve as living signposts, calling out “Refuge! Refuge!” and pointing the way to the haven of Torah.
Based on an address by the Rebbe, Shabbat Parshat Mattot-Massei 5712 (July 19, 1952)[20]
Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber
[15]. Approximately 48 feet.
[16]. If the “avenger of the blood” killed the killer outside of the city of refuge, he was not punished; if he did so inside the city, he was tried as a murderer.
In those cases in which the sanhedrin determined that the killing was unintentional (though due to the killer’s negligence), the killer was returned to the city of refuge to serve a sentence of exile, during which the city continued to protect him from the “avenger of the blood.”
[17]. Deuteronomy 4:4; ibid., 30:20; Talmud, Berachot 18b.
[18]. Talmud, Makkot 10a.
[19]. The Torah contains 613 mitzvot, or commandments. However, the great majority of them require certain circumstances to obligate and enable their fulfillment: there are mitzvot that can be observed only at certain hours of the day, or only on certain days of the year; mitzvot that can be observed only in the Land of Israel, or only in the Beit Hamikdash (Holy Temple); mitzvot that pertain only to men, only to kohanim, only to employers, or only to farmers; and so on. But there are six mitzvot (to believe in G-d, to avow His oneness, to renounce idolatry, to love G-d, to fear Him, and to avoid temptation to sin) that pertain to all times, all places and all individuals. Thus, there are six readily accessible “cities of refuge” for the errant soul (see introduction to Sefer HaChinuch).
[20]. Likkutei Sichot, vol. II, pp. 363-366.
Tags: mitzvot, cities of refuge, connection, Torah, knowledge, G-d, murder, life
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August 4th, 2015
A follower of Rabbi Meir of Premishlan once complained to him about a man who had started a competing business. “He is depriving me of my livelihood!” cried the man. “You must tell him to close his shop!”
Said Rabbi Meir: “Have you ever noticed how a horse behaves when he is led to a water hole? He begins to paw angrily at the water with his hooves; only when the water is well-muddied does he begin to drink. Why does the horse act this way?”
“I don’t know,” said the man. “Why?”
“Because the horse sees his reflection in the water and thinks that another horse has come to drink his water. So he kicks and paws until he has ‘chased away’ the other horse. What the horse doesn’t understand,” concluded Rabbi Meir, “is that G-d has created enough water for all the horses.”
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Tags: perspective, attitude, water, Chassidic stories, perception, G-d, Parable, business, fear
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August 4th, 2015
These are the journeys of the children of Israel who went out of the land of Egypt… And Moses recorded their travels and encampments, in accordance with the command of G-d
Numbers 33:1-2
This is comparable to a king whose child was ill, and he took him to another place to heal him. On their return journey, the father recounted all their stations: “Here we slept,” “Here we were cooled,” “Here your head hurt.” By the same token, G-d said to Moses: Recount for them all the places where it was that they had angered Me
Midrash Tanchuma, Massei 3
The Exodus marked our birth as a nation; our entry into the Land of Israel, the attainment of our national and spiritual maturity. In between, we had to undergo a 40-year journey through “the great and fearsome desert, [a place of] venomous snakes and scorpions and thirst for lack of water.”[8]
This journey had forty-two stations. Some, like the year-long stay at Mount Sinai, included moments of sublime revelation. Most, however, were accompanied by doubt, strife, betrayal, and the perpetual contest between man and G-d. In the end, however, they resulted in the attainment of “the good and broad land”[9] that was the objective of the journey.
The human story is likewise the story of a journey through a great and fearsome desert, fraught with physical and spiritual dangers and direfully lacking the waters that quench the thirsting soul of man. In the end, however, in spite of all the strife and tribulation, we will achieve our objective of a promised land blessed with the goodness and boundlessness of the Divine.
And when we do, we will look back at all the stations of our journey and see them for what they truly were: challenges and opportunities that paved, rather than impeded, our advance through the desert. Rather than the pitfalls and obstacles as which we first experienced them, we will recognize them as rungs in the ladder that have raised us to this elevated perspective.
The Return Journey
This is the deeper significance of the “return journey” made by the king and his child in the above-cited parable by the Midrash. The Midrash compares G-d’s instruction to Moses to record all the stations in the nation’s journey through the desert to the story of a king traveling with his child to seek a cure for the child’s illness. On their return journey, as they passed through the stations at which they had originally stopped, the king reminded his child: here we slept, here we were cooled, here your head hurt.
The journey from Egypt to the Holy Land was a one-way journey: the Jews did not return to Egypt, nor did they physically revisit their encampments in the desert. But on the eve of their entry into the Holy Land, they were able to look back upon their forty-two encampments and re-experience them in a different light: not as a people venturing from Egyptian slavery toward an unknowable goal through a fearful wilderness, but as a people who, having attained their goal, could now appreciate how each way-station in their journey had forged a particular part of their identity and had contributed to what and where they were today.
The Three Stations
The great and fearsome desert we each must cross is the product of what the Kabbalists call the tzimtzum (“constriction”): G-d’s creation of a so-called vacuum within His all-pervading immanence, a bubble of darkness within His infinite light that allows man the choice between good and evil.
“Behold,” says the Torah, “I have set before you today life and good, and death and evil… Life and death I have set before you, blessing and curse. Choose life.”[10] In order that our choice of life should be meaningful, there must also be the choice of death; in order that the good we do should have value and significance, we must be made susceptible to evil and its enticements.
Three conditions are necessary to create the possibility of free choice in the heart of man:
a) There must be a withdrawal of the divine light and the creation of the “vacuum” that allows the existence of evil.
b) It is not enough that evil exist—it must also be equipped with the illusion of worthiness and desirability. If evil were readily perceived for what it is—the suppression of light and life—there would be no true choice.
c) On the other hand, an absolute vacuum would shut out all possibility for choosing life. Thus the tzimtzum must be mitigated with a glow, however faint, of the divine light that empowers us to overcome darkness and death.
Therein lies the deeper significance of the three stations in the Midrash’s metaphor, “Here we slept,” “Here we were cooled,” “Here your head hurt.”
“Here we slept” refers to the withdrawal of the divine vitality in order to create the tzimtzum.[11] “Here we were cooled” refers to the mitigation of the tzimtzum with a faint glow of divine light.[12] And “Here your head hurt” is a reference to the many contortions that cloud our minds and confuse our priorities, leading to a distorted vision of reality and misguided decisions.
All these, however, serve a single purpose: to advance us along the journey of life and to imbue the journey with meaning and worth. Today we can only reiterate to ourselves our knowledge of this truth; on the return journey, we shall revisit these stations and see and experience their true import.
Based on the Rebbe’s talks on Shabbat Mattot-Massei, 5725 (July 31, 1965) and on other occasions[13]
Adapted from the teacings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber
[10]. Deuteronomy 30:15-19.
[11]. Cf. Talmud, Berachot 57b: “Sleep is a one-sixtieth part of death.” SeeThe Cosmic Sleep, The Inside Story (VHH, 1997), pp. 75ff.
[12]. Cf. Midrash Rabbah, Bereishit 12:15: “A king had empty glasses. Said he: ‘If I fill them with hot water, they will burst; if I fill them with freezing water, they will crack.’ What did the king do? He mixed hot and cold and poured it into them, and they stood. In the same way, G-d said: ‘If I create the world with the attribute of mercy, there will be much sin; [if I create it] with the attribute of judgment, how will the world survive? So I shall create it with both mercy and judgment, and hopefully it will survive.’”
[13]. Likkutei Sichot, vol. XVIII, pp. 390-398.
Tags: jewish identity, doubt, elevation, appreciation, Holy Land, purpose, Jewish nation, revelation, desert, free choice, journey, good and evil, meaning, Parable, tzimtzum, blessings, Spiritual growth, birth, goals, perception, midrash, Life's Challenges, Exodus from Egypt
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August 4th, 2015
So says G-d: …Again I shall rebuild you, O maiden of Israel… I shall bring them from the lands of the north, and I shall gather them from the ends of the earth… a great community shall here return… For G-d has redeemed Jacob… and they shall sorrow nevermore. Then, the maiden shall rejoice in dance…
Jeremiah 31:1-12
History is a dance, its partners moving to and fro, advancing and retreating, separating and converging.
G-d and the “maiden of Israel” have been dancing these steps some 4000 years now, advancing and retreating, drawing apart and pulling together. G-d chooses Abraham, then hides His face for the terrible years of the Egyptian exile. Israel, the trusting bride of the Exodus, eagerly striding to the betrothal canopy of Sinai, regresses into the ignominy of Golden Calf worship and her other desert betrayals. They enjoy seasons of marital bliss in Jerusalem, only to destroy their nuptial home and depart to centuries of galut-estrangment. Back and forth they dance, each separation intensifying the tension that pulls them together, intensifying the joy in their inevitable reunion.
This last dance-step has flung us to the very extremities of the dance-floor. Never has our bond been drawn tauter, never have we been so driven to converge. When we now unite, it is to separate and sorrow nevermore.
Then, the maiden shall rejoice in that particular joy that only dance can yield.
Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber
Tags: exile, golden calf, unity, story, redemption, Parable, dance, galut, connection with G-d, marriage, Mt. Sinai, Exodus from Egypt, Abraham, independence, Jewish history
Posted in Weekly Parsha, Israel, Beliefs & Concepts, Love & Marriage, Bamidbar, Exile, Moshiach & Redemption, Torah, Matot, Massei | No Comments »
August 4th, 2015
“One should live with the times,” said Chassidic master Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi to his disciples, and explained his meaning: a person should derive guidance and inspiration from the weekly Torah reading.
Every week, another parashah (“chapter” or “section”) of the Torah is publicly read in the synagogue[1] in an annual cycle which is completed on the festival of “Simchat Torah.” The weekly parashah, Rabbi Schneur Zalman was saying, is the soul of the week in which it is read, the spiritual warp and woof of its time-weave. By following the parashah’s dictates and directives, we attune our lives to the inner essence of the particular stretch of time in which we find ourselves.
“Living with the times” assumes an added dimension when two parashiyot are joined to form a single reading. Because the number of Shabbat readings varies from year to year,[2] there are eight such potential “pairs” among the Torah’s 54 parashiyot. This creates a situation in which the different – and at times, even conflicting-lessons of two parashiyot combine into a unified “directive of the week” for their joint week.[3]
In addition, the weekly parashah bears an integral relationship with the other time-landmarks with which it intersects. The fact that a parashah is read in a certain month, or in proximity to a certain festival, imparts a distinct context and an additional facet to the lessons with which it instructs our “living with the times.”[4]
By way of example, we might look at two contiguous parshiot – Mattot (Numbers 30-32) and Massei (Numbers 33-36). Let us examine their individual lessons, but also note that, in certain years, they combine to form a single reading and jointly instruct a single week. Let us also note that these two parashiyot are always read during the “Three Weeks” – the 21-day period from Tammuz 17 to Av 9 when we mourn the destruction of the Holy Temple and the onset of the centuries-long galut (exile and spiritual displacement) from which we have yet to emerge.
Two States of the Jew
Hardness is one of those qualities which we are forever seeking to acquire and rid ourselves of at the same time. There is more than a hint of condemnation when we describe a particular individual as a “tough” person, but no small measure of admiration as well. We denounce, in ourselves and others, behavior that is “obstinate” and “unyielding,” but also agree on how important it is to have the “backbone” to stand one’s ground and not be swayed from one’s principles.
Indeed, our journey through life requires firmness as well as flexibility, hardiness as well as pliancy. There are times and situations which necessitate, as our sages put it, to “be yielding as a reed, not hard as a cedar”;[5] yet there are also times and situations when we are called upon to employ every iota of obstinacy and “stiff-neckedness” we can muster to resist all that threatens our integrity and seeks to deter us from our mission in life. In the words of Chassidic master Rabbi Bunim of Pshis’cha:
“A person should have two pockets in his coat. In one pocket he should keep the verse, ‘I am but dust and ashes.’[6] His second pocket should contain the Talmudic saying, ‘A person is commanded to say: For my sake was the world created.’[7]“
This dual approach to life is implied in the Torah’s two names for the tribes of Israel. While the people of Israel constitute one entity as G-d’s “singular nation,”[8] they are comprised of twelve distinct tribes, each of which contributes its unique character and capabilities to our national mission.[9] Thus, the Torah refers to Israel’s tribes as shevatim, “branches,” or mattot, “rods,” expressing the concept that they are offshoots from a common stem, distinct from each other yet parts of a greater whole.
While shevet and matteh are both synonyms for “branch,” the shevet is a pliant, flexible bough, while matteh connotes a stiff stick or rod. Therein lies the deeper significance of these two names for the tribes of Israel: on certain occasions the Torah refers to us as “branches,” stressing the need for flexibility and tractability in life. In other contexts we are called “rods,” underscoring the need for firmness and determination in carrying out our mission as “a holy people”[10] and “a light unto the nations.”[11]
The latter point is the lesson of the parashah of Mattot, which opens with the verse, “And Moses spoke to the heads of the tribes….” Here, the tribes are called by the name “mattot” – a designation which becomes the name of the parashah and the crux[12] of its message: that there are times in the history of a people when they must employ the fortitude and fixity of the rod, when they must find the inner resolve to “stick it out” in a hostile and capricious world.
The Staff of Exile
“Hardness” is an acquired, rather than an intrinsic, state. While the potential for hardness always exists, it is actualized when a substance is subjected to galvanizing conditions and influences.
This can be seen in the shevet/matteh model. As a branch, the shevet is supple and yielding, bending to the wind and to every pressing hand. But when it is disconnected from the tree to face the elements as a lone, rootless rod, it stiffens into a matteh.
In other words, a matteh is a shevet hardened by the experience of galut. Deprived of tenderizing moisture from its nurturing roots, the latent hardness of the wood asserts itself, transforming the pliant branch into a rigid staff.
Therein lies the connection between the parashah of Mattot and the time of year in which it is read. During the Three Weeks, we mourn our exile from our homeland and the removal of G-d’s open presence in our lives as it was revealed in the Holy Temple in Jerusalem. We remember how the shevatim of Israel – a people anchored to their roots, vitalized by an undisrupted flow of spiritual nurture through their limbs – were torn from their tree to become a nation of homeless mattot.
But even as the Torah commands us to mourn the events of the Three Weeks, it insists that our mourning be a constructive endeavor, an opportunity to focus on how our state of exile might be exploited to a positive end. Even as we agonize over the rootlessness of galut, we must take advantage of the manner in which our disconnection from our natural environment strengthens us and galvanizes us. Even as we weep over the destruction of G-d’s home and the absence of His revealed presence in our lives, we must tap the tremendous reserves of faith and fortitude evoked by the challenges of an alien society and environment – reserves which would not been actualized were we to have remained a nation of shevatim undisturbed from their stem.
Forty-Two Journeys
But there is more to galut than the toughening of the Jewish soul. Galut is also a journey. A journey is not just a departure from home – it is an advance toward a destination. Therein lies the difference between a wanderer and a journeyer. The wanderer is escaping or being driven away from some place, while the journeyer is going to someplace. The wanderer is defined by where he is not, by the state and experience of homelessness and what this does to his inner self; the journeyer is defined by the place or places to which he goes and what he achieves there. When the wanderer and the journeyer return home, the wanderer brings back his “hardened” and matured self, while the journeyer brings the treasures procured at the various points of his itinerary.
What are we seeking in our places of exile? What do we bring home with us when we return from our journey to the ends of earth? The Talmud defines the purpose of galut as the acquisition of “converts.” “The people of Israel were exiled amongst the nations,” it declares, “only so that converts might be added to them.”[13]
These “converts” assume many forms. There are the literal converts – non-Jews who were included in the community of Israel as the result of our contact with the peoples of the world. More significantly (since the Torah neither instructs nor encourages us to seek converts to Judaism), there is the more subtle conversion of a pagan world to the monotheistic ethos and ideals of Torah, achieved by our 2000-year sojourn amongst the nations of the world.[14] The Kabbalists explain that the “converts” gained in the course of our galut are not only of the human sort, but also include the souls of all creatures and creations with which we have come in contact in the course of our dispersion to all corners of the globe. For every created entity has at its core a “spark of holiness,” a pinpoint of divinity that constitutes its “soul” – its function within G-d’s overall purpose for creation. Every time we utilize something – a physical object or force, an idea, a cultural phenomenon – to serve the Creator, we penetrate its shell of mundanity and realize its divine essence. This, the Talmud is saying, is the purpose of our galut: to redeem the sparks of holiness which lie buried in the most far-flung places and circumstances.
This concept of galut is expressed by the second parashah of our pair, the section of Massei (“journeys”), which chronicles the travels and encampments of the people of Israel in the Sinai desert. The parashah’s name derives from its opening verses: “These are the journeys of the children of Israel, who went out from the land of Egypt…. And they journeyed from Raamses … and they camped at Sukkot. They journeyed from Sukkot, and camped at Eitam….” Massei goes on to list the 42 journeys which comprised Israel’s travels from Egypt to Mount Sinai to the Holy Land.
The commentaries explain that these “journeys” are the forerunners and prototypes for the historical saga of Israel, as we advance through “the desert of the nations”[15] (as the prophet Ezekiel refers to the galut) to our ultimate “entry into the Land” in the age of Moshiach.[16]
It is significant that the Torah refers to our ancestors’ travels as “journeys” in the plural – a plurality that is preserved in the name of the parashah. If the purpose of galut were to lie solely in its rootlessness and what this brings out in the Jewish soul, then it should be defined as a “wandering” rather than a “journey”; and if its purpose were to lie exclusively in its ultimate “entry into the Holy Land” at galut’s end, then our sojourn in the “desert of the nations” should be regarded as a single journey, not a series of journeys. The fact that the Torah considers galut to be Massei, “journeys,” means that the purpose of galut is to be found also, and primarily, in the places to which it brings us, so that each of its travels is a journey and each of its “encampments” is a destination.
Integration
Both Mattot and Massei are parashiyot read during the Three Weeks – both are lessons on galut. On the face of it, however, they seem to be different, even conflicting, insights into the nature and purpose of our exile. Mattot instructs us on how the purpose of galut is to evoke in us the steadfastness and immobility of the branch-turned-rod. Massei, on the other hand, regards galut as a journey – as movement, change and transformation.
Indeed, we know that virtually everything in our existence is multifaceted, and that “life” is the endeavor to navigate, rather than to eliminate, its paradoxes. If “sticking to your principles” and “changing the world” seem conflicting goals, so be it; we nevertheless pursue them both, exercising our judgment and sensitivity as to which of these objectives should be emphasized in a given circumstance. So one week we dwell on the Mattot aspect of galut, regarding the challenges of its alien environment as something to resist and repel – thereby strengthening our resistance and hardening our inner resolve; and the next week we focus on the Massei approach to exile, exploring the ways in which our interaction with our galut environment serves to elevate it and transform it into a holier and more G-dly place.
But what happens when Mattot and Massei unite into a single Torah-reading? Then the “directive of the week” is to integrate them both into a single approach to galut. “Living with the times” in such a week means discovering how your interaction with a hostile environment is not a challenge to your values and convictions, but their strengthening and their affirmation. It means discovering how your “toughness” and intractability in your faith is not a hindrance to achievement and creativity, but actually an aid in your endeavor to transform the corner of the world to which you have been dispatched on the mission to build a home for G-d.
Based on the Rebbe’s talks on Shabbat Matot-Massei in the years 5729 (1969), 5733 (1973), 5735 (1975) and 5746 (1986), and on other occasions[17]
Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber
[1] The weekly parashah is read in full on Shabbat morning, and in part on Mondays, Thursdays and (the previous) Shabbat afternoon. An old Chassidic custom, publicized and propagated by the previous Lubavitcher Rebbe, Rabbi Yosef Yitzchak Shneerson (1880-1950), is to study a part of the weekly parashah, together with Rashi’s commentary, each day, so that one completes the entire parashah in the course of the week.
[2] The Jewish calendar year varies in length from as few as 353 to as many as 385 days (see Jewish Time, WIR, vol. X, no. 25). Furthermore, when Shabbat coincides with a festival, the festival reading, rather than the weekly parashah, is read. So depending on the length of the year and the arrangement of its festival days vis-a-vis the days of the week, a year may contain anywhere from 46 to 54 readings in its annual Torah-reading cycle.
[3] Each parshah is divided into seven readings (aliyot), for the seven individuals who are called up to read from the Torah. On those weeks when a joint parshah is read, the fourth aliyah begins in the first parshah and ends in the second; emphasizing the fact that the two parshiot now constitute a single parshah.
[4] See Shaloh, introduction to Parashat Vayeishev.
[7] Talmud, Sanhedrin 37a.
[9] See A Home for Twelve, WIR, vol. X, no. 26.
[12] The name of a thing being the sum of its essence – see The Gap (WIR, vol. X, no. 39) and sources cited there.
[13] Talmud, Pesachim 87b.
[14] “Moses bequeathed the Torah and the mitzvot only to the people of Israel … and to whoever desires to convert from the other nations … but one who does not desire to do so is not compelled to accept the Torah and mitzvot. In addition, Moses commanded, in the name of G-d, to compel all inhabitants of the world to accept the mitzvot commanded to the children of Noah” (Mishneh Torah, Laws of Kings 8:10). The universal Noachide mitzvot are: belief in G-d; prohibitions against murder, theft, adultery and incest, blasphemy, and cruelty to animals; and the establishment of a legal and social justice system.
[16] Rabbeinu Bechayei and Ohr HaChaim on Numbers 33:1.
[17] Likkutei Sichot, vol. XVIII, pp. 378ff; ibid., vol. XXVIII, pp. 279ff.; et al.
Tags: Holy Temple, month, teaching, growth, galut, Torah, Three Weeks, Jewish calendar, purpose, divine sparks, inspiration, positivity, Trust in G-d, your mission, change, fusion, mourning, the twelve tribes, parsha, lessons from Torah, roots, strength, perspective, life's journey, the seven weeks of comfort, raising the sparks, Alter Rebbe, transformation, community, exile, festivals, Moshiach, Cosmic Order, unity, individuality
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August 4th, 2015
This is the land that shall fall to you as an inheritance, the land of Canaan according to its borders. Your southern side shall begin in the Zin Desert alongside Edom… the western boundary shall be the Mediterranean Sea… this shall be your northern boundary: from the Mediterranean Sea you shall turn to Mount Hor… you shall draw for yourselves as the eastern border from Hazar-enan to Shefam… this shall be the Land for you, according to its borders all around
Numbers 34:2-12
Judah has gone into exile because of suffering and great servitude. She dwelled among the nations, but found no rest; all her pursuers overtook her in narrow straits [bein hameitzarim]
Megillat Eichah [Lamentations] 1:3
At one time or another we all come face to face with an event that appears so terrible that it threatens us emotionally and psychologically. A loved one passes away, G-d forbid. A job that was thought to be secure is lost. One’s health suddenly deteriorates. Even the staunchest optimist will admit that life can be a wild roller-coaster ride, one moment lifting us to the greatest heights, the next plunging us to the lowest depths. How are we to view the difficulties of our life, when everything appears bleak and we cannot see beyond the limits of our own pain.
Contrary to our experience of challenging events, the Torah tells us that “Nothing bad descends from Above.”[1] This statement by our Sages implies that everything that happens is inherently good, for it stems from G-d, the “epitome of goodness.” But how are we to reconcile Torah’s truths with our perceived reality? The argument that we are finite and therefore unable to see the larger, infinite picture may be sufficient for some, but the persistent skeptic would still demand empirical proof of the puzzling notion that pain equals joy. Furthermore, even assuming that there is some good to be found within difficulty, if G-d truly desires to give us good, why must He send His “blessings” in such strange “containers”; why does He not just send us clear, open blessings without our having to experience pain and distress at all?
Times of Pain
This week’s parshah, Parshat Massei, is always read during the period known as “bein hameitzarim”,[2] the three weeks between the fasts of the 17th of Tammuz and the 9th of Av. These two dates are recognized as the saddest in the Jewish calendar. Indeed, the events that occurred on these days have dramatically altered the course of history, the most notable consequence being our present galut (exile).[3] The 17th of Tammuz is the day on which the service in the First Temple was disrupted, and on which the walls of the Second Temple were breached.[4] The 9th of Av is the day on which both Temples were destroyed.[5] The Three Weeks are thus a time of mourning: we are forbidden to make weddings, listen to music, purchase new clothing, and do anything that brings excessive joy.
Torah does not deal in coincidences; therefore, the fact that Massei is always read during the “Three Weeks” indicates that they share a common theme.[6] At first glance, however, nothing seems to be further from the truth. Parshat Massei contains G-d’s final instructions to the Jewish people prior to their arrival in Eretz Yisroel (the Land of Israel), including a description of the land’s exact boundaries, while, in contrast, the events of the Three Weeks caused the nation to be exiled from that very land!
In order to reconcile this apparent contradiction we must first examine the deeper dimension of the elements mentioned above, namely, the Land of Israel and exile.
It is no accident that among all the lands of the world, only Eretz Yisroel has been given the title “the Holy Land.” In the words of the Scripture, it is “the land constantly under G-d’s scrutiny; the eyes of G-d are on it at all times, from the beginning of the year until the end of the year.”[7] When we are in a state of spiritual freedom, as was the case throughout the 810 years that the Temples stood, it is a land in which G-d’s blessings can be perceived as such, without the obscuring veil of nature, and our sustenance is recognized as emanating directly from the hand of G-d. Indeed, it is the only land in which divine revelation occurred on a regular basis, via the ten miracles that occurred daily in the Temple.[8] Thus, in spiritual terms, Eretz Yisroel represents G-dliness as it is clearly manifest in creation.
In the other lands, however, G-d has chosen to hide His presence behind the cloak of nature. Consequently, we associate our sustenance with the toil of our own hands and not with divine blessing. In essence, this is the galut-state, when even in the “Holy Land” nature appears to be the force controlling our destiny, and we are unable to perceive the G-dly spirit that guides us. “We no longer see Your wonders,”[9] laments the exiled Jew. In reality, nothing has changed—the world is still controlled by the Divine Designer of mankind—it is only our perception that has altered.
Although Eretz Yisroel and galut are polar-opposite states of being, it is precisely the Land of Israel—or more specifically, the borders thereof—that lends the possibility for exile to occur. Just as in the physical sense, the borders mentioned in the parshah delineate the extent of Eretz Yisroel and thereby facilitate the existence of “other lands,”[10] the same is true in the spiritual realm: the fact that G-dliness is revealed only in a limited “space” means that all other “space” remains devoid of this revelation.[11]Therefore, the borders of Eretz Yisroel, i.e., the limitations placed on divine revelation, actually create the “space” in which galut, a time when G-dliness is obscured, may exist. In other words, the masking of G-dliness stems from the fact that its manifestation is limited. Thus, the possibility of galut, the time when divinity is obscured, (the theme of the Three Weeks), is a direct result of the limitations placed on the “Land of Israel” (the theme of Massei).
This explanation elucidates the connection between Parshat Massei and “bein hameitzarim” in a somewhat negative light—namely that the constraints placed on Eretz Yisroel enable such tragedies as those that occurred on the 17th of Tammuz and the 9th of Av. However, if we look a little deeper, a completely different view unfolds.
Times of Growth
Although on the surface galut appears to be purely a terrible punishment for our sins, on a more profound level the very opposite is true: the challenge of galut is what unleashes the greatest, most potent forces of our soul.
For almost 2000 years, we have suffered at the hands of others. We have been tortured, enslaved and banished. Yet despite the countless regimes that have oppressed us at different times and in different places, one constant has remained: our unwavering faith in G-d, His Torah and in the ultimate Redemption. There is nothing that the Jewish people who lived during the “golden years” of Jerusalem could have done to express such deep soul-commitment. Only we, who live in the darkness of exile have been challenged to tap the deepest, most powerful resources of our soul, our quintessential self where “Israel and G-d are completely one.” As the Psalmist writes:[12] “Min hameitzar korosi ka”—from out of distress I called to G-d, “anani bamerchav ka”—with abundance, G-d answered me. Through distress we are able to access our true, limitless core—the spark of G-d that is the soul. This is the true purpose of exile, to allow us to access and express our infinite abilities.[13]
The same applies to the boundaries of the Land of Israel. Although they represent the limitation of G-d’s manifestation in the world, it is precisely that concealment which awakens the soul’s true potential.
This is the lesson we may derive from Parshat Maasei and the period of “bein hameitzarim.” We must view difficulty not as a wholly negative experience, but as the greatest facilitator of growth, for it compels us to reach deep inside ourselves and tap the wealth of resources that are buried within. And while these situations are often beyond our control, the attitude with which we meet them is within our control. We have the ability to accept the challenges as they were meant to be—opportunities for positive growth and development. Although we may never fully understand why certain things happen, ultimately, they can—and therefore must—make us better people.
Based on an address of the Rebbe given Motzai Shabbat Parshat Mattot-Massei 5739 (1979).[14]
Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Ari Sollish
[1] Bereishis Rabbah 51:3; Midrash Tehillim: Psalm 149; Tanya, Iggeres Hakodesh 11.
[2] Literally, “between the constraints,” or “in narrow straits.” This term comes from a verse in Megillat Eicha [Lamentations], which is read on the 9th of Av to recount the sorrow we experienced when we were exiled.
[3] Some of the other tragic events that occurred on these dates: on the 17th of Tammuz in the year 2448 from creation (1313 bce), Moses descended from Mount Sinai to find the Jewish people worshiping the Golden Calf, prompting him to smash the Tablets; on the 9th of Av in the year 2449 (1312 bce), G-d decreed that the entire generation would perish in the desert, after the nation—swayed by the biased report of the spies—refused to enter the Land of Israel.
[4] An opinion in Talmud Yerushalmi states that the walls of the first Temple were also breached on this day; but, due to the trauma they experienced, the exact date was forgotten.
[5] The First Temple by the Babylonians in the year 3338 (423 bce) and the Second Temple by the Romans in 3829 (69 ce).
[6] Shaloh, [acronym for Shnei Luchos Habris by R’ Yeshayah Hurwitz, 1560 – 1630] beginning of Parshat Vayeishev.
[8] Ethics of the Fathers 5:5.
[10] Every physical entity occupies space. Therefore, in order for more than one entity to exist, there must be clearly defined measurements that delineate each entity. The same is true regarding land: in order for there to be more than one country, there must be clearly defined boundaries outlining where one land ends and the other begins.
[11] The reason why the physical Land of Israel is finite, limited to the precise boundaries laid out by G-d, is because spiritually, G-d’s presence is not manifest throughout the world; it is only in certain, specifically defined “spaces” that we clearly perceive G-dliness. Therefore, in the Messianic Age, when G-d’s presence will be revealed throughout creation, “Eretz Yisroel will spread out and cover the entire earth”—Yalkut Shimoni 503. See also Likkutei Torah on Maasei, 89b.
[13] This is the deeper explanation as to why we refer to “the three weeks”—the catalyst of exile—as “bein hameitzarim.” The term “meitzar” (distress) alludes to the positive potential latent in galut, as expressed in the aforementioned verse from Psalms.
[14] Likkutei Sichot, vol. XXXVIII, pp.122-126.
Tags: space, truth, soul, mourning, G-d, suffering, Holy Land, pain, Torah, growth, ninth of av, purpose, sadness, exile, revelation, Holy Temple, Three Weeks, darkness, potential, divine sparks, Divine knowledge, concealment, Trust in G-d, reality, boundaries, perception, emotions, galut, Life's Challenges, faith
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