July 24th, 2015
Why are we here?
This, the mother of all questions, is addressed in turn by the various streams of Torah thought, each after its own style.
The Talmud states, simply and succinctly, “I was created to serve my Creator.”[1] The moralistic-oriented works of Mussar describe the purpose of life as the refinement of one’s character traits. The Zohar says that G-d created us “in order that His creations should know Him.”[2] Master kabbalist Rabbi Isaac Luria[3] offered the following reason for creation: G-d is the essence of good, and the nature of good is to bestow goodness. But goodness cannot be bestowed when there is no one to receive it. To this end, G-d created our world—that there should be recipients of His goodness.[4]
Chassidic teaching explains that these reasons, as well as the reasons given by other kabbalistic and philosophical works, are but the various faces of a singular divine desire for creation, as expressed in the various “worlds” or realms of G-d’s creation. Chassidism also offers its own formulation of this divine desire: that we “make a home for G-d in the material world.”[5]
A Home For G-d
What does it mean to make our world a home for G-d?
A basic tenet of our faith is that “the entire world is filled with His presence”[6] and “there is no place void of Him.”[7] So it’s not that we have to bring G-d into the material world—He is already there. But G-d can be in the world without being at home in it.
Being “at home” means being in a place that is receptive to your presence, a place devoted to serving your needs and desires. It means being in a place where you are your true, private self, as opposed to the public self you assume in other environments.
The material world, in its natural state, is not an environment hospitable to G-d. If there is one common feature to all things material, it is their intrinsic egocentrism, their placement of the self as the foundation and purpose of existence. With every iota of its mass, the stone proclaims: “I am.” In the tree and in the animal, the preservation and propagation of the self is the focus of every instinct and the aim of every achievement. And who more than the human being has elevated ambition to an art and self-advancement to an all-consuming ideal?
The only thing wrong with all this selfishness is that it blurs the truth of what lies behind it: the truth that creation is not an end in itself, but a product of and vehicle for its Creator. And this selfishness is not an incidental or secondary characteristic of our world, but its most basic feature. So to make our world a “home” for G-d we must transform its very nature. We must recast the very foundations of its identity from a self-oriented entity into something that exists for a purpose that is greater than itself.
Every time we take a material object or resource and enlist it in the service of G-d, we are effecting such a transformation. When we take a piece of leather and make a pair of tefillin out of it, when we take a dollar bill and give it to charity, when we employ our minds to study a chapter of Torah—we are effecting such a transformation. In its initial state, the piece of leather proclaimed, “I exist”; now it says, “I exist to serve my Creator.” A dollar in pocket says, “Greed is good”; in the charity box it says, “The purpose of life is to not to receive, but to give.” The human brain says, “Enrich thyself”; the brain studying Torah says, “Know thy G-d.”
The Frontier of Self
There are two basic steps to the endeavor of making our world a home for G-d. The first step involves priming the material resource as a “vessel for G-dliness”: shaping the leather into tefillin, donating the money to charity, scheduling time for Torah study. The second step is the actual employment of these “vessels” to serve the divine will: binding the tefillin on the arm and head, using the donated money to feed the hungry, studying Torah, etc.
At first glance, it would seem that the second step is the more significant one, while the first step is merely an enabler of the second, a means to its end. But the Torah’s account of the first home for G-d built in our world places the greater emphasis on the construction of the “home,” rather than its actual employment as a divine dwelling.
A sizable portion of the book of Exodus is devoted to the construction of the Sanctuary built by the children of Israel in the desert. The Torah, which is usually so sparing with words that many of its laws are contained within a single word or letter, is uncharacteristically elaborate. The fifteen materials used in the Sanctuary’s construction are listed no less than three times;[8]the components and furnishings of the Sanctuary are listed eight times;[9]and every minute detail of the Sanctuary’s construction, down to the dimensions of every wall-panel and pillar and the colors in every tapestry, is spelled out not once, but twice—in the account of G-d’s instructions to Moses, and again in the account of the Sanctuary’s construction.
All in all, thirteen chapters are devoted to describing how certain physical materials were fashioned into an edifice dedicated to the service of G-d and the training of the Kohanim (priests) who were to officiate there. (In contrast, the Torah devotes one chapter to its account of the creation of the universe, three chapters to its description of the revelation at Mount Sinai, and eleven chapters to the story of the Exodus).
The Sanctuary is the model and prototype for all subsequent homes for G-d constructed on physical earth. So the overwhelming emphasis on its “construction” stage (as opposed to the “implementation” stage) implies that in our lives, too, there is something very special about forging our personal resources into things that have the potential to serve G-d. Making ourselves “vessels” for G-dliness is, in a certain sense, a greater feat than actually bringing G-dliness into our lives.
For this is where the true point of transformation lies—the transformation from a self-oriented object to a thing committed to something greater than itself. If G-d had merely desired a hospitable environment, He need not have bothered with a material world; a spiritual world could just as easily have been enlisted to serve Him. What G-d desired was the transformation itself: the challenge and achievement of selfhood transcended and materiality redefined. This transformation and redefinition occurs in the first stage, when something material is forged into an instrument of the divine. The second stage is only a matter of actualizing an already established potential, of putting a thing to its now natural use.
Good Morning
You meet a person who has yet to invite G-d into his or her life. A person whose endeavors and accomplishments—no matter how successful and laudable—have yet to transcend the self and self-oriented goals.
You wish to expand her horizons—to show him a life beyond the strictures of self. You wish to put on tefillin with him, to share with her the divine wisdom of Torah.
But he’s not ready yet. You know that the concept of serving G-d is still alien to a life trained and conditioned to view everything through the lens of self. You know that before you can introduce her to the world of Torah and mitzvot, you must first make her receptive to G-dliness, receptive to a life of intimacy with the divine.
So when you meet him on the street, you simply smile and say, “Good morning!” You invite her to your home for a cup of coffee or a Shabbat dinner. You make small talk. You don’t, at this point, suggest any changes in his lifestyle. You just want her to become open to you and what you represent.
Ostensibly, you haven’t “done” anything. But in essence, a most profound and radical transformation has taken place. The person has become a vessel for G-dliness.
Of course, the purpose of a vessel is that it be filled with content; the purpose of a home is that it be inhabited. The Sanctuary was built to house the presence of G-d. But it is the making of vessels for G-dliness that is life’s greatest challenge and its most revolutionary achievement.
Based on an address by the Rebbe, Chanukah 5747 (1987)[10]
Adapted from the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe by Yanki Tauber
[1]. Talmud, Kiddushin 82b.
[2]. Zohar, part II, 42b.
[3]. The “Holy Ari,” 1534-1572.
[4]. Etz Chaim, Shaar HaKelalim, ch. 1.
[5]. Tanya, ch. 36 (after Midrash Tanchuma, Nasso 16); Yom Tov Shel Rosh Hashanah 5666, p. 7; ibid., p. 446; see Likkutei Sichot, vol. VI, p. 21, notes 69 and 70.
[8]. “Gold, silver and copper; blue-, purple-, and red-dyed wool; linen and goat hair; red-dyed rams’ skins, tachash skins, and acacia wood; oil for lighting, and spices for the anointing oil and the incense; shoham stones and gemstones for setting in the ephod and in the breastplate.” The above verses are from Exodus 25:3-7, in G-d’s initial instructions to Moses; the list again appears in full in Moses’ repetition of these instructions to the people of Israel (ibid., 35:5-9), and a third time in the Torah’s account of the people’s donation of these materials and G-d’s appointment of Betzalel to head the construction of the Sanctuary (ibid., vs. 22-35).
[9]. In G-d’s instructions to Moses (ibid., chs. 25-27); in G-d’s instructions to anoint the Sanctuary’s parts and “vessels” (30:26-28); in G-d’s appointment of Betzalel (31:7-11); in Moses’ instruction to the people (35:11-19); in the Torah’s account of the making of the parts and vessels of the Sanctuary (36:8-39:32); in the Torah’s account of how the finished parts and vessels were brought to Moses (39:33-41); in G-d’s instructions to Moses to erect and anoint the Sanctuary (40:3-11); and in the account of the Sanctuary’s erection (40:18-33).
[10]. Likkutei Sichot, vol. XXV, pp. 424-435.
Tags: home, purpose of life, spiritual vessels, Yanki Tauber, Temple
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July 24th, 2015
On the first of Adar, the announcements go out regarding shekalim and kilayim.
Talmud, Shekalim 1:1
On the first day of the month of Adar, the bet-din (court of Torah law) would dispatch messengers to every Jewish community regarding two mitzvot pertinent to that time of the year: shekalim, the half-shekel that each Jew contributed annually toward the communal offerings in the Beit HaMikdash (Holy Temple), and kilayim, the anti-hybridization laws which prohibit the cross-breeding and mixed planting of different species.
Every morning and afternoon, a collective offering by the entire community of Israel was offered in the Beit HaMikdash. The Torah instructs that each Jew should give exactly half a shekel (“the rich man should give no more, the pauper no less”[6]) annually, so that all should be equal partners in these offerings. Also, the Torah specifically instructs that each year’s offerings should come from that year’s half-shekels, the year to be reckoned from the first of Nissan to the first of Nissan.[7] Thus, the bet-din sent out messengers one month before this date, on the first of Adar, so that the coins could be collected in time for the new round of offerings. To this day, we commemorate the event by reading from the Torah the section that speaks of these half-shekels (Exodus 30:11-16) on the Shabbat that falls on or before the first of Adar.
The second mission dispatched by the bet-din on the first of Adar concerned the laws of kilayim. The Torah commands a series of laws prohibiting the intermixing of various elements and species. These include laws against cross-breeding two species of animals, mixing wool and linen in the making of a garment, cooking meat with milk,[8] and sowing or planting together certain species of plants. It is regarding this last category that messengers of the court were dispatched on the first of Adar, this being the season when the winter sowing begins to make its appearance in the fields; these messengers issued warnings to cleanse the fields of all hybrid growth, and then took the necessary steps against those who failed to do so.
Nothing in Torah is incidental. The fact that these two proclamations were issued on the same day implies an intrinsic connection between them. Indeed, they represent the respective spiritual and physical expressions of the same concept.
The laws of kilayim express the idea that the boundaries of creation are to be respected and safeguarded.[9] Wheat and grapes, or wool and linen, or meat and milk, are each “kosher” elements, which the Jew is permitted and encouraged to make use of toward positive and G-dly ends; but they must be kept separate and distinct. As soon as they are sown, spun or cooked together, they constitute a corruption of the order that that G-d established in His world. They are now assur (“forbidden” and “imprisoned”), and can no longer serve man in his sanctification of the physical creation.[10]
What is true of the physical world also applies to the spiritual reality: here, too, are boundaries and distinctions that must not be violated. A case in point is the spiritual essence of time: each hour, day, week, month and year has its spiritual quality, unique to it alone; in the words of the Talmud, “Once its time has passed, its offering is no longer valid.”[11] Thus there are mitzvot that can be observed only during the day, and mitzvot regulated to the night; mitzvot pertaining to certain hours of the day, or certain days of the week, month or year. There is also the delineation between years, expressed by the law that one year’s shekalim should not be used for another year’s offerings. For though each year seems but a repetition of the cycle of months and dates of its predecessor, each, in truth, possesses a distinct quality and spiritual essence. As Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi writes in his Tanya, “Each year there descends [from On High] a new and renewed light that has never yet shone, which illuminates … all worlds, supernal and terrestrial, that derive their vitality from it.”[12]
Mirror and Priority
This also explains the order in which the above-quoted mishnah lists the two missions that went out on the first of Adar. From a purely technical standpoint, it would seem that the announcement regarding the kilayim was the more urgent one: after all, there remained a full month to the Nissan deadline for the shekalim, while every additional moment that a kilayim-growth remains in a field constitutes a grave violation of Torah law. Furthermore, the shekalim that arrived at the Beit HaMikdash after the first of Nissan could still be included, retroactively, in all offerings of the year: as the Talmud relates, the offerings of the new year were “credited” to all who, for whatever reason, failed to send their half-shekel in time and would do so in the course of the year.[13]
Nevertheless, the Talmud puts shekalim before kilayim, implying that the spiritual delineation of boundaries represented by the shekalim precedes the physical differentiations of kilayim. For while the spiritual and physical realms mirror each other, one must never forget which follows from which–which is the cause and which is its effect. In all matters, the spiritual must precede and determine the material, not vice versa, G-d forbid.
Thus the Torah says: “Tithe, so that you shall prosper.”[14] For the fruitfulness of the earth and its generous supply of its inhabitants with all that sustains life derives from its spiritual counterpart–the generosity of man to man. When man observes the mitzvah of charity, this creates the spiritual conduit through which all earthly blessings might flow.
Based on a letter by the Rebbe to a free loan society, Adar 1, 5724 (February 14, 1964)[15]
Adapted from the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe by Yanki Tauber
[7]. Talmud, Rosh Hashanah 7a.
[8]. See Shaloh on Exodus 23:19; Rabbeinu Bechayei, ibid.
[9]. Talmud, Chulin 60a; Nachmanides on Leviticus 19:19; Zohar III, 86b. See Peace: A Definition, WIR, vol. VI, no. 22.
[11]. Talmud, Berachot 26a (as per Tosfot, ibid.). Cf. Zohar III, 94b: “Every day has its function.”
[12]. Iggeret HaKodesh 14.
[13]. Talmud, Shekalim 3:4; Ketubot 108a.
[14]. As per the Talmudic play on the words asser te’asser (Deuteronomy 14:22), Talmud, Shabbat 119a.
[15]. Igrot Kodesh, vol. XXIII, pp. 114-116.
Tags: charity, spiritual and material, equality, kosher, Yanki Tauber
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July 24th, 2015
The 79,976 words and the 304,805 letters of the Chumash (the “Five Books of Moses”) encapsulate the entirety of Torah. Everything is here: all of Halachah (Torah law), the stories of the Midrash, the vast homiletic sea of the Aggadah, the innumerable insights of the mystical, philosophical and ethical Torah works of all generations. Indeed, there is nary a superfluous word or letter in the Chumash: if a verse is lyrically repetitive, if two words are used where one would suffice or a longer word when a shorter word would, there is a message here–a new concept, another law. Rabbi Akiva, the Talmud tells us, would derive “mounds upon mounds of laws from the serif of a letter” in Torah.[2]
Yet there are two sections in Torah, Vayak’hel (Exodus 35:1-38:20) and Pekudei (Exodus 38:21-40:38), that consist, almost in their entirety, of a seemingly needless repetition. In the previous sections of Terumah and Tetzaveh (Exodus 25-30), the Torah gives a detailed account of G-d’s instructions to Moses regarding the construction of the Sanctuary, its furnishings, and the priestly garments worn by those who would perform the service in it. Then, in Vayak’hel and Pekudei, it tells how the Jewish people carried out these instructions. Again we are informed of the construction of the Sanctuary in exacting detail, down to the dimensions of every pillar, wall-panel and tapestry, the materials in every garment, and the decorative forms sculpted in the gold of the menorah (twenty-two goblets, eleven spheres and nine flowers). A single sentence, on the order of “The children of Israel made the Sanctuary exactly as G-d had commanded Moses,” would have “saved” the Torah more than a thousand words!
The Translation
Actually, there were two Sanctuaries: a heavenly model and a terrestrial edifice. In His instructions to Moses, G-d refers to “the form that you are being shown on the mountain.”[3] On the summit of Mount Sinai, Moses was shown an image of the home in which G-d desired to dwell; at the foot of Mount Sinai, the people of Israel translated this spiritual vision into a structure of physical cedar and gold.
Never in history had a translator been challenged by two more diverse “languages.” Spirit is nebulous, matter is concrete. Spirit is infinite, matter is defined by time and space. Most importantly, spirit is naturally subservient, readily bespeaking a higher truth, while matter recognizes nothing save its own immanence. Yet it was a physical abode that G-d desired. It was in the earthly Sanctuary that the divine presence came to reside, not in the spiritual Sanctuary atop Mount Sinai.
Yes, the material universe is the lowliest of G-d’s creations–lowliest in the sense that it is least aware of its innate nullity before G-d, least expressive of its divine source and purpose. But it is precisely because of their “lowliness” that G-d wanted that physical substances should be made into a Sanctuary to house Him. G-d desired that the material world, with all its limitations and imperfections, should be sanctified and elevated by being made to serve a G-dly end.[4]
Therein lies the lesson of the two Sanctuaries: Do not be discouraged by the tremendous gap between spirit and matter, between theory and practice, between the ideal and the real. True, it is virtually impossible to duplicate the perfection of the spirit on mundane earth, but it is not a duplication that G-d wants. He wants an earthly sanctuary, a sanctuary constructed of the finite materials of physical life.
To emphasize this point, the Torah expends close to two hundred “extra” verses in its account of the earthly construction of the Sanctuary. Every wall-panel, every tent-peg and every tassel made by the children of Israel resembled, in every detail, the spiritual model described several chapters earlier; but it was a different item, a different Sanctuary.
Yes, earth must be made to mirror the heavens, to reflect, in every detail, the divine blueprint for life. But it remains earthly in nature and substance–a physical home for G-d, employing the unique characteristics of the physical to express the divine truth.
Based on an address by the Rebbe, Shabbat Parashat Vayak’hel-Pekudei, 5718 (March 15, 1958)[5]
Adapted from the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe by Yanki Tauber
[2]. Talmud, Menachot 29b. Cf. Jerusalem Talmud, Pe’ah 2:4: “Scripture, Mishnah, Talmud and Aggadah, and anything a qualified student is destined to state before his teacher, all was already said to Moses at Sinai.”
[3]. Exodus 25:40, 26:30, and 27:8.
[4]. “G-d desired a dwelling in the lowly realms” (Midrash Tanchuma, Nasso 16); “This is what man is all about, this is the purpose of his creation and of the creation of all worlds, supernal and ephemeral….” (Tanya, ch. 36).
[5]. Likkutei Sichot, vol. I, pp. 195-198.
Tags: Holy Temple, spiritual and material, Letters, Yanki Tauber, language
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July 24th, 2015
In the beginning, a simple divine light filled the entirety of existence… When there arose in His simple will the desire to create the worlds, He contracted His light, withdrawing it to the sides and leaving a void and an empty space in its center, to allow for the existence of the worlds. (However, this was not an absolute void, for there remained a residue of the divine light within the void.) He then drew a single line of His infinite light into the void to illuminate the worlds….
Rabbi Isaac Luria (the “Ari”)[1]
First of all, […] will marry […] in accordance with the law of Moses and Israel. They will not hide away nor conceal anything from each other. They will live together in love and affection, as is the way of the world…
From the text of the pre-marital contract (tena’im)
A man without a wife, say our sages, is but “half a body.”[2] For man was created in the image of G-d, and the divine image has both a male and female aspect. As the book of Genesis states: “And G-d created man in His image, in the image of G-d He created him; male and female He created them.”[3]
Man was initially created “male and female”—as a “single being with two faces.”[4] Soon after, however, G-d separated the female side from the male, recasting them as two distinct beings, man and woman. From that point on, man seeks woman and woman yearns for man. In marriage, the divine analogue is made whole again, as man and woman regain their original state as a single entity.[5]
The Splitting of the Light
The separation of the female from the male, creating the tension that draws them to each other and to their ultimate reunion, is a theme that runs through the entire process of creation, all the way to its very beginnings in the primordial will of G-d.
In the teachings of Kabbalah, the act of creation is described as an act of tzimtzum—an act of contraction, concealment and withdrawal. In the beginning, the “light” of G-d (i.e., the manifest expression of His omnipresence and omnipotence) filled the entirety of existence. A world such as ours—finite, self-defined and independent, with the capacity to turn away from and even deny its Creator—could not exist, for it would have been utterly nullified within the divine light. In order to allow for the existence of the world, G-d “contracted” His light, creating a “void” and “empty space” within which His infinite being and power is not manifest. Into this void G-d then allowed a single “line” (kav) of light to penetrate, through which flows a divine energy that is meted out to every level of reality in accordance with its capacity to receive it.
But the “line” is not the only source of divine energy in our world. For the withdrawal of divine light that occurred at the time of the tzimtzum was not absolute; rather, a “residue” (reshimu) of light remained within the “void.” This “residue” is the divine power of concealment and limitation (as opposed to the power of revelation and infinite expansion withdrawn by thetzimtzum). This divine energy does not contradict the existence of our finite and material word; on the contrary—it is the very source of its finiteness and materiality.
In other words, the divine light, as the expression of G-d’s infinite power and perfection, also includes the divine capacity for finite self-expression. In the words of the Kabbalist Rabbi Meir ibn Gabbai, “Just as He possesses the power of infinity, so does He possess the power of finiteness. For should you say that He possesses the power of infinity but does not possess the power of finiteness, you are detracting from His perfection.”[6] What to our perception was a tzimtzum—a contraction and concealment—was actually the separation of the divine power of finiteness from within the omnipotence of G-d. Originally, the divine light was utterly “simple” (i.e., not comprised of components or parts): the power of finiteness was not a distinct force, but simply a factor of the divine omnipotence. With thetzimtzum, the manifestation of the divine infinity was withdrawn beyond the parameters of the “void,” leaving behind the divine potential for limitation and definition, which is the source of finiteness and definitiveness of our reality.
Conquest and Cultivation
Our purpose in life is to undo the tzimtzum—to refill the “void” with divine light. There are two ways in which this is achieved. One way is to draw into the world the divine light that was withdrawn at the time of the tzimtzum. This means increasing the intensity of the light that flows through the “line” by gradually increasing our world’s capacity to receive it. Every time we do a mitzvah, we make the world more receptive to the divine truth, stimulating a greater infusion of infinite light via the “line.” Ultimately, the world is elevated to the point that it can receive the full intensity of the light coming from beyond the parameters of the “void,” and the area of the “void” is as saturated with the manifest presence of G-d as it was before the tzimtzum took place.
Another way of undoing the tzimtzum is to uncover the divine light already implicit in our world. Every time we exploit the very qualities that make our world “unspiritual”—its finiteness, physicality and materiality—toward a G-dly end, we bring to light its divine essence. The “residue” of the divine light that remained behind at the time of the tzimtzum, concealed and obscured by the coarseness of the worlds and the realities that derive from it, is thus revealed. The finiteness and physicality of our world is thus revealed as no less an expression of the divine truth than the infinity and spirituality that fills it from “above.”
The Contract
The power of infinity invested in the “line” is the male element in the divine light; the power of finiteness implicit in the “residue” is its female aspect. Originally they were one, a singular expression of the omnipotence of the divine. Then came the tzimtzum, separating them into two distinct forces.
Thus the endeavor to undo the concealment of the tzimtzum includes both a “male” and a “female” dynamic. On the one hand, we strive to overcome the limitations of our existence, to break free of the confines of the material. We strive to impose a higher, spiritual truth upon our world, to infuse the infinity of G-d into our finite lives. This is the “male” active/aggressive effort to overcome the nature of reality, to expand its frontiers, to draw in “new” G-dliness from the outside via the “line” that links our world to the infinity of G-d.
But there is also another aspect to our mission in life, another source of G-dliness for our world. A source that is to be found within, in the “residue” of divine light that underlies our reality. This is the “female” endeavor to seek the divine in what is, to stimulate our inner essence instead of overwhelming it with light from without. To cultivate rather than to conquer, to be rather than to do.
Ultimately, the goal is to effect the marriage between the male and female. When the light that was withdrawn from the void is reinfused and the “residue” of light left behind is revealed, the divine light will again be one. The “power of infinity” and the “power of finiteness” in our world will again constitute a singular expression of the quintessential truth of G-d.
According to Jewish custom, when a man and woman become engaged to marry, a contract—called tena’im (“conditions”)—is drawn up, in which the obligations of each side to the other are specified. The traditional text of the tena’im begins: “First of all, […] will marry […] in accordance with the law of Moses and Israel. They will not hide away nor conceal anything from each other. They will live together in love and affection, as is the way of the world….”
A marriage between two human beings is an analogue of the marriage of divine forces that is the purpose of creation. This is alluded to in the opening lines of the tena’im: the very first thing the parties promise each other (after declaring their commitment to marry each other) is that “they will not hide away nor conceal anything from each other.” Here we have the male and female elements of the cosmic marriage: that the divine light which was “hidden away” by the tzimtzum—withdrawn from the void—should be restored, and that the divine light which was “concealed” within the world should be revealed.
The achievement of these two aims will herald the era of Moshiach, when the diverse forces of creation “will live together in love and affection, as is the way of the world,” in harmony with itself and its G-d, envisioned by the Creator.
Based on a letter by the Rebbe dated Adar 18, 5704 (March 13, 1944)[7]
Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber
[1]. As recorded by his disciple, Rabbi Chaim Vital, in his works Etz Chaim (Heichal Adam Kadmon, 1:2; Shaar HaHakdamot, 4) and Otzrot Chaim (introduction to Shaar Ha-Igulim). The parenthetical sentence which speaks of the “residue” is from a gloss by Ramaz on Otzrot Chaim, which, according to Mikdash Melech, is also from the mouth of the Ari. See Likkutei Torah, addendum to Vayikra, 51b-54d; Sefer HaMaamarim 5699, p. 63; Sefer HaMaamarim 5702, p. 28-31; et al.
[2]. Zohar, part III, 7b.
[4]. Midrash Rabbah, Bereishit 8:1.
[5]. Cf. Genesis 2:23-24: “This, now, is a bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh; she shall be called woman, for she was taken from man. Thus shall a man leave his father and mother and cleave to his wife, and they shall become one flesh.”
[6]. Avodat HaKodesh 1:8.
[7]. Igrot Kodesh, vol. I, pp. 267-268.
Tags: Yanki Tauber, Divine light, marriage, purpose of life, tzimtzum, creation, light
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July 24th, 2015
A Sefer Torah (Torah scroll) contains 304,805 letters, each handwritten in black ink on parchment by a highly trained scribe. If a single letter is missing or deformed, the entire scroll is unfit for use.
Another important law regarding the Sefer Torah is that each of its letters must be ringed by an blank strip of parchment. Should a letter touch its fellow even by a hair, thereby violating the “white space” between them, again, the entire scroll is disqualified from use until the error is corrected.
Every Jew is a letter in G-d’s scroll. Our sages tell us that if a single Jewish soul had been absent from Sinai, the Torah could not have been given to us. The people of Israel comprise a single, interdependent entity; the lack or deformity of a single Jewish soul, G-d forbid, would spell a lack and deformity in us all.
But equally important is the inviolable “space” which distinguishes each and every one of us as a unique individual. Often, a strong sense of community and communal mission tend to obscure the differences between its members, blurring them to a faceless mass. Says the Torah: true, my hundreds of thousands of letters spell a single integral message. But this message is comprised of hundreds of thousands of voices, each articulating it in its own particular manner and medium. To detract from the individuality and uniqueness of one is to detract from the integrity of the collective whole.
Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber
Tags: jewish identity, Yanki Tauber, unity, Torah, Hebrew letters, community
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July 24th, 2015
And G-d spoke to Moses, saying: “Make a basin of copper, and its stand of copper, for washing, and place it between the Tent of Meeting and the altar…. And Aaron and his sons should wash their hands and feet from it, when they enter the Tent of Meeting… or when they approach the altar to serve…”
Exodus 30:17-20
Every morning, a person should wash his face, hands and feet before praying
Mishneh Torah, Laws of Prayer, 4:1
Since the destruction of the Holy Temple in Jerusalem more than nineteen hundred years ago, G-d does not commune with man in a “Tent of Meeting,” nor do kohanim offer sacrifices to Him upon the altar. Yet the Holy Temple and the service performed therein remain, to this very day, the vehicle for our relationship with G-d; it is only that today they exist in a more spiritual form. In the words of our sages: “The daily prayers were instituted in place of the daily offerings”[1]; “A person’s table is comparable to the altar”[2]; “From the day that the Holy Temple was destroyed, G-d has only the four cubits of Halachah (i.e., the places where Torah law is studied) in His world.”[3] Thus, many of the laws which govern our lives today derive from the laws of the Temple and its service: the designated times for prayer are the times in which the daily offerings were brought in the Temple; at the table, we dip our bread in salt because the salt was part of every offering placed upon the altar; and so on.
Before a kohen could perform a service in the Holy Temple or enter the Sanctuary, he first had to purify and sanctify himself by washing his hands and feet from a washstand especially constructed for that purpose. For although the Torah instructs to “know G-d in all your ways”[4] and that “all your deeds should be for the sake of Heaven,”[5] one must still distinguish between the world outside the Temple walls and that which is the exclusive domain of the Divine. When entering the sanctuary of G-d, one must cleanse himself of the materiality of everyday life, “washing his hands” of all that carries the taint of self-interest and mundanity.
This is the deeper significance of the law that obligates the kohen to wash his hands and feet before approaching the service of G-d. In its post-Temple incarnation, this law instructs the Jew to “wash his face, hands and feet” prior to the morning prayers, to cleanse and purify himself before making the transition from a material being in a material world to a soul communing with her Creator.[6]
Manual Labor
“If you eat of the toil of your hands,” proclaims the Psalmist, “fortunate are you, and good is to you.”[7] Chassidic teaching explains that the verse is telling us to invest only the most external of our faculties in the pursuit of material livelihood, leaving our higher talents free to devote themselves exclusively to our spiritual goals.
Our ancestors sustained themselves exclusively with the toil of their hands. The Patriarchs were shepherds, and the Jews who settled in the Holy Land were tillers of the soil. Many of the greatest Talmudic sages, whose teachings are a source of guidance and wisdom to us to this very day, were manual laborers: Rabbi Yochanan HaSandlar was a cobbler, Rabbi Joshua a blacksmith, Shammai a bricklayer. There were also merchants and shopkeepers, but business was free of the craftiness and obsessive preoccupation that characterize it today. Scholarship and teaching were not professions but sacred callings, not to be sullied by the remuneration of material reward. Earning one’s daily bread was a matter for the hands and feet and the most rudimentary of mental exercises, not something upon which to expend the mind’s ingenuity or the heart’s devotion, which were reserved only for life’s higher aims.
That world is no longer. Today, we not only invest time and energy in the endeavor to procure our material needs; we give it our “all”—our keenest mental capacities, our strongest passions, our most forceful will.[8] Our “careers” consume our days and nights, our minds and hearts, indeed, our very identities (we don’t ask each other, “What do you do to make money?”—we say, “What do you do?”).
This explains the difference between the two laws quoted at the beginning of this essay. The law that one should wash before praying is a derivative of the law that the kohanim must wash before entering the Sanctuary or performing a service in the Holy Temple. But while the Torah commands Aaron and his sons to wash their hands and feet, Maimonides rules that before the morning prayers one must wash his hands, feet and face.
In the time of the Temple, only the “hands and feet”—externalities of human life—were involved in material pursuits; so only they required purification and sanctification before being devoted to the service of G-d. The “face” of man—his higher prowess and inner self[9]—required no such cleansing, for it was not sullied in the first place.
But in later generations, the mundanity of life began its encroachment on our inner selves. Today, the effort to commune with G-d also requires the cleansing of our “faces” of the taint of the material. Our minds and hearts must be purged of the prejudices and affinities that adhere to it in the course of their involvement in earthly affairs, so that we can truly relate to the essence and purpose of life.
Based on the Rebbe’s talks on various occasions[10]
Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber
[1]. Talmud, Berachot 26a and b.
[2]. Ibid., Chagigah 27a.
[5]. Ethics of the Fathers 2:12.
[6]. Talmud, Shabbat 50a; Mishneh Torah, Laws of Prayer, 4:1.
[8]. The story is told of a Chassid who opened a factory for the manufacture of galoshes, and was soon completely consumed by his flourishing business. Said Rabbi Sholom DovBer of Lubavitch to him: “I have heard of people who insert their feet in galoshes; but to put one’s head in galoshes?!”
[9]. In the English language, the word “face” often refers to the external aspect of things (as in “surface,” “superficial,” “façade,” “on the face of it,” “put a face on things,” etc.). But the Hebrew word for “face,” panim, actually means “innerness,” expressing the idea that the face is that part of a person’s body in which his higher faculties reside and which most reflects his essential nature and personality.
[10]. Likkutei Sichot, vol. XXXI, pp. 188-189.
Tags: Holy Temple, work, Jewish law, kohanim, Yanki Tauber
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July 24th, 2015
Who is wise? He who foresees the future
Talmud, Tamid 32a
Chassidim ask: What is the difference between a wise man and a Rebbe?
And answer: A wise man foresees the future; a Rebbe makes the future.
Adapted from the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe by Yanki Tauber
Tags: questions, Rebbe, future, wisdom, Yanki Tauber
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July 24th, 2015
And Moses returned to G-d and said: “I beseech You: this nation has sinned a great sin, and have made themselves a god of gold. Now, if You will forgive their sin–; and if You will not, erase me from the book that You have written.”
And G-d said to Moses: “Whoever has sinned against Me, him will I erase from My book.”
Exodus 32:31-33
No human being is as deeply identified with the Torah as Moses: the prophet goes so far as to refer to the revealed wisdom of G-d as “The Torah of My servant Moses.”[1] As the Midrash explains, “Because he gave his life for it, it is called by his name.”[2]
And yet, there was one thing that was even more important to Moses than his connection with the Torah: his connection with the people of Israel. In order to secure G-d’s forgiveness of Israel for their sin in worshipping the Golden Calf, Moses was prepared to forgo his place in the Torah. Following Israel’s transgression, Moses gave G-d an “ultimatum”: if You cannot forgive them, obliterate my name from the book that You have written.
Beyond the Word
Our sages tell us that “the righteous emulate their Creator.”[3] The same is true in this case: in giving precedence to Israel over Torah, Moses was following the divine example. As the Midrash states, “Two things preceded G-d’s creation of the world: Torah and Israel. Still, I do not know which preceded which. But when Torah states ‘Speak to the children of Israel…,’ ‘Command the children of Israel…’—I know that Israel preceded all.”[4]
In other words, since G-d’s purpose in His creation of the universe is that the people of Israel should implement His will as outlined in the Torah, the concepts of “Torah” and “Israel” both precede the concept of a “world” in the Creator’s “mind.” Yet which is the more deeply rooted idea within the divine consciousness, Torah or Israel? Does Israel exist in order that the Torah might be implemented, or does the Torah exist in order to serve the Jew in the fulfillment of his mission and the realization of his relationship with G-d? Says the Midrash: if the Torah describes itself as a communication to Israel, this presumes the concept of Israel as primary to that of Torah. The very idea of a Torah was conceived by the divine mind as a tool to enhance the bond between G-d and His people—a bond that “predates” it and which it comes to serve.
Thus our sages have said: “A Jew, though he has sinned, is still a Jew.”[5]Even if the Jew sins, thereby violating his relationship with G-d as defined by Torah, he is still a Jew. For the essence of his relationship with G-d runs deeper than that aspect of it that is realized through his fulfillment of the divine will as formulated in the Torah.
Therein lies the deeper significance of Moses’ declaration to G-d, “…if You will not [forgive them], erase me from the book that You have written,” and G-d’s response, “Whoever has sinned against Me, him will I erase from My book.” At first glance, Moses’ words, dramatic and moving as they are, are very puzzling: other than its dubious value as some sort of “threat” to G-d (?!), how would Moses’ eradication from the Torah (G-d forbid) help the people of Israel attain atonement for their sin?
G-d’s reply also requires explanation. G-d seems to be rejecting Moses’ plea, saying, in effect, “I will do what I see fit with My Torah. You are in; they go out.” But that is not what G-d does. He forgives the Jewish people and gives them a second set of tablets engraved by His hand with the Ten Commandments to replace those broken as a result of their sin. Moses’ words have their desired effect: the Jewish people are rehabilitated, and their place in Torah is preserved, even enhanced.[6]
But according to what we said above, we can understand the deeper stratum of meaning implicit in their exchange. True, Moses is saying to G-d, Your people have sinned a great sin. A sin so great, a sin that so acutely violates Your relationship with them as formulated in Your “marriage contract”[7] with them, the Torah, that in terms of this relationship, their betrayal is unpardonable. But Your bond with them runs deeper than Torah, deeper than anything that can be expressed or destroyed by their deeds. If You cannot forgive them, it is because You are continuing to relate to them on Torah’s terms, continuing to define Your bond with them on a level on which their sin cannot be tolerated.
Well, said Moses, I, for one, will not accept such a state of affairs. If there is no way that Torah allows for their forgiveness, then erase me from the Torah. Cut me out of the very thing that has consumed my mind, heart and life so completely that the book that You have written has come to be called “the Torah of Moses.” Strip me of my very identity, so that I shall stand denuded of all save my very essence—my relationship with my people.
Now it was the Creator who emulated the righteous. “Whoever has sinned against Me, him will I erase from My book,” G-d promised. Those whom Torah cannot forgive, those with whom I can no longer sustain the relationship delineated by My book, I will exempt from My book. I will transcend My Torah to revert to the quintessential bond between them and Myself that precedes and supersedes My word, wisdom and will. I will follow your example, Moses, you who are prepared to relinquish everything you have and are, should it interfere with your most quintessential priority: your oneness with your people.
Ultimately, Israel’s “erasure” from the Torah resulted not in a diminution, G-d forbid, of their Torah-defined relationship with the Almighty, but, on the contrary, in its reinforcement and intensification. For once the quintessential bond between G-d and Israel had been reiterated, this selfsame relationship could now be manifested via the vehicle of Torah, which would now be “broadened” to accommodate that which earlier was beyond its realm. Torah would now incorporate the highest level of teshuvah (“return”)—the level on which “sins are transformed into virtues”[8] and the greatest failing and the most terrible betrayal can be sublimated into even greater achievement and even deeper connection.
In the words of our sages, “The First Tablets contained only the Ten Commandments. The Second Tablets contained also Halachah, Midrash and Aggadah.”[9] “Had Israel not sinned with the Golden Calf, they would have received only the five books of Moses and the book of Joshua. Why? Because, as the verse says, ‘Much[10] wisdom comes through much grief.’”[11]
The same is true regarding Moses: his readiness to divest himself, G-d forbid, of his identity as the vehicle through whom G-d communicated His Torah to man, actually resulted in a deepening of his identification with Torah, as we shall see.
You
Given the centrality of Moses’ role to the transmission of Torah to humanity, it comes as no surprise that his name is mentioned, often as much as several dozen times, in every single parshah (section) of the books of Exodus, Leviticus and Numbers.[12]
Every parshah, that is, but one. The single exception is the parshah of Tetzaveh (Exodus 27:20-30:10), in which the word “Moses” does not appear. Most amazingly, Tetzaveh is the section that, by rights, should be most saturated with Moses’ name: in the annual Torah-reading cycle,Tetzaveh is almost always read either on the Shabbat preceding the 7th of Adar or on the Shabbat that follows it. Adar 7 is the day most closely related to the life of Moses, as it is both the date of his birth (in the year 2368 from Creation—1393 BCE), and the date of his passing (2488—1273 BCE).[13]
In his commentary on Torah, the Baal haTurim [14] explains this omission as the result of Moses’ words, “erase me from the book that You have written.” Our sages have said that the words of a tzaddik, even when expressed conditionally, always have an effect.[15] So once Moses uttered these fateful words, they were destined to somehow be realized. Thus, concludes the Baal haTurim , even after G-d forgave the Jewish people and the conditions for Moses’ proclamation no longer applied, there remains one section of the Torah devoid of his name.[16]
But upon closer examination, Moses is hardly absent from the section of Tetzaveh—indeed, he is more profoundly present there than any mention of his name could possibly express. Tetzaveh consists entirely of G-d’s ongoing communication to Moses, instructing him with the details of the menorah-lighting in the Sanctuary, the construction of the priestly garments, and the Sanctuary’s inauguration. All that is missing is the customary “G-d spoke to Moses, saying…” that precedes the divine directives in the rest of the Torah. Thus, Tetzaveh begins almost in mid-sentence: “And you [Moses] shall command the children of Israel to bring you pure olive oil, crushed for illumination, to light up a constant lamp….”
On the surface, there is a diminution of Moses’ presence—his name does not appear in the entire parshah. But he is the subject of its first word,v’atah, “and you”—a word that is a truer and deeper reference to Moses than his name. A name, after all, is something that is given to a person, something appended to an already existent being (in Moses’ case, the name “Moses” was given to him by Pharaoh’s daughter when he was more than three months old); “you,” on the other hand, is a reference to the person himself. Thus, a person’s “name” represents his manifest self— his intellect and character, his communicable thoughts and feelings—while the abstract “you” refers to his anonymous essence, anonymous because it is too sublime and ethereal to be articulated.[17] Tetzaveh is thus the parshah in Torah that embodies the “you” of Moses, his transcendent essence.
This is fully in keeping with the Baal haTurim’s explanation that Moses’ anonymity in Tetzaveh is the result of his expressing the possibility that he be erased from G-d’s book. Moses was prepared to forgo his place in Torah because his bond with his people was on the level of his “you,” his truest, most quintessential self—a self even deeper than his connection to the Torah. In effect, Moses actually did obliterate his “name”—his identification with Torah—in order to be one with his people. As a result, G-d, too, was moved to forgo His insistence on relating to His people on the “name” level—i.e., on Torah’s terms[18]—and to reaffirm His quintessential bond with them. This was followed by a renewed giving of the Torah in which this deeper bond could also be “named” and expressed. Nevertheless, even after Moses’ and Israel’s identity were re-grounded in Torah, there remains one parshah—the parshah most intimately related to Moses—in which his anonymous essence reigns supreme, unencumbered by name and name-defined identity. Tetzaveh stands as an eternal tribute to Moses, as the Torah’s own testimony to his greatness in relinquishing everything, including his bond with Torah, in order to preserve his bond with his people and restore them to their G-d.
Moses Today
The “Mosesless” section of Tetzaveh attests to Moses’ self-sacrifice for his people, and is an example and lesson for every leader of Israel. It is also of eternal relevance to each and every one of us.
We all sense that beyond our expressed self lies a deeper, more intimate self—thoughts, feelings, convictions and potentials that are too sublime to articulate to others, or even to our own conscious self. But what effect does this deeper self have upon our actual behavior and accomplishments? Does it remain in a “seventh heaven” of abstraction, or can it somehow be made to impact our daily lives? We know that Moses, in his greatest moment, touched this purest core of self. But Moses was the most perfect human being to ever walk the face of earth;[19] what do his achievements imply to us?
The Talmud cites the verse “And now, Israel, what does G-d want of you? Only that you be in awe of G-d…,”[20] and asks: “Is awe of G-d a minor thing?” The answer given is: “Yes, for Moses it is a minor thing.”[21] But G-d’s request is addressed to all of Israel. How does Moses’ capacity for the awe of G-d answer the question?
In his Tanya, Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi explains:
“Each and every soul of the house of Israel contains within it something of the quality of our teacher Moses, for he is one of the ‘seven shepherds’ who feed vitality and G-dliness to the community of the souls of Israel… Moses is the sum of them all, called the ‘shepherd of faith’[22] in the sense that he nourishes the community of Israel with the knowledge and recognition of G-d.”[23]
Indeed, it was Moses’ uncompromising identification with his people, no matter to what depths they might have fallen, that ensured that each and every Jew, regardless of his spiritual station and moral circumstances, possesses, and can readily access, the “Moses” within him—his quintessential source of faith and oneness with his Creator.
Based on the Rebbe’s talks, Shabbat Tetzaveh 5740 and 5751 (March 1, 1980; February 23, 1991)[24] and on other occasions
Adapted from the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe by Yanki Tauber
[1]. Malachi 3:22. Cf. “The Five Books of Moses.”
[2]. Mechilta Beshalach 15:1.
[3] Midrash Rabbah, Bereishit 67:8.
[4]. Tana D’vei Eliyahu Rabbah, ch. 14.
[5].Talmud, Sanhedrin 44a.
[6]. See the passages from Midrash Rabbah, Shemot 46:1 and Talmud, Nedarim 22b, quoted below.
[7]. See Talmud, Berachot 57a on Deuteronomy 33:4; Midrash Tanchuma, Ki Tisa 30; Rashi, Exodus 34:1.
[9]. Midrash Rabbah, Exodus 46:1.
[11]. Talmud, Nedarim 22b. As Chassidic teaching explains, the “Oral Torah” —the dimension to Torah that was added in the wake of Israel’s sin, G-d’s forgiveness, and re-issue of Torah in its “broadened” form —is synonymous with the concept of teshuvah, as it employs the doubt, contradiction and refuted assumptions that are part of every intellectual discourse (and reach their height in the pilpul of the Babylonian Talmud) to achieve an even deeper appreciation of a truth than is possible by the more “tranquil” approach of faith and tradition (see Yom Tov Shel Rosh Hashanah 5666, pp. 85-93; Sefer HaMaamarim Melukat, vol. I, pp. 364-370; et al.).
[12]. The first of the Five Books of the Torah, Genesis, relates events that occurred before Moses’ birth. The fifth book, Deuteronomy, consists wholly of Moses’ words to the people of Israel before his passing.
[13]. Cf. Shaloh, introduction to Parshat Vayeishev: “ ‘To everything there is its season, the appointed time for each purpose’ (Ecclesisates 3:1). Certainly, the arrangements of the festivals and days of commemoration of the year, both the [biblical] ‘seasons of G-d’ and those rabbinically ordained … all have a connection to the [weekly] parshah in which they fall, for all is arranged by the hand of G-d.”
[14]. Rabbi Yaakov ben Asher, 1268-1340.
[16]. Baal HaTurim on Exodus 27:20.
[17]. Our sages have said that a person’s name is the conduit of his life, the channel that carries the flow of vitality from his soul to his body (Shaar haGilgulim, Hakdamah 23, et al.). But this itself indicates that it is secondary to the person’s very essence, as “the soul, prior to its entry into the body, has no name whatsoever (Likkutei Torah, Behar 41c).
[18]. “The entire Torah is names of G-d” (Nachmanides’ introduction to his commentary on Torah).
[19]. Maimonides’ introduction to chapter Chelek, principle 7.
[21]. Talmud, Berachot 33b.
[22] Raaya mehemna, usually translated “faithful shepherd”; here Rabbi Schneur Zalman renders it “shepherd of faith,” in the sense that Moses is Israel’s conduit of faith, the one who inculcates them with their quintessential recognition of G-d as a shepherd who feeds his flocks their vital needs.
[24]. Likkutei Sichot, vol. XXI, pp. 173-180; Sefer haSichot 5751, pp. 352-358.
Tags: Yanki Tauber, spiritual identity, Moses, forgiveness, humility, Torah, names
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July 24th, 2015
When Moses ascended to heaven to receive the Torah, the angels said to G-d: “What is a human doing among us? … Place Your glory upon the heavens!”
Talmud, Shabbat 88b
Shlomo der Geller (“The Yellow,” so called for his beard of that color), was a melamed (schoolteacher) in the Russian town of Nevel. Reb Shlomo had more than his share of personal troubles and hardships, but he was always full of life and cheer, and spent much of his time seeking ways to bring happiness to others.
Reb Shlomo would often journey to spend the festivals with his Rebbe, Rabbi Sholom DovBer of Lubavitch.[15] One Simchat Torah in Lubavitch, Rabbi Sholom DovBer noticed a particularly joyous commotion in one corner of the synagogue: Reb Shlomo had “lassoed” several children under their arms with his gartel (prayer belt), heaved them onto his back, and accompanied by their shouts of glee, was dancing circles around the Torah scrolls.
“Shlomo der Geller,” said the Rebbe, “is our ultimate response to the angels who opposed giving the Torah to man.”[16]
Adapted from the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe by Yanki Tauber
[15]. 1860-1920; fifth Rebbe of Chabad-Lubavitch.
[16]. Told by Rabbi Moshe Rubin, The Albany Haggadah, p. 21.
Tags: joy, Torah, dancing, angels, heaven and earth, Yanki Tauber
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July 24th, 2015
Rabbon Gamliel’s son, Shimon, would say: All my life I have been raised among the wise, and I have found nothing better for the body than silence…
Ethics of the Fathers, 1:17
The Talmud goes even further, with the amazing statement:
“What is man’s task in the world? To make himself as silent as the dumb.”[1]
Obviously, one can think of many cases in which silence is advisable. But is there no greater virtue? And is this indeed the purpose of life?
Essentially, the world is words—divine words. “G-d said: ‘Let there be light!’ and there was light.” G-d said: “May there be a firmament…” “May the waters gather…” “May the earth sprout forth…,”[2] and our world, in all its infinite variety and complexity, came into being. As chassidic teaching explains, these divine utterances not only caused these creations to materialize; they were, and continue to be, the very stuff of their existence. What we experience as physical light is, in truth, G-d’s articulation of His desire that there be light. Grass is our physical perception of the divine words “May the earth sprout forth greenery.” And so on.
Obviously, what emanated from G-d’s “mouth” was not a “voice” in any human or physical sense. The Torah uses terms from our experience so that by delving into their significance we can learn something of how G-d relates to our existence. In our case, the Torah wishes to describe 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. This is the significance of the meta-phor “speech” in regard to creation.
When a person speaks, he creates something that extends beyond his own being. The thought that he had conceived, and which, up until now, has existed only within his mind, is now translated into words that depart his person to attain an existence distinct from his. 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 the world. On the one hand, G-d desired that a world exist, that it constitute a reality that (at least in its own perception) is distinct from His. On the other hand, the world has no independent existence, possessing no reality other than G-d’s constant involvement to create and sustain it. What model have we, in the human experience of reality, for such an entity? Speech. So what is the world? The closest we can come to answering this question in humanly comprehensible terms is to say: The world is G-d speaking.
There is, however, a single exception to this model for the essential nature of all created things: the soul of man. Every single creation is described by the Torah as having come into being by a divine utterance, except for the soul. The Zohar explains that the soul is not a divine word but a G-dly thought.
Referring to the above interpretation of the metaphor of speech, this means that the soul is a creation which does not “depart” from the all-pervading reality of G-d. A creation that not only senses its total dependence upon its source (as, deep down, every creation does), but one that does not even see itself as an “entity” distinct from its Creator.
Alone in a verbose world, the soul of man is a thing of silence. And its mission in life is to impart this silence to the world about it.[4]
This is an excerpt from “Beyond the Letter of the Law” by Yanki Tauber, published by The Meaningful Life Center.
[3]. Zohar, part II, 119a; Ohr Torah (by Rabbi DovBer of Mezeritch, 2c; Tanya Chapter 2.
[4] Based on an address by the Rebbe, Nissan 24, 5719 (May 2, 1959)
Tags: utterances, soul, silence, speech, creation, words, purpose, Yanki Tauber
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