Inside Time

July 24th, 2015

And the children of Israel should keep the Shabbat, to observe the Shabbat throughout their generations as an everlasting covenant… For in six days G-d made the heavens and the earth, and on the seventh day He rested…

Exodus 31:16-17

For everything there is a time and season…. A time for war, and a time for peace…

Ecclesiastes 3:1, 8

Will it ever end?

We seem to be forever waging wars. There are, of course, the “real” wars, fought with armed troops and increasingly sophisticated weaponry, wars in which a nation rallies against an enemy who threatens its “vital interests” or its very existence. But even in times of political peace, we are constantly battling the demons which menace our material and moral well-being: we wage wars against crime, against drugs, against disease, against illiteracy. Within, we fight our personal battles, be it a battle against one’s own selfishness or laziness, against an addiction to tobacco or a tendency to overeat.

Nor does it end with the battling of evil and negative forces: in school, in the workplace or in the social arena, we are constantly fighting our way to the top, constantly combating the obstacles in our quest toward greater success. We struggle to get more for our money, to use our time more efficiently, to develop our talents, to improve our mind and refine our character. Intrinsic to our humanness is the unceasing drive to make more of ourselves, to reach beyond yesterday’s attainments. Man is forever at war with the past.

So even when we overcome the blatant evils which inhabit our world, even when we succeed in bringing to light the goodness that is the essential nature of G-d’s creation—will we ever experience peace and tranquillity? Wherever we turn, we encounter turmoil. The solar system spins like a top, the galaxies simmer and revolve. The earth’s core is aboil, its atmosphere storms, its oceans churn. Physical life is sustained by perpetual motion—the throb of the heart, the contraction and expansion of the lungs. Seemingly “inanimate” matter is a cauldron of motion on the nuclear, atomic and sub-atomic levels. Motion means change, and every change is a struggle—the struggle to vanquish the status quo and replace it with a new reality.

The primary culprit in this is the phenomenon of time: time is what gives us a past to abandon, a present to not suffice with, a future towards which to strive. Time is the mother of motion, change, and struggle. Time is the canvas upon which all battles of life are etched. It would seem that as long as we exist in time, as long as our lives are defined by its pulse and flux, the battle of life will rage on.

Can man transcend time? A timeless existence would be free of motion, stress and strife. But would a timeless existence allow for challenge, improvement and progression?

Will it ever end? Should it ever end?

The Creation of Time

Each day has its particular function

Zohar, part III, 94b

Time, our sages tell us, is a created entity. Like all other creations, it was willed into being by the Almighty out of a prior state of nonexistence. In other words, the fact that time did not exist prior to G-d’s creation of the universe was not simply because there were no physical beings or forces, and thus no events to mark the passage of time; rather, it was because the entity “time”—its nature, its substance, its very notion—had not yet been created by G-d.[1]

G-d’s creation of the universe spanned seven days, each of which saw the creation of a new class of elements particular to the intrinsic nature of that day. For these seven days served (and continue to serve) as channels for the seven divine attributes (sefirot) that the Almighty chose to invest in His creation of our reality: the things created on the first day of creation are of a “giving” or “bestowing” nature, corresponding to the divine attribute of chessed that defines that day’s creations; those created on the second day embody “constraint” and “severity,” in keeping with the attribute of gevurah; and so on.

What is true of creation as a whole, is also true of the particular creation called “time.” Time, like the universe it underlies, was created in seven days because it possesses seven distinct qualities—on each day of creation, another dimension of time was brought into being.

In other words, not only is time per se an original creation, but also the divisions and cycles by which it is measured and defined are entities created by the Almighty. The day, week, month and year are not arbitrary measures of time. They are not artificial handles on a basically theoretical reality, invented by man so that he may make appointments or plan his vacation. Rather, they reflect time’s intrinsic texture and character.

Most basic of these is the week. The creation of time over seven days means that time is a seven-hued spectrum: chessed-time was created on the first day, gevurah-time on the second day, and so on. It was not until “G-d concluded, on the seventh day, the works which He had made”[2] that the seven basic components of time were completed and fixed in place as a seven-day cycle.

This explains why, in Hebrew, Sunday is called Yom Rishon, “the first day,” Monday is Yom Sheini, “the second day,” and so on. This is not merely a reference to the first week of time, in which Sunday was the first day ever and Monday the second. Each Sunday is literally a first day, the first of a new time cycle which repeats, from the beginning, the seven qualities of time.

The Element of Rest

G-d concluded on the seventh day the works He had made; and He rested on the seventh day from all the works He had made

Genesis 2:2

The above verse appears to contradict itself: did G-d conclude His work on or before the seventh day? Were there six or seven days of creation?

Our sages explain: “What was the world lacking? Rest. When Shabbat came, rest came.”[3] On Shabbat G-d created the element of rest—the final and culminating brick in the edifice of creation.

On the eve of the first Shabbat, the creation of time was also almost complete, lacking only the element of rest. With the creation of Shabbat-time—time possessing the quality of rest—the cycle was closed.

But can “rest” be considered a characteristic of time? Is not time, and its sister-phenomenon, motion, the very antithesis of rest?

But that is precisely the point. Shabbat represents an area in time that transcends time’s own basic definition. Time, though synonymous with motion and change, also includes an element of rest—a potential to create, within the framework of time, an area of permanence and serenity. A potential to bring harmony and tranquillity to the struggles and fluctuations of life.

So while the “weekday” aspect of our lives is defined by Torah as “going out to war on your enemies,”[4] of Shabbat it is said: “Sit, each man in his place; no man shall go out of his place on the day of Shabbat.”[5] If our life’s mission is to “go out,” to vanquish the negative, to perfect the imperfect, to extend oneself beyond the limitations of our presently defined self—it also includes the potential for rest, for settling down, for the peace of finding one’s true “I” and place. Life includes not only the challenge of getting there, but also the fulfillment of being there.

A Taste

On the first Shabbat of history, there was no darkness. The light lasted for 36 hours

Midrash Rabbah, Bereishit 11:2

Shabbat has a profound effect on the entire week. If, in our daily lives, we experience not only the drive for achievement but also satisfaction over what has been achieved; if we have the ability not only to vanquish the prevalent reality but also to transform it into a friend and ally; if our life is not only an ongoing quest but also a series of attainments—it is because Shabbat, an island of rest in a sea of flux, radiates of its essence to the other six components of time.

But if every day of our week has something of Shabbat in it, on Shabbat itself we enter into a dimension in time whose essence is rest and tranquillity. “Six days a week you shall labor,” commands the Torah, “and you shall do all your work; the seventh day is Shabbat to G-d…”[6] But how can we tell a person to do “all your work” in six days? Even to conclude “all your work” in the course of one’s lifetime is no small feat! But on Shabbat, explain our sages, “all your work” is indeed “done.”[7] Shabbat is not only a break in the toil of life, but a glimpse and a taste of its ultimate realization.

On Shabbat, we cease to struggle with the world not because the task of perfecting it is “on hold,” but because on Shabbat, the world is perfect: we are relating to that which is perfect and unchanging in it. We cease to battle darkness not merely to recoup our strength for the next onslaught, but because there is no darkness—the light which we have created through our positive deeds, obscured throughout the week by the veil of mundanity which shrouds our workday lives, is now perceptible to our more rarefied selves.

This better explains why each Sunday is indeed a “first day.” Shabbat is a venture into the realm of timelessness—a realm that lies beyond the struggles that characterize our weekday lives. Following each Shabbat, we return to a time-bound existence. Time, in the sense of motion and flux, begins anew.

Shabbat, however, is but a foretaste of “the day that is wholly Shabbat and rest, for everlasting life.”[8] The seven-day week is a microcosm of a far greater time-span: the entirety of history is also a “week,” comprised of six “workday” millennia and a seventh millennium of rest, the era of Moshiach.[9]

On the weekly Shabbat, we experience the perfection that has been achieved through our efforts of the past six days to develop and refine our world; the era of Moshiach is the time when the combined attainments of all generations of history will be realized. A time when every positive deed, word and thought of the six millennia of the human experience will result in a truly tranquil world—a world free of discord and strife, a world suffused with the wisdom, goodness and perfection of its Creator.

The Reversal of Time

Students of Torah have no rest, not in this world and not in the world to come, as it is written: “They go from strength to strength, beheld by G-d in Zion”[10]

Talmud, Berachot 64a

Yet Shabbat is an integral part of time. Even the messianic age is an era within time—a seventh millennium of history. Obviously, these are also arenas for progression and achievement. For were they to represent wholly static states of being, why would we regard them as epochs in time?

On the most basic level we might explain that, indeed, both the work-week and Shabbat, both the six millennia of history and the era of Moshiach, are times for advancement and progression. The difference lies in the mannerin which this is achieved. Our “work-week” challenges include dealing with outright evil and negativity, so progress inevitably involves struggle. On Shabbat, however, and to an even greater extent, in the age of Moshiach, advancement and progression means the tranquil graduation from good to better, the attainment of greater heights within the infinite realm of good itself.

If today we fight to eliminate war and hatred, in the era of Moshiach, when “they shall beat their swords into plowshares,”[11] the pursuit of peace will mean finding deeper and more meaningful ways for people to unite and fuse their differences into a symphonious whole. If today we must struggle to defeat illness, the “medicine” of the seventh millennium will concern itself with the further perfection of already flawless health and the enhancement of the bond between body and soul. If today we must battle ignorance, in the era when “the world shall be filled with the knowledge of G-d as the waters cover the sea,”[12] the quest for wisdom will be for greater and greater degrees of insight into the infinite truth of all truths.

Nevertheless, this does not fully answer the question. For any change, any departure from a previous state, is ultimately a battle and struggle, albeit a far more subtle battle and struggle than the conquest of evil. Again we ask: how can any form of progress be defined as a state of rest?

But progress may have two directions: outward and inward. The equation of progress with struggle, of graduation with change, is valid if we speak of “going out of our place,” of reaching beyond what we are to make more of ourselves. But there is also a progress that is an inward journey, a journey to uncover deeper dimensions to our own being.

In such an inward journey, each successive station is not a “change,” but the very opposite of change: it is a state that is more consistent with who and what we truly are. It is “rest” in the truest sense of the word: a settling into one’s true “place” and identity.

“G-d created man in His image,”[13] creating him to reflect His own goodness and perfection. In the “workday” phases of our existence, the mantle of corporeality which shrouds our world and encases our souls causes us to lead lives that are at odds with our true identity and essence. So the betterment of ourselves and our world is a struggle, a battle to change reality (or rather, what to our perception is reality) into something which is (again, to our perception) beyond us. But in truth, this “reality” is a distortion of our true selves, while the elusive “beyond” is our true self.

So when six millennia of struggle and achievement will come to fruition, when six millennia of battling darkness will reveal the light within, we will experience an era “that is wholly Shabbat and rest.” This is not a golden age of retirement for humanity, for the potential within us is as infinite as the divine perfection it reflects. But the direction of “progress” will be reversed: from a conflict-ridden, outward-bound quest for change, to a serene, inward-bound encounter with self.

But this “reversal” of the flow of time is not confined to the seventh millennium. Every Shabbat is a taste of this futuristic time, and a provider of its tranquillity to the entire week. While yet in the midst of the war of life, we are enabled to experience moments of true “rest.” Even as we struggle to transcend the imperfections of a more external self, we can touch base with the goodness and perfection that lies at the core of each and every one of us.

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

Adapted from the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

Tags: time, creation, Shabbat, rest, Yanki Tauber
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The Rain of Peace

July 24th, 2015

And G-d made the two great luminaries… to give light upon the earth.
Genesis 1:16-17

And no plant of the field was yet in the earth, and no herb of the field had yet grown; for the L-rd G-d had not caused it to rain upon the earth, as there was not yet a man to work the land. [Then] there arose a mist from the earth and watered the surface of the land.
Genesis 2:5-6

On Her Own Steam

Sunlight and rain are both crucial sustainers of life on earth. Indeed, there are certain similarities in the manner in which these two gifts are bestowed upon our planet: they both “rain” down upon earth from the skies, drenching her with energy or moisture. In both cases, we seem but passive recipients to a showering of blessing from above. But a closer examination reveals a significant difference between them: while the sun’s gift is indeed a unilateral bestowal, rain originates as moisture which rises from the earth, forms clouds, and returns as life-giving waters. So unlike her relationship with the sun’s radiation, the earth is not a passive beneficiary of the rain falling from the skies; it is she who generates it in the first place, releasing columns of mist from her oceans and lakes to water the thirsting soil of her landmasses.

The earth, of course, could not do this on her own. It is the sun who stimulates the release and ascent of her watery stores; it is the sun who creates the weather patterns which carry them through the atmosphere and impel them earthward.  In other words, the sun, ultimately, is the primary supporter of life on earth. But the sun’s gifts of nourishment fall under two categories: (a) those, such as its light – and warmth – purveying rays, which the earth simply absorbs from her benevolent provider; (b) those gifts, such as rain, which the earth herself generates, the sun serving as the catalyst who wakens her potentials for self-nurture and self-development and assists in their realization.

Ecology of the Soul

Also the world, He has placed within their hearts…
Ecclesiastes 3:11

Rabbi Israel Baal-Shem-Tov (1698-1760), founder of the Chassidic movement, taught: Everything that a person may observe should serve him as a lesson in his service of the Almighty. This is especially true with regard to the workings of the universe: man, say our sages, is a miniature world;[1] so in every natural phenomenon he can find a corresponding feature within himself. His observations of the universe and natural law can help him negotiate the physics and geography of his own psyche, and assist him in the perfection of his character and behavior.[2]

Man, too, is a recipient of both “rain” and “sunlight” from Above. Ultimately, of course, everything we possess, including our potentials to initiate and create, are granted us by the Creator. But the Almighty relates to the human soul in two ways: (a) with a direct and unilateral bestowal of sensitivity and enlightenment; (b) by enabling and encouraging the soul to develop and optimize her own resources, to gravitate upward in her own, self-initiated search for truth and meaning in life.

Both are crucial to the spiritual life of the soul. On the one hand, we recognize our inherent limitations. We understand that if we are to relate to a truth that is absolute and all-transcendent, we must resort to a bequest from a higher source.

At the same time, however, human nature dictates that we identify more with what we ourselves have achieved: something earned is more appreciated than a gift, an idea figured out independently is more poignant than a teaching from the greatest master. For an experience to be real – that is, to be incorporated as part of one’s essence and personality – it must stem from within.

In other words, to be truly “it” it must be granted from Above; yet to be truly meaningful it must be produced from below. We need them both. Indeed, the tension between these two needs is an ever-present feature of our growth and development in all areas, intellectual, emotional or spiritual. The real or the ideal? Mine or more?

These are the phenomena of “rain” and “sunlight” in the miniature universe that is man.  Thus, as the Torah relates, the first rainfall in history did not commence until there was a human being to work the land. For rain is the expression, on the cosmic level, of human initiative and endeavor – the reflection of our ability to answer the Divine light which radiates into our lives with the product of our own resources and potentials.[3]

Two Dimensional Year

This explains a curious redundancy in the structure of the Jewish year – it is a year with not one but two beginnings! For there are two opening months in the Jewish calendar: Tishrei (which usually begins sometime in September) contains the High Holidays of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur and the festival of Sukkot and is generally considered the “head” and beginning of the Jewish year; but six months later comes Nissan (late March-early April), the month of Passover and the Exodus, which is designated by the Torah as the “first month” and also serves as the “head” of the year for certain matters of Torah law and practice.[4]  Why two “heads” to the year?

In the land of Israel, the rains are confined to the half-year between Tishrei and Nissan.  Thus, this six-month period is referred to by our sages as the “Season of Rains” (y’mos ha’gshomim), while the six months from Nissan to Tishrei are considered the “Season of the Sun” (y’mos ha’chamah).

To the Jew, the calendar is more than a measure of time – it is a cycle that embodies the various elements of his relationship with the Almighty that are the essence of his life as a Jew. And this cycle is comprised of two basic parts: (a) the spiritually passive “Season of the Sun,” in which we mark and re-experience, the great unilateral acts of Divine involvement in our destiny (the Exodus, the revelation at Sinai); and (b) the self-generated “Season of Rains,” which open with the soul-searching and self-improvement which characterizes the month of Tishrei.

The Paradox of Peace

A scholar from the Galilee expounded before R. Chisdah: “Blessed be the Merciful One, who gave a threefold Torah[5] to a threefold people[6] through a third one[7] on the third day[8] in the third month.[9]”

Talmud, Shabbos 88a

Indeed, Torah embodies the very essence of the number “3”. For “Torah was given to make peace in the world”[10] and “3” is the number of peace.

The number “1” implies a monopolous individuality. Where “1” dominates, there cannot be peace; for “1” insists on its absoluteness and exclusivity of being – to the negation of all else. Where “1” dominates, everything else (if there is anything else) must surrender their identity before its intolerant singularity. True, there is no conflict, for there is only one; but neither is this peace, which is the harmonious integration of two (or more) distinctive elements.

“Two” represents diversity. As the number implies, we are dealing with two parallel entities. One may be infinitely superior to the other, yet they are equal if only in that each is a distinct existence. Two-ness is often the cause of conflict, but even when it is not, it still precludes true peace. As long as each insists on retaining its apartness and distinction, the most they can achieve is a peaceful co-existence; dichotomized by their respective individualities, they cannot merge into a synthesized whole.

So what is peace? If it is neither the affirmation of identity nor its surrender, what is it? Indeed, peace is a paradox – a paradox articulated in the number “3”. Peace is when two distinct entities find common ground in a third reality, one that transcends the differences between them. A third element that embraces them both, as they are, to serve a higher ideal. A third element within whose broader context the unique and even opposite features of each complement and fulfill one another. A third element which preserves their differences – and uses them as the very ingredients of harmony.

The “3” of the World

The Torah was given to make peace in the world.

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

If only we could somehow get a hold of the master plan, of the grand blueprint for the universe! If only we could read the Creator’s mind, to discern His intended use for each creature’s particular traits and tendencies. If only we had a vision of a “third element” of creation, a vision which incorporates them all as the component parts of a single organism. Then, we would no longer have to fight the losing battle to enforce some sort of balance between individual and communal desires to keep the world from tearing itself apart. Then, there would be no need to compromise differences for the sake of peace, since the proper application of each being’s and community’s differences will result in the realization of the quintessential harmony which underlies all.

Torah, given in a flurry of 3’s, is all that. It is the embodiment of tifferet, “Harmony,” the third of the seven Divine Attributes. Torah lays down the do’s and don’ts of life, not as a curb on individual freedom but as the description of every man’s deepest and truest aspirations. It outlines the manner in which every element of creation is to be developed and utilized, not as a program to change them but to bring to light their ultimate essence and function.

Chassidic Winter

As mentioned above, nourishment for the human soul comes in two forms: unilateral gifts from Above (akin to “sunlight”), or generated from below and within (the “rainmaking” powers of the soul).

Torah, the ultimate gift of life, has both a “light” and a “rain” dimension to it. Originally, we received Torah as a Divinely authored document; at the greatest Divine revelation of history, G-d descended upon Mount Sinai and granted us His blueprint for creation. But our reception of the Torah was based on the commitment that “We will do, and we will comprehend”[11] – that we will not suffice with accepting the Torah as the word of G-d but will also toil to understand and appreciate it. So immediately following Sinai began the process of converting sunlight into rainmaking mist: to assimilate the revealed wisdom of G-d so that it becomes something which rises from within to nourish and animate the soul.

This is also reflected in our calendar: the revelation at Sinai took place in the month of Sivan, the third month of the “Season of the Sun,” while an important landmark in the process of Torah’s internalization is Kislev, the corresponding third month of the “Season of Rains.”

Since 1798, the 19th of Kislev has been celebrated as the “New Year” of Chassidism. On this day the founder of Chabad Chassidism, Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi (1745-1812), was released from Czarist prison, upon being cleared of the libelous charges leveled against him and the Chassidic movement. This cleared the way for the uninhibited dissemination of its teachings.[12]

A hallmark of Chabad Chassidism is that man not only rely on instructions from Above; rather, his attainments must also involve his own effort and initiative. The teachings of Chabad guide man in utilizing his own mind and heart to comprehend and appreciate the true essence of his own self, the world about him, and his relationship with his Creator. It is therefore significant that the birth of Chabad Chassidism is linked to the third month of the “Season of Rains.” For Kislev is a month that emphasizes the “rain” element of Torah: man’s ability to make his achievements in bringing true peace into the world something that is truly his, a result of his own understanding and feelings.

Based on the talks of the Rebbe during the month of Kislev 5750 (December 1989) and on other occasions

Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

Tags: Yanki Tauber, rain, chassidism, Jewish calendar, sun, light, Torah, peace, soul, nature, chabad, truth, Baal Shem Tov
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Knowledge and Naught

July 24th, 2015

A person is obligated to drink on Purim until he does not know the difference between “cursed be Haman” and “blessed be Mordechai.”
Talmud, Megillah 7b

“Everything that G-d made,” proclaims the Proverbist, “He made for His sake, also the wicked for the day of evil.”[1] The “day of evil,” explains Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi, is the transformation of the nocturnal darkness of evil into the daylight of good. Also the negative elements of existence were created by G-d “for His sake”: that darkness be transformed into light and night into day.[2]

It would therefore follow that “cursed be Haman” (the rejection of evil) is indeed synonymous with “blessed be Mordechai” (the cultivation of good): evil, in essence, is but the masked potential for good, a potential all the greater for the surface darkness one must penetrate to reveal it. As the commentaries on the above-quoted talmudic passage note, the gematria (numerical value) of the Hebrew letters that spell “cursed be Haman” (arur Haman) is equivalent to that of the letters that spell “blessed be Mordechai” (baruch Mordechai).[3] For to curse Haman is to bless Mordechai—to vanquish evil is to actualize another source of good in G-d’s world.

And yet, the Talmud does not say that on Purim one should attain the knowledge that there is no difference between “cursed be Haman” and “blessed be Mordechai”; it says that a person should bring himself to the state where he does not know the difference between them—implying that there is a difference, only we desire not to know it. Why is such “ignorance” desirable? And why is it attained specifically through drinking on Purim?

Sparks In Bondage

Our sages tell us that:

“In the place where baalei teshuvah (penitents[4]) stand, utter tzaddikim (perfectly righteous individuals) cannot stand.”[5]

The tzaddik is one who lives his entire life in full conformity with G-d’s will, thereby realizing, to the utmost, the potential for good inherent in himself and his environment. But the baal teshuvah, who “transforms his willful transgressions into merits,”[6] achieves something far greater: he generates good out of elements that have no such realizable potential—at least not by the standards of Torah, G-d’s blueprint for creation.

The divine commandments (mitzvot) of the Torah categorize the universe into two domains: the permissible and the forbidden. Beef is permissible, pork is forbidden; it is permissible to work on the first six days of the week, and forbidden to do so on Shabbat; the trait of compassion should be cultivated, and that of haughtiness eliminated. As chassidic teaching explains, this is not only a list of do’s and don’ts; it is also a catalog of realizable and unrealizable potentials. Every created entity possesses a “spark of divinity” that constitutes its essence and soul, a spark that embodies the divine desire that it be, and its function within the divine purpose for creation. When a person utilizes something—be it a physical object or force, a trait or feeling, a cultural phenomenon, etc.—toward a good and G-dly end, he brings to light the divine spark at its core, manifesting and realizing the purpose for which it was created. While no existence is devoid of such a spark—indeed, nothing can exist without the pinpoint of divinity that imbues it with being and purpose—not every spark can be developed through man’s constructive use of the thing that houses it. There are certain “impregnable” elements—elements that the Torah has forbidden our involvement with, so that the sparks they contain are inaccessible to us.

Thus, for example, one who eats a piece of kosher meat and then uses the energy gained from it to perform a mitzvah (study Torah, pray, do an act of charity), thereby “elevates” the spark of divinity that is the essence of the meat, freeing it of its mundane incarnation and raising it to a state of fulfilled spirituality. However, if one would do the same with a piece of non-kosher meat—meat that G-d has forbidden us to consume —no such elevation would take place. Even if he applied the energy to positive and G-dly ends, this would not constitute a realization of the divine purpose in the meat’s creation, since the consumption of the meat was an express violation of the divine will.

This is the deeper significance of the Hebrew terms assur and mutar employed by Torah law (halachah) for the forbidden and the permissible. Assur, commonly translated “forbidden,” literally means “bound”; thus it connotes those elements that the Torah has forbidden, whose sparks it has deemed bound and imprisoned in a shell of negativity and proscription. Mutar (“permitted”), which literally means “unbound,” is the halachic term for those sparks which the Torah has empowered us to extricate from their mundane embodiment and actively involve in our positive endeavors.

Obviously, the assur elements of creation also have a role in the realization of the divine purpose outlined by the Torah. But theirs is a “negative” role—they exist so that man should achieve a conquest of self by resisting them. There is no Torah-authorized way in which they can actively be involved in man’s development of creation, no way in which they may themselves become part of the “divine abode”[7] that man is charged to make of his world. It is of these elements that it is said, “Their breaking is their rectification.”[8] They exist to be rejected and defeated, and it is in their defeat and exclusion from our lives that their raison d’etre is realized.

The Man in the Desert

These are the rules that govern our existence—the rules that the tzaddik lives by. The tzaddik devotes his every thought and deed to the fulfillment of the divine will communicated to us in the Torah, so that all the elements that become part of his life—the food he eats, the clothes he wears, the ideas and experiences he garners from his surroundings —are elevated, their “sparks” divested of their mundanity and raised to their divine function. And he confines himself to the permissible elements of creation, never digressing from the boundaries that Torah sets for our involvement with and development of G-d’s world.

The baal teshuvah, however, is one who has digressed. One who has ventured beyond the realm of the permissible and has absorbed the unredeemable elements of creation into his life. His digression was a wholly negative thing,[9] but having occurred, holds a unique potential: the potential for teshuvah, “return.”

Teshuvah is fed by the utter dejection experienced by one who wakes to the realization that he has destroyed all that is beautiful and sacred in his life; by the pain of one who has cut himself off from his source of life and well-being; by the alienation felt by one who finds himself without cause or reason to live. Teshuvah is man’s amazing ability to translate these feeling of worthlessness, alienation and pain into the drive for rediscovery and renewal.

The baal teshuvah is a man languishing in a desert whose thirst, amplified a thousand fold by the barrenness and aridity of his surroundings, drives him to seek water with an intensity that could never have been called forth by the most proficient well digger—a man whose very abandonment of his G-d drives him to seek Him with a passion the most saintly tzaddik cannot know. A soul who, having stretched the cord that binds it to its source to excruciating tautness, rebounds with a force that far exceeds anything experienced by those who never left the divine orbit.

Thus the baal teshuvah accomplishes what the most perfect tzaddik cannot: he liberates those sparks of divinity imprisoned in the realm of the forbidden. In his soul, the very negativity of these elements, their very contrariness to the divine will, becomes a positive force, an intensifier of his bond with G-D and his drive to do good.

Will and Willer

Referring to the opening verses of Genesis, the Midrash states:

“At the onset of the world’s creation, G-d beheld the deeds of the righteous and the deeds of the wicked … ‘And the world was chaos and void’[10] —these are the deeds of the wicked. ‘And G-d said: Let there be light’[11] —these are the deeds of the righteous. But I still do not know which of them He desires… Then, when it says, ‘And G-d saw the light, that it is good,’[12] I know that He desires the deeds of the righteous, and does not desire the deeds of the wicked.”[13]

In other words, the only true definition of “good” or “evil” is that “good” is what G-d desires and “evil” is what is contrary to His will. The fact that we instinctively sense certain deeds to be good and others to be evil—the fact that certain deeds are good and certain deeds are evil–is the result of G-d having chosen to desire certain deeds from man and to not desire other deeds from man. We cannot, however, speak of good and evil “before” G-d expressly chose the “deeds of the righteous.” On this level, where there is nothing to distinguish right from wrong, we cannot presume to know what G-d will desire.

Therein lies the difference between the tzaddik and the baal teshuvah. The tzaddik relates to G-d through his fulfillment of the divine will expressed in the Torah. Thus, his achievements are defined and regulated by the divine will. When he does what G-d commanded to be done, he elevates those elements of creation touched by his deeds. But those elements with which the divine will forbids his involvement, are utterly closed to him.

The baal teshuvah, however, relates to G-d Himself, the formulator and professor of this will. Thus, he accesses a divine potential that, by Torah’s standards, is inaccessible. Because his relationship with G-d is on a level that precedes and supersedes the divine will—a level on which one “still does not know which of them He desires”–there is no “bondage,” nothing to inhibit the actualization of the divine potential in any of G-d’s creations. So when the baal teshuvah sublimates his negative deeds and experiences to fuel his yearning and passion for good, he brings to light the sparks of G-Dliness they hold.

To Be and To Be Not

What enables the baal teshuvah to connect to G-d in such a way? The tzaddik’s ability to relate to G-d through the fulfillment of His will was granted to each and every one of us when G-d gave us the Torah at Mount Sinai. But what empowers the baal teshuvah to reach the “place where utter tzaddikim cannot stand” and touch the “pre-will” essence of G-d?

The thrust of the baal teshuvah’s life is the very opposite of the tzaddik’s. The tzaddik is good, and the gist of everything he does is to amplify that goodness. The baal teshuvah had departed from the path of good, and the gist of everything he does is to deconstruct and transform what he was. In a word, the tzaddik is occupied with the development of self, and the baal teshuvah, with the negation of self.

Thus the tzaddik’s virtue is also what limits him. True, his development of self is a wholly positive and G-dly endeavor—he is developing the self that G-d wants him to develop, and by developing this self he becomes one with the will of G-d. But a sense of self is the greatest handicap to relating to the essence of G-d, which tolerates no camouflaging or equivocation of the truth that “there is none else beside Him.”[14]

The baal teshuvah, on the other hand, is one whose every thought and endeavor is driven by the recognition that he must depart from what he is in order to come close to G-d. This perpetual abnegation of self allows him to relate to G-d as G-d is, on a level that transcends G-d’s specific projection of Himself formulated in His Torah.

Purim

On Purim, a person is obligated to drink until he does not know the difference between “cursed be Haman” and “blessed be Mordechai.”

By the standards of Torah law, there is a difference between “cursed be Haman” and “blessed be Mordechai.” Both are willed by G-d, both contribute to the realization of the divine plan. Both the development of good and the rejection of evil fulfill the purpose of the “divine spark” within the developed or rejected element. But with a significant difference. A good deed elevates its object, divesting it of its mundanity and reuniting its spark with its supernal source. The rejection of evil, however, effects a “passive” actualization of a thing’s divine potential, which remains “tied down” by its negative moorings.

Purim, however, is the festival of teshuvah, the festival of transformation.[15] On Purim we are empowered to transform the most negative concealments into a force for good, to make cursing Haman as positive and constructive an endeavor as blessing Mordechai.

But the synonymity of “cursed be Haman” with “blessed be Mordechai” is not something one can come to “know.” On the contrary, it is attained solely through “not knowing,” through the abnegation of the rational self. For it is only through the utter nullification of self that one can relate to the “possessor of the will,” to the divine essence before whom “also darkness does not darken… and night shines like day.”[16]

On Purim, a person is obligated to drink until he does not know. Until the abnegation of his reasoning self raises him to a state of utter non-differentiation between “cursed be Haman” and “blessed be Mordechai.”

Based on an address by the Rebbe, Adar II 9, 5725[17] (March, 1965)

Tags: mitzvot, baal teshuvah, Torah, self-development, Divine will, halacha, Tzaddik, divine sparks, self-abnegation, creation
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Joined at the Waist

July 23rd, 2015

And they shall bind the choshen (breastplate) by its rings to the rings of theephod (apron) … so that the choshen shall not budge from the ephod

Exodus 28:28

The choshen and the ephod were two of the eight special garments worn by the Kohen Gadol. The choshen was a breastplate set with twelve precious stones, each inscribed with the name of one of the twelve tribes of Israel. It was worn on the breast, over the heart. The ephod was an “apron-like garment … worn in the back from opposite the heart below the elbows down to the ankles, with a belt that tied in the front.” [19] Two gold rings sewn on the ephod’s belt lined up with two gold rings sewn to the bottom corners of the choshen; these were bound together with ribbons of blue wool. It is of utmost importance, the Torah stresses, that the two should remain securely fastened at all times that the priestly garments are worn. In fact, the imperative that “the choshen shall not budge from the ephod” is counted as one of the 613 mitzvot of the Torah.

Therein lies a lesson applicable to each and every individual: there is to be no disconnection between the “upper” and “lower” aspects of life, or between its “forward” and “backward” elements. True, the human being consists of both the sensitive heart and the crass, functional foot; true, life is composed of sublimely spiritual moments as well as the banal tending to one’s material needs. But the two must be securely joined at the waist: the upper must permeate the lower; the external must never lose sight of its inner soul and essence.

Based on an address by the Rebbe, Adar 21, 5748 (March 10, 1988)[20]

Adapted from the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

Tags: mitzvot, kohanim, the twelve tribes, Yanki Tauber, garment
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Verbal Millstones

July 23rd, 2015

And you shall command the children of Israel that they bring to you pure oil of olives crushed for lighting, to raise an ever-burning lamp

Exodus 27:20

“‘Crushed for lighting,’” the Chassidic masters would warn, “for lighting, and for lighting only.” When one speaks crushing words of rebuke, it must be with the sole purpose of enlightening, illuminating and uplifting one’s fellow–never, G-d forbid, to humiliate and break him.

Tags: love your neighbor, leadership, inspiration, light
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Clearing the Rubble

July 23rd, 2015

If a mapolet (collapsed building) falls on someone [on Shabbat], even if it is doubtful whether he is there or he isn’t there, whether he is alive or dead, whether he is a Jew or a heathen, one must clear the rubble-heap from him.

How far should one check (if the victim’s body shows no signs of life)? Until his nose. Another opinion is: until his heart. If one finds that the higher ones (i.e., those in the upper part of the rubble-heap) are dead, one should not presume that the lower ones have also died; it happened that the higher ones were found dead and the lower ones lived.

Talmud, Yoma 83a and 85a

The Torah is likened to the human being.[1] Like man, Torah is a synthesis of body and soul, possessing a “physical” element–a legal code and guide to physical life–as well as a “spiritual,” mystical element that addresses the inner life of the soul. And just as the human body and soul combine and integrate to form the entity “man,” so it is with the body and soul of Torah: on the one hand, its most sublime concepts have their practical applications in day-to-day life; on the other hand, every limb and cell of Torah’s “body” also holds a spiritual import, relating to the human psyche, man’s relationship with his Creator, and the purpose of his existence. The same is true of the above-quoted passage from the Talmud. On the surface, this is part of the “body” of Torah–a law that spells out the extent to which one is permitted (and obligated) to violate the Shabbat in the case that there is even the slightest chance of saving a life. On a deeper level, the principles established by this law extend beyond the specific case of a building that collapsed upon its inhabitants on Shabbat to illuminate our struggle to find order and meaning amidst the hazards of life.

Reality Deconstructed

A collapsed building, it can be argued, is essentially no different from a standing one. Its mass and weight have not changed, nor has the composition of its materials: every brick and beam, every nail and window pane, every piece of furniture and every utensil is still there. All that has changed is their external form and their arrangement vis-à-vis each other. But what a difference! On the one hand we have a home: an edifice containing an array of rooms, each designed and equipped to serve a vital need of its inhabitants, which together shelter and facilitate the complex and multifaceted life of a family. On the other hand, we have a pile of rubble that poses a mortal danger–or, at the very least, makes life fairly miserable–for anyone unfortunate enough to be caught inside.

The world is a complex structure whose design and purposefulness is evident to any unbiased observer. [2] But man has free choice: he can choose to ignore the obvious and view the world as a haphazard pile of rubble–a mishmash of elements, creatures and “laws” without origin, direction or purpose. Such a person is comparable to one who has been buried by a mapolet–one who inhabits creation not as a resident of the home that it is, but as one overwhelmed by a meaningless, capricious, soul-crushing mound of debris.[3]

“Do not stand by the blood of your brother,”[4] warns the Torah. You cannot envelop yourself in a personal Shabbat-sanctity, aloof from a chaotic world. Rather, you must labor to clear the rubble-heap from your fellow man, enlightening[5] him by teaching and example. When another’s spiritual life is in jeopardy, you must disrupt your own “Shabbat” to save him.

Three Doubts

As we said, not only does every law of the “body” of Torah have its spiritual counterpart, but also its every article and clause. Thus, each of the details put forth by the Talmud–the possible doubts that may exist (there or not there, alive or dead, Jew or heathen), how far to check for signs of life (heart or nose), and the matter of how deeply buried in the rubble the victim is (the “higher ones” and the “lower ones”)–all apply to the “soul” of this law.

Generally speaking, there are three questions that can be asked concerning one who is buried in the “rubble” of a materialistic perception of reality:

a)      Is he there? Often a soul might be overwhelmed by the entanglements of physical life, but he is not truly “there.” His heart is with his spiritual self, and “the place where a person’s thoughts lie, that is where he truly is.”[6] His involvement with the material is listless and dispassionate–he senses that this is not his place and yearns for a more spiritual life. Such an individual is obviously the easiest to extract from the rubble-heap–indeed, he might not even require our assistance at all. On the other hand, a person might be so enmeshed in the rubble heap that he–his thoughts, feeling and desires–is indeed there, buried in materiality.[7]

b)      Is he alive? Life, in its ultimate definition, is attachment to the Creator and Provider of life; in the words of the Torah, “You who cleave to G-d … are alive.”[8] Those, however, who violate the divine will, turning their backs on the source of their own vitality, “are referred to as ‘dead’ even in their lifetimes.”[9] A person might be enveloped in the “rubble-heap” of materiality but still be alive, animated by his fulfillment of Torah and mitzvot; or he might have severed, G-d forbid, the lifeline of his soul.[10]

c)      Jew or alien? Even one who transgresses the divine will might still cling to his identity, harboring a loyalty to his G-d and people however belied by his behavior and outlook. But what of the one who is so overwhelmed by the “rubble-heap” that he is completely alienated from his roots and has renounced the very essence of who and what he is? Is there any point in disturbing one’s own spiritual tranquility to attempt the excavation of such an individual?

Says the Torah: whatever your doubts about your buried brother–whether he is “there” or “not there,” “alive” or spiritually “dead,” or even completely alienated–he is never beyond hope. You must do everything in your power to clear the rubble that smothers his soul, revive him, and rekindle his indestructible identity.

Signs of Life

No soul is beyond hope, for the soul is “literally a part of G-d above.”[11]G-d may have forged the human body from “the dust of the earth,”[12]making man susceptible to the earthliness of his environment; but “He breathed into his nostrils a living soul,”[13] imbuing dust with spirit and imparting to clay a spark of divinity.

Man might suppress the divine essence within himself, banishing it to the deepest recesses of his heart–reducing it to a faint glimmer of conscience that flares on occasion but does not “interfere” too much with the daily business of life. Or, he might banish it altogether from his internal self, so that it has no perceptible influence upon him at all. But he cannot undo what G-d has done. G-d breathed a living soul into his nostrils; man can deny it entry into his being, but there it hovers, poised at the portal of his life. Thus, such an individual is referred to as one whose “soul is in his nose”[14]–residing in the entranceway of the body from which it has been exiled, ready to pervade his mind, heart and life the moment he inhales the divine breath of life imparted to him.

Therein lies the deeper significance of two opinions cited by the Talmud as to how far to search for signs of life when excavating a body from the rubble of a collapsed building on Shabbat. One opinion holds that if no sign of life is found in the heart, there is no point in digging any further. Spiritually, this means that even if a person’s behavior in no way reflects the G-dliness of his soul, there is still hope to revive him, as long as some trace remains in his heart, if only in the form of a faint memory, a twinge of conscience, a flicker of sympathy. But if even this is absent, there is indeed nothing to be done.

Another opinion, however–and so goes the halachic ruling[15]–is that even if the heart exhibits no sign of vitality, one must keep on digging. For even if there is life only in a person’s “nose,” his divine potential can still be revived and ultimately be made to vitalize his entire being.

The Lowly Survivor

“If one finds that the higher ones are dead,” continues the Talmud, “one should not presume that the lower ones have also died. It happened that the higher ones were found dead and the lower ones lived.”

If you see that great and lofty men have succumbed to the mapolet, do not presume that those with a lesser degree of talent, intelligence and spiritual aptitude are doomed. On the contrary: time and again we have seen that it has been the simple folk who persevered, while their more eminent and erudite brethren have fallen by the wayside.

The simple Jew, his faith and integrity uncolored by the pretensions of intellect, is the hardiest survivor of them all.

Based on the Rebbe’s notes for a farbrengen he held at the Lubavitcher Yeshiva in Riga, Sukkot 5693 (1932)[16]

Adapted from the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

Tags: natural disasters, Shabbat, survival, Yanki Tauber, Jewish law
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Looking at Heaven

July 23rd, 2015

Two chassidim were talking.

Said one to the other: “For years I’ve been struggling to achieve a proper understanding of the verse, ‘Lift your eyes heavenward and see Who created all this.’[23] I found thirty-six different interpretations of this verse in the commentaries, and I studied and meditated upon each one of them. But now I understand that the true meaning of the verse is something else entirely.”

“And how do you understand the true meaning of the verse?” asked the second chassid.

“The ultimate meaning of the verse is: lift your eyes heavenward and see Who created all this!”

“So why is this meaning not written in the commentaries?”

“If this meaning were written, it would just be the 37th interpretation!”

Adapted from the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

Tags: Torah, sight, Yanki Tauber, Torah study, heaven, creation, internalize
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Absorbing The Joy: The Significance of Shemini Atzeret

July 23rd, 2015

Throughout the year, the Jew lives with Torah. The Five Books of Moses are his calendar, their 54 sections marking, defining, molding and inspiring the fifty-odd weeks of his year [1] : every week, another Torah section is studied, publicly read in the synagogue on Shabbat, and its lessons applied to daily living.

Torah is the stuff of the Jew’s life. It is his link to his Creator, his national mandate, the purpose of his existence, the blueprint for the perfection he yearns for. And the Jew is no less integral to the Torah: it is he who devotes his life to its study, teaching and practice; who carries its wisdom and ethos to all peoples of the earth; who translates its precepts and ideals into concrete reality. Little wonder, then, that the most joyous festival on the Jewish calendar, both for Torah and Jew, is the festival of Shmini Atzeret/ Simchat Torah, when the annual Torah-reading cycle is concluded and begun anew.

Shwmini Atzeret means “the eighth day of ingathering” – it is the festival which immediately follows the seven-day festival of Sukkot (the significance of “ingathering” (“atzeret”) will be discussed later in this essay). Simchat Torah means “the rejoicing of the Torah” and engenders the dual meaning implicit in its name: it is the day when the people of Israel rejoice in the Torah, lifting its holy scrolls into their arms and filling the synagogues with song and dance; and it is the day on which the Torah rejoices in Israel.  The Torah, too, wishes to dance and, lacking the physical means to do so, employs the body of the Jew – on Simchat Torah, the Jew becomes the dancing feet of the Torah.

A Question

But why celebrate Simchat Torah on Shmini Atzeret, the 22nd (and 23rd) day(s) [2] of the month of Tishrei? As a rule, the festivals of the Jewish calendar mark historical events which are the source of their import and significance (e.g. the exodus from Egypt on Passover, the creation of man on Rosh Hashanah). Accordingly, would it not be more appropriate to rejoice over the Torah on Sivan 6th, the day in which G-d revealed Himself to us at Mount Sinai and granted us the Torah as our eternal heritage? Indeed, we mark that date with the festival of Shavuos, a festival devoted to re-experiencing the revelation at Sinai and reiterating our covenant with the Almighty forged by Torah and our pledge to observe and study it. And yet, our joy with the Torah is reserved for the festival of Shmini Atzeret – a date with no apparent historical connection to our relationship with the Torah.

One might explain that “living with Torah” through the annual reading cycle, studying it and implementing it in our daily lives, is of greater significance than our original receiving of it at Sinai. But why, indeed, conclude and begin the Torah on Shmini Atzeret? Why did Moses, who established the Torah reading cycle, not schedule it to begin and end on the festival of Shavuos?

Mirror Image

And yet, an examination of the nature and significance of Shemini Atzeret reveals a close resemblance between it and the festival of Shavuos – indeed, it can be said to be its calendar twin and alter ego. Both are referred to by the Torah as days of “atzeret” (ingathering, assembly, retention, absorption), and are the only two festivals to carry that distinctive name. Both are one-day festivals which culminate a cycle of seven: Shemini Atzeret immediately follows the seven days of Sukkot, while Shavuos closes the seven week sefirah count begun by Passover.

The two atzeret festivals mirror each other across the sphere of the yearly cycle.  The Jewish year is framed by two key months, Nissan and Tishrei, each of which is considered, in its own realm, to be the “first” and “head” of the entire year. Nissan, the first month of spring, marks the birth of the Jewish people; Nissan 15th is the date of the Exodus, and opens a seven-day celebration of freedom, the festival of Passover. Exactly six months later, on the 15th of Tishrei, begins the other seven-day festival of the Jewish year, Sukkot. And, as explained above, both of these seven-day festivals are capped by a one-day “atzeret” festival. (The only break in the symmetry is the fact that Sukkot’s atzeret is a literal and contiguous eighth to its seven days, while Passover’s atzeret is a more distant “eighth,” culminating the 49 (7×7) day count initiated by Passover.)

What is an Atzeret?

What is an atzeret?  Kabbalistic and chassidic teaching explain it as the absorption and internalization of what was earlier realized and expressed on a more external level.  Atzeret is what digestion is to eating, what assimilation is to study, what conception is to marriage.

Freedom is far too precious a commodity to be squandered as mere physical liberty.

Our receiving of the Torah on Shavuos is the atzeret of our liberation from bondage seven weeks earlier. On Passover we became a free people – free of the taskmaster’s whip, free of subjugation to the most debased society on earth. But what is freedom?  How is it to be digested, internalized and applied to one’s day-to-day existence? Is it freedom from responsibility, from the burden of moral choices, from purpose and definition to life? If such is freedom, then the most liberated creature on earth is… the slave! (indeed, this was the freedom some Jews yearned for when they complained to Moses “We remember the fish which we ate in Egypt, for free” [3] ). Freedom is far too precious a commodity to be squandered as mere physical liberty; as G-d told Moses, “When you take this nation out of Egypt, you shall serve G-d at this mountain” [4] – the purpose of the Exodus is that it lead to Sinai, to freedom not only from the borders of geographical Egypt but from all constraints and limitations [5] , physical or psychological, external or internal. Freedom from doubt, freedom from hazard and inconsistency, freedom from servitude to one’s own base desires. Freedom which enables the soul to realize her full potential, to experience her intrinsic bond to her essence and source, to actualize her mission and purpose in being; in a word, the freedom to be fully and uninhibitedly herself. The freedom embodied by Torah.

So upon receiving the gift of freedom on Nissan 15th we embark on a 49-day process of absorbing and internalizing it – a process which results in the atzeret of Shavuos. For seven weeks we labor to assimilate the true, inner significance of the Exodus, to mature a circumstantial liberty into a state of inherent freedom.

Then, six months later, come the festivals of Tishrei.

The Second Tablets

For life, as most anyone who has had that experience will tell you, is not the unbroken progression of development and growth that we plan it to be.  Instead, there are blunders, failings and regressions. Our life as a nation was no different: a few short weeks after we stood at Sinai, beheld our Creator and attained the pinnacle of freedom and perfection, we had reverted to the paganism of Egypt, and the Golden Calf was being worshiped in the Jewish camp.

But descent generates the momentum for ascent, and failure can be exploited to fuel the drive for rectification and beyond. This phenomenon is referred to by the Torah as teshuvah (“return”): it is the thirst that only one who is lost in the desert can experience, the longing for home that only a wayward son can feel, the force that only a soul stretched to the limit can rebound with. Thus, the debacle of the Golden Calf gave us Yom Kippur – the holiest day of the year, and the source of even deeper connection to Torah than the revelation at Sinai on Shavuos enabled.

Following the revelation at Sinai, G-d gave Moses the Two Tablets of the Covenant, inscribed with the Ten Commandments which encapsulate the entirety of Torah. Upon beholding Israel’s violation of everything the Tablets stood for, Moses “threw the Tablets from his hands and broke them at the foot of the mountain.” [6] But out of the shattered tablets and covenant was born a second set of tablets, embodying the Torah on a level that the earlier, pre-descent set did not include. On the 10th of Tishrei, observed ever since as Yom Kippur, G-d gave us the Second Tablets, conveying to us a dimension of Torah that only the regenerative power of teshuvah could evoke.

For to rebuild a shattered relationship, one must access that part of it which was never damaged in the first place. On the most basic level, the Torah is a set of Divinely ordained precepts, a list of dos and don’ts which represent the manner in which the Creator of life desired that it be lived; to act accordingly is to bind oneself to G-d as the instrument of His will. But Torah is more then that. This is evidenced by the fact that Torah itself provides the formula for teshuvah; in other words, also one who has violated the Divine will, G-d forbid, has not placed himself outside of the connection with the Almighty which Torah facilitates. Teshuvah means that the Torah is the essence of an unconditional bond between man and G-d – a bond which is expressed and actualized by our observance of the commandments but not contingent upon it. So also one who has damaged the more tangible element of his connection to G-d can reach deeper into Torah, to the very heart of the relationship tapped by the hunger, the longing, the recoil of teshuvah; he can experience its untarnished essence and rebuild it anew.

So the First Tablets, which came at the end of a gradual but uninterrupted process of self-refinement and self-perfection, expressed only the “conventional” element of Torah – the obvious connection with G-d achieved through the fulfillment of His will. The deeper function of Torah remained locked in sublime latency: so long as we had not strayed from the straight and truth path of life ordained by Torah, there was no need, and no opportunity, to employ the power of teshuvah. One who sits by the wellspring simply cannot experience the thirst of the desert wanderer; the dutiful son who daily sees and serves his father cannot yearn with the intensity of his renegade brother; the spiritually sated soul cannot generate the drive and impulsion which agitates the soul tortured by its failings and inadequacies.  It is the Second Tablets, product of our teshuvah response to our first (and prototypic [7] ) fall as a people, which embody the quintessence of Torah, the bond that transcends its commandments and precepts.

Tishrei: Month and Moon

And Sukkot is the celebration of Yom Kippur. Teshuvah, by its very nature, is an introverted affair: a soul secludes herself with her G-d, anguishes over the distance she has created between them, and in the depth of her anguish finds the redeeming element of her iniquities, the power to repair and sublimate her defective past. The private and timorous nature of teshuvah is demonstrated by the marked difference between the manner in which we received the first and second Tablets. On Shavuos, the entire people of Israel gathered around Mt. Sinai; there was thunder and lightening, clouds of fire and smoke and the triumphant blast of the shofar as the Almighty communicated the Ten Commandments amidst a tremendous display of Divine power. But when Moses received the second set of Tablets on Yom Kippur no one was there; G-d instructed that it be a silent and private affair, as befitting the still, deep waters of teshuvah.

So Yom Kippur is hardly a time to express joy and celebration. And yet, what greater joy can there be for the Jew than his joy in Torah – specifically, the Torah of the Second Tablets – the substance of his eternal, all-enduring bond with his Creator? And the nature of joy is that it refuses to confine itself to the inner sanctum of the heart. It bursts its seams, floods the body, sets the feet adance, and pours out the throat in song. Enter Sukkot, “the season of our rejoicing.” Sukkot is the joy of Yom Kippur come to light, the joy which the solemnity and innerness of the day kept contained within.

The Jewish calendar is a lunar calendar, which means that its months follow the phases of the moon. Moon and month are born, grow, mature and dwindle together: each month begins on the night of the new moon, progresses as the moon fills out in the night sky, and its 15th, night of the full moon, marks the month’s apex and “fullness.” This is why so many of the Jewish year’s festivals and special days fall on the 15th – it is the day on which the special quality of that month is most expressed and manifest. The same is true of the month of Tishrei: the teshuva of its opening days (the “Ten Days of Repentance” from Rosh Hashanah to Yom Kippur) finds manifest expression in the joy of Sukkot. For seven days the joy mounts. But as with the freedom gained on Passover, the teshuvah celebrated on Sukkot must be absorbed and internalized: instead of remaining a once-a-year experience, it must become part of our integral nature and daily existence. So the seven-day festival is followed by an atzeret – a day in which our joy with the essence of Torah reaches its peak, and is immediately applied to the cycle of our year-round lives, which is the significance of Shemini Atzeret.

Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

Tags: relationships, freedom, teshuvah, joy, repentance, atzeret, internalize, Yanki Tauber
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Supernal Real Estate

July 23rd, 2015

According to Torah law, your neighbor is not just the fellow on the other side of the fence but someone toward whom you have certain responsibilities and obligations. One of these is spelled out in the law of bar mitzra (lit. “the one on the boundary”), which states that when a person wishes to sell his field, his neighbors (i.e., those who own land that borders the land being sold) must be given first priority to purchase it, provided that they are prepared to meet the price and terms of any prospective buyer. This law is enforced by the court, to the extent that if the property is sold to an outside buyer without being first offered to a neighbor, the neighbor has the right to pay the purchase price to the buyer and evict him from the land.[1]

Halachah (Torah law) is more than a divinely ordained code of behavior for life on earth: it also describes G-d’s own “code of behavior,” the manner in which He chooses to relate to His creation. In the words of the Midrash:

“G-d’s way is not like the way of flesh and blood. The way of flesh and blood is that he instructs others to do, but does not do so himself; with G-d, however, what He Himself does, that is what He tells Israel to do and observe.”[2]

If G-d commanded us the law of bar mitzra, He conforms to it Himself.

Thus, the Talmud tells us that when Moses “ascended to heaven” to receive the Torah from G-d,

…the angels protested to G‑d: “What is a human being doing amongst us?” Said He to them: “He has come to receive the Torah.” Said they to Him: “This esoteric treasure, which was hidden with You for nine hundred and seventy-four generations before the world was created, You wish to give to flesh and blood?…  Place Your glory upon the heavens!”

Said G‑d to Moses: “Answer them.”

Said [Moses]: “Master of the Universe! This Torah that You are giving to me, what is written in it? ‘I am the L‑rd Your G‑d, who has taken you out from the land of Egypt.’ Have you descended to Egypt?” asked Moses of the angels. “Have you been enslaved to Pharaoh? So why should the Torah be yours? What else does it say? ‘You shall have no alien gods.’ Do you dwell amongst idol‑worshipping nations? … ‘Remember the Shabbat day.’ Do you work? …  ‘Do not swear falsely.’ Do you do business? … ‘Honor your father and your mother.’ Do you have parents? ‘Do not kill,’ ‘Do not commit adultery,’ ‘Do not steal.’ Is there jealousy among you?  Do you have an evil inclination?”[3]

As the commentaries[4] explain, the angels had a legal claim on the Torah–the neighbor’s prerogative stipulated by the law of bar mitzra. For the Torah is G-d’s “esoteric treasure”: before it was given to us at Sinai it was a wholly spiritual manifesto, “written of yore before Him in black fire upon white fire,”[5] relating exclusively to the spiritual infrastructure of creation. Thus we are told that at Sinai G-d spoke to us “from the heavens,”[6] and that Moses “ascended to heaven,”[7] entering into a spiritual state of being,[8] in order to receive the Torah. We, argued the angels, are the Torah’s natural neighbors; it should be offered to us before it is translated into a doctrine for physical life for some distant earthly customer.[9]

Five Answers

As the Talmud relates, G-d told Moses to respond to the angels’ claim.[10]Indeed, on what grounds might Moses have defended the legality of the contract between G-d and Israel? Why should not the law of bar mitzra apply to the Torah? The commentaries[11] offer the following answers:

1) The law of bar mitzra applies only to a sale, not to a gift–the owner is obviously free to make a gift of his field to whomever he desires.[12] Since G-d granted us the Torah, the angels’ claim has no basis.

2) The law of bar mitzra applies only to real estate, not to transportable objects.[13] The Torah, which is a portable entity (as evidenced by the fact that it was “transported” to earth), is thus exempt from this law.

3) If a person wishes to sell his field to a family member, he is permitted to do so without first offering it to his neighbor. [14] The people of Israel are G-d’s children[15] and His “close relatives.”[16] Thus, the law of bar mitzra is not applicable to Israel’s purchase of the Torah.

4) A sale to a partner is likewise exempt from the bar mitzra requirement.[17] The Talmud states that “any judge who judges law with an utter exactitude of truth, becomes a partner with G-d in creation.”[18] Moses, being such a juror of Torah law,[19] is thus considered G-d’s partner, and may purchase property from Him over the objections of the property’s supernal neighbors. (Keeping the Shabbat also deems one “a  partner with G-d in creation.”[20] Since the Jewish people had been given the mitzvah of Shabbat several weeks before Sinai,[21] they, too, are G-d’s “partners,” and thus free to “purchase” the Torah.)

5) The Torah refers to Moses as a “man of G-d,” half mortal, half supernal.[22] So he was no less a “neighbor” to the spiritual Torah than his celestial competitors. (Again, the same could be said of the people of Israel, whose souls are “carved from beneath the Supernal Throne” of G-d.[23])

However, each of these defenses has its difficulties. Regarding the first defense, while it is true that the Torah is called a “gift” from Above (as in Numbers 21:18), it is also called an “inheritance” (Deuteronomy 33:4), and a “purchase” (Proverbs 4:2; Midrash Rabbah, Shemot 33:1). As we have elaborated on another occasion,[24] these three metaphors describe three distinct elements in Torah and the manner of its “possession” by the people of Israel. Thus, the angel’s claim to the Torah stands, at least in regard to the “purchase” aspect of Torah.

As for the second defense, the reason why the law of bar mitzra does not apply to a portable object is that a portable object has no defined place, and thus no true neighbors: anyone can acquire it anywhere and transport it to his property. In our case, however, the Torah’s defining “place” is the very issue at hand. The angels were insisting that it should remain “in heaven” and spiritual in essence, while Moses’ purchase would mean its removal to earth and the redefinition of its primary function as a doctrine for physical life. Indeed, after we received it at Sinai, the Torah is expressly “not in heaven,” and completely under terrestrial jurisdiction.[25]The Torah’s “sale” to Israel meant that the angels would no longer have access to the Torah–at least not as something of their own environment (in the same way that the Torah’s remaining “in heaven” would have meant that we could relate to it only on the esoteric level, not as a sanctifier of physical life).[26] It follows, then, that as regards the law of bar mitzra,the Torah is indeed supernal “real estate,” and ought to be subject to the neighbor’s prerogative claimed by the angels.

Finally, all five explanations beg the question: where is there mention of any of this in Moses’ response? If the basis of the angels’ argument to G-d, “Place Your glory upon the heavens!” is the law of bar mitzra, then Moses must explain why this clause is not applicable in this case. Yet nowhere in Moses’ words do we find a sign of any of these five defenses. Indeed, as far as the third, fourth and fifth defenses are concerned, Moses seems to be saying the very opposite. The gist of Moses’ response is that, unlike the angels, the Jewish people are physical beings inhabiting a profane and even heretical world–a world marked by jealousy, dishonesty and idolatry–and thus they have need of and rights to the Torah. Instead of refuting the angels’ claim by speaking of Israel’s innate spirituality (defense no. 5) or their relationship or partnership with G-d (3 and 4), Moses seems to be confirming it by emphasizing Israel’s distance from their divine origins and the spirituality of the heavens.

Housing Development

Our sages teach that “the purpose of the creation of all worlds, supernal and ephemeral,” is that G-d “desired a dwelling in the lowly realms.”[27] G-d desired to create a “lowly realm”–a world that is virtually devoid of all manifest expression of His truth–and that this lowly realm should be made into a home for Him, a “dwelling” that serves and facilitates His presence.

Thus, the world was created:

“For the sake of the Torah and the sake of Israel”[28]

The people of Israel are the builders of this home for G-d, and the Torah is the instrument of its construction. The people of Israel inhabit the physical universe–the “lowly realm” where G-d desired to dwell. The Torah instructs the Jew how to transform material things such as animal hides, palm fronds and silver coins into holy and G-dly things such as a pair of tefillin, a lulav, and charity. With the Torah as his blueprint and empowerer, the Jew transforms a mundane world into an environment that is receptive and subservient to the divine reality.

Why is the sanctification of the physical world referred to as the making of  a “dwelling” for G-d? Because the home is the human model that most accurately expresses the significance of what we achieve through our fulfillment of the Torah’s blueprint for life. There are many environments and structures that house or contain a person and serve his needs in the course of his day and life. A person might spend many toilsome hours in a field, tilling its soil to derive sustenance from the earth; others mark time in offices, factories and laboratories to earn a livelihood. Man also constructs buildings to serve his educational, health, legal, and entertainment needs, and vehicles to move him across land, sea and air. What all these “containers” have in common is that they each house a specific aspect of the person, as opposed to the person himself. They shelter and facilitate the farmer, the businessman, the student, the patient, the art critic and the vacationer, rather than the man. All these are places where a person fulfills a certain role or procures a certain need; only at home is he himself. Echoing the Talmudic adage:

“A man without a homestead is not a man,”[29]

Chassidic teaching interprets the concept of a “dwelling” as “a place that houses a person’s very essence.”[30]

This is what is meant when we say that “G-d desired a dwelling in the lowly realms.” G-d has many venues for the expression of His reality–He created many spiritual worlds or “realms,” each of which conveys another face of His infinitely-faceted truth. But only the “lowly realm” of our physical world can be His home, the environment that houses His essence.

For the wisdom of the sage is not revealed in his scholarly discourse with his colleagues, but in his ability to explain the loftiest of concepts to the simplest of minds. The benevolence of the philanthropist is seen not in his generosity to his family and friends, but in his kindness toward the most undeserving of recipients. The power of the torch is expressed not by the light it sheds upon its immediate surroundings, but by illumination of the most distant point its light can reach. By the same token, the infinity and all-pervasiveness of the divine truth is expressed not in the spirituality of the heavens, but in the sanctification of material earth. When the physical world–“whose workings are harsh and evil and the wicked prevail there” for it is dominated by forces that seem indifferent and even opposed to the divine will[31]–is made to express the divine truth, it becomes a “dwelling” for G-d. When the lowliest and most profane of G-d’s creations is made to serve Him, there has been constructed a true home for Him, an edifice that houses His very essence.

Therein lies the ultimate refutation of the angels’ claim on the Torah. The law of bar mitzra states that:

“If the outside buyer wishes to build homes on the land and the neighbor wishes to seed it, the outside buyer retains the land, since the civilization of the land takes precedence, and the law of bar mitzra is not applied in this case.”[32]

Thus Moses said to the angels: Do you have an evil inclination? Do you deal with the mundanities of the marketplace? Do you dwell in a pagan world? So to what end should you be given the Torah? To cultivate another lush garden of spiritual delights? But G-d wants a home. Only we, who daily grapple with the deceit, the strife and the profanity that marks the lowliest stratum of G-d’s creation, can construct with the Torah a dwelling for Him, a place to house His quintessential self.

Based on address by the Rebbe, Shavuot 5718 (1958)[33]

Adapted from the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

Tags: refinement, Torah, elevate, angels, Divine dwelling, home, truth, Moses, Jewish law, Matan Torah
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The Model

July 23rd, 2015

They shall make for Me a Sanctuary, and I shall dwell within them…

And you shall make a curtain of blue, purple and scarlet [wool], and fine twined linen … and the curtain shall divide for you between the Holy and the Holy of Holies…

And you shall make a courtyard for the Sanctuary … one hundred cubits in length and fifty cubits in breadth…

Exodus 25:8; 26:31-33; 27:9-18

Our sages tell us that G-d created the world because “He desired a dwelling for Himself in the lower realms”—that the physical world should be made into a home for Him, an environment receptive to and expressive of His truth.[1]

The building of the Sanctuary (Mishkan) by the people of Israel in the Sinai Desert marked the first such effort to construct a home for G-d. Fifteen materials,[2] representing a cross-section of animal, vegetable and mineral resources of the earth, were fashioned into an edifice dedicated to the service of G-d. When the divine presence came to rest in the Sanctuary, it became the prototype for the fulfillment of the divine purpose in creation—“a dwelling for Him in the lower realms.”

The Sanctuary was an oblong structure whose inside area measured thirty cubits from east to west, ten cubits from north to south, and ten cubits in height (approx. 48′ x 16′ x 16′). Its northern, southern and western walls were fitted together out of sectional panels of gold-plated acacia wood.[3]Its roof consisted of three layers of tent-coverings: an inner tapestry spun of blue, purple and red-dyed wool and linen; a second covering of woven goat hair; and a third, external covering of animal skins.

Across the unwalled eastern side of the Sanctuary was a curtain (themasach or “screen”), held up by five posts. Ten cubits from its western wall, another curtain (the parochet), suspended from four posts, divided the Sanctuary into two chambers: an outer chamber, 20 x 10 cubits in size, called “The Holy,” and an inner 10 x 10 cubit chamber, called the “Holy of Holies.” The Holy contained the “golden altar” upon which the incense (ketoret) was burned; the “table” on which the “showbread” (lechem hapanim) was arranged; and the menorah, whose seven lamps were lit each afternoon to burn through the night. The Holy of Holies, into which no man ventured except for the Kohen Gadol (High Priest) on Yom Kippur, contained only the ark holding the Tablets of the Covenant and topped by two keruvim (cherubs) of solid gold.

Surrounding the Sanctuary was the “Courtyard” (chatzer), an area 100 x 50 cubits in size enclosed by a partition of woven linen. Within the courtyard, in front of the Sanctuary, stood the “outdoor altar” upon which the korbanotand menachot (animal and meal offerings) were offered to G-d. Between the outdoor altar and the Sanctuary was the “laver” (kiyor), at which the priests washed their hands and feet before entering the Sanctuary or performing any part of its service.

As the prototype for the divine purpose of creation, the structure of Sanctuary, with its three primary areas—the Courtyard, the Holy, and the Holy of Holies—reflects three basic domains in the macro-universe, in time, in society and in every individual life.[4]

Degrees of Matter

For most of our waking hours, our attention is focused on physical things and physical activities. Either we’re eating, or we’re preparing a meal, or planning it, or earning the money to buy it; or else we are attending to another of the body’s physical needs, or to one of the numerous physical objects with which we furnish our lives.

But every so often, the physicality of life takes on a deeper significance. Suddenly, we find ourselves looking at all these things and activities in a different light. We realize that the person we’re talking to is not just a body—that there’s a soul in that body that’s seeking the attention of our own soul. We realize that the food we’re eating is not just food—it’s the energy that drives the engine of our lives, energy that can be expended on useful, constructive, even spiritual things. We realize that our home, furniture and bank account are not just objects and statements of material wealth—they are tools that can be utilized to achieve the deeper, more meaningful goals we’ve always dreamt of achieving.

At such times, the physical things that surround us seem to shed the skin of corporeality that encases them at all other times. In our mind’s eye, they becomes lighter, more porous, more refined, as if illuminated from within by a spiritual light. We have caught a glimpse into the soul of the physical world.

And then there is the rare moment, experienced perhaps once in a lifetime, in which the veil of materiality not only becomes more transparent, but lifts entirely. A moment in which we completely transcend the physical trappings of life to encounter its spiritual essence. A moment in which the physical body and its physical needs become utterly insignificant in the face of the infinity and eternity of the soul.

Domains in Time

These three visions of reality are imbedded in the time-cycles that govern our lives. The Jewish calendar defines areas for material involvement, elevations from which the physical world is seen in a more refined state, and peaks of consummate spirituality.

“Six days you shall labor,” decrees the Torah, “and do all your work”[5]; the Midrash[6] considers this divine command as much a mitzvah as the continuation of the verse, “…and on the seventh day you shall rest.” For six days of the week, we are commanded to develop the physical world, to deal with it on its terms, to grapple with its material face. And though we foster an awareness of a more spiritual reality, and endeavor to infuse this awareness into our physical activities, on the whole, the world retains its mask of corporeality. The higher purpose to what we do resides in our own consciousness, but cannot be seen in the “real” world in which we are immersed.

But on the seventh day, the physical world shows us a holier, more refined face. It’s not that our lives are less physical. On the contrary, we are commanded to honor the Shabbat with sumptuous food and drink, fine clothes, and the enjoyment of other physical pleasures.[7] But on Shabbat, these physical activities are aglow with spiritual content. We experience them not as material indulgences, but as a celebration of G-d’s creation.

For fifty-plus weeks a year, we follow this cycle: six days of materiality, followed by a seventh day of refined physicality—physicality whose soul has been made visible. Then, once a year, comes Yom Kippur, the “Sabbath of Sabbaths.”[8]

On the “Sabbath of Sabbaths,” we forswear work, food, drink, and a host of other material needs and comforts to focus exclusively on matters of the spirit. On this day, the bodily aspect of our existence recedes entirely and our soul shines forth independently of its physical vessel.

The Nation

On the national level, the people of Israel are divided into three classes, to each of which is assigned another of these three domains—material involvement, refined physicality, and total transcendence—as the focus of their lives.

Twelve of the thirteen tribes of Israel are designated as “Israelites”: the farmers, merchants and statesmen whose lives are taken up with the business of material life.

One tribe, the tribe of Levi, was chosen by G-d for a more spiritual calling. The tribe of Levi includes the Kohanim (“priests”), who conducted the service in the Sanctuary, offering the korbanot, burning the incense, lighting the menorah and performing a host of other rituals, and the Levites, who assisted the Kohanim in their holy work.

The divine service performed by the Kohanim and the Levites was not divorced from the physicality of human life. Animals were slaughtered; certain portions were offered to G-d, but the bulk of the meat was eaten by the Kohanim, or by the one who brought the offering. The menorah shed physical light, and the incense filled the Sanctuary with a physical aroma. The “showbread” which was displayed all week on the “table” was distributed among the Kohanim each Shabbat for their consumption.

But these were sacred objects and activities—physical in substance and form but with an aura of divinity about them. The meat was holy meat, the light was holy light, and the aroma was a sacred aroma. Even the most casual observer could see that the Kohanim and Levites were not engaged in ordinary activities, but in holy work, work whose manifest purpose is the service of G-d.

Among the divine servants of Levi, a single individual was designated as a “holy of holies”[9]—as one whose holiness transcends even the sacred physicality practiced by his tribe. This was the Kohen Gadol (“High Priest”), commanded to lead a life of total disassociation from material life. The Kohen Gadol “never leaves the Sanctuary”[10] and does not partake in the social and civic activities that are integral to a person’s life as an individual and a member of society.[11] His entire being is devoted to maintaining a state of perpetual, self-obliterating attachment to G-d.

The Universe

Man is a universe in miniature,[12] and the universe is a macrocosm of man.[13] The entirety of creation is reflected in our lives, and the structure of our lives is mirrored by the cosmos.

Thus, the division of life into material, refined physical and purely spiritual domains is reflected in the structure of creation as a whole. In the words of Maimonides, “All things that G-d created in His world are divided into three categories.” The first category is the material world: “creations that are comprised of matter and form and are constantly deteriorating, such as the bodies of humans and animals, plants, and minerals.” The second category includes physical entities of a more refined nature, such as the stars and other heavenly bodies; they, too, “possess matter and form, but they are not as ephemeral as the first category.” The third and highest sphere of creation embraces the utterly spiritual creations, that are “forms alone, without matter. These are the angels, which are not physical bodies, but various forms” of divine energy.[14]

Taste, Sight and Smell

The Sanctuary, G-d’s first home on earth, was a model of the universe, of time, of the nation of Israel, and of every individual life.

The outermost domain of the Sanctuary, the Courtyard, was also its most “material” part. Here the korbanot—which G-d refers to as “My food”[15]—were offered on the “outdoor altar.” Many of the korbanot were cooked and eaten in the courtyard by the Kohanim; some of the korbanot offered here were even eaten by ordinary Israelites in their own homes.

Not only was the Courtyard the place for the “food” element of the service, it also contained elements of another signature feature of materiality—waste. (The defining difference between the two types of physical creations described by Maimonides is that the more material creations “are constantly deteriorating” while the loftier ones “are not as ephemeral as the first category.”) The ashes from the daily cleaning of the two altars and the menorah’s lamps were deposited in a special place designated for them in the Courtyard,[16] as were the “crop and feathers” (mur’ah v’notzah) from the bird offerings[17]; in the Courtyard were also deposited the shards of the broken earthen pots in which the meat of sin-offerings were cooked.[18] The Courtyard also contained the laver at which the Kohanim washed when they came in from the outside world, in order to cleanse themselves of the coarseness and materiality that clung to them from their stay outside the Sanctuary walls.

On the other hand, the outer chamber of the Sanctuary proper, the “Holy,” was the designated place for the more refined elements of the service—those involving sight (the lighting of the menorah) and smell (the incense offered on the golden altar). There was one component of the Holy involving food and taste—the showbread—but this, too, emphasized the more subliminal nature of this inner world. The showbread had the special quality that it did not spoil or become stale even  though it was arranged upon the “table” for a full week; thus it represented the higher order of physicality, described by Maimonides as the second stratum of creation, which is immune to dissolution. Furthermore, the showbread was distinctly a Shabbat food, and was eaten by the Kohanim only, implying that its physicality is of the higher, more refined sort.

All Israelites were allowed entrance into the Courtyard, while only the Kohanim were admitted into the Holy. But the Holy of Holies was off limits to all except the Kohen Gadol, who entered it only on Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the year.

The Holy of Holies was the “Sabbath of Sabbaths” of the Sanctuary: a place that epitomized the utter suspension of materiality and physicality. There was no “food” element in the Holy of Holies (just as there is no eating on Yom Kippur and no materiality in the Kohen Gadol’s life), not even the “Shabbat food” of the Sanctuary’s “Holy” chamber. The only services performed in the Holy of Holies were the offering of the incense[19] and the sprinkling of the blood of two “burnt offerings” (korbanot of which no part is eaten and which are wholly burnt on the altar) brought on Yom Kippur.

Personal Home

In commanding us to construct the Sanctuary, G-d said to Moses: “They shall make for Me a Sanctuary, and I shall dwell within them.”[20] Rabbi Isaiah Horowitz, author of the classic philosophical-kabbalistic work,Shaloh, points out that G-d does not say “I shall dwell within it,” but “within them,” referring to “each and every one of them.”[21]

Each and every one of us is a “Sanctuary,” a virtual universe embracing the various strata of time, space and humanity. A Sanctuary in whose every component G-d can be made to feel at home, be it the inner sanctum of unadulterated spirit, the more external chamber of sanctified physicality, or the outer courtyard of material life.

Based on the Rebbe’s notes for a treatise on the menorah, written in Paris in the year 5699 (1938-1939)[22]

Adapted from the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

Tags: Mishkan, Holy of Holies, Yanki Tauber, purpose of life, kohanim
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