Labor Day

July 3rd, 2015

Tags: Creativity, freedom, materialism, joy, purpose of life, personal growth, mitzvot, Torah, America, Rosh Hashana
Posted in Weekly Parsha, Tishrei, Rosh Hashanah, Months & Holidays, Personal Life, Devarim, Ki-Tavo, Torah, Business, Work & Money | No Comments »

Accommodations

July 2nd, 2015

In one of his travels, Rabbi Israel Baal Shem Tov arrived in a town where he was invited to stay at the home of the local rabbi. Instead, Rabbi Israel chose to avail himself of the hospitality of a certain tavern-keeper—a coarse and ignorant man known for his vulgar speech and depraved behavior.

When asked why he preferred the company of a reputed sinner over that of a pious scholar, Rabbi Israel explained: The Torah tells us that the Divine Presence “dwells amongst [the Jewish people], in the midst of their profanities.”[11] On the other hand, the Talmud states that G-d says of an egotistical person, “He and I cannot dwell in the same world.”[12]

“The tavern-keeper might be a sinner,” concluded the Baal Shem Tov. “But if G-d says that He nevertheless dwells with him, I, too, can be his guest. The rabbi, on the other hand, might be a great scholar and a very religious person, but he is a proud and egotistical man. If G-d says that He cannot find place for Himself in the same world with him, how can I find a place for myself in his home?”

Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

Tags: Baal Shem Tov, ego, Divine dwelling, G-d, sin
Posted in Baal Shem Tov, Weekly Parsha, Modern, Torah Personalities, Bamidbar, Torah, Balak | No Comments »

A Home for Twelve

July 2nd, 2015

Every weekday, the Jew places on his head above the brain, and on his arm opposite his heart, a pair of tefillin—black leather boxes containing small parchment scrolls on which are inscribed the basic tenets of our faith, chief amongst them the proclamation:

“Hear O Israel, the L-rd our G-d, the L-rd is one.”

Our sages tell us that G-d, too, dons tefillin. And what is inscribed in G-d’s tefillin?

“Who are like Your people Israel, one nation on earth.”

As we attest to the oneness of G-d, G-d attests to the oneness and integrity of His chosen people.[1]

Yet from its very beginnings, this “one nation” has been comprised of twelve distinct tribes. Jacob had twelve sons;[2] before his passing he blessed them:

“Each man according to his individual blessing.”

He granted Judah the majesty of the lion, Issachar the perseverance of the donkey, Dan the ingenuity of the snake, Naftali the swiftness of the gazelle, and so on.[3] Each tribe was thereby given a distinct vocation and role: Judah produced kings and legislators; Issachar, scholars; Zebulun, seafarers and merchants; warriors came from Gad, schoolteachers from Shimon, olive growers from Asher, shepherds from Menasseh, and so on.[4]

The descendants of Jacob’s children preserved their tribal identities throughout their exile in Egypt. When the Red Sea parted to allow them passage, it split into twelve pathways—one for each tribe.[5] Each tribe was counted separately in the various censuses taken of the people of Israel;[6] each had its own stone on the High Priest’s breastplate,[7] its own flag (in the color of its stone),[8] its designated place in line when the people of Israel journeyed through the desert, and its designated position when they camped around the Sanctuary (mirroring the places that Jacob designated for his sons around his bier at his funeral).[9] Twelve spies, each representing his respective tribe, made up the reconnaissance mission sent in preparation for the conquest of the Holy Land,[10] where each tribe was allotted its own territory suited for its particular vocation;[11] there was even a time when certain restrictions were placed on marriages between the tribes to prevent the ownership of land to pass from one tribe to the other.[12]

Repetitious Days

The tribulations of exile and dispersion have blurred the delineation of Israel into its twelve tribes; today, most Jews have no certain knowledge as to which tribe they belong. But the concept of “one nation” nevertheless distinguished by various tribal identities remains. While all Jews are bound by the same Torah and the same 613 mitzvot, communities differ in the texts of their prayers, their application of certain laws, and their observance of certain customs. By the same token, the traditional partnership between the “Issachars” and the “Zebuluns”—between those who devote their lives to the study of Torah and those who support them with the proceeds of their business dealings—remains a time-honored institution in every Jewish community.

There are twelve days on our calendar on which we touch base with our tribal identities and the “tribalism” of Israel. These are the first twelve days of the month of Nissan, on which we remember the dedication of the Sanctuary by the twelve tribal heads or nessi’im (nassi in the singular) of Israel.

The Sanctuary was the “Tent of Meeting” which G-d instructed Moses to build to serve as the dwelling place of His manifest presence (shechinah) within the camp of Israel. The Sanctuary accompanied the people of Israel for their 40 years’ journey through the desert, following which it was set up in various places in the Holy Land, until a permanent home for G-d was built in Jerusalem by King Solomon.[13]

As a rule, the service in the Sanctuary did not relate in any overt way to Israel’s division into tribes; it was carried out by Aaron and his sons, whom G‑d had chosen to serve as the emissaries of all the people.[14] Thus, when the Sanctuary was inaugurated on the 1st of Nissan in the year 2449 from creation (1312 bce—one year after the Exodus) and the nessi’im of the twelve tribes approached Moses with the desire to bring gifts in honor of the Sanctuary’s dedication, Moses hesitated to accept their offerings, feeling that an offering by a single representative on behalf of the people as a whole would be more appropriate.^[15] But G-d desired that each tribe should be individually recognized and represented in the establishment of His “dwelling” within the Israelite camp, and instructed Moses to:

“Accept it from them…. One nassi a day, one nassi a day, shall they bring their offerings for the inauguration of the altar.”[16]

So for twelve days the nessi’im brought their gifts. On Nissan 1, Nachshon ben Aminadav, the nassi of the tribe of Judah, presented a series of offerings to the Sanctuary; on the 2nd day of Nissan, Nathaniel ben Zuar, the nassi of Issachar, brought his tribe’s offerings; on the 3rd day, it was the turn of Eliav ben Cheilon, nassi of Zebulun; and so on until the 12th of Nissan, when the nassi of Naftali, Achira ben Enan, presented his tribe’s contribution.

Today, we commemorate the Sanctuary’s dedication by reading, on each of these days, a daily section of the “Nassi”—the verses describing the offerings of the day.[17] After recounting the offering brought by that day’s tribe, we conclude with the prayer:

… May it be Your will, L-rd my G-d and G-d of my fathers, that if I, Your servant, am from the tribe of … whose section of the Nassi I have read today in Your Torah, may all the holy sparks and holy illuminations that are included within the holiness of this tribe shine upon me, to grant me understanding and intelligence in Your Torah and my awe of You, to do Your will all the days of my life….

What is most puzzling about the Nassi readings, however, is that they each describe exactly the same offering! On the first day, we read how the nassiof Judah brought:

“One silver dish, weighing 130 shekels, one silver bowl of 70 shekels … both filled with fine flour mixed with oil … a golden spoon, ten shekels in weight, filled with incense … an ox … a ram … a sheep … a he-goat…”

And so on—some thirty-five items in all. On the next day, we read how the nassi of Issachar brought those very same 35 items, identical in every way—to the weight of each vessel and the age of each animal. The same occurs when we read of Zebulun’s offering on the 3rd day, Reuben’s offering on the 4th, and so on to Naftali’s offering on the 12th of Nissan.

Indeed, this is how the account appears in the seventh chapter of the Book of Numbers, from which the Nassi readings are taken. The Torah, which is often so “mincing” with words that it expresses many complex laws with a single extra letter, recounts each nassi’s offerings separately, repeating the detailed list twelve times. Thus it expends seventy-two “extra” verses in its account of these offerings, making the section of Nasso (Numbers 4:21-7:89) the longest in the Torah (176 verses).

Why, then, do we say that each day’s Nassi reading calls forth the unique “holy sparks and holy illuminations that are included within the holiness of this tribe”? On the other hand, if the “sparks” and “illuminations” represented by these offerings are not unique, but common to all the tribes of Israel, why did each tribe bring its offerings separately, and bring them each on a different day?

Six Wagons and Twelve Oxen

In addition to the offerings they brought on the first twelve days of Nissan, there was another contribution made by the twelve tribal heads in connection with the Sanctuary’s inauguration. Six wagons, each with a pair of oxen, were given for the purpose of transporting the Sanctuary. Each tribe contributed one ox and joined with another tribe to bring one of the six wagons. This gift was presented by all twelve nessi’im together on the 1st of Nissan, as described in the “Nassi” reading of that day.

An examination of these two groups of gifts shows that they both address the same paradox: the paradox of a “one nation” composed of various “tribes.” Both these offerings—each in its own way—show how though Moses’ vision of a common offering from all the people of Israel was rejected in favor of individual offerings by each tribe, these, in fact, actually underscore the unity of Israel.

How, indeed, do a people comprised of various tribes, each with its own character, temperament, talents and vocation, achieve union as “one nation”?

One approach is to focus on our “interdependence”: to appreciate that since we share a common goal—namely, to build for G-d: “a dwelling in the physical world”[18]—and since we each have a crucial role to play in the achievement of this goal, our various “tribes” and types complement and fulfill one another to create a single people. In other words, our differences themselves are what unite us. Since the entity “Israel” and what it stands for would be incomplete were any one “tribe” missing from the equation, no Jew is fully Jewish without his relationship with every other type of Jew.

This is what the nessi’im demonstrated with their gift:

“Six covered wagons and twelve oxen, a wagon for each two of the nessi’im, and for each one, an ox.”[19]

True, they were saying, we are comprised of various “tribes,” each distinguished by its particular character. True, we each bring our own distinct contribution to the fulfillment of Israel’s mission. Yet we recognize that while we each have been blessed with something our fellow “tribes” do not have, it is they who provide us with what we lack. Half a wagon is useless—we must combine our gifts in order to have something with which to transport the “Tent of Meeting” in our journey through the spiritual desert that is our material world. And while we may perhaps be able to produce a complete “ox” by our own efforts, it takes two oxen to pull our common wagon.

There is, however, another aspect to the unity of Israel—a vision that sees the many and diverse vocations and personalities that make up the Jewish nation as but the variant expressions of a singular essence. It is not only that all these callings work in tandem to achieve a collective goal (as with the oxen and wagons), but that they are all intrinsically one. The nation of Israel is a single soul shining through a many-faceted prism: while each facet unleashes its individual collage of hues in the ray it refracts, the light they all convey is one and the same.

This is the idea expressed by the second group of offerings—those brought by the nessi’im over the first twelve days of Nissan. As we said, these offerings were all exactly the same, down to the weight of the silver in each plate and the age of each lamb; yet the Torah recounts each offering separately. In its commentary on these verses, the Midrash expounds on the allegorical significance of these gifts. Each and every detail of these thirty-five items—the type of vessel, its material, its weight, the species of the animal offerings, their number, their age, etc.—symbolized something. But to each tribe they symbolized something else. To Judah they represented different aspects of the tribe’s role as sovereigns and leaders; to Issachar, they all pertained to scholarship and Torah study; and so on.^[20]

This explains the allocation of these offerings to twelve different days, and their twelve-fold “repetition” in the Torah. The Torah wishes to emphasize that each tribe brought its own experience and perspective to its offering. The very same act was differently colored by the individual nature of each of its actors: each was expressing the same eternal truth via his own personality and lifestyle.

Unity in Two Dimensions

Hence the necessity for both sets of offerings by the leaders of the tribes of Israel.

With their first offering of six wagons and twelve oxen, the leaders of the tribes expressed how our differences themselves, when applied in concert and harmony, unify us as “one people.”

The second group of offerings expressed a more profound unity: that even as we each pursue our divinely ordained role, each living his life on his “day” in his way, we are all doing the same thing. For in origin and essence we are one, and our individual lives and accomplishments are but the many expressions of a single quest.

The first aspect of our unity concerns only the end, but not the means, of our national mission. It sees the common goal that is the ultimate purpose of it all; but the process of life—what we actually do to attain this goal—remains an area of difference and disparity. So even if our present-day efforts are guided by, and permeated with, the vision of our common objective, our actual lives are conducted in apartness and disconnection. The second aspect, however, sees an intrinsic oneness in the process of life itself. Even before our individual paths have converged upon the same destination, it sees in the many ways in which we apply our particular talents and abilities a single process, a single deed, a single endeavor: making our lives a “Tent of Meeting,” a place to house the goodness and perfection of our Creator.

Based on the Rebbe’s talks, Nissan 12, 5740 (March 29, 1980) and Nissan 5, 5743 (March 19, 1983)^[21]

Adapted from the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

Tags: jewish identity, Yanki Tauber, unity, Jewish nation, Israel, sacrifices and offerings, Exodus from Egypt, Mishkan, the twelve tribes, Jewish history
Posted in Biblical, Weekly Parsha, Vayikra, Vayikra, Torah Personalities, Torah, The Twelve Tribes | 1 Comment »

A Sincere Apology

July 2nd, 2015

Most of us have experienced some form of hurt, slight or loss at the hands of another human being. Sometimes we feel anger. At other times we find it within ourselves to rise above our pain and be accepting and forgiving.

But most of us, unfortunately, have also been on the other side of the fence. We were not the victims, but the perpetrators of some form of abuse. When we realized, with a sense of guilt, that we actually inflicted harm on someone else, which emotions did we experience then? Perhaps we felt shame, at first, but all too often, that shame slowly subsides into a feeling of complacency. The world goes on, our life returns to normal, and our friend is left to nurse the wound and wallow in resentment. Which one of us has some growing up to do?

“If a person will sin and commit a trespass against G-d and be deceitful toward his friend regarding a pledge or a loan or about robbery; or he deprived his comrade; or he found a lost item and denied it–and he swore falsely about any of all the things…. He shall repay by its capital and its fifth [1]; he shall give it to the one to whom it belongs on the day he admits his guilt.”[2]

On the words “to whom it belongs,” Rashi [3] comments:

“To the one to whom the money belongs.”

Seemingly, Rashi’s interpretation is obvious and redundant. To whom would you assume that the money should be returned, if not to the original owner? This is precisely the question on the verse that Rashi wishes to address. Why does the verse find it necessary to add the words “to whom it belongs”?

It is possible to argue that the additional fifth is a fine imposed on the thief as a punishment for his violation, and therefore, by rights, need not be paid to the victim. The thief may well be obligated to pay it to the court, or perhaps donate it to charity. To emphasize that it must indeed be paid to the target of the theft, the verse stresses, “to whom it belongs.”

This seemingly simple verse addresses a deeper underlying theme in human relationships. There is a concept in Jewish mystical thought that when one suffers a loss or damage at the hands of another human being, he should not feel anger towards that person, since the loss was decreed upon him from Above. Even had the aggressor chosen not to do harm to him, G-d could have sent the negative experience his way through other means.[4]

According to this line of thinking, a thief can absolve himself of the duty to make amends to the victim of the theft. He could easily argue that the theft is only an issue between him and G-d. His argument may run as follows: “I have full faith in G-d’s justice; my issue is between me and G-d alone. My fellow’s loss does not particularly tug at my heartstrings, for after all, G-d has decreed it upon him. I am indeed concerned for the breach of my trust relationship with G-d. I have violated His command, and have taken His name in vain. I will therefore take upon myself penance and supplications to restore our relationship. I will dutifully fulfill the biblical obligation incumbent upon me to restore the loss, and even tack on the penalty. But the wrong inflicted upon my fellow is hardly my concern. I feel no duty to go to particularly great lengths to restore my shattered trust with him; he is a nonentity to me.”

Such a skewed view of interpersonal relationships reflects on a lack in the human-Divine relationship as well. Were we to fulfill our interpersonal relationships merely to please G-d, this would indicate a basic self-centeredness. We want to feel right and justified. We are uncomfortable with the unsettling feeling of being in the wrong, and therefore we feel compelled to make amends. Our acceptance of the Divine commandment to appease our fellow stems essentially from our own need for personal vindication.

Yet a true relationship with G-d entails being thoroughly permeated with Divine compassion and sensitivity. We are careful with other people’s feelings not so much for the sake of fulfilling our own obligations, but out of a sincere interest in the needs of the other person. Upon discovering or regretting the wrong I have committed against my friend, my sole concern is to ease his pain and lighten his burden. My personal obligation and blight vis-à-vis G-d is secondary. What is primary to me is that my friend’s loss, and peace of mind, be restored. I want not only to return the theft, but even add on an extra amount to make up for the emotional distress I caused, and any possible profit that he may have lost out on during the time that his money was in my possession.

The commandments regulating interpersonal relationships, such as those concerning slander, honesty in business dealings, or charitable obligations, fall in the category of “mishpatim,” or laws which have a logical basis. Although they are in concordance with human understanding, we are nevertheless obliged to fulfill them out of a sense of kabbalat ol, (acceptance of Divine authority). G-d is aware of the all-too-human tendency to rationalize and justify our transgressions. The Torah therefore institutes a code of conduct that is not subject to the rules of human rationality, to prevent a person from absolving himself of blame when that should suit his agenda. Yet it is far from G-d’s intention that we fulfill our obligations towards our fellow man out of a sense of duty towards G-d, and forget the human dimension. The ultimate expression of kabbalat ol is when it takes root in all levels of the personality.

A G-dly person refrains from gossip and evil speech, is scrupulous in his business dealings, and avoids to the utmost taking any property that does not belong to him. But what is his motivation? Does he really care that much for the feelings and needs of his fellow human beings, or is he trying to score points in heaven? The intent of the mishpatim is to mold the human character, and to guide a person to become more humane, more sensitive and more loving. We subject ourselves to the Divine will so that we can transcend our own selfish nature, and thereby become truly G-dly and loving individuals.

Based on Likkutei Sichos, Shabbos Parshas Vayikra, vol. 7, pp. 9-19

Adapted from the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe by Chaya Shuchat.

Tags: divine providence, Jewish law, self-improvement, Divine, Chaya Shuchat, relationships, kindness
Posted in Weekly Parsha, Vayikra, Soul & Mystical, Vayikra, Spiritual, Torah | 1 Comment »

Giving Up Your Life

July 2nd, 2015

Does serving God mean that you have to sacrifice your life for God? Is it conforming to be someone you’re not? Obliterating your personality?

If this sounds unappealing, it’s no wonder: it’s not only wrong, it’s anathema to the very fundamentals of Judaism. In the third book of the Bible called Vayikra (Leviticus), we learn the quintessential approach to how each and every one of us can and should serve God. But rather than presenting a serene picture of spiritual reverie the book of Vayikra reflects a subject that is more likely to evoke confusion (even revulsion for some) than sublimity! In this Book, we enter the bloody world of the great altar in the Holy Temple (Beis HaMikdash) where the Jewish people brought animal sacrifices to Jerusalem to atone for their sins. What possible connection could this slaughter of ox and sheep have to do with establishing a fulfilling relationship with God?

The Ramban, a classical Torah commentator, tells us (Leviticus 1:9) that when a person had to bring a korban (animal sacrifice) to be offered in the Beis HaMikdash:

“A person had to envision that what was happening to the animal should have been happening to him or her.”

Since it is we who need to be cleansed of our wrongdoings—a cleansing of our blood, our flesh, and our fat—God in His great mercy gave us an alternative: we could replace ourselves with an animal, an animal that would endure this process in our stead.

The Torah is not a lesson in ancient history; its every word is eternal and relevant to each one of us in every day and age. In a Temple-less world, we need to look a little deeper into Torah to discover the relationship of these sacrifices to our contemporary lives.

There are two polar forces within each of us: a force that desires material pleasures and a force that yearns for spirituality and Godliness. Simply put, our search for purpose, for meaning, for serving God are at constant odds with “the animal” in us: the part of us that would rather indulge our selfish passions than contribute our time and resources to a higher cause. The centrality of the animal offerings in the Temple reflects the essence of our Divine purpose: To submit the animal within us to God.

Now, when we read how a person brought a sacrifice upon the altar: “Adam ki yakriv mikem…,” we find a curious twist of words. Instead of saying, “When one of you will bring an offering,” the literal translation is:

“When a person will bring an offering of you.”

The “of you” tells us that by bringing an animal to be sacrificed on the altar, we are actually bringing to the altar the animal in us.

Offering yourself, the animal in you, to God is the cornerstone of all Judaism, but how is this accomplished? Do you crush the animal passion and pleasure in you and live a somber life of deprivation and misery? The answer lies in the derivation of the word korban. While korban is often translated as “sacrifice,” the actual translation of the word comes from the root word kiruv, meaning “to draw close.”

We make ourselves a korban by “bringing close” the pure essence of the animal in us to God. We don’t annihilate it, we don’t squash it, we use it to help us approach Divinity, to transcend our limits and get closer to the quintessential purpose for which we were created. An animal cannot behave in any way other than how G-d created it. Bulls are aggressive, sheep are slothfully self-indulgent, and goats are stubborn. But the animal in us has a choice. We can be an obnoxious “bully,” or we can channel our passions toward an assertive love for God. We can indulge in our sheep like lust for pleasure, or we can get pleasure in helping others and living a meaningful life.

At the heart of every force in our lives, even the ones that manifest negative expression, lies a kernel that can be directed to a constructive and Godly cause. What we do “sacrifice” is the object of our desires, the immature or narrow attitudes we assume, our ignorance and our blind spots—so that our essential natures can emerge, just as you sacrifice the weeds to allow the flowers to surface.

Should we “give up” our lives for God? Certainly not! That’s sacrifice. We shouldn’t give up our God-given talents and behaviors; we should bring them closer to their purer state. When you become a korban, you have the opportunity to transform every aspect of yourself, to become the greatest person you can be; a person who no longer walks among the beasts, but hand and hand with God.

The story of the korban in the book of Vayikra teaches us that serving God is not about self-annihilation but about self-actualization.

Giving Up Your Life for God? No Thanks!

Tags: inner self, sacrifices and offerings, Beis Hamikdash, Divine service, self-development, Spirituality, Hebrew
Posted in Vayikra, Weekly Parsha, Vayikra, Religion, Spiritual, Torah | 1 Comment »

The Pleasure Principle

June 30th, 2015

Israel settled in Shittim; and the people began to stray after the daughters of Moab. And they called the people to the sacrifices of their gods … and Israel joined themselves to Baal Peor…

Numbers 25:1-3

There was once a gentile woman who was very ill, who vowed: “If this woman recovers from her illness, she will go and worship every idol in the world.” She recovered, and proceeded to worship every idol in the world. When she came to Peor, she asked its priests: “How is this one worshipped?” Said they to her: “One eats greens and drinks beer, and then one defecates before the idol.” Said she: “I’d rather that this woman return to her illness than worship an idol in such a manner.”

Talmud, Sanhedrin 64a

Idolatry is the deification of an object or force of the created reality. Ancient man worshipped the sun because it kept him warm, lighted his way and nurtured his crops; the moon, wind, earth, water and trees were also gods, to be thanked and beseeched for the gifts they bestowed upon man. This was like thanking the hammer for building a home or the scythe for the year’s harvest, rather than the creator and wielder of these tools; nevertheless, every idolatry has a certain logic, however misguided—one is venerating a (presumed) source of life and nourishment.[1] Every idolatry, that is, with the exception of Baal Peor, which is the pagan practice of worshipping one’s own excrement. Here the person is venerating waste—that which has been left over and rejected after all nutritive potential has been extracted from a substance.

The people of Israel were at Shittim, the last of their 42 encampments in the desert, when a significant number of them joined the Moabites and Midianites in the worship of Baal Peor. The Jews were at the final stage of their generation-long journey from Sinai to the Holy Land—from the scene of G-d’s revelation of His will to man to the place of its ultimate realization—yet they succumbed to the most irrational and repugnant form of idolatry on the face of the earth. In truth, however, it was precisely their proximity to the Holy Land that made them susceptible to the idolatry of Peor.

The transition from a people journeying through the desert to a people settled upon their land was the transition from a wholly spiritual life to a life of involvement with the material world. In the desert, the people of Israel were nourished by the miraculous “bread from heaven” and the “well of Miriam,” while “clouds of glory” sheltered them and preserved their clothes,[2] enabling them to pursue the divine wisdom of Torah and commune with G-d free of all material cares. But once they crossed the Jordan, the “bread from heaven” was replaced with bread from the earth—bread for which one must expend much bodily toil: plowing, sowing, reaping and engaging in the numerous other labors required to eke nourishment from physical soil. Once they crossed the Jordan, their spiritual idyll was replaced with the mundane particulars of physical life: commerce, politics, war, diplomacy, and so on.

This was why the generation of the Exodus spurned the land, preferring their spiritual haven in the desert to the trials and challenges of statehood.[3] They failed to appreciate that the purpose of life on earth is not to escape the material world—were this the case, the Torah would have been given to the supernal angels, who can outspirit the most spiritual of men.[4] Rather, the reason G-d took them out of Egypt and gave them the Torah was for them to enter the land of Canaan, conquer it and settle it, and proceed to make it a “Holy Land”—a land receptive of the holiness of G-d. In the words of the Midrash, “G-d desired a dwelling within the physical world.”[5] “This is what man is all about,” writes Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi in his Tanya, “[this is] the purpose of his creation and the creation of all the worlds, both spiritual and physical: that G-d should have a dwelling place within the physical world.”[6]

Now, a new generation had taken their place, a generation raised with the mission of entering the land and fulfilling the divine desire for a home within the physical existence. It was this generation who, on the eve of the realization of their mission to sanctify the physical, fell prey to the idolatry of Peor.

Depleted Matter

It was a hot July day in the summer of 1866. The children of Rabbi Shmuel of Lubavitch, five-year-old Sholom DovBer[7] and his brother Zalman Aharon, had just come home from cheder and were playing in the garden which adjoined their home.

In the garden stood a trellis overgrown with vines and greenery which offered protection from the heat of the sun. It was set up as a study, and Rabbi Shmuel would sit there on the hot summer days.

The children were arguing about what it means to be a Jew. Zalman Aharon, the elder by a year and four months, posited that the Jews are a “wise and understanding people”[8] who can, and do, study lots of Torah, both its exoteric laws and its mystical secrets, and pray with devotion and deveikut (attachment to G-d).

Said the young Sholom DovBer:

“But this is true only of those Jews who learn and pray. What about Jews who are unable to study and who do not pray with deveikut? What is their specialness?”

Zalman Aharon did not know how to reply.

The children’s sister, Devorah Leah, ran to tell their father of their argument.  Rabbi Shmuel called them to the trellis, and sent the young Sholom DovBer to summon Ben-Zion, a servant in the Rebbe’s home.

Ben-Zion was a simple Jew who read Hebrew with many mispronunciations and barely understood the most rudimentary prayers. When the servant arrived, the Rebbe asked him: “Ben-Zion, did you eat today?”

“Yes,” replied Ben-Zion.
“Did you eat well?”
“What’s ‘well’?” wondered Ben-Zion. “Thank G-d, I did not remain hungry.”
“And why did you eat?”
“So that I may live.”
“But why live?”
“To be a Jew and do what G-d wants,” sighed the servant.
“You may go,” said the Rebbe. “Send me Ivan the coachman.”

Ivan was a gentile who had grown up among Jews from early childhood and spoke a perfect Yiddish. When the coachman arrived, the Rebbe asked him: “Did you eat today?”

“Yes.”
“Did you eat well?”
“Yes.”
“And why do you eat?”
“So that I may live.”
“But why live?”
“To take a swig of vodka and have a bite to eat,” replied the coachman.[9]

It is the nature of our physical selves that every constructive physical act is accompanied by a sensation of pleasure. Eating is crucial to the sustenance of life, so the consumption of food is a pleasurable activity. The body requires rest, so we desire and enjoy sleep. The most profound of physical pleasures is that deriving from the most divine of physical acts—the act of procreation, by which man emulates his Creator.[10]

Pleasure, then, is the by-product of an act’s purposefulness. Eating, sleeping and procreating all have a purpose—to sustain and perpetuate a physical life that serves the divine will; it is to aid and drive this purpose that these deeds are pleasurable. Pleasure divorced from its purpose—pleasure for the sake of pleasure—is a corrupt pleasure, a subversion of its function and utility. A physical act has meaning and validity only insofar as it serves the divine purpose in creation; when the pleasure associated with the act becomes its end, it is a hollow act, an act depleted of its soul and divine vitality.

This is the deeper significance of the idolatry of Baal Peor. The worshippers of Peor hallowed their bodily waste: to them, matter alone, even that which has been depleted of all vital potential, was an object of veneration. The very thought of such “worship” might be repulsive to any sane individual, but this is exactly what a person does when he regards the physical as desirable in and of itself, rather than for its vital content—its potential to serve the divine purpose in creation.

This was the error of those who indulged in Peor-worship on the eve of their entry into the Holy Land. Their parents would never have made such an mistake—indeed, the manna that sustained them did not produce any bodily waste, but was completely absorbed by their bodies and converted into the energy of life.[11] The very concept of “waste”—of matter bereft of divine potential—was unknown to them. But this was a new generation—a generation raised on the ideal of making “holy” an adjective of “land”; a generation taught that the purpose of creation is realized within the material existence. In making the transition from a life of unfettered spirituality to the physical life mandated by the Torah, they went one step too far,[12] coming to regard the physical as sacred in its own right rather than as the “food” that vitalizes a life in the service of G-d.[13]

Pinchas’ Body

Moses’ grave overlooks the temple of Peor.[14] For Moses, the embodiment of truth,[15] is the ultimate refuter of the lie of Peor — the lie that there is significance and worth to matter devoid of divine potential.

Nevertheless, Moses was unable to stop Israel’s degradation to the offal-worship of Peor. It was Aaron’s grandson, Pinchas, who took action when all the leaders of Israel were paralyzed, eradicating the pestilence of Peor from the Israelite camp.

At the time, Pinchas had no position in the spiritual leadership of Israel. He wasn’t even a kohen, though he was a grandson of Aaron.[16] He was mocked for being the grandson (from his mother’s side) of an infamous idolater.[17] But precisely because of his mundane status and pagan ancestry, he was able to vanquish the arch-idolatry of Peor.

The Talmud tells us that the true mark of teshuvah (repentance) is when a person finds himself in the same situation in which he was at the time of his sin, and does not succumb to the temptation.[18] Ultimately, a negative state cannot be rectified by transcending and escaping it, but only from within, by overcoming it in its “home base” and on its own terms.[19]Moses’ spiritual truth might be the ultimate refutation of Peor; but once the people of Israel had been ensnared by the idil’s corporeality, they could only be extracted from it by the descendant of an idolater.[20]

Moses was the most perfect human being who ever lived.[21] Yet upon the completion of his 120-year sojourn upon earth, his soul departed from his body, which was interred in the earth. On the other hand, when Pinchas’ physical life reached its culmination, and his soul ascended to a purely spiritual state, his body ascended along with it.[22] For Pinchas achieved the ultimate rectification of Peor: the refinement and sublimation of the physical self as a vessel of G-dliness.

Based on an entry in the Rebbe’s journal dated, “Balak, 5700 [1940], Vichy”[23]

Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

Tags: food, Rebbe Maharash, purpose of life, idol worship, spiritual vessels, Holy Land, Rebbe Rashab, Generations, desert, pleasure, journey, Exodus from Egypt, transition, spiritual and material, teshuvah, purpose, Moses, Pinchas
Posted in Weekly Parsha, Soul & Mystical, Bamidbar, Spiritual, Torah, Pinchas | 1 Comment »

The Intimate Estrangement

June 30th, 2015

When the pagans entered the Holy Temple, they saw the keruvim cleaving to each other. They took them out to the streets and said: “These Jews… is this what they occupy themselves with?!” With this, they debased [the Jewish people], as it is written: ^“All who had honored her have despised her, for they have seen her nakedness.”[1]

Talmud, Yoma 54b

The prophets compare the bond between G-d and Israel to the marriage relationship between man and wife. The prophet Jeremiah describes G-d recalling the Exodus as “the kindness of your youth, your bridal love, your following Me into the desert, into a land that was not sown.”[2] King Solomon refers to the covenant at Mount Sinai as “the day of His betrothal,”[3] for the Torah, which outlines our duties as G-d’s people and His eternal commitment to us, is the marriage contract (ketubah) between ourselves and G-d.[4] When we violated the commandments of the Torah, the prophets admonished us as a wayward wife who has betrayed her husband; the resultant galut—the destruction of the Holy Temple in Jerusalem and our banishment into exile—is referred to as a period of estrangement and “separation” in the marriage; the messianic redemption is the promise of a restoration of the relationship to its original state and the forging of a renewed, even deeper bond of love between the bride Israel and her supernal Groom.

In the innermost chamber of the Holy Temple, the “Holy of Holies,” stood a golden ark, containing the “Tablets of Testimony” upon which were inscribed the Ten Commandments, and the original Torah scroll written by Moses. Topping the ark were the keruvim, two winged figures, one male and one female, hammered out of a block of pure gold. The keruvim represented the relationship between G-d and His people: the Talmud tells us that when the people of Israel rebelled against the will of the Almighty, the keruvim would turn away from each other; when Israel was faithful to her G-d, they would face each other;[5] times in which the love and goodwill between G-d and His bride were at their peak were reflected in the keruvim’s embrace “as a man cleaves to his wife.”[6]

The Talmud relates that when the enemies of Israel invaded the Temple, they entered into the Holy of Holies—a place so sacred that entry into it was permitted only to a single individual, the High Priest, and only on Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the year. There they saw the keruvim embracing each other. They dragged them out of the Temple and into the streets, perverting and vulgarizing their sacred significance.[7]

The Paradox

In our prayers we remind ourselves that

“Because of our sins, we were exiled from our land… and we are no longer able to ascend and show ourselves and bow before You… in Your chosen home, in the great and holy house upon which Your Name is called.”[8]

For 830 years,[9] G-d dwelled in a physical edifice on a Jerusalem mountaintop, granting us a tactual experience of His presence in our lives. But we proved unworthy of such closeness and intimacy with the divine presence. The Holy Temple was taken from us, and we were cast into galut—a state of existence in which the divine face is hidden and G-d’s love and concern for us is concealed—so that the void in our lives should impel us to repent our ways and repair the damage to our marriage inflicted by our misdeeds.

But if galut is a time of estrangement between G-d and Israel, why were the keruvim embracing each other at the time of the Temple’s destruction? Wouldn’t the destruction of the Holy Temple mark a nadir in our relationship with the Almighty? What greater paradox can there be: the divine Groom is destroying His marital home, allowing His nuptial chamber to be violated and His bride to be carried off by strangers, while the barometer of their marriage indicates the ultimate in intimacy and union!

Three and Seven

Every Shabbat, following the reading of the weekly Torah portion, a weekly selection from the Prophets, called the haftarah, is read. Usually, the content of the haftarah corresponds to the week’s Torah reading. However, there are weeks when the haftarah instead reflects events connected with the time of the year. Such is the case with the ten haftarot, read during the last ten weeks of the year, called “the Three of Rebuke and the Seven of Consolation.”

The “Three of Rebuke” are read in conjunction with the “Three Weeks” from Tammuz 17 to Av 9, during which we remember and mourn the destruction of the Temple and the onset of our galut.

On the 17th of Tammuz in the year 3829 from creation (69 ce), the walls of Jerusalem were breached by the besieging armies of Rome. After three weeks of fighting, during which the Romans advanced with great difficulty through the city, they succeeded in breaking into the Temple; on the 9th of Av they set it aflame.[10] These two days are observed, to this very day, as fast days, and the period between them (referred to by the prophet as “between the straits”[11]) as a time of mourning. During the Three Weeks, the haftarah readings consist of selections from the Prophets in which the prophet rebukes Israel for her crimes and iniquities and her betrayal of her covenant with G-d.[12]

“The Three of Rebuke” are followed by “The Seven of Consolation.” For seven weeks, beginning with the Shabbat after the 9th of Av  (Tisha B’Av), the haftarah readings consist of prophecies describing G-d’s consolation of His people and the rebuilding of the relationship between them.[13] Thus we re-experience each year the process of rebuke and condolence, destruction and rebuilding, estrangement and reunion.

But why, specifically, a ten-week process? And what is the significance of its division into three phases of withdrawal and seven degrees of reconciliation? Chassidic sage Rabbi Hillel of Paritch explains that the “Three of Rebuke” and the “Seven of Consolation” correspond to the ten attributes of the soul, which are likewise divided into sets of three and seven: the soul of man possesses three basic intellectual faculties (conceptualization, comprehension, and application), and seven basic emotional drives (love, awe, harmony, ambition, devotion, bonding, and receptiveness). For it is the interrelation between mind and heart that enables us to understand the true nature of the “estrangement” of galut.

Mind and Heart

The mind, by nature and necessity, is aloof and detached. To apprehend a concept it must assume an objective distance, divesting itself of all involvement with or affinity to its subject and adopting a reserved, even callous disinterest toward the studied entity. Only then can its analysis and comprehension be exact and complete.

The heart, on the other hand, is involved, attached, gloriously subjective. The heart relates to the object of its affections, bridging distances, surmounting the barriers between self and other.

Yet true and enduring attachments are born only out of understanding. Feelings which are based on nothing more than impulse or instantaneous attraction are ultimately as shallow as they are impassioned, as transient as they are intense. It is those emotions that are conceived in the womb of the mind which possess depth and continuity; it is the love that is founded upon an understanding and appreciation of the beloved that can transcend the fluctuations of feeling, the letdowns and the lethargy, and the many other pitfalls of time and change.

So the seemingly cold and distant mind is, in truth, the source and essence of any meaningful relationship. The detachment associated with rational examination actually lies at the heart of our emotive capacity to bond with others.

G-d’s “Mind”

“From my own flesh, I perceive G-d,” says the verse.[14] Man is a metaphor of the Divine: by examining our own physiological and psychological makeup, we learn much about the divine reality and the manner in which G-d chooses to relate to His creations.

Thus the mind-heart paradox—the manner in which mental detachment is the essence and foundation of true emotional attachment—provides us with a model for the paradox of galut.

G-d’s relationship with us also includes both “intellectual” and “emotional”’ elements. At times, we sense what appear to be signs of detachment and disinvolvement on His part. G-d seems to have shifted the focus of His attention from our lives, abandoning us to the whims of “chance” and “fate.” Our existence seems bereft of all direction and purpose. G-d is “distancing” Himself from us, our lives apparently no longer worthy of His concern.

In truth, however, this divine “objectivity” carries the seeds of greater connection. It is a disengagement for the sake of a more enduring relationship, a withdrawal to create an even more meaningful closeness. Ostensibly, galut is a spiritual breakdown, a diminution of the bond between ourselves and G-d; in truth, it is the essence of a deeper identification with and commitment to each other.[15]

G-d’s hiding His face from us in galut is an act of love. Despite our painful incomprehension, it serves to deepen our attachment to Him. In the “Three of Rebuke,” we experience abandonment, alienation and distance; but these give birth to the “Seven of Consolation.” Bereft of the outward expressions of our relationship with G-d, we are impelled to uncover its essence, the quintessential bond which transcends all physical and spiritual distance. Thus, it is only through the experience of galut that the deepest dimensions of our marriage are realized. Externally, the Three Weeks are a period of detachment and estrangement; in essence, they are the height of attachment and connection.

Thus the pagans entering the Holy of Holies found the keruvim in intimate embrace. Without, Israel was being vanquished and exiled, and the Holy Temple set ablaze. Externally the marriage was crumbling, the husband alienated and the wayward wife banished to a foreign land. But within the Holy of Holies—within the innermost sanctum of their marriage—the love between G-d and His people was at the ultimate of closeness and unity.

Based on the Rebbe’s talks, Tammuz 28, 5716 (July 7, 1956); Av 4, 5749 (August 5, 1989)[16]

Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

Tags: repen, Mt. Sinai, understanding, mind, heart, emotions, prophecy, Moses, Holy of Holies, soul, exodus, exile, G-d, love, unity, Intellect, marriage, Israel, Jewish nation, Holy Temple, Three Weeks, galut
Posted in Weekly Parsha, Soul & Mystical, Religion, 17 Tammuz, Bamidbar, Love & Marriage, Personal Life, Exile, Spiritual, Torah, Pinchas, Pain & Suffering | No Comments »

A Feast and a Fast

June 30th, 2015

Why was annihilation decreed on the Jews of that generation? Because they enjoyed the feast of the wicked [King Achashverosh].

Talmud, Megillah 12a

Was participating in the feast of Achashverosh so grave a sin that it deserved a decree of annihilation, G-d forbid? Indeed, the Book of Esther implies that it was no sin at all, even desirable and necessary. We are told that Achashverosh had instructed that no man be pressured to partake of any food or drink that did not agree with his constitution or his religious beliefs. He had even arranged for kosher food for his Jewish subjects, in full conformity with the exacting standards of none other than Mordechai himself![1]

And the Jewish people had many compelling reasons to attend the week-long banquet thrown by the king to celebrate the consolidation of his rule over the 127 provinces of the Persian Empire. All residents of the capital were invited, and to turn down the royal invitation would have been a grievous insult—something that a small minority, scattered throughout the empire and threatened by many enemies, could ill afford to do. It is true that the Jews are not like the other nations of the world, whose fortune rises and falls with the political tide. In the words of the Talmud:

“The people of Israel are not subject to ‘fate…’” [2]

…for they are under the singular province of G-d. Indeed, our millennia of survival as a “lone sheep surrounded by seventy wolves”[3] belies every law of history. But it is also true that we are commanded to construct a natural “vessel” through which the divine protection and blessing might flow.[4] Surely the Jews of Persia recalled the words spoken by the prophet Jeremiah seventy years earlier, when they were first exiled from their homeland:

“Seek the peace of the city to which I have exiled you, and pray for it… for in its peace shall you have peace.” [5]

In any case, even if there were something amiss in the Jewish attendance at the feast of Achashverosh, was this a transgression so terrible that it warranted Haman being given the prerogative to “annihilate, slaughter and destroy every Jew, young and old, women and children, in a single day”[6]?

Jews in Politics

But the problem was not that they participated in the feast; it was that “they enjoyed the feast” of the Emperor of Persia.

Certainly, the Jew in exile is commanded to employ the tools that, by natural criteria, aid his survival under foreign rule. But he must always remember that this is no more than a “vessel” for G-d’s protection. Politics, business, natural law—these are no more than a front, an elaborate façade which G-d desires that we construct to encase and disguise His supra-natural providence of our lives; they are not something to be revered, much less to get excited about.

But the Jews experienced joy at having been invited to Achashverosh’s feast. As they took their places among the Persians, Medians, Babylonians, Chaldeans and the other nationalities of the realm, they felt content and secure. After seventy years of exile, they had “made it”; they were now a member of equal standing in the family of nations at Achashverosh’s table, with glatt kosher dinners issuing from the royal kitchens.

With their joy, the Jews disavowed their uniqueness as a nation under the special protection of G-d. Their feelings demonstrated that they now perceived the niche they had carved for themselves in the good graces of an earthly emperor as the basis for their survival. But the world they so gleefully entered is a capricious one. One day a Jew, Mordechai, is a high-ranking minister in Achashverosh’s court and another Jew, Esther, is his favorite queen; a day later, Haman becomes prime minister and prevails upon Achashverosh to sign a decree of annihilation against the Jewish people.

The Reversal

When Mordechai informed Esther of Haman’s plans and enjoined her to use her influence with the king to annul the decree, Esther told him to:

“Gather all the Jews who are in Shushan, and fast for my sake—do not eat or drink for three days, night and day; I and my maidens will likewise fast. Thus I shall go to the king, against the law…”[7]

It was forbidden, on pain of death, for anyone to go to the king unsummoned. Esther’s only chance was to charm the king into not killing her and to turn him against his favorite minister in favor of her people. The last thing for her to do under such circumstances was to approach the king looking like a woman who had not eaten for three days!

So dictate the norms of human nature and palace politics. But Esther recognized that the key to saving her people was to reestablish the relationship between G-d and Israel on its original, supra-natural terms. The Jews must repent their regression to a political people; they must draw on their only true resource—G-d’s love for them and His commitment to their survival. They must storm the gates of heaven with their fasting and prayer, and rouse His compassion for His people.

Of course, she must go to Achashverosh and do everything in her power to make him change his mind. But this is merely a formality. She must go through the motions of doing things the “normal” way because that is what G-d wants her to do—because this is the garment in which He chooses to cloak His salvation. But she will not appeal less fervently to G-d because she fears it will make her less attractive to Achashverosh—that would be like a soldier discarding his rifle because it creases his uniform.

Thus Esther rectified the error of those who enjoyed Achashverosh’s feast. They had exalted the façade, abandoning the essence of Jewish survival for the sake of the superficial vessel. Esther’s approach to dealing with the threat of Haman’s decree reiterated the true priority of the Jew, and evoked G-d’s reassertion of His singular providence over the fate of Israel.

Based on the Rebbe’s talks on Purim 5722 (1962) and 5727 (1967)[8]

Adapted from the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe by Yanki Tauber.

Tags: Yanki Tauber, Divine, Jewish nation, exile, Esther, Achashverosh, Jewish history, purim
Posted in Purim, Vayikra, Weekly Parsha, Faith, Months & Holidays, Vayikra, Beliefs & Concepts, Adar, Torah | No Comments »

Joy in Four Dimensions

June 30th, 2015

Joy, teaches the Torah, is to be a perpetual presence in the life of the Jew. There are, however, several degrees of joy.

1)      “Serve G-d with joy.” (Psalms 100:2)

This is the joy that accompanies the performance of every mitzvah—the Jew’s joy in having merited to fulfill the divine will. Here, the joy is not an objective in itself, but a component of another aim: the objective is to serve G-d, but in order that this be achieved in the most optimal manner, one’s deeds must be saturated with joy. (For example: giving charity grudgingly aids the recipient materially, but also demoralizes him; giving cheerfully nurtures the pauper’s body and refreshes his soul).

2)      “Seasons for rejoicing.” (Kiddush for the Festivals; Deuteronomy 16:14)

On the festivals, it is a mitzvah to rejoice. Here, joy is not an accompaniment to some other deed, but the substance of the endeavor itself. Nevertheless, this is still not joy for the sake of joy. The objective remains the fulfillment of the will of G-d, who commanded that the festivals be celebrated joyously.

3)      “When [the month of] Adar commences, one increases in joy.” (Talmud, Taanit 29a)

This means that the Jew strives to increase his joy in all areas, including his non mitzvah-related activities. The joy of Adar is not a joy with an objective, but an end in it itself.

4)      “A person is obligated to get drunk on Purim until he doesn’t know…” (Talmud, Megillah 7b)

On Purim the Jew attains the ultimate in joy: not only is his joy not qualified by any reason or objective, it is free even of the objective to be joyous. He is so consumed with joy that he is oblivious to all, including the fact that he is rejoicing…

From an address by the Rebbe, Purim 5718 (1958)[1]

Adapted from the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe by Yanki Tauber.

Tags: joy, Divine service, Torah, purim, Yanki Tauber
Posted in Vayikra, Weekly Parsha, Purim, Months & Holidays, Vayikra, Personal Life, Adar, Torah, Emotions & Psychology | No Comments »

True Sacrifice

June 30th, 2015

Does serving G-d mean that you have to sacrifice your life for G-d? Is it conforming to be someone you’re not? Obliterating your personality?

If this sounds unappealing, it’s no wonder: It’s not only wrong, it’s an anathema to the very fundamentals of Judaism. In this week’s Torah portion, Vayikra, we learn the quintessential approach to how each and every one of us can and should serve G-d. But rather than presenting a serene picture of spiritual reverie, the book of Vayikra (Leviticus) reflects a subject that is more likely to evoke confusion, even revulsion for some, than sublimity.

In this book, we enter the bloody world of the great altar in the Holy Temple where the Jewish people brought animal sacrifices to Jerusalem to atone for their sins. What possible connection could this slaughter of ox and sheep have to do with establishing a fulfilling relationship with G-d?

The Ramban, one of the classicial commentators on the Torah, tells us that when a person had to bring a korban (animal sacrifice) to be offered in the Beis HaMikdash:

“A person had to envision that what was happening to the animal should have been happening to him or her.”

Since it is we who need to be cleansed of our wrongdoings—a cleansing of our blood, our flesh, and our fat—G-d in His great mercy gave us an alternative: we could replace ourselves with an animal, an animal that would endure this process in our stead.

But the Torah is not a lesson in ancient history; its every word is eternal and relevant to each one of us in every day and age. In a Temple-less world, we need to look a little deeper into Torah to discover the relationship of these sacrifices to our contemporary lives.

There are two polar forces within each of us: a force that desires material pleasures and a force that yearns for spirituality and G-dliness. Simply put, our search for purpose, for meaning, for serving G-d are at constant odds with “the animal” in us: the part of us that would rather indulge our selfish passions than contribute our time and resources to a higher cause. The centrality of the animal offerings in the Temple reflects the essence of our divine purpose: To submit the animal within us to G-d.

Now, when we read how a person brought a sacrifice upon the altar: “Adam ki yakriv mikem,” we find a curious twist of words. Instead of saying, “When one of you will bring an offering,” the literal translation is:

“When a person will bring an offering of you.”

The “of you” tells us that by bringing an animal to be sacrificed on the altar, we are actually bringing to the altar the animal in us.

Offering yourself, the animal in you, to G-d is the cornerstone of all Judaism, but how is this accomplished? Do you crush the animal passion and pleasure in you and live a somber life of deprivation and misery? The answer lies in the derivation of the word korban. While korban is often translated as “sacrifice,” the actual translation of the word comes from the root word kiruv, meaning “to draw close.”

We make ourselves a korban by “bringing close” the pure essence of the animal in us to G-d. We don’t annihilate it, we use it to help us approach divinity, to get closer to the quintessential purpose for which we were created. An animal cannot behave in any way other than how G-d created it. Bulls are aggressive, sheep are self-indulgent, and goats are stubborn. But the animal in us has a choice. We can be an obnoxious “bully,” or we can channel our passions toward an assertive love for G-d. We can indulge in our sheeplike lust for pleasure, or we can get pleasure in helping others and living a meaningful life.

At the heart of every force in our lives, even the ones that manifest negative expression, lies a kernel that can be directed to a constructive and G-dly cause. What we do “sacrifice” is the object of our desires, the immature or narrow attitudes we assume, our ignorance and our blind spots — so that our essential natures can emerge.

Should we “give up” our lives for G-d? Certainly not! That’s sacrifice. We shouldn’t give up our G-d-given talents and behaviors; we should bring them closer to their purer state. When you become a korban, you have the opportunity to transform every aspect of yourself, to become the greatest person you can be; a person who no longer walks among the beasts, but hand and hand with G-d.

Tags: Beis Hamikdash, Divine service, self-development, Hebrew, inner self, sacrifices and offerings
Posted in Weekly Parsha, Vayikra, Biblical, Soul & Mystical, Vayikra, Modern, Spiritual, Torah | 1 Comment »