Primordial Man

June 29th, 2015

And G-d called to Moses, and spoke to him out of the Tent of Meeting, saying:

Speak to the children of Israel and say to them: A man (adam) who shall bring near, from [among] you, an offering to G-d, of the cattle, of the herd and of the flock… it shall be accepted in goodwill [by G-d] from him, to atone for him…

Leviticus 1:1-4

The word the Torah uses here for “man,” adam, is a rather unusual usage—far more common is the synonym ish. The Midrash explains that this is an allusion to Adam, the first man, and is the Torah’s way of teaching us that any offering that is not rightfully one’s own is not accepted by G-d:

“When you bring an offering to Me, be like the first Adam, who could not have stolen from anyone, since he was alone in the world.”[1]

But this, too, is a departure from the norm. Usually, when the Torah wishes to emphasize that a certain mitzvah must be performed with one’s own property, it does so by simply adding the word lachem (“to you”), or the like.[2] Obviously, there is something more to this evocation of the first human being.

When we speak of Adam as one who could not possibly have used someone else’s property, we are referring to the first few hours of his life, following which he shared the world with Eve, Cain and Abel.[3] Thus we are speaking of Adam before he partook of the Tree of Knowledge—of man still unsullied by sin. Indeed, prior to the first transgression of history, man was not only free of sin but also devoid of all intrinsic potential for anything contrary to his mission and purpose in life.[4]

This is the deeper significance of the Torah’s reference to the bearer of an offering as an “Adam.” Most offerings are brought in atonement for a transgression of the divine will. But how does an offering from “the herd and the flock” atone for a soul that has, in effect, reneged on its commitment to G-d, divorcing itself from its source of life and its very raison d’être? Indeed, the gift of an ox or sheep is devoid of meaning, unless it is brought by an adam. Every man, the Torah is saying, harbors in the pith of his soul a pristine “Adam.” Even at the very moment his external self was transgressing the divine will, his inner essence remained loyal to G-d; it was only silenced and suppressed by his baser instincts.[5] It is by accessing this core of purity that man achieves atonement. By unearthing that part of himself that did not sin in the first place and restoring it to its rightful place as the sovereign of his life, man can literally undo past wrongs, bringing to light their ultimately positive function, which is to stimulate his quest for self-betterment and bring him closer to G-d.

When the Adam from within you makes the offering, then the beast from the herd or flock, offered as a representation of your own conquest of your animal self, is accepted in goodwill by the Almighty.[6]

Based on the Rebbe’s talks, Shabbat Parashat Vayikra 5732 and 5733 (1972 and 1973)[7]

Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

Tags: Hebrew, Yanki Tauber, self-discovery, sacrifices and offerings, self-improvement
Posted in Weekly Parsha, Vayikra, Soul & Mystical, Vayikra, Spiritual, Torah | No Comments »

Beyond Paradise

June 29th, 2015

All his life, Rabbi Israel Baal Shem Tov strove to reach the Holy Land. He would often say that if he and Rabbi Chaim ibn Attar,[1] who lived in Jerusalem, would join forces, they would bring Moshiach. But this was not to be. Several times, the Baal Shem Tov set out for his destination, but all sorts of mishaps and catastrophes forced him to return home empty-handed.

One of these failed journeys left Rabbi Israel and his daughter, Adel, stranded penniless in Istanbul on the eve of Passover, without matzah, wine or any provisions for the festival. Mysteriously, the Baal Shem Tov’s spiritual powers had also departed from him, and his great mind was blank—he could barely remember the forms of the alef-bet.

Rabbi Israel had already gone to the synagogue and his daughter was contemplating their empty seder table when a man knocked on their door. “I’m from Poland,” he said, “traveling through this city on business matters. I was told that two fellow Jews from my home country are staying here. I would like very much to spend the festival with you.”

“You’re welcome to share our lodgings,” said Adel, “but, unfortunately, we can’t provide you with much of a seder. We have nothing—no matzot, no wine, no bitter herbs, not even a candle with which to usher in the festival…”

“No matter,” said the guest, “I have everything with me. I knew that I would be spending Passover on the road, so I brought along all the festival provisions. There is enough for all of us.”

When Rabbi Israel returned from the synagogue, he found a fully-furnished seder laid out before him: lit candles, matzot, wine and everything needed to fulfill the mitzvot of the day. His joy knew no bounds, for at that moment the divine spirit had also returned to inhabit his soul.

After they had recited the Haggadah, eaten the matzah and the maror, and were enjoying the festival meal, the Baal Shem Tov turned to the guest and said: “You have restored my life to me. How can I repay you? Ask for anything that you require, and I promise you that your need will be filled.”

“G-d has blessed me with wealth,” said the man, “and I want for nothing material. But my wife and I have been married for many years, and have failed to conceive a child. Rabbi, I see that you are a righteous and holy man. Surely your prayers can open the gates of heaven. Please, bless us with a child.”

“I swear,” said Rabbi Israel, “that before the year is out, you will be holding your child in your arms.”

No sooner had these words left his mouth than there was a great commotion in the heavens, for this man and his wife had been born without the capacity to bear children. Yet even the heavens must abide by the law that “[G-d] does the will of those who fear Him.”[2] The oath of the Baal Shem Tov would have to be fulfilled.

A proclamation was issued which resounded throughout the supernal worlds: “This man and his wife will indeed bear a child. But because Rabbi Israel Baal Shem Tov has forced the hand of heaven to overturn the laws of nature, he has forfeited his portion in the World to Come.”

Upon hearing this proclamation, the Baal Shem Tov’s face lit up with joy. “How fortunate I am!” he cried. “I just learned that I have forfeited all heavenly reward for my good deeds. All my life I have been troubled by the thought that perhaps my service of the Almighty is tainted by the expectation of reward. Now, however, my service of G-d will be pure, free of the possibility of any ulterior motive!”

Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

Tags: seder, passover, Baal Shem Tov, Chassidic stories
Posted in Baal Shem Tov, Months & Holidays, Passover, Great Mystics, Torah Personalities, Modern, Spiritual, Torah | No Comments »

Do Clothes Make the Man?

June 29th, 2015

The Torah portion of Tzav renders a detailed account of the Temple service. Nearly all the tasks associated with the Temple and its maintenance were performed by the descendants of the priestly family, the Kohanim. It would seem, then, that the majority of the information presented has little relevance to the average person, who is not of priestly lineage. However, all the Jewish people are, in truth, considered Kohanim, as the verse states:

“And you shall be unto me a priestly kingdom and a holy nation.”[1]

Each detail of the Temple service is actually an instruction for us in how to conduct our lives and draw closer to the Divine.

One of the priestly services performed in the Holy Temple involved clearing the excess ashes which accumulated upon the altar.[2] First, the priest would remove a shovelful of ashes from the interior of the altar and place it on the east of the ramp which led to the top of the altar. That would conclude the service of “haramas hadeshen,” or “lifting of the ashes,” which was the opening ritual of the new day’s service in the Temple. Afterwards, the priest would change out of his priestly garments, into other, less distinguished ones, and remove the rest of the ashes to the outside of the camp, to a pure place.

The purpose of the wardrobe shift seems fairly straightforward. Removing the ashes was bound to be a rather messy job, and dirtying the priestly garments would be neither appropriate nor respectful. However, a quick analysis of the duties performed by the priests within the Temple boundaries reveals that the regular services were not any more tidy. The priests would slaughter the animals for sacrifices, receive the blood, sprinkle it on the altar, and finally clear the ashes–any one of which could conceivably stain the priest’s clothing. Why did the priest have to change his outfit in order to bring the ashes to the outskirts of the camp?

To address this question, Rashi offers an illustration:[3] A servant would not wear the same clothes to cook a meal for his master as he would to pour him wine. When a servant is in his master’s presence, a greater degree of deportment and formality is expected of him. Similarly, the Torah wishes to draw a distinction between service performed in the Holy Temple, in direct proximity to the Divine presence, and service performed outside its boundaries, where G-d’s presence is not as manifest.

In keeping with Rashi’s illustration, it would seem more appropriate to have another kohen altogether perform the task of bringing the ashes to the outskirts of the camp. After all, in a royal household, wouldn’t cook and valet usually be two distinct positions filled by two separate individuals? The fact that the very same kohen performed both duties gives us an insight into the true meaning of Divine service.

It often seems that certain roles in life are crowned with distinction and renown. We perform them in a dignified setting, while dressed in an expensive suit. When we are called upon to fulfill such functions, we feel graced with prestige and importance. Then there are other tasks, which are plainly inferior and undignified. They are executed far from the limelight, are often thankless or boring, and carry none of the ego-massaging perks of a more public role. We tend to shun such jobs, or at least fulfill them grudgingly and half-heartedly. Compared to a dazzling, celebrated position, what inspiration is there in, well, taking out the garbage?

Yet the true Divine servant knows how to master both these tasks. He can shift effortlessly between the distinguished service within the Holy Temple, where the divine presence is so palpably manifest, to the more mundane task of clearing the ashes, which involves removing oneself from the arena of holiness and entering the ordinary world. He can perform both with the same fervor, for he understands that both roles are equally important in the fulfillment of the Divine will. His personal drive for ego gratification takes a back seat to G-d’s desire for a dwelling place on Earth.

This same teaching applies just as well to our interpersonal relationships. There are certain individuals whose association seems to enhance our own status and advance our own agendas. We feel stimulated in their presence and delight in their company. Then there are others who make us plainly uncomfortable. We perceive them as the bores, the rejects, the pathetic misfits and loners of our society. They may need our listening ear or compassionate heart, but we have little or no patience for their demands. After all, we have far more important matters to occupy our time. To step down to their level, and even “change our garments,” by investing ourselves in them and attempting to view the world through their vantage point, is simply too challenging to our fragile social position.

Yet as a true “priestly nation,” it is precisely these individuals whose company we should seek out and attempt to befriend. G-d relates to each of us in a reciprocal fashion. The more we are willing to “step down” on behalf of another person, the more G-d bends from His lofty dimension to interest Himself in our needs, as we will experience in the very near future, when G-d will personally lead each individual by the hand out of our personal exile, towards the complete Redemption.

Based on Likkutei Sichos, Shabbos Parshas Tzav, vol. 37, pp. 1-6

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

Tags: kohanim, Chaya Shuchat, relationships, sacrifices and offerings, Beis Hamikdash, Divine service
Posted in Weekly Parsha, Tzav, Beliefs & Concepts, Vayikra, Torah | No Comments »

Eikev: Blackout

June 29th, 2015

Are There Any Lights On?

As the “power of the sun weakened” on the 16^th of Av, all lights went out for 50 million people in North Eastern United States.

When it becomes dark outside we have before us a true study in human nature.

Inevitably we will be hearing about the financial toll of this blackout, investigations – city, state and federal, independent and no so independent – will drag on for months as to the source of the power failure, fingers will be pointed, wise politicians will exploit it for their own glory. No doubt we will hear about “new” measures being taken to modernize the power grid. We will be seeing graphs and maps, analysts and pundits of all size and shape, dissecting the electrical failure and comparing it to the blackouts of ’65 and ’77. Surely parallels will be drawn between 9/11 and 8/14 – our vulnerability, our overconfidence in our invincibility, our need to create new defense systems.

All that and more will dominate headlines for the next weeks. I therefore would like to focus on an entirely different angle – the human, psycho-spiritual drama behind all these events; not so on the symptoms and their remedies, but the roots and the commentary they offer on the human condition

Interesting to see what people do when they cannot rely on their expected source of energy. We have become so dependent on electricity that people everywhere around me literally had no idea what to suddenly do after the power was gone.

No TV. No Internet. No clubs. No subways. No lights. Only thing left are the things we do naturally – read, sing, study, pray (play a crossword puzzle? No that doesn’t fit…).

I must confess that though my life orbits so much around books and writing, I was left utterly naked walking the streets, observing, smiling at the ironies, sitting on the Parkway bench, concerned for those stuck somewhere, watching the headlights pierce through the black streets, studying the thousands streaming down the streets – completely amazed at the fact that I had no inking what I should or would be doing as long as the electrical appliances and equipment were down. That’s how dependent we have become on this external energy.

The Talmud tells us that beginning from the 15^th of Av (August 13^th this year) the “power of the sun” begins to weaken, as the days get shorter and the nights longer. This is also the reason why this was called the “day of breaking the axe.” Because on this day they ceased using the axe to cut down trees for wood in the Temple. The wood needed to be as dry as possible. Once the sun began setting earlier the wood no longer would be at its driest, hence they would then stop cutting the wood.

Yet, the Talmud continues, these longer nights provide us the opportunity to study more Torah, because, as the sages put it, “Night was created for nothing else but study.” The solitude and silence of night is conducive for mental concentration.

This year’s 16^th of Av blackout teaches us that this night power is much more than just about the physical nature of night.

The sun represents aggressive, brute power. The sun is a mammoth source of energy, no object can come close to the sun without being consumed by its light and heat. The sun is a colossal oven that warms and illuminates the entire solar system.

The moon conversely is soft, receiving light. Humans are able to come close to the moon, even walk on it. The moon is not spewing nuclear forces and exploding with bursting spurts of energy. The moon silently reflects. With no light of its own it reflects the light of the sun.

We have been well trained to be “solar” people. To take charge, to be pushy and aggressive – to be “go getters,” because, as we’re programmed, no one else will take care of you if you don’t take care of yourself.

What we know less of is the art of “lunar” energy. The gentle, sensitive power of listening, reflecting, absorbing.

We know how to give, how to command, how to bark. But do we know how to receive, how to listen, how to reflect?

And therein lies the mystique of night – the mystique and romance of the moon. You don’t see two people in love staring at the sun. You see them gaze at the moon…

In it’s reflective repose the haunting moon casts a glow that is especially conducive to introspection – to listening to the song of your own soul.

People in New York (and I am sure in the other areas affected by the power failure) are speaking about the eerie silence around us, about the surreal feeling of the city with no lights. I wonder which is more eerie: the sound of air conditioners and subways or the sound of our souls?

We have become so dependent on electricity that we don’t know how to access our own inner electricity, our own inner juice.

Take away electricity, gas – all external sources of fuel, and what are we left with?

But know this: When some lights go out, others come on.

This year’s 8/14-Av 16 blackout sure blacked things out; it certainly “broke the axe” of the Northeast – the hub of the commercial world. It taught us how utterly unreliable are our common sources of survival and comfort. How we are so dependent on physical light and energy, and so awkward with our own inner light and energy.

I know, I know that some of you will say I am overreacting: a blackout hasn’t happened for over 25 years. A small price to pay for the convenience of non-stop electricity. That is all true, but my point is not to knock the benefits of modern life; just to point out the vulnerabilities we have acquired as a result of our overdependence on Con Ed for “energy” and inevitable underdependence we have developed for our own inner energy.

Interestingly, it also taught us some thing that we were not aware of (at least I wasn’t): How we are all connected by these power grids. And as one fails, it ripples into another and another. If that’s the case in a power failure, how much more so in a power surge. We have the ability to empower each other, one flame lighting another and yet another. forever and ever.

Truth be told, the blackout also brought out the darkest part of human nature. When our energy crutches are pulled from under us, some of our lurking demons emerge in the night. After being hidden for so long, even our deeper lunar light may not have a comfortable resting place when the lights go out…

But that too is the challenge of night: To extract the inner juice from within us. To some that may come easier than others, especially if you have trained and exercised your inner electricity.

Some people in the New York streets were charging double for drinking water and others were giving it out for free. Some were breaking windows and looting, while others were crawling into subway tunnels to help others escape. Some were yelling and screaming, others were playing music in the streets.

When your inner juice emerges you sing and dance even in the dark night. You illuminate the blackest streets with glowing light and intimate warmth.

I know, because just a night before the great blackout I had the good fortune to personally experience natural energy. We held a drumming workshop in downtown Manhattan that surprised me and everyone that participated in its ability to electrify our spirits.  The primal sounds – thump, thump – of a group drumming together has this uncanny effect of bringing out deep primal forces of our soul.

The thumping sounds resonated in the entire room filling it with a rising tide of energy, reaching a crescendo, coming back down only to rise again.

They call fuel “natural energy” because it comes from beneath the ground. It may be “natural” for the earth, but once it gets into humans hands it becomes a man-made commodity subject to all human failings. Our true “natural” energy is the one that we generate from within.

Your own inner electricity. You own internal juice.

Sometimes we need our external lights to go out for our inner lights to shine.

It’s now 2:10 PM on Friday. Power has come back to my neighborhood in Brooklyn.

Eerie sounds begins to echo around us…

Will it drown out the sound of Shabbat? We shall see…

Tags: Av, materialism, psychology, light and darkness, purpose of life, personal growth, spiritual and material, purpose
Posted in Good & Evil, Weekly Parsha, Soul & Mystical, Eikev, Beliefs & Concepts, Personal Life, Social, Devarim, Spiritual, Torah, Emotions & Psychology, September 11th, Current Events | No Comments »

Flying Branches

June 28th, 2015

The sukkah is a makeshift hut in which the Jew dwells during the seven-day festival of Sukkot. In commanding us to leave the stability and safety of our homes for this temporary and vulnerable structure,[1] the Torah explains that this is to remind us of how G-d sheltered us (with the miraculous “clouds of glory”) in our forty years’ journey through the desert from Egypt to the Holy Land.[2]

Yet the sukkah also has a more ancient origin, dating back four hundred years before the Exodus from Egypt to Abraham, the first Jew. In the 18th chapter of Genesis we read of Abraham’s legendary hospitality for the desert wayfarers passing by his home. Still ailing from his circumcision three days earlier, Abraham stationed himself at the doorway of his tent to await any possible guests; when he saw three travelers approaching, “he ran toward them… and bowed to the ground. And he said: ‘My Lord! If I have found favor in your eyes, please do not pass by your servant. Let a little water be fetched, and wash your feet; and recline yourselves under the tree. I will fetch you some bread and you shall sate your hearts; only them shall you pass on…”[3]

Says the Midrash: In the merit of Abraham’s inviting his guests to “recline yourselves under the tree,” G-d sheltered his descendants in the desert and later granted them the mitzvah of sukkah.[4]

Generic Mitzvah

Indeed, our own sukkot in many ways resemble the resting place that Abraham offered his guests in the shade of his tree. The meaning of the word “sukkah” is a structure whose function is to provide shade;[5] thus, the most important part of the sukkah is the sechach, the roof-covering, which must be dense enough so that “the shade [in the sukkah] is greater than the sunlight.”[6] And the sechach must consist of materials which, like Abraham’s tree, “grow from the earth”—branches, reeds or other unfinished vegetable matter.[7]

Yet there is also a primary difference between our sukkah and its Abrahamic predecessor. The law is that the materials of the sechach must be detached from their source of growth in the earth. Thus, a sukkah that is covered by a trellis of vines that are still connected to their roots, or that is built under a tree so that it is shaded by the tree’s still-connected branches, is invalid for use in the observance of the mitzvah of dwelling in the sukkah.[8]

The sukkah is unique among the mitzvot of the Torah in that it embraces the totality of the person: the mitzvah of sukkah is that a person should conduct all his activities—eating, resting, studying, socializing—inside the sukkah for seven days.[9] (With other mitzvot, only certain parts or faculties of the person are involved in the fulfillment of the divine will—e.g., Torah study involves the brain, prayer the heart and the faculty of speech, tefillin the arm and head, matzah the digestive system, etc.) Thus the mitzvah of sukkah is often cited as representative of all the mitzvot.[10]

If dwelling in the sukkah is the generic mitzvah, understanding both the similarity and the difference between our sukkah and the “sukkah” of Abraham will illuminate the nature of our relationship with the Patriarchs, and explain how our deeds derive, yet also differ, from their achievements.

The Decree

Our sages tell us that our forefathers studied the Torah and fulfilled its commandments many generations before it was “officially” given to us at Mount Sinai.[11] Yet it is the revelation at Sinai, rather than the legacy of the Patriarchs, that is the essence of our covenant with G-d and our commitment to observe the mitzvot. In the words of Maimonides:

“Everything that we avoid doing or that we do today, we do only because of G‑d’s command to Moses at Sinai, not because of any communication by G‑d to earlier prophets. For example, we refrain from eating [the flesh of] a limb taken from a live animal not because G-d forbade this to Noah,[12] but because Moses forbade it by commanding us, at Sinai, that this prohibition should be observed… We do not circumcise ourselves because our father Abraham circumcised himself and the members of his household, only because G‑d commanded us through Moses that we should circumcise ourselves as did Abraham….”[13]

The Midrash[14] explains the difference between the pre-Sinaitic mitzvot and the mitzvot we observe after Sinai with the following metaphor:

Once there was a king who decreed: “The people of Rome are forbidden to journey to Syria, and the people of Syria are forbidden to journey to Rome.” Likewise, when G‑d created the world He decreed: “The heavens are G‑d’s, and the earth is given to man.”[15] But when He wished to give the Torah to Israel, He rescinded His original decree, and declared: “The lower realms may ascend to the higher realms, and the higher realms may descend to the lower realms. And I, Myself, will begin.” As it is written, “And G‑d descended on Mount Sinai,”[16] and then it says, “And to Moses He said: Go up to G‑d.”[17]

The human being is the crown and apex of G-d’s creation, a creature whose intelligence and spirituality distinguish him as a class above the other creatures with which he shares G-d’s world. Yet man, too, is part of the “lower realms”; man, too, is finite and mortal, and even his highest achievements cannot transcend his finiteness and mortality. At least, that was the state of affairs for as long as the decree dividing between heaven and earth was in force.

But at Sinai G-d rescinded this decree, Himself descending to an earthly mountain and inviting man to “go up to G-d.” Man was empowered to live a G-dly life, to think G-dly thoughts, speak G-dly words and do G-dly deeds. The 613 mitzvot of the Torah were established by G-d as vehicles of connection to Him, as bridges between Heaven and earth.

The mitzvot as performed prior to Sinai were lofty deeds, spiritual deeds, deeds representing the heights of human achievement. Yet they were human deeds. Deeds striving upwards toward Heaven, yet never truly transcending their earthly base. It was only after Sinai that a human act could be freed of its earthbound roots to soar to the “higher realms” and assume an infinite and eternal significance.

Climbing the Mountain

Yet the revelation at Sinai did not take place in a vacuum. It was preceded by twenty-six generations of human endeavor, twenty-six generations in which man refined and perfected his finite self in preparation for the encounter with G-d at Sinai.

Thus, when G-d descended to earth to breach the frontier that separated the supernal from the terrestrial, He did not come down to the Israelite camp at the foot of Mount Sinai, only to the mountain’s summit. One might ask: if G-d had come all the way from the infinite yonder to visit our finite earth, could He not have descended another few thousand feet, instead of troubling the 80-year-old Moses to climb to the top of the mountain? But this expresses the terms on which G-d made Himself accessible to us at Sinai. First, said G-d, I want you to attain the greatest heights of which you are capable; first, I want you to develop your own potential to its utmost; then, I will meet you at the summit of human achievement and free you from its bounds.

Therein lies the significance of Abraham’s sukkah tree and its relationship to our post-Sinai sechach-covered sukkah. Before Sinai, a mitzvah could, at most, be a tree; its branches reaching heavenward—perhaps even to great heights—yet rooted in and nourished by the earth. Man could develop and refine himself, yet could not transcend his terrestrial foundations. But after Sinai, our sukkot can, and must, be made with branches cut free from their earthly roots. After Sinai, a mitzvah must entail a departure from the merely human and rise to a self-transcending bond with G-d.

At the same time, it was Abraham’s sukkah that was the cause of our receiving the gift of sukkah from G-d—just as the branches that cover our sukkot must first sprout from the earth and grow and develop in their earth-bound state. First we must develop our own, human faculties—our limited understanding, our subjective feelings, our mortal achievements—before these can be “cut loose” from their earthly moorings to serve as true vehicles of connection with G-d.

Based on an entry in the Rebbe’s journal, dated Sukkot 5702 (1941),[18] and his talks on various other occasions.

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

Tags: sukkah, Divine service, Torah, Divine dwelling, Divine will, Sukkot, Trust in G-d, faith, mitzvot, Abraham
Posted in Weekly Parsha, Tishrei, Bereishit, Months & Holidays, Sukkot, Vayeira, Torah | No Comments »

Forbidden Piety

June 28th, 2015

Our sages tell us that the patriarchs observed the entire Torah although G-d had not yet commanded it.[1] Yet in the 29th chapter of Genesis we find Jacob marrying Rachel after having been tricked into marrying her sister, Leah. Why did Jacob marry two sisters, a clear biblical prohibition?[2]

But Jacob had given his word to Rachel, who had waited seven years as he worked for her father to gain her hand. To refuse to marry her would have caused her grievous hurt and embarrassment. Since the laws of the Torah were not commanded to Israel before the revelation at Mount Sinai, Jacob had no right to uphold his self-assumed piety at the expense of another human being.

Therein lies an important lesson to each and every one of us. The Torah’s laws are eternal and unequivocal—one cannot second-guess the Almighty, even if the observance of His commandments may appear to cause hardship and suffering. Ultimately, the Torah is the only source of life and well-being for the Jew, both spiritually and physically. Yet this applies only to what the Torah directly commands. If a person wishes to go beyond what the Torah obligates him, this is most laudable—as long as it affects only himself. Where others are affected, a fellow’s needs must always take precedence over one’s own loftiest “values.”

Based on an address by the Rebbe, Kislev 28, 5728 (December 30, 1967) [3]

The Modern Laban

And Laban responded to Jacob: “The daughters are my daughters, the sons are my sons, the sheep are my sheep…”

Genesis 31:43

“You, Jacob, are fine the way you are: a man raised in the old country, a man whose natural habitant are the tents of study and prayer. But what do you want of the children? They belong to another generation, another world. They must be raised in the spirit of the times, equipped to earn a living and place in society.  Do you truly expect them to negotiate modern life with nothing but your ancient tomes? You, Jacob, are fine the way you are; but leave the children to me…”

“Jacob, I wouldn’t dream of interfering with your holy life – I’ll be the first to admit that I’m no authority on religion. By all means, consult your sacred books on how to keep the Shabbat or how to light your Chanukah candles. But when it comes to business affairs–do you think that the commodities market conforms to the standards of the Shulchan Aruch? That you can retain both your competitive edge and your talmudical ethics? You’ll be eaten alive out there. Reserve your piety for the synagogue and study hall, but do yourself a favor — leave the sheep to me, okay?”

Based on an address by the Rebbe[4].

Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber.

Tags: prayer, mitzvot, Divine service, Torah, spiritual and material, Divine will, Jacob
Posted in Biblical, Weekly Parsha, Bereishit, Months & Holidays, Chanukah, Religion, Kislev, Torah Personalities, Spiritual, Vayeitzei, Torah, Jacob | No Comments »

My Encounter With The Rebbe

June 28th, 2015

Editor’s Note: The following account (translated from the Hebrew weekly Kfar Chabad) is told by a young man who met the Rebbe on three occasions.[5]  As a young boy of Bar Mitzvah age, his encounter with the Rebbe changed the course of his life. Below is a description of his second visit to the Rebbe many years later.

My second encounter with the Rebbe was in June of 1967, shortly before the outbreak of the Six Day War.

Spurred by the drama of the Cuban Missile Crisis and a young man’s desire to be a player on the international scene, I decided to major in political science and pursue a career in the diplomatic corps. 1967 found me an up-and-coming diplomatic aide, on the staff of the U.S. Ambassador to the United Nations, Arthur Goldberg.

In the first week of June I received a call from a cousin of mine. In an anxious voice, she asked that I stop by at her apartment after work. As I sat in their living room that evening, she and her husband told me the cause of their distress. Their only child, Abraham–a young man several years my junior who had become a baal t’shuvah[6] the year before–was studying at a Lubavitcher yeshivah in Israel. Alarmed by the increasing talk of war, they sent him a plane ticket and begged him to come home. Abraham remains adamant in his refusal: the Lubavitcher Rebbe says to stay.

“We tried to approach the Rebbe,” my cousin continued. “We wanted to explain to him that Abraham is our only child, that he is our entire life, and to appeal to him to please allow Abraham to return home. But it seems that one must wait several months for an audience with the Rebbe. We wrote him a letter, as his secretaries advised, and received this as a reply.” She showed me a short note with the sentence, “The Guardian of Israel neither sleeps nor slumbers.” She seemed little eased by the quote from Psalms.

“Tell us, Joe,” my cousin asked, “What’s really going on? You have the inside story. Is Israel in any real danger?”

I didn’t want to add to their distress, but I felt duty-bound to tell them the truth: the State of Israel is indeed in grave danger. War is all but certain. The Arab states have mobilized forces far superior to Israel’s and stand a good chance of defeating the tiny Jewish state; if this happens, I didn’t want to imagine the fate of the Jews residing there. My boss, Mr. Goldberg, a deeply committed Jew, cannot sleep at night. “I cannot emphasize enough how serious the situation is,” I concluded. “We must get Abraham out of there at once!”

“But how?” cried my cousin. “To him, the Rebbe’s word is law. If the Rebbe says to stay, he’ll stay!”

“Listen,” I said, “I’ll speak with the Rebbe. When I introduce myself as Mr. Goldberg’s aide, I’m sure to be received immediately. I am certain that I will succeed in persuading him to allow Abraham to come home.”

The next morning I contacted the Rebbe’s personal secretary, Rabbi Hadakov. I introduced myself as a member of the United States delegation to the U.N. and said that I had an “urgent matter” to discuss with the Rebbe. Rabbi Hadakov promised to contact me shortly. A half-hour later he called back to inform me that the Rebbe would see me the following night at 2:00 a.m. “But you don’t understand,” I objected, “this is urgent!” “Because it is urgent,” came the reply, “I have arranged for you to be received by the Rebbe tomorrow night.”

There was more white in the beard, but otherwise the youthful face and manner had changed little. The same noble countenance, the same penetrating eyes gazed at me from across the desk that 2:00 a.m. thirteen years after my bar mitzvah visit.

The handshake was firm and warm. “I have already had the privilege of meeting the Rebbe,” I began, “Grandfather brought me before my bar mitzvah.” The Rebbe’s broad smile assured me that he indeed remembered me.

“I must apologize to the Rebbe,” I went on. “I’m afraid that I used my position rather unjustly to gain this audience. The ‘urgent matter’ I spoke of is a personal one.”

Again, the Rebbe’s warm smile put me at ease. Encouraged, I told the Rebbe about my cousins and their son. “The parents are beside themselves with anxiety.” I concluded. “They would greatly appreciate it if the Rebbe would allow their only child to come home until the danger blows over.”

The warm smile had disappeared. A grave expression now cloaked the Rebbe’s features. “I have thousands of only children in the Land of Israel,”said the Rebbe. “If I tell them to remain there, it is because I am certain that no harm shall befall them. Tell your cousin and her husband that they can put their fears to rest. The Guardian of Israel neither sleeps nor slumbers. G-d watches over His people wherever they are, and especially in the Holy Land.”

“Rebbe,” I said, “with all due respect, they cannot put their fears to rest. Neither can I. Perhaps the Rebbe is unaware of the gravity of the situation, but because of my position I am privy to extremely reliable information. Unfortunately, as we speak, the state of Israel is in grave danger.”

“Israel,” said the Rebbe with absolute conviction, “is not in grave danger. She stands on the threshold of a great victory. With the Almighty’s help, this month shall be a month of great miracles for the Jewish nation.

“Now,” continued the Rebbe, “If you don’t mind, I would like to request something of you. Tell Abraham’s father that he, too, can do something for our brethren in the Land of Israel: tell him that I request that he begin observing the mitzvah of donning tefillin every weekday. I ask that you, too, should begin the daily observance of this mitzvah. I don’t know how much you can help Israel in your capacity as an assistant to the U.N. Ambassador, but with your daily donning of tefillin you will certainly contribute to Israel’s victory—without,” added the Rebbe with a slight smile “encountering any complications of ‘divided loyalties’…

“One more thing. When all this will be resolved, with G-d’s help, in a most positive manner, I would like to speak with you again.”

I don’t know how long I stood there, staring at the Rebbe, unable to utter a sound. Awestruck by the man seated across the desk from me—by the incredible confidence he exudes, by the tremendous responsibility he assumes upon himself. At that moment I understood how so many thousands place their lives in his hands and unquestionably obey his every word.

“Rebbe,” I said spontaneously, and with deep emotion, “as a Jew, I am grateful that we have someone like you in these difficult and terrifying times. Thank you for the time you devoted to me.”

“May we soon hear good tidings,” said the Rebbe.

Several days later the world held its breath. Israel, fighting for her life on three fronts, defeated her attackers in six fleeting days, in a victory unprecedented in military history. I sat with Mr. Goldberg in his office at the U.N. as the image of the liberated Western Wall appeared on the television. We saw Rabbi Goren sounding the shofar and the soldiers weeping on the Wall’s stones. Mr. Goldberg and myself could not contain our tears. Everyone in the office, Jew and non-Jew alike, sensed that a great moment in Jewish history was unfolding before their eyes.

I remembered the Rebbe’s request and phoned Rabbi Hadakov to arrange for an audience. A week later, I again stood in the Rebbe’s room. If I expected an air of celebration and a tinge of “I told you so” in his smile, I was surprised to find the Rebbe in an extremely grave mood. After a welcoming handshake he came straight to the point.

“This is a great and awesome moment in the history of the Jewish nation. Our history is a chain of miracles — our very existence is an ongoing miracle — but only rarely are they as openly manifest as they were last week. Only rarely does the Almighty show Himself to the entire world and so openly proclaim the eternity of His people. Such a moment was the Exodus from Egypt, so it was on a few other occasions, and so it was last week.

“There are times when G-d hides His face from us. But there are also times when He shows Himself in all His glory and showers us with kindness and miracles. We now find ourselves in such a time.

“G-d, who created and rules the universe, gave the Land of Israel to the people of Israel. For a time — for a very long time — He took the land from us and gave it to others. Last week, He took it away from them and gave it back to us. To remove any doubt that it was indeed G-d who restored the land to us, He did so with an open display of divine power, as the entire world watched and wondered how Israel would persevere in the face of the many and mighty enemies who wished to destroy her.

“However,” continued the Rebbe, “man has been granted freedom of choice. We can seize this moment, or, G-d forbid, reject this divine gift. There are two things we must avoid at all costs. The first is not to fall into the trap of attributing this victory to our own military prowess. Our army and arms were but the tool through which G-d channeled His miracles. This victory, which defied all natural norms, was achieved by the Almighty and by Him alone.

“The second thing is where you can play a significant part,”said the Rebbe, giving me the full benefit of his penetrating gaze, “and this is why I have asked you to come see me. Unfortunately, many Jews, including those who head the government of Israel, have yet to free themselves of their intimidation before ‘world opinion.’ I expect that they will lose no time in dispatching all sorts of delegations to Washington with the message that they are prepared to return the territory conquered in the war. They do not understand that they have not ‘conquered’ anything themselves — that G-d has granted the people of Israel their eternal heritage amidst tremendous miracles. We must prevent them from making this drastic error.”

I spoke for the first time since entering the Rebbe’s room. “What can I do about this?”

“You meet with the Israeli Ambassador to the U.N. and with many other key Israeli officials. You have connections in the State Department and you will know if and when such initiatives are put forth by Israel. My request to you is this: when you discern a weakening of resolve on the part of the Israeli government to retain the liberated territories, repeat to them what has been said here.”

The Rebbe immediately sensed the objection that was forming in my mind. “I’m not suggesting that you use your position to in any way to counteract the interests of the United States Government, which you are duty-bound to serve. But, first of all, the United States has no interest that Israel retreat from the liberated territories — quite the contrary. Secondly, as a Jew and as a private citizen, you have every right to express your views.”

Then the Rebbe said to me, his voice choked with emotion: “And if they ask you: What gives you the confidence to speak this way? On what basis do you presume to know what is good for Israel and what is not? Tell them about the only child whose parents feared for his life and wished to bring him back to the States. Tell them how, from this room, it was promised to him, and to thousands of other only children, that there is nothing to fear and that all will end well. And on what basis was this promise made from this room? On the basis that our world has a creator and master, and that the Creator decided to give the Land of Israel to the people of Israel! On the basis that when the Creator of the world gives us a gift, we must treasure it and defend it, and not look for ways to rid ourselves of it!”

I left the Rebbe’s room in turmoil. Some would describe my encounter with the Rebbe as a “spiritual experience,” but these words fail to convey the utter transformation I underwent that night. My half-hour in the Rebbe’s room shook my sense of Jewish identity to its very foundations and completely rearranged the points of reference in my life. For the second time in as many weeks the thought formed in my mind: Fortunate is the nation that has the Lubavitcher Rebbe as its own.

Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber.

____________________________________________

Tags: Rebbe, freedom of choice, free will, Israel, Jerusalem, miracles, Jewish history, Divine will, G-d, Six day war
Posted in Weekly Parsha, Bereishit, Religion, Personal Life, Torah Personalities, Modern, Spiritual, Torah, Vayeitzei, Rebbe, Personal Stories | 3 Comments »

Jacob’s Oath

June 28th, 2015

Why are we here?

All possible answers to this question fall into two general categories: a) For ourselves (e.g., to enjoy life, realize our potential, achieve transcendence); b) To serve something greater than ourselves (society, history, G-d).

What makes this question so difficult to address is that we sense both “a” and “b” to be true. On the one hand, we are strongly driven to better ourselves, to “get the most” out of every experience and opportunity. We also sense that this is not a shallow “selfishness” but something very deep and true in our souls—something implanted in us by our Creator as intrinsic to our identity and purpose. On the other hand, we are equally aware that we are part of something greater than ourselves—that if our existence has meaning, it is only because it serves a reality beyond its own finite and subjective being.

Indeed, we find both sensibilities expressed by the Torah and in the words of our sages. On the one hand, the Torah repeatedly stresses that G-d’s program for life is for the good of man, both materially and spiritually.[1] “The mitzvot were given only to refine humanity,” says the Midrash.[2] The Talmud even goes so far as to state: “Every man is obligated to say: ‘The world was created for my sake.’”[3] Thus Chassidic teaching describes the saga of the soul as a “descent for the purpose of ascent”—the soul’s entry into the physical state entails a diminution of its spiritual faculties and sensitivities, but the purpose of this is that it be elevated by the challenges and achievements of earthly life.[4]

On the other hand, the highest praise that the Torah has for Moses, “the most perfect human being,”[5] is that he was a “servant of G-d.”[6] Our sages repeatedly exhort us to strive for altruism in our lives, so that everything we do is permeated with the recognition that “I was not created but to serve my Creator.”[7]

To understand the interplay between these two apparently disparate aspirations and the respective places they hold in the purpose of our lives, we must first examine a juncture in the life of Jacob, father of the people of Israel.

Archetypal Journey

“Everything,” say our sages, “that happened to the Patriarchs (the progenitors of the Jewish nation: Abraham, Isaac and Jacob) is a signpost for their children. This is why the Torah elaborates in its account of their journeys, their digging of wells and the other events [of their lives]…. These all come to instruct the future: when something happens to one of the three Patriarchs, one understands from it what is decreed to occur to his descendants.”[8] More than “role models” or “sources of inspiration,” the lives of our forefathers are all-inclusive blueprints that map every fork and turn in the road of our lives, addressing every dilemma and paradox that may confront us.

In the 28th chapter of Genesis, the Torah recounts Jacob’s departure from the Holy Land—where he had spent the first half of his life immersed in “the tents of learning”[9]—and his journey to Charan. In Charan, Jacob worked for twenty years in the employ of his conniving uncle, Laban, in the midst of a corrupt and debased society. [10] Throughout it all, Jacob remained true to G-d and man, serving Laban honestly, even as the latter repeatedly swindled him,[11] scrupulously observing all 613 commandments of the Torah[12] and retaining all that he had learned in his years of study.[13] He even prospered materially, amassing considerable wealth.[14] In Charan, Jacob also married and fathered eleven of the twelve sons who were to yield the twelve tribes of Israel.

Jacob’s journey to Charan is the story of every soul’s descent to earth.[15] The soul, too, leaves a spiritual idyll behind—an existence steeped in divine awareness and knowledge—to struggle in the employ of a “Laban” in a “Charan” environment. For the material state is a nefarious deceiver, accentuating the corporeal and obscuring the G-dly, confusing the soul’s priorities and perpetually threatening its virtue. But every soul is empowered, as a child of Jacob, to make this a “descent for the purpose of ascent”: to emerge from the Charan of material earth with its integrity intact and its memory true. Indeed, not only are its spiritual powers galvanized by the challenge, it also gains “wealth,” having learned to exploit the forces and resources of the physical world to further its spiritual ends. Most significantly, in its spiritual state the soul is perfect but childless; only as a physical being on physical earth can it fulfill the divine mitzvot, which are the soul’s progeny and its link to the infinite and the eternal.[16]

The Oath

On his way to Charan, Jacob camped for the night on Mount Moriah where he had his famous dream in which he saw angels ascending and descending a ladder reaching from earth to heaven. Upon waking, “Jacob took the stone (on which he had slept) and raised it as a monument.”[17] He then made an oath, which the Torah relates in the following three verses (Genesis 28:20-22):

       If G-d will be with me, and safeguard me on this road that I am traveling, and He will provide me with bread to eat and clothes to wear; and I will return in peace to my father’s house, and G-d will be my G-d; and this stone, which I have erected as a monument, shall be a house of G-d…

The syntactical construction of Jacob’s oath, as written in the Torah, raises several questions.  The oath consists of two parts: a) the preconditions for its fulfillment (“if G-d will be with me,” “provide me bread to eat and clothes to wear,” etc.) b) What Jacob is promising to do (e.g., “this stone… shall be a house of G-d”). What is not clear is where the former ends and the latter begins. The first of the three verses is obviously part of the conditions—things that G-d will do for Jacob to enable him to fulfill his vow. The same applies to the first part of the second verse—“and I will return in peace to my father’s house.” The third verse speaks of what Jacob will do for G-d. But what about the second part of the second verse, “and G-d will be my G-d”? Is this part of the conditions for the vow’s fulfillment, or is it part of the vow itself?

Indeed, two of the greatest biblical commentators, Rashi (Rabbi Shlomo Yitzchaki, 1040-1105) and Nachmanides (Rabbi Moshe ben Nachman, 1194-1270), debate this very point. According to Rashi, the first two verses are the conditions of Jacob’s vow, while the third verse is its fulfillment: in order for Jacob to make the stone a “house of G-d,” he requires to experience the Almighty as “his G-d.” Nachmanides, however, sees the words “and G-d will be my G-d” as part of the promise itself, not as a “condition”—Jacob is saying that if G-d will provide him with protection, food, clothes and a peaceful return, he will make G-d his G-d and the stone an abode for the Divine presence.

What is the deeper significance of these two interpretations? And why does the Torah recount Jacob’s oath in a way that allows for variant readings?

Home of Stone

Our sages describe the purpose of creation as “G-d’s desire for a dwelling in the lowly realms.”[18] G-d desired that there be a realm that is “lowly”—a reality inhospitable to spirituality and G-dliness—and that this alien place be made into a “dwelling” for Him, an environment receptive and subservient to His goodness and truth.

This “lowly realm” is our physical world, “of which none is lower in the sense that it obscures the light of G-d … to the extent that it contains forces which actually oppose G-d with the claim that “I am the ultimate.’”[19] The physical  world is the greatest concealment of the divine truth. A spiritual entity (e.g., an idea or feeling) exists to express something; a physical entity merely exists. The spiritual conveys that “there is something greater than myself, which I serve”; the physical proclaims “I am”— contesting the truth that G-d is the ultimate and exclusive reality. But when man utilizes the resources and forces of the physical world to serve G-d, he sanctifies the material so that it now serves, rather than obscures, the divine truth. Instead of “I exist,” it now expresses “I exist to serve my Creator”; instead of “I am the ultimate,” it now proclaims, “I, for myself, am nothing; my sole function and significance is that I am an instrument of G-dliness.”

This is the meaning of Jacob’s oath to make “this stone … a house of G-d.” Jacob is pledging himself to man’s mission in life: to fulfill the divine purpose for creation by making the material world a “dwelling for G-d.” He is promising to make “the stone”—the brute substantiality of the physical world—into a divine abode.

To achieve this, Jacob requires several things from G-d: protection from harm, food to eat, clothes to wear, a peaceful return to his father’s home. He is not, G-d forbid, negotiating for payment in return for services rendered; rather, his “conditions” are literally that: the conditions, both material and spiritual, that enable a soul to subsist in a physical body and achieve its aim of making the world a home for G-d.[20] On the material level, there are the basic needs (food, clothing, security, etc.) that are required to keep body and soul together. On the spiritual level, Jacob is also asking for the divine gifts without which man could not gain mastery over his environment and develop it in accordance with G-d’s will, which include:

a) “Safeguards”—laws that identify those forces and influences that are harmful to the soul and detrimental to its mission in life. These are the divine prohibitions, known as the mitzvot lo ta’aseh (“negative commandments”), which guard us against the spiritual pitfalls in our journey through life.

b) “Food to eat”—the divine knowledge and wisdom of Torah, which is digested and internalized by the soul to become “blood of its blood and flesh of its flesh” and form the very substance of its mindset and character.[21]

c) “Clothes to wear”—the mitzvot assei (“positive commandments”) which clothe the soul, enveloping it with an aura of  divine will.[22]

d) “Return”—the capacity for teshuvah. Teshuvah  is usually associated with the concept of repentance—the ability to restore a relationship with G-d that has been compromised by sin or failing. But in its broadest sense, teshuvah is the G-d-given potential to make an ally of an adversary. The repentant sinner rectifies his past by channeling the negative energy of his transgressions to fuel his yearning for a deeper connection to G-d; but one who has not actually sinned can also practice teshuvah by harnessing the ordinary, mundane elements of his life (including those that are not directly involved in the performance of a mitzvah) to serve a G-dly end.

The Human Element

Where does personal fulfillment figure in all this?

Can the “dwelling for G-d in the lowly realms” be constructed mechanically, by workers faithful to their employer but devoid of all understanding and appreciation of what they are doing? Can man serve G-d without experiencing Him as a personal and intimate presence in his life?

Ultimately, the answer is no. G-d desires that we serve Him “with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your might.”[23] That our life’s work should not be a robotic implementation of arcane commandments issuing from an incomprehensible G-d, but a labor of love that stimulates our minds, excites our emotions, and fulfills our every faculty.

Is this another “condition,” or is it part of the mission itself? Rashi, who states that “I come only to explain the simple meaning of the verse,” views the issue in its quintessential simplicity. Why was man created? To serve his Creator. Everything else is a condition, a means to this end. If it is required that man experience fulfillment in life, then G-d provides him with such capacity, just as G-d provides him with all the other necessary tools to do his job. But this is secondary to his purpose in life, which is to make the world a home for G-d.

Nachmanides, on the other hand, reads the Torah through the lens of a mystic—with an eye to the experiential and anthropomorphic dimension of reality. From this perspective, man’s experience of the Divine is not just a tool, but the purpose of life.[24]

As with all variant interpretations of Torah, “these and these are both the word of the living G-d.”[25] The soul’s elevation to a deeper relationship with G-d through its sanctification of physical life is both a condition for, and a component part of, the purpose of creation.

For the egotistical, self-oriented nature of man is also part of “this stone”—part of the obtuse physicality that is the lowest tier of G-d’s creation. It, too, must be developed into a “house of G-d,” into an environment hospitable to the divine truth. Thus, if our service of G-d were to be something we merely submitted to, there could be no true “dwelling in the lowly realm.” It would mean that the physical reality has not really been transformed, but that an extrinsic state, alien to its nature, has been imposed upon it. A true “dwelling in the lowly realm” is a product of the “lowly realm”—a product of physical man, appreciated by his physical mind, desired by his physical heart and motivated by his physical self. So an integral part of G-d’s dwelling is a human self for whom “G-d is my G-d”—for whom a life in the service of the Almighty is deeply satisfying and the ultimate in self-realization.

Based on the Rebbe’s talks [26].

Adapted from the writings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber.

Tags: mitzvot, ego, Ramban, repentance, Torah, spiritual and material, Divine dwelling, Divine will, teshuvah, Jacob, Rashi
Posted in Weekly Parsha, Bereishit, Biblical, Soul & Mystical, Torah Personalities, Spiritual, Torah, Vayeitzei, Jacob | 2 Comments »

Oil and Rock

June 28th, 2015

On his way to Charan, after fourteen years of seclusion and study in the house of Eber, Jacob “took the stone … set it as a monument, and poured oil on its head.”[27]

Monuments are built of stone. For a more monumental monument, one takes bigger and more substantial stones. What is the oil all about?

But in order for the monument to be “a house of G-d” (as Jacob proclaimed, “And this stone which I have set as a monument shall be the house of G-d”[28]), one requires “oil.” Oil is extracted from the olive only when it is trod upon and crushed. “Oil” thus represents a person’s self-abnegation and submission to G-d.

To walk away from Eber’s house, to walk away from fourteen years of in-depth Torah study to begin dealing with the material world—as Jacob did with his move to Charan—requires a great deal of “oil.” Only one who has totally abnegated his own will to that of G-d is capable of such sacrifice.

From an address by the Rebbe, Kislev 23, 5711 (December 2, 1950)[29].

Adapted from the writings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber.

______________________________________

Tags: Torah, self-sacrifice, selflessness, Divine will, Jacob, self-abnegation
Posted in Weekly Parsha, Bereishit, Biblical, Religion, Torah Personalities, Spiritual, Torah, Vayeitzei, Jacob | No Comments »

Sheep

June 28th, 2015

This week’s Torah reading, Vayeitzei (Genesis 28:10–32:3), is veritably glutted with sheep: Laban’s sheep and Jacob’s sheep; white sheep, dark sheep, spotted sheep, speckled sheep, sheep with rings around their ankles. Jacob arrives in Charan, and the first sight to greet him is that of several flocks of sheep congregated around a sealed well; the second is his future wife, Rachel (the name is Hebrew for “sheep”), shepherding her father’s sheep. Soon Jacob is a shepherd himself, caring for sheep, receiving his wages in sheep, breeding sheep with special markings, dreaming of sheep, amassing a fortune in sheep, and finally leading his flocks back to the Holy Land where he will present his brother Esau with a huge gift comprised largely of… sheep.

Between flocks, we also read of Jacob’s marriages to Leah and Rachel and the birth of eleven of his twelve sons, progenitors of the twelve tribes of Israel. What are we to learn from the fact that the nation of Israel was founded in such sheepish surroundings?

The First Metaphor

“I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine, he who shepherds [me] among the roses.”[1] The voice of this verse, explains the Midrash,[2] is that of the community of Israel, speaking of her relationship with G-d. “He is my shepherd, [as it is written,] ‘Shepherd of Israel, listen’[3]; and I am His sheep, [as it is written,] ‘And[4] you, My sheep, the sheep of My pasture.’”

The same Midrashic passage also describes our relationship with G-d as that of a child to his father, a sister to her brother, a bride to her groom, a vineyard to its watchman, among others. Each of these metaphors expresses another facet of the relationship: the inherent bond between G-d and Israel, the love and affection, G-d’s guardianship over us, our being a source of joy to Him, etc. What does the sheep/shepherd metaphor represent? If the point is that G-d provides for us and protects us, or that we are subservient and devoted to Him, these elements also exist in the father/child relationship. What unique aspect of our relationship with G-d can be expressed only by describing us as His sheep?

The sheep’s dominant trait is its docility and obedience. The child obeys his father, but does so out of an appreciation of his father’s greatness; the sheep does not obey for any reason—it is simply obedient by nature. It is this element of our relationship with G-d that the sheep represents: an unquestioning subservience which derives not from our understanding of His greatness and our feelings toward Him (in which case it would be defined by the limits of our understanding and feelings), but from the recognition that “I am His sheep.”

The Jewish nation was founded amidst sheep because our self-negation and unquestioning obedience to G-d is the foundation of our Jewishness. Of course, we are not only G-d’s sheep—we are also His children, His bride, His sister and His vineyard. By the same token, the Torah tells us that when Jacob left Charan after twenty years of shepherding, his wealth consisted not only of sheep: “He had much sheep, maids and servants, camels and donkeys.”[5] We have just read that Laban paid him his wages in sheep, and that his flocks multiplied exceedingly; but where did his other possessions come from? Rashi explains that “he sold his sheep for high prices and bought all these.”[6] Spiritually, too, Jacob’s “wealth” did not consist solely of docility and self-negation, but also included feeling and understanding, fortitude and vigor.[7] But the source and basis of it all were his “sheep.”

Being a Jew means studying the divine wisdom (revealed to us in His Torah), developing a passionate love and reverent awe for G-d, and teaching His wisdom and implementing His will in an oft-times hostile world—all of which require the optimal application of our mental, emotional and assertive powers. But the foundation of it all—the base from which all these derive and upon which they are all predicated—is our simple commitment to G-d, a commitment that transcends reason and emotion.

Based on an address by the Rebbe, Kislev 10, 5737 (December 2, 1976)[8].

Adapted from the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

Tags: Jewish history, Song of Songs, Divine will, Foundation, Jacob, Jewish nation, relationships
Posted in Weekly Parsha, Bereishit, Faith, Religion, Beliefs & Concepts, Spiritual, Torah, Vayeitzei | No Comments »