June 25th, 2015
One of the great chassidic masters once said:
A chassid should be capable of the following three feats: (a) To be utterly humble while holding his head high. (b) To scream in perfect silence. (c) To dance for joy without moving a muscle.
Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber
Tags: Chassidus, inspiration, Yanki Tauber
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June 25th, 2015
Driving back from a family event, I was pondering on the words of one of the speakers about this week’s Torah portion, and wondering what I should be writing about in this column. I looked out the window and my good friend, Col. Jacob Z. Goldstein, Chief of Chaplains for New York State Army National Guard, saluted me.
In the spirit of Divine Providence, the content of this week’s column suddenly emerged.
The military salute is a motion that evolved from medieval times, when knights in armor raised their visors to reveal their identity.
Interesting how seemingly trivial acts carry much meaning.
There are some other aggressive symbols in modern culture.
Why do people tip their wine glasses in a toast? In ancient times, as early as the 6th Century BCE, the Greeks – and later the Romans – were toasting to the health of their friend’s to assure them that the wine they were about to drink wasn’t poisoned. To spike the wine with poison, had become an all too common means of dealing with social problems — disposing of an enemy, silencing the competition, preventing a messy divorce, and the like. It thus became a symbol of friendship for the host to pour wine from a common pitcher, drink it before his guests, and satisfied that it was a good experience, raise his glass to his friends to do likewise. Others explain, that tipping the glass and allowing your wine to drop in your partner’s cup showed that your wine was not poisoned.
Yet another example:
In secular society, all men’s clothing button in the same manner: left over right. According to legend, this practice dates back to the days of knights in shining armor. Most knights were right-handed and so held their sword in their right hand and their shield in their left; their armor fastened left over right. Though men dropped armor in favor of modern and, thankfully, more comfortable clothing, the left-over-right tradition remained.
Interestingly, Chassidim, by contrast, button their garments right over left, to show that chesed (love of the right side) dominates over gevurah (aggression on the left).
Since we’re on the topic, I should mention another interesting contrast. At birthdays it has become customary for the birthday boy or girl to blow out candles on the birthday cake. The number of candles often corresponds to the age of the celebrant.
Our editor once shared with us a story (here is the link, The Candle of G-d), how her two year old niece, instead of blowing out the candles, covered her eyes and blessed them, as she and her mother do every Friday before sunset when they light the Shabbat candles. The little girl remembered how her mother reminded her not to blow at the candles. The candle is symbolic of the human soul (“the candle of G-d is the soul of man”). Jews don’t blow out a soul; they ignite it.
It’s quite fascinating how aggressive, military-style behavior still remains so much part of our modern lifestyles!
Aggression seems to have has permeated so much of our lives, to the point that we don’t even recognize it.
The Torah, on the other hand, always celebrates the dominance of spirit over matter, subtlety over aggression, gentleness over brutality. Torah heroes are not military leaders, but refined individuals – men and women of virtue, scholarship and wisdom. Jewish customs all demonstrate the dignified power of the human spirit, instead of the symbols of human aggression.
Take this week’s Torah portion. Moses is commanded by G-d to speak to the rock so that it will give forth water. Instead, Moses strikes the rock. He is duly punished by not being allowed to enter the Promised Land.
Among the many explanations of this strange story, is one (cited by the abovementioned speaker) that focuses on the power of words rather than force. “Not by might, nor by power, but by my spirit, says G-d” (Zacahriah 4:6). By striking the stone instead of speaking to it Moses defied this cardinal principle that true power lies in the spirit not in brute force.
To be sure, Moses intended to sanctify G-d by demonstrating to the Jewish people G-d’s miracle of a stone producing water. So, after he attempted to speak to the rock to no avail, Moses felt that perhaps he had misunderstood G-d, and he needed to strike the rock, as G-d commanded him to do 40 years earlier. After all, water coming from a rock is a miracle either way, whether you speak to it or strike it!
Had Moses challenged the very notion that a rock can deliver water, one could then argue that Moses defied G-d. But to strike the rock instead of speaking to it seems quite an act of faith.
For any other person this “small” alteration would have been a mitzvah. However for Moses, the man of G-d, even a slight shift is a major event. G-d was attempting to teach a lesson that the ultimate method in life is to “speak” to the “rock,” spiritual power, rather than physical strength.
Even if your child, student or yourself is hard like a rock, effective education is primarily through communication, not force. Words from the heart will enter the heart.
Needless to say that at times force is necessary when confronting enemies, and often as a last resort. Hence, striking the rock the first time. Yet, the primary emphasis is always on communication, on chesed rather than gevurah.
Life around us always offers us two options: Aggression or benevolence. Symbols of belligerence and hostility abound all around us. Even seemingly pleasant and non-confrontational situations – as we toast or salute each other, as we celebrate birthdays and button our jackets – are permeated with an aggressive undercurrent, a constant reminder of the harsh world in which we live.
Yet we have a choice at all times: A choice to either succumb and become a shark as we swim with the sharks; to conform to the “survival of the fittest,” “dog eats dog” mentality, or to transcend the hostile world and live up to our Divine calling and the majestic spirit of our souls.
Remember, if you’re not part of the solution you’re part of the problem.
Please don’t see this as an attack on some of our contemporary customs. Rather it is an attempt to introduce a measure of sensitivity and conscientiousness into our lifestyles, and see how even small matters carry much significance. Above all, we must transform our customs into forces for good.
So, let us tip our glass, light our flame, salute each other – with jackets buttoned right over left – in one grand toast of unity and love, declaring to the world: L’Chaim, to life.
Tags: water, strength, violence, Jewish customs, choice, Physicality, communication, Illumination, transformation, spiritual, miracle, refinement, candles, scholar, rock, wisdom, symbols, Moses, transcendence, soul, war
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June 24th, 2015
I came down from the mountain, and the mountain burned with fire; and the two Tablets of the Covenant were in my two hands. And I saw that, behold, you had sinned against the L-rd your G-d, and had made yourselves a molten calf; you had quickly turned from the path which G-d had commanded you. I grabbed hold of the two Tablets and threw them from my two hands; and I broke them before your eyes.
Deuteronomy 9:15-17
Since Moses already held the Tablets of the Covenant in his hands, why did he have to “grab hold” of them in order to break them? The Midrash explains that Moses was not the only one holding onto the Tablets:
The Tablets were each six handbreadths long and three handbreadths wide. Moses held two handbreadths [of the Tablets’ length], G-d held two handbreadths, and in between were two handbreadths of space. Moses’ hands prevailed, and he grabbed hold of the Tablets and broke them.[1]
No human being is more deeply identified with the Torah than Moses. “Remember the Torah of Moses My servant,”[2] declares the prophet Malachi, and our sages explain: “Because he gave his life for it, [G-d’s Torah] is called by his name.”[3] “Moses our Teacher” we call him, for the very essence of his life was the mission to receive the divine law at Mount Sinai and deliver it to humanity. What, then, prompted him, as he carried the Torah down from the mountain, to literally wrest it from G-d’s hands and smash it to pieces?
The “punch line” is a common device by which to lend import and prominence to an idea: a speaker or writer will position the crux of his message, or its most emphatic point, in his closing words. The Torah, too, employs this device, and a general rule of Torah law and exegesis is that “Everything goes by the ending.”[4]
It is therefore most surprising to discover that, according to the greatest of Torah commentators, the Torah’s own closing words are in praise of Moses’ decision to break the Tablets.
The last chapter of the Torah (Deuteronomy 34:1-12) describes the last day of Moses’ physical life. Indeed, this is a most apt “ending” for the “Torah of Moses,” since Jewish tradition regards the moment of a righteous person’s passing as the high point of his or her life—the point at which “all his deeds, teachings and works” attain their ultimate fulfillment and realization.[5] But then, after describing Moses’ survey of the Holy Land from the summit of Mount Nebo, his passing, and burial, the Torah’s final verses recount the highlights of Moses’ life and his greatest achievements:
And there arose not since a prophet in Israel like Moses, whom G-d knew face to face; [who performed] all the signs and wonders which G-d sent [Moses] to do in the land of Egypt… [who equaled] that mighty hand, those great fearsome deeds, [and] that which Moses did before the eyes of all Israel.[6]
To what deed of Moses does the Torah refer with its closing words, “which Moses did before the eyes of all Israel”? Employing a method of Torah interpretation known as “identical phraseology,”[7] Rashi, the greatest of commentators on Torah, sees these words as an allusion to the breaking of the Tablets, which Moses describes in a previous chapter as something which he did “before the eyes” of Israel:
“That which Moses did before the eyes of all Israel”—that his heart emboldened him to break the Tablets before their eyes, as it is written, “[I grabbed hold of the two Tablets and threw them from my two hands] and I broke them before your eyes.”[8]
At first glance it would seem that this act of Moses, however necessary or even desirable it may have been, was antithetical to his role as conveyer of Torah, as well as detrimental to the Torah’s own role of serving as G-d’s instruction to humanity. Yet the Torah makes this the final item in its account of Moses’ life, as well as its own “ending.” In other words, if we assume that indeed “everything goes by the ending,” not only is the Torah saying that it regards the breaking of the Tablets as the most important deed of Moses’ life, but also that the most important thing it has to say about itself is that it regards the breaking of the Tablets as the most important deed of Moses’ life!
There was once a king—relates the Midrash—who went off on a distant journey and left his bride with her maidservants. Because of the promiscuity of the maidservants, rumors began circulating about the king’s bride. The king heard of this and wished to kill her. When the bride’s guardian heard this, he tore up her marriage contract, saying: “Should the king say, ‘My wife did such and such,’ we shall say to him, ‘She’s not your wife yet.'”[9]
The king in this parable—the Midrash goes on to explain— is G-d, the bride is the nation of Israel, the corrupt maids are the eirev rav (the “mixed multitude” who had joined the Jewish people at the Exodus and were responsible for the making of the Golden Calf), the bride’s guardian is Moses, and the marital contract is the Torah. When G-d wished to destroy Israel because of their involvement in the worship of the Golden Calf, Moses broke the Tablets upon which G-d had transcribed the essence of His covenant with them, thereby dissolving the marriage-bond that Israel had allegedly violated and leaving G-d no grounds on which to punish His bride’s unfaithfulness.
And this the Torah considers to be Moses’ highest virtue: his unequivocal loyalty to the Jewish people, a loyalty even greater than his loyalty to the Torah. When the very existence of the Jewish people was threatened, Moses tore up the wedding contract in order to save the bride.
When the existence of Israel was in jeopardy, Moses did not consult with anyone, not even with G-d. When Moses had to choose between the Torah and Israel, his devotion to Israel superseded all—including that which defines the very essence of his own being.
It is for this reason that Moses’ breaking of the Tablets was the greatest deed of his life. In everything else he did, he was acting on a clear mandate from G-d: G-d had instructed and empowered him to take the Jews out of Egypt, to split the Red Sea, and to transmit His wisdom and will to humanity. Always it was G-d’s desire that he followed. Here, it was his own initiative. Here, he wrestled with G-d, “grabbing hold” of the Tablets to save the people of Israel.
In breaking the Tablets, Moses was acting on his own, contrary to his divine mission to deliver G-d’s Torah to the world. In breaking the Tablets, Moses, who could not presume that G-d would replace the first Tablets with a second pair, was eradicating his very being, his very raison d’être, for the sake of his people.
And Moses did not go off to a corner to carry out the most painful and potentially self-destructive act of his life. He broke the Tablets “before the eyes of all Israel”—a fact which the Torah repeatedly emphasizes, and then reiterates in its concluding words. For Moses wished to demonstrate to all of Israel, and to all generations to come, the duty of a leader of the Jewish people: to be prepared not only to sacrifice his physical life for his flock, but his very soul and spiritual essence as well.
Not only does the Torah record that G-d endorsed Moses’ breaking of the Tablets; not only does it proclaim that Moses’ greatest deed was his placing the preservation of Israel above the integrity of their “marriage contract”; it also chooses to make this its own culminating message. With its closing words the Torah establishes that it sees its own existence as secondary to the existence of the people of Israel.
The Midrash says it thus:
Two things preceded G-d’s creation of the world: Torah and Israel. Still, I do not know which preceded which. But when Torah states ‘Speak to the Children of Israel…,’ ‘Command the Children of Israel…’—I know that Israel preceded all.[10]
In other words, since the purpose of G-d’s creation of the universe is that the people of Israel should implement His will as outlined in the Torah, the concepts of “Israel” and “Torah” both precede the concept of a “world” in the Creator’s “mind.” Yet which is the more deeply rooted idea within the divine consciousness, Torah or Israel? Does Israel exist so that the Torah may be implemented, or does the Torah exist to serve the Jew in the fulfillment of his mission and the realization of his relationship with G-d?
Says the Midrash: if the Torah describes itself as a communication to Israel, this presumes the concept of Israel as primary to that of Torah. Without the people of Israel to implement it, there cannot be a Torah, since the very idea of a Torah was conceived by the divine mind as a tool to facilitate the bond between G-d and His people.
Hence, when the Torah speaks of the shattering of the Tablets, it speaks not of its own destruction, but, ultimately, of its preservation: if the breaking of the Tablets saved Israel from extinction, it also saved the Torah from extinction, since the very concept of a “Torah” is dependent upon the existence of the people of Israel.[11]
Moses’ self-negating devotion to his people characterized his leadership from its very start. When G-d first appeared to Moses in the burning bush and commanded him to take the Jewish people out of Egypt, Moses refused. For seven days and nights Moses argued with G-d. Don’t send me, pleaded Moses, “Send the one whom You will send.”[12]
“G-d’s anger raged against Moses,” the Torah tells us.[13] Understandably so: the people of Israel are languishing under the Egyptian whip, and G-d’s chosen redeemer is refusing his commission? Still Moses argued with G-d to “Send the one whom You will send” instead of himself. Why did Moses refuse to go? Was it his humility? True, the Torah attests that “Moses was the most humble man on the face of the earth.”[14] But surely Moses was not one to allow his humility to interfere with the salvation of his people.
Our sages explain that Moses knew that he would not merit to bring Israel into the Holy Land and thereby achieve the ultimate redemption of his people.[15] He knew that Israel would again be exiled, would again suffer the physical and spiritual afflictions of galut. So Moses refused to go. Do not send me, he pleaded; send now the one whom You will send in the end of days. If the time for Israel’s redemption has come, send Moshiach, through whom You will effect the complete and eternal Redemption.[16]For seven days and nights Moses contested G-d’s script for history, prepared to incur G-d’s wrath upon himself for the sake of his people.
Nor did Moses ever accept the decree of galut. After assuming, by force of the divine command, the mission to take Israel out of Egypt, he embarked on a lifelong struggle to make this the final and ultimate Redemption. To the very last day of his life, Moses beseeched G-d to allow him to lead Israel into the Holy Land, which would have settled Israel in their land, and G-d in Israel’s midst, for all eternity;[17] to his very last day he braved G-d’s anger in his endeavor to effect the ultimate Redemption. In Moses’ own words: “I beseeched G-d at that time, saying: …’Please, let me cross over and see the good land across the Jordan, the good mountain (Jerusalem) and the Levanon (the Holy Temple).’ And G-d grew angry with me for your sakes… and He said to me: ‘Enough! Speak no more to Me of this matter.…'”[18]
G-d said “Enough!” but Moses was not silenced. For Moses’ challenge of the divine plan did not end with his passing from physical life. The Zohar tells us that every Jewish soul has at its core a spark of Moses’ soul.[19] So every Jew who storms the gates of heaven clamoring for redemption continues Moses’ struggle against the decree of galut.
Based on the Rebbe’s talks on Simchat Torah of 5747 (1986) and on other occasions[20]
Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber
[1] Midrash Tanchuma, Eikev 11; Jerusalem Talmud, Taanit 4:5.
[2] Malachi 3:22.
[3] Midrash Rabbah, Shemot 30:4
[4] Talmud, Berachot 12a.
[5] Tanya, part IV, section 27; cf. Ecclesiastes 7:1: “Greater is … the day of death than the day of birth.”
[6] Deuteronomy 34:10-12.
[7] Gezeirah shavah; i.e., an identical phrase (in this case, “before the eyes”) appearing in two places in the Torah points to a similar meaning in both cases; The gezeirah shavah is one of the “Thirteen Methods of Torah Interpretation.”
[8] Rashi on Deuteronomy 34:12.
[9] Midrash Tanchuma, Ki Tissa 30 (a slightly different version is cited by Rashi in his commentary on Exodus 34:1).
The Midrash continues the metaphor to explain why G-d instructed that Moses himself carve the Second Tablets, which replaced the ones he broke (the First Tablets were “the handiwork of G-d”):
“The king subsequently investigated and found that the corruption came from the maidservants, and was reconciled with his bride. Said the bride’s guardian to the king: ‘Sir, make her another marriage contract, for the first one was torn up.’ Said the king to him: ‘You tore it up, so you supply the paper and I shall write on it with my hand’ … Thus, when G-d forgave [the Jewish people], He said to Moses: ‘Carve, yourself, two tablets of stone [like the first ones, and I shall write on these tablets what was on the first tablets, which you have broken].'”
[10] Tana D’vei Eliyahu Rabbah chapter 14.
[11] Thus, the entire Torah is set aside to save a Jewish life. In the words of the Talmud, “Desecrate a single Shabbat for his sake, so that he may observe many subsequent Shabbatot” (Talmud, Shabbat 151b). Here, too, a “violation” of the Shabbat is seen as its ultimate preservation.
On the other hand, “Israel, though he has transgressed, is still Israel” (Talmud, Sanhedrin 44a). The intrinsic bond between G-d and His people is actualized through their observance of Torah, but is not dependent upon it; even when a Jew violates the Torah, G-d forbid, his identity as a Jew is unaffected. Thus we have the concept of teshuvah (“return”): also when a Jew has damaged his relationship with G-d as defined by Torah, he can supersede Torah’s definition of the relationship and reawaken it through the yearning, regret and resolve of teshuvah.
[12] Exodus 4:13.
[13] Ibid., verse 14.
[14] Numbers 12:3
[15] See note 17 below
[16] Rashi on Exodus 4:13; Midrash Lekach Tov, ibid
[17] “The deeds of Moses are eternal” (Talmud, Sotah 9a; thus the Mishkan, the sanctuary that Moses built in the desert, was never destroyed). If Moses would have settled the people of Israel in their land, there would have been no subsequent exiles (Megalleh Amukot, section 185; see Alshich and Ohr HaChaim commentaries on Deuteronomy 4:23).
[18] Deuteronomy 4:23-26.
[19] Tikkunei Zohar 69, pp. 112a and 114a; see Tanya ch. 44.
[20] Hitvaaduyot 5747, vol. I, pp. 349-359; Sefer HaSichot, vol. II, pp. 728-730. Editor’s note: The Rebbe wept profusely during the Simchat Torah address, describing Moses’ breaking of the tablets in a voice choked with tears.
Tags: Moshiach, galut, Torah, Yanki Tauber
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June 24th, 2015
Rabbi Banaah was measuring tombs … [and] came to the tomb of Adam…. Said Rabbi Banaah: “I looked at his two heels, and they shone like suns”
Talmud, Bava Batra 58a
All my life I’ve been stepped on. The others—the brainy head, the oh-so-sensitive heart, the busy hands, and all the other sophisticated guys up there—are scarcely aware of my existence. Still, I serve them without complaint. That’s my job. I bear their weight, take them wherever it is they need to go, or just cool my heels while awaiting further instructions. Because that’s my job.
Of course they’ll never admit it, but if they would for a moment consider the callused pads far beneath them, they might learn a thing or two. The other day, we came upon an obstacle: an ice-cold stream. Or a bed of smoldering coals. Or was it a thorny field? Whatever. The head understood that we must go on. He had it all worked out. He even wrote a book explaining the necessity to plunge in and forge ahead (I haven’t gotten around to reading it yet, but I will, someday soon). The heart was all excited by the challenge, and the hands had their hands full with all the contraptions they were creating to help us across. But at the brink of those jagged rocks (or the muddy swamp) they hesitated. The head wanted to recheck one or two references in its thesis. The heart was not quite in the mood. The hands had a few minor adjustments to make in the machinery. It was I who moved in. Sure, there were those who advised me not to let everyone step on me like that. But I moved right in. Because that’s my job.
Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber
Tags: body and soul, Chassidus, spiritual and material, Yanki Tauber
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June 24th, 2015
The most solemn and sacred part of our daily prayers is the amidah(“standing” prayer), where the soul achieves the height of intimacy in its communion with its Creator. So sacrosanct is this prayer that the Talmud instructs: “Even if a king greets him, he should not respond; even if a snake is coiled around his heel, he should not interrupt.” 1
However, the Talmud goes on to qualify this law by explaining that the “snake” in question is one whose venom is not life-threatening. Thus, if a scorpion, whose sting can be fatal, threatens a person while he is praying, he should interrupt his prayers. 2
Like the human being it comes to instruct, the Torah consists of a “body”—a code of law that governs the physical life of man—as well as a “soul”—an inner dimension that addresses our spiritual selves. And every part of the Torah’s body has its counterpart in the Torah’s soul. Every law in the Talmud and Shulchan Aruch encapsulates within it a deeper significance, instructing the inner life of man in addition to his external behavior.
The same is true of the legal distinction between a “snake” and a “scorpion” as regards the interruption of prayer. Our sages tell us that a snake injects a person with a “burning” poison, while a scorpion’s poison is “cold.” 3 Translated into the terms of “the service of the heart” that is the inner essence of prayer, 4 there are two types of spiritual maladies that threaten the soul in its quest to come close to G-d. The first is a “burning poison”—the heat and passion of earthly desires. A second spiritual threat is the poison of “coldness”—the apathy which leaves a person indifferent to everything and anything, material and spiritual alike.
In Maimonides’ description of Abraham’s quest for truth and his recognition of the One G-d, we read that, initially, Abraham was “immersed amongst the foolish idol-worshippers of Ur Kasdim; his father, mother and the entire population—he amongst them—all worshipped idols.” 5 Asks Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi: why is it important that we know that the first Jew once worshipped idols? But it is precisely because Abraham worshipped idols, answers Rabbi Schneur Zalman, that he came to recognize the divine truth. Because he cared, because he passionately and devotedly served what he had been misleadingly taught to regard as worthy of worship, his sincere desire matured into a desire for G-d. Had he been indifferent to the idols of his native land, he would never have searched for and discovered the true G-d.
Thus the Talmud says: “Even if a snake is coiled around his heel, he should not interrupt.” Even if you feel threatened by a poisonous heat, keep on praying. Place yourself in G-d’s hands and beseech Him to guide you to the truth. If your intentions are pure, your profane heat will be transformed into a holy fire.
On the other hand, if a person is threatened by the frigid poison of a scorpion, he must interrupt his prayers. When a person is faced with the icy sting of indifference—even if it is only his “heel” (i.e., a lowly and marginal part of the self) that is threatened—he must conduct a full re-assessment and re-orientation of his spiritual life. Nothing positive and holy can ever spring forth from coldness.
Based on an address by the Rebbe, Shabbat Eikev 5716 (July 28, 1956) 6
Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber
Tags: emotions, Power of Prayer, passion, Yanki Tauber
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June 24th, 2015
“From everything that one sees or hears about,” taught Rabbi Israel Baal Shem Tov, “one should derive a lesson in the service of the Creator.”
Perhaps the most popular sport on earth today is the game of soccer, or “football” (as it is called outside of the United States). As is the case with every phenomenon in G-d’s world, this game can serve as a model and metaphor for our mission in life.
The objective of the game is to move a ball into a “goal” or “gate.” This would be fairly easy to achieve were it not for the fact that facing the players is an opposing team which will do everything in its power to prevent them from scoring a “goal.” But then again, if there were no opposing team, the full extent of the players’ skill and power would never be actualized. For such is the nature of man: our most potent potentials are awakened only by challenge and adversity.
The ball can be maneuvered with various parts of the player’s body, but the game is played primarily with the feet. The game requires much skill, but no less important is the player’s speed—much depends on whether a player can outrun his opponent and move more quickly than he.
The earth is a sphere—a fact noted nearly two thousand years ago by the Jerusalem Talmud.[18] The objective of life is to move this “ball” into the shaar haMelech—the “gate of the King.”[19] By fulfilling the mitzvot of the Torah, we move the world toward the goal of its creation.
At our every step, we are challenged by a formidable “opposing team,” composed of our own negative traits and habits and a host of external foes, who obstruct our advance toward the goal and seek to move the ball in the opposite direction. But it is the perpetual presence of this opposition that provokes our deepest potentials and maximizes our achievements.
The two key factors in achieving victory are speed and use of the feet. The most skillful player will be quite ineffective if his movements are slow, plodding, and unenthusiastic. Similarly, a person’s life must be animated with alacrity and joy in order that his deeds should translate into scored goals and a true impact upon his world.
The other important lesson is never to underestimate the power of the feet. To advance the ball towards its goal, we make use of the full array of our faculties, from “head” to “foot”—our minds, our capacity for feeling, our talents and our physical energy. But our most important faculty is the “feet,” which represents our capacity for action and “mindless” obedience. Although it constitutes the “lowest” and least sophisticated of our faculties, it is our unequivocal commitment to the divine will and the physical action of the mitzvot that has the greatest impact upon our world and is the most powerful force for its advancement and ultimate realization.
Based on an address by the Rebbe, Nissan 26, 5740 (April 10, 1980)
Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber
[18]. Avodah Zarah 3:1.
[19]. Esther 4:2.
Tags: personal growth, mitzvot, commitment, Yanki Tauber
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June 24th, 2015
In America we go on “vacation,” however in England and the Commonwealth it is called a “holiday”. What is the significance of this?
The etymological roots of the word “vacation” are from the Middle English vacacioun, and from Latin vactivactin – meaning freedom from occupation. The word “vacation” also relates to vactus meaning to be empty or at leisure, escaping life’s responsibilities. After one gets burnt-out from the hectic work-week one goes away to an isle of paradise removed entirely from regular life. Being disconnected from reality while on vacation can get so tiresome and empty that one needs a vacation from vacation!
By contrast, “holiday” means making each day holy. You can take vacation all right and have lots of fun, but the focus and intention is to refreshing yourself so that when you come back you are filled with new vigor and stamina. Then even the mundane regular activities will be filled with spirit and joy.
Let’s go on a holiday!
SOULGYM I MASTERCLASS
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How to Vacation with Purpose
Wednesday, July 6, 2022 @8:30pm
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Tags: freedom, Yosef Rubin
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June 24th, 2015
A common cause for the ailments of the feet is poor circulation. The foot is the part of the body furthest from the heart; thus, the feet are often the first to suffer from inadequate blood supply due to circulatory problems, especially in its smaller veins and capillaries.
This physical phenomenon also has its counterpart in the spiritual life of man, which depends on the lifeblood of the soul—the Torah and its mitzvot—for its vitality and health.
The Torah section of Eikev (Deuteronomy 7:12-11:25), opens with the words, “And it shall come to pass, because you heed these laws and keep them and observe them…” The word eikev (“because”), which gives the section its name, is an uncommon term in the Hebrew language,[1]prompting a number of homiletic interpretations by our sages. One of these makes the correlation of eikev and akeiv (“heel”)—the two words have the identical Hebrew spelling—explaining that the verse is alluding to “those mitzvot which a person tramples under his heels.”[2]
Often we tend to distinguish between “important” mitzvot and “lesser” mitzvot. The same person who is outraged by an act of thievery or adultery, who wouldn’t think of eating pork or violating Shabbat, might casually transgress the prohibition against lashon hara (speaking ill of another). But a mitzvah is a divine commandment, an expression of the will of G-d; the human mind can hardly appraise a mitzvah’s true impact on his own life, much less its quintessential worth. So the ultimate test of a person’s commitment to G-d is to be found in those mitzvot which “people trample under their heels.” Is his observance of the mitzvot contingent upon his subjective appreciation of their social and spiritual utility, in which case he will inevitably discriminate between “greater” and “lesser” mitzvot, or has he indeed subjugated himself to the divine will, in which case he fulfills every divine command with equal joy and veneration?
When a soul’s heart—its commitment and bond to its Creator—is hale and fit, the distant heel also receives an adequate “blood supply,” and glows with the warmth and vivacity that are the hallmarks of spiritual life.
Based on a letter by the Rebbe dated Sivan 19, 5717 (June 18, 1957)[3]
Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber
[1]. Eikev, in the sense of “because,” appears only thirteen times in the Bible (it appears twice more in the sense of “completely”). In contrast, kiand ka’asher, the other Hebrew terms for “because,” each appear hundreds of times.
[2]. Rashi on verse; see Talmud, Avodah Zarah 18a.
[3]. Igrot Kodesh, vol XV, p. 213
Tags: mitzvot, commitment, Yanki Tauber
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June 24th, 2015
Av and Elul, the eleventh and twelfth months of the Jewish year, are end to end in the calendar but worlds apart in character and temperament. In Av we grapple with the darkest moments of Jewish history.[1] Elul is also a somber month, but hers is a solemnity buoyed by joyous yearning. Elul is the month of divine mercy—the month in which the Almighty draws nearer to the soul of man and the soul of man is stimulated to teshuvah, return to her pristine essence and rapprochement with her G-d.
The diverse characters of Av and Elul were forged in the genesis of Jewish history. In the first year following the Exodus, Moses ascended three times to the summit of Mount Sinai, each time for forty days. The first ascent (Sivan 7 to Tammuz 17), was to receive the Torah from G-d. Following Israel’s worship of the Golden Calf, Moses spent a second period of forty days (Tammuz 18 to Av 29), pleading with G-d to forgive His people. This second period is characterized by our sages as a time of divine anger and judgment. Finally, Moses spent a third period of forty days (Elul 1 to Tishrei 10) atop the mountain, during which time he secured G-d’s full forgiveness for Israel and received from G-d the “second tablets” to replace those which had been broken as a result of Israel’s sin. These were forty days of mercy and goodwill, culminating in Yom Kippur which was then established by G-d as a day of teshuvah for all time. Thus, the month of Av, which belongs to the second forty-day period, is a month of din—harshness and judgment—while Elul, which belongs to the third forty-day period, is the month of divine mercy (rachamim). [2]
The different modes of relationship embodied by Av and Elul are expressed not only in the events and observances of these months, but also in the lives of those who came to be identified with them. An example of this concerns two families who played a role in the re-establishment of Jewish life in the Holy Land in the fourth century BCE.
When the Jewish people returned to the Land of Israel, after seventy years of exile in Babylonia, to resettle the land and rebuild the Beit Hamikdash(Holy Temple), they faced many obstacles and hardships. The community was small and poor (most Jews chose to remain in exile) and threatened by many enemies. In contrast to the gold-gilded glory of the First Temple (built by King Solomon at the peak of Jewish power and prosperity), the Temple they built was made of simple stone and mortar. The Temple treasury could not even afford to pay for firewood for the altar.
Several families came forth to resolve this crisis. Each donated a large quantity of firewood; when the supply brought by one family was exhausted, another family brought its donation. In this way, eight families supplied wood for the first critical year of the Beit Hamikdash’s existence.
To reward their generosity, the prophets of the time instituted that the date of each family’s donation should be fixed in the Temple calendar. Each year, when a particular family’s day came along, the family was granted the privilege to again supply wood for the altar, even if the Temple coffers were full and its woodroom stocked with firewood. These donations were accompanied by a special ceremony and the day celebrated as a festival by the donating family.[3]
Two of the “Wood-Offering Days” are of special significance: the 20th of Av, on which a family called “Pachat-Moab,” from the tribe of Judah, brought wood to the Beit Hamikdash; and the 20th of Elul, which was the day of the “Adin” family, also from the tribe of Judah. The deadline for wood-cutting in the land of Israel is the fifteenth of Av, which marks the height of summer; after this date, the heat of day diminishes and the wood that is cut is more moist and prone to worming (it was forbidden to use worm-infested wood for the altar).[4] These two families brought wood to the Temple at a time when their own wood supply could no longer be replenished with wood of good quality; hence their gifts were held in special regard. This is why the Talmud singles out these two families and engages in a lengthy discussion regarding their genealogy.[5]
Who were “Pachat-Moab” and “Adin”? Our sages conclude that the Pachat-Moab family were descendants of Yoab ben Tzeruyah, the general of King David’s armies, while the Adin family traced its lineage to King David himself.[6]
Thus we can understand the connection between these two families and the dates they occupy in the Jewish calendar.
The paths that human life follows are many and varied. There are scholars and businessmen, musicians and farmers, teachers and laborers. On the most basic level, all vocations and callings fall into two general categories: those that are spiritual in nature and those that deal with the material world.
The existence of the man of spirit is a tranquil one. He deals with reality on the conceptual level, where battles are waged with ideas, pathways blazed with a prayer and mountains climbed with a song. He changes the face of society with his thoughts and yearnings; he rarefies the substance of material earth by stimulating the spiritual workings of the heavens. He has no obstacles, only aspirations; no enemies, only goals.
In contrast, the practitioner of material life must struggle against a resisting environment. He must fight the falsehood, greed and outright evil in his world; he must battle the corporeality in his own nature and the obstinacy of a physical reality that obscures its spiritual essence and divine purpose.[7]
These two prototypes of human life were personified by King David, whose life was devoted to studying Torah and composing psalms of praise to G-d,[8] and Yoab ben Tzeruyah, who led Israel’s armies in battle against their enemies. Thus, Yoab’s descendants affirmed their relationship with the Beit Hamikdash—the vector of man’s service of G-d—on the twentieth day of the harsh, trial-rife month of Av, while the descendants of David did so on the twentieth day of the merciful month of Elul.
The soldier in the battlefield of material life and the navigator of the tranquil realm of the spirit are equally crucial to the fulfillment of the divine purpose in creation. They are also interdependent: the soldier requires the guidance of the scholar, and the spiritualist’s work is ultimately realized only in the lives of those who take up the challenge of implementing it on the physical level. As the Talmud states: “Were it not for David, Yoab could not wage war. And were it not for Yoab, David could not devote himself to Torah.”[9]
Based on talks delivered by the Rebbe on the 20th of Av[10] in the years 5711 and 5729 (August 22, 1951 and August 4, 1969)[11]
Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber
[1]. Including the tragedy of the Spies (Numbers 13-14), the destruction of both the First and Second Temples and the respective expulsions of Israel from their land, and the defeat of the Bar Kochba revolt. More recently, the month of Av has been the scene of the expulsion from Spain in 1492 and the onset of the Holocaust in 1939.
[2]. See Rashi on Deuteronomy 9:18.
[3]. Talmud, Taanit 12a (see Rashi), 26a and 28a.
[4]. Ibid., 31a; Middot 2:5.
[5]. Talmud, Taanit 28a and commentaries (see notes on pp. 87 and 88 of Likkutei Sichot, vol. IX).
[6]. The Talmud cites several opinions on the matter, but the above conclusion is the one that best coincides with biblical and midrashic accounts (see Nehemiah 7:11 and Rashi on II Samuel 23:8).
[7]. See The Father of the Bride, WIR, vol. VII, no. 43.
[8]. In recent centuries, many artists, historical novelists and filmmakers have created an image of David as a warrior king. But the accounts of his life and deeds given by the Torah, Midrash, Talmud and their commentaries yields an entirely different picture. King David was the leading Torah scholar of his generation and a link in the “chain of tradition” that transmitted the entire body of Torah law from Moses onward; he headed the sanhedrin and thus was the highest judicial authority in Israel; he was the “sweet singer of Israel,” the composer of the book of Psalms who rose nightly at the stroke of midnight to sing G-d’s praises until dawn. Though he participated in several wars against Israel’s enemies (indeed, one of the reasons that David could not build the Beit Hamikdash was because, as G-d said to David, “You are a man of war and have spilled blood”—I Chronicles 28:3), in most cases, it was Yoab who led the troops in battle while David remained with his scrolls and harp.
[9]. Talmud, Sanhedrin 49b.
[10]. The 20th of Av is the yahrzeit of the Rebbe’s father, the gaon and kabbalist Rabbi Levi Yitzchak Schneerson (1878-1944).
[11]. Likkutei Sichot, vol. IV, pp. 1103-1107; ibid., vol. IX, pp. 86-90.
Tags: Av, Sina, King David, Elul, Yanki Tauber
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June 24th, 2015
To the physicist it is the fourth dimension, to the mystic it is the first creation. To most of us, time is simply a faceless tyrant, an abstract force impelling us from a receding past through a fleeting present to an ever-elusive future.
But viewed from the perspective of Torah, the seemingly homogeneous plain of time is revealed as a complex, multi-faceted terrain. The hour, the day, the week, the month, the year, the millennium—these are not arbitrary grids imposed on time to make it more “manageable,” but demarcations intrinsic to its very nature, each defining an area of time with its own characteristics and qualities.
Thus the Torah tells us that the seven days of the week are embodiments of the seven divine attributes—love, severity, beauty, victory, splendor, foundation and sovereignty—which define G-d’s involvement with our reality, as established in the original seven days of creation.[1] We also learn that the twelve hours of the day and the twelve months of the year correspond to the twelve configurations of the divine name,[2] which serve as channels for various divine energies that vitalize our existence and shape our lives. The same applies to all time designations employed by the Torah: as G-d’s blueprint for creation,[3] the Torah does not merely delegate certain observances and experiences to certain times, but, in doing so, also describes the nature and structure of time as forged by the Creator.
The concept of the month as an embodiment of a certain characteristic or quality implies a unique perspective on the Jewish calendar.
The calendar is commonly regarded as an expanse of several hundred ordinary days “dotted” with festivals and dates of special import. In truth, however, the festivals are not islands of poignancy in a sea of vapid time, but expressions of the spiritual character of their respective months. The eight days of Passover represent an intensification of the quality of the month of Nissan, the month of redemption; Purim is a one-day eruption of the unbridled joy that characterizes the month of Adar; the awe of Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur and the joy and unity experienced on Sukkot are various elements in the “coronation” of G-d as king of the universe, which is the theme of the month of Tishrei; and so on.
In other words, the twelve months of the calendar are twelve time-qualities which flow into each other, each with its unique personality and character. The festivals are the peaks and plateaus of these time-qualities—points at which a particular month’s properties achieve a greater intensity and emphasis.
The last Shabbat of each month is Shabbat Mevarchim HaChodesh—the “Shabbat that blesses the month.” On this Shabbat, a special prayer is recited which names the coming month, identifies the day (or days) of itsRosh Chodesh,[4] and beseeches G-d to “renew it… for life and for peace, for gladness and for joy, for deliverance and for consolation.” [5] According to Chassidic teaching, the “blessing of the month” evokes the flow of sustenance and spiritual energy for the coming month.
Thus, the final days of each month form a juncture in the terrain of time in which two time-qualities overlap. For example, this Shabbat is the 29th of Av; as such, it is an integral part of the month of Av, a time-segment whose quality is mourning and consolation—mourning over the destruction of the Holy Temple and the breakdown in our relationship with G-d that this represents, and consolation in the potential for renewal that lies in every regression.[6] On the other hand, it is also the Shabbat that calls forth the qualities of the coming month of Elul—a month characterized by divine compassion and intimacy with G-d.[7]
The same is true of every Shabbat Mevarchim: rooted in one month and time-quality, it evokes the time-quality of the following month, stimulating the flow of spiritual energy that saturates the next of the twelve time-segments that comprise the calendar.
Therein lies a lesson in how we are to experience and utilize the various time periods of our lives.
Often, we reach a point in our lives at which we are inspired to “turn OVER a new leaf”: to reassess our past, and readjust, or even radically transform, our prior vision and approach to life. All too often, this is accompanied with a “break” from the past, a disavowal of all prior achievement; it is as if all we have done up to this point must be eradicated to give way to our “new” self.
But as the monthly Shabbat Mevarchim teaches us, different and even antithetical qualities of time form a chain in which each link is an outgrowth of its predecessor. Yes, a new year, month, week, day, hour or moment must always provoke us to a new understanding, a new feeling, a new achievement: the very fact that we have passed from one time-frame to another means that we must exploit the new potential implicit in this new environment. At the same time, however, we must appreciate how each new moment is “blessed” by the moment before, which nourishes and enriches its very different neighbor with its own qualities and achievements.
Based on the Rebbe’s talks on Sivan 28, 5735 (June 7, 1975) and on other occasions
Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber
[1]. As are the seven years of the shemittah cycle, the seven shemittot of the yovel cycle, and the seven millennia of history.
[2]. The Hebrew letters which spell the ineffable name of G-d, have twelve possible configurations.
[3]. Midrash Rabbah, Bereishit 1:2.
[4]. Each month begins with either one or two days of Rosh Chodesh (“head of the month”; if the previous month had 30 days, then the 30th of the previous month and the first of the new month serve as the new month’sRosh Chodesh).
[5]. It is also customary to announce the exact moment of the molad halevanah (“birth of the moon”) that marks the beginning of the coming month.
[6]. Thus the 9th of Av is both the day of the Temple’s destruction and the birthday of Moshiach (see Jerusalem Talmud, Berachot 2:4).
[7]. See the following article, A Haven in Time; see also The King in the Field, to be published In the Ki Tavo issue of WIR (vol. VIII, no. 54).
Tags: creation, month, Yanki Tauber, Hebrew calendar
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