June 23rd, 2015
[This book] is based on the verse, “For it is very close to you, in your mouth and in your heart, to do it”[1]—to explain, with the help of G-d, how it is indeed exceedingly close, in a long and short way
From the title page of Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi’s Tanya
Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi—whose 253rd birthday was celebrated this month[2] by the Chassidic community—was the founder of the Chabad branch of the Chassidic movement. Chabad (an acronym of the Hebrew words for “Wisdom, Understanding and Knowledge”) is a philosophy and approach to life in which the mind and intellect play a key role in man’s endeavor to serve his Creator.
Rabbi Schneur Zalman summarized the fundamentals of his philosophy in a slim volume known as “Tanya,” on which he labored for twenty years. On the title page of Tanya, Rabbi Schneur Zalman states the aim of his book: to demonstrate how the fulfillment of the divine purpose in creation “is indeed exceedingly close, in a long and short way.”
Why is the path along which Rabbi Schneur Zalman promises to take his disciples a “long and short way”? The meaning of this paradoxical phrase is illustrated by the following story, told in the Talmud by Rabbi Yehoshua ben Chananiah:
Once a child got the better of me. I was traveling and I met with a child at a crossroads. I asked him, “Which way to the city?” and he replied: “This way is short and long, and that way is long and short.”
I took the “short and long” way. I soon reached the city but found my approach obstructed by gardens and orchards. So I retraced my steps and said to the child: “My son, did you not tell me that this is the short way?” Answered the child: “Did I not tell you that it is also long?”[3]
The Direct Approach
There are two primary paths through life: the path of faith and the path of mind. The path of faith is a “short and long way,” and the path of mind is a “long and short way.”
The Talmudic traveler in the above story, upon reaching a fork in the physical road on his physical journey to a physical destination, had to choose which of two paths to follow. Spiritual journeys are not that way: upon reaching a fork in our spiritual road, we can—and oft-times should— simultaneously follow both paths. But it is no less important to be aware of the respective advantages and shortcomings of each.
The path of faith is predicated upon the deep-seated truths that are intrinsic to the human soul. There are beliefs that do not have to be learned or demonstrated to us, for we know them with every fiber of our being. There are loves, fears and desires that do not have to be developed or validated, for these are feelings inherent to the very essence of who and what we are. The path of faith is the process of uncovering these convictions and feelings and translating them into a code of behavior and way of life.
The path of faith is a “short way” in the sense that it is the most direct and straightforward route to our destination. There are no tortuous curves in this road, no uphill climbs or downhill slides. What we know, we know absolutely; what we feel is likewise felt without equivocation. We innately know and sense what is the right thing to do; all that remains is to go ahead and do it.
But like the first path taken in the Talmud’s story, the seemingly “short way” of faith often takes us to the very brink of our destination only to encounter an impregnable barrier. We know the truth, we desire to live it, but, somehow, we stop short of doing it. Chassidic teaching refers to this phenomenon as “the thief in the burrow syndrome.” Our sages speak of how a burglar, tunneling under the walls of a home, hears the sound of footsteps; “Please, G-d,” he silently prays, “Save me!” Here is a man who instinctively believes in G-d (he hasn’t called on the Queen of England to save him), and who undoubtedly knows that G-d commanded, “Do not steal.” Nevertheless, he is stealing and simultaneously beseeching G-d for help.[4]
Faith, then, may hover in some neutral space above our everyday self. It may be the source of staunch conviction and fervent feelings that nevertheless fail to find actualization in our day-to-day behavior. For although—indeed, because—these convictions and feelings are integrally part of who we are, we have never grappled with them, never struggled to make sense of their content and significance. It is precisely the “shortness” of this path that ultimately makes it the “longer” route.
The Second Path
So, like the Talmud’s traveler, we must retrace our steps (even as we continue traveling down the road of faith) and take the other fork—the “long and short way.”
The way of mind is winding, steep, tedious and long as life itself. It is rife with struggles, setbacks and frustrations. But it is a road that leads, steadily and surely, to the aspired destination.
In the way of mind, knowledge is the product of study, analysis and in-depth contemplation. Feelings are born out of an intimate knowledge of and thorough identification with their subject. Deeds are motivated and guided by an understanding of their function, a desire for the attainment of their aim and an abhorrence of what they forestall.
In the way of mind, convictions and feelings are created rather than revealed, developed rather than intuited, assimilated rather than accepted. And though—indeed, because—they derive from what we have achieved rather than who or what we are, we identify with them more than we do with the truths we hold by faith. It is precisely the “length” of this path that ultimately makes it the “shorter” way to our destination.
Of course, the products of our finite intellectual and emotional faculties could never equal the absoluteness and potency of faith. Faith therefore remains the first and primary path of life. But if the convictions of faith are to find full expression in our daily lives, they must be augmented by the struggles and achievements of the mind.
An Earlier Chabadian
On the cover page of Tanya, Rabbi Schneur Zalman also declares that he is saying nothing that has not already been said by the “books and sages” whose words he is merely collecting and restating.[5] Indeed, more than six centuries before the Tanya, we find two great sages, Maimonides (Rabbi Moses ben Maimon, 1135-1204) and his contemporary and critic, the Raavad (Rabbi Abraham ben David, 1125-1198), debating the respective virtues of the path of faith and the path of mind.
In his Mishneh Torah, Maimonides devotes two full chapters to discussing the principle of “freedom of choice,” which he regards as indispensable to the very foundations of the Jewish faith.
“For were G‑d to decree that a person be righteous or wicked, or if there were to exist something in the essence of a person’s nature which would compel him toward a specific path, a specific conviction, a specific character trait or a specific deed … how could G‑d command us through the prophets, ‘Do this’ and ‘Do not do this,’ ‘Improve your ways’ and ‘Do not follow your wickedness’…? What place would the entire Torah have? And by what measure of justice would G‑d punish the wicked and reward the righteous…?”[6]
Later in the chapter, Maimonides addresses an oft-posed question regarding the concept of free choice:
One may ask:
“G‑d, of course, knows all that will transpire. Now, before a particular deed was done, did G‑d know whether the person would be righteous or wicked, or did He not know? If He knew that the person would be righteous, then it was not possible for that person not to be so. And if you say that He [did not know absolutely]… then G‑d’s knowledge was not complete!”
Know that the answer to this question, “longer than the land is its measure and broader than the sea,”[7] and that many great foundations and lofty mountains hang upon it. But understand well what I am going to say. We have already explained in the second chapter of “The Laws of the Torah’s Foundations” that G‑d does not know with a “mind” that is distinct from His being, as is the case with man whose being and mind are two distinct entities. Rather, He and His “mind” are one and the same—a concept that is impossible for the human mind to fully comprehend. Thus, just as man cannot discover and grasp the truth of the Creator, as it is written, “No man can perceive Me and live,”[8] so, too, man cannot discover and grasp the “mind” of the Creator. In the words of the prophet, “My thoughts are not as your thoughts, nor are your ways as My ways.”[9]
Therefore, we lack the capacity to know the nature of G‑d’s knowledge of all creations and all events. But this we know without a doubt: that the deeds of man are in his own hands, and G‑d does not compel him to do anything. And we know this not only by virtue of our acceptance of the faith, but through clear proofs from the teachings of wisdom.[10]
The Raavad takes issue with Maimonides’ approach.
“The author,” he writes in a gloss on the above passage, “did not act in the manner of the wise: one ought not begin something that one is incapable of concluding. He begins by posing a difficult question, then remains with the difficulty and reverts to faith. It would have been better for him to have left it as a matter of faith for the innocent, instead of making them aware [of the contradiction] and leaving their minds in doubt.”
Why, indeed, does Maimonides begin a logical discussion of an issue for which he does not have a logical resolution? But Maimonides had a different conception than the Raavad of the role of “logic” in man’s endeavor to know and relate to his Creator.
As the Raavad saw it, there are certain things that can be understood, and certain things that lie beyond our capacity to relate to with our mind’s tools of logic. What can be understood should be pursued via the “path of mind”; what cannot be understood should be relegated exclusively to the “path of faith.”
Maimonides agrees that there is many “a concept that is impossible for the human mind to fully comprehend.” But he maintains that these things, too, should be pursued along the “path of mind.” We should strive to understand what it is that we cannot understand about G-d; we should strive for a true appreciation of the depth and magnitude of the supra-rationality of the divine.
The path of faith is the process of uncovering these convictions and feelings and translating them into a code of behavior and way of life
.
In other words, the mind is not only a tool with which to grasp things that are fully comprehensible to us—it is also a tool with which to relate to supra-rational truths. Indeed, only the mind can truly appreciate how beyond understanding a supra-rational truth is. And the greater the mind and the greater its comprehension, the greater its appreciation of the magnitude of that which lies beyond its comprehension.
So it is not enough that we accept by faith the paradox of G-d’s absolute providence of our world and man’s freedom of choice; we should also fully understand this paradox. We cannot, as the Raavad suggests, “leave it as a matter of faith for the innocent, instead of making them aware of the contradiction.” For if this contradiction did not exist within our awareness, it would mean that there are areas of G-d’s relationship with our reality which we have not explored with our minds.[11]
Maimonides insists on tackling even the most supra-rational aspects of our relationship with G-d with the finite implements of the human mind. For it is only when pursued along the “long and short way” of mind that these truths become ingrained within our personality and character and find expression in even the most mundane activities of everyday life.[12]
Based on the Rebbe’s talks, Iyar 5742 (April-May, 1982)[13]
Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber
[2]. On the 18th of Elul (this year, September 9). That date also marks the birthday, 47 years earlier, of the founder of Chassidism, Rabbi Israel Baal Shem Tov, whom Rabbi Schneur regarded as his “spiritual grandfather” (Rabbi Schneur Zalman was a disciple of Rabbi DovBer of Mezeritch, who was the disciple and successor of the Baal Shem Tov).
[4]. Ibid., Berachot 63a.
[5]. Rabbi Schneur Zalman called his book Likkutei Amarim, “Collected Sayings.”
[6]. Mishneh Torah, Laws of Repentance 5:4.
[10]. Mishneh Torah, ibid. 5:5.
[11]. For a more detailed discussion of the paradox of divine knowledge and human choice, and of Maimonides’ and the Raavad’s positions on the matter, see Beyond the Letter of the Law (VHH, 1995), pp. 175-184.
[12]. This difference between Maimonides and the Raavad is also reflected in a number of the Raavad’s other glosses on Maimonides’ Mishneh Torah. For example, in the first chapter of Laws of the Torah’s Foundations, Maimonides writes:
What is it that Moses our Master desired to attain when he said, “Pray, show me Your countenance?” [Exodus 33:18] He desired to know the truth of G-d’s reality to the extent that it should be known in his mind like one’s knowledge of a person whose face one has seen, and its form is engraved in one’s mind, making that person distinct in one’s mind from all other people; in the same way, Moses desired that the reality of G-d should be distinct in his mind from all other existences, so that he knows the truth of His reality as it is. G-d’s answer to him was [“You cannot see My face, for no man can see Me and live”—] that a living human being, comprised of a body and a soul, has not the capacity to fully comprehend the truth [of G-d] in this manner.
Upon which the Raavad remarks: “My mind is not agreeable [with Maimonides’ interpretation of these verses]. For Moses saw on Sinai, during the forty days [in which he received] the Tablets, what no prophet ever saw … so what more could he have needed?”
What Moses saw on Mount Sinai was a prophetic vision—a supra-rational perception such as is attained through faith. From the Raavad’s perspective, why would Moses, having attained the truth of truths through prophecy, still desire the lesser “mind” knowledge that Maimonides describes? But from Maimonides’ perspective, there is a uniqueness to the mind’s grasp of its subject—even if it is a subject it could never fully apprehend—that the supra-rational tools of apprehension (such as faith and prophecy) cannot possess.
Another example is Maimonides’ account of Abraham’s discovery of the One G-d, where he writes that “Abraham recognized his Creator at the age of forty years” (Mishneh Torah, Laws Regarding Idolatry 1:3), and the Raavad cites the Midrash which says that this occurred when Abraham was at the tender age of three years. The two sages are quoting two different Midrashic sources, which do not necessarily contradict each other: there are many milestones of “recognition” in a lifelong quest for truth. Maimonides emphasizes the recognition that ripened in Abraham at age forty, which is the “age of understanding” (see Ethics of the Fathers 4:22); the Raavad places the greater emphasis on the intrinsic faith in G-d that finds its purest expression in a young child.
[13]. Likkutei Sichot, vol. XXXIV, pp. 173-179.
Tags: Divine will, Maimonides, Yanki Tauber, faith, Tanya, free choice
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June 23rd, 2015
The Maggid of Trisk would begin the year by citing various sources from the Torah indicating that this would be the year in which Moshiach would come and the long-awaited Redemption would be achieved. Come next year, the Maggid would again find allusions and proofs that this year would be the year of the Redemption.
When asked about his reasons for this annual exercise, he explained:
this year would be the year of the Redemption
.
“When a person sees his father doing something wrong, a certain dilemma arises. On the one hand, one is commanded to “Honor your father”[14]; on the other hand, one is obligated to rebuke one who transgresses a commandment of the Torah.[15] The Shulchan Aruch (Code of Jewish Law), instructs that, in such a case, one should say to one’s father: ‘Father, doesn’t the Torah say such-and-such?’[16] This way, one makes him aware of his wrongdoing without directly criticizing him.
“G-d has promised to redeem us, and the Talmud tells us that all the deadlines for the Redemption have come and gone.[17] But G-d is our Father,[18] who, even when He fails to do what He should, must be respected and revered. So each year I say to G-d: ‘Father, doesn’t the Torah say that the Redemption must come this year?!’”
Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber
[16]. Shulchan Aruch, Yoreh De’ah 240:11.
[17]. Talmud, Sanhedrin 97a.
Tags: redemption, love of G-d, Yanki Tauber
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June 23rd, 2015
The Meaningful Life Center propose a way of life enlightened by the Torah and illuminated and vitalized by Chassidic teaching. Perhaps some of you have wondered: What would it be like to actually live this way? What happens when these teachings are accepted as a guide to daily living?
In this column, we bring you a glimpse into one such life. Jay Litvin is a 56-year-old husband, father, writer, filmmaker, public relations consultant and chassid. His articles are based not on any specific talk or essay of the Rebbe’s, but on his personal experience of the endeavor to incorporate the Rebbe’s vision into his life:
Frankly I loathe being called a “religious” person. It sounds so boring.
I’m reminded of a person who once told me how much he envied me. “Life for you is so simple,” he said. “Your religion tells you what to do and what not to do, and gives you all the answers.”
Boy, I wish.
But, in truth, this is what the word “religion” conjures up: something kind of old and staid, perhaps even a bit crusty. Something calm and peaceful, barely alive and never in motion.
And so I reject the title of “religious person.” I’m just a guy who looks like a religious person.
So then, what am I?
Well, in truth, life feels more to me like a battleground than a prayer service, and my inner reality is more that of a warrior than a pious person.
So, if I have to label myself anything (which I vigorously avoid doing), I would have to call myself a “spiritual warrior.” And here’s what that means for me.
A warrior is one who enters the battlefield with a healthy dose of fear and a larger dose of love. He fights for a principle or for his country or for his king, and his love for these outweighs the fear he feels for his own safety. He requires courage and skill, for he risks his very life.
A warrior loves the battlefield; it is here that he is most alive. He must at all times act with his full awareness and ability; even the slightest lapse will cause his downfall.
The battlefield brings forth from the warrior capabilities and potentials that he didn’t even know existed within himself. And so, as he fights, he is in a constant state of self-discovery.
Frankly I loathe being called a “religious” person. It sounds so boring
.
The true warrior longs for the battlefield, for the rest of life seems, in comparison, like a place where he is able to actualize only a small part of who he is. So he craves the challenge and the encounter. He loves living on the edge. It is here that he is the most of who he is, and where he discovers that he is, in fact, more than who he thinks he is.
Living as a Jew and a chassid is this experience. It is an encounter with the Almighty and with myself. It is the place of self-discovery and challenge. It requires the bravery of facing who I am and who I am not. It takes a willingness to see the potential of who I can be and face the smallness of who I have allowed myself to be.
When I am living Jewishly, I am living at the edge. I am in a no-man’s land where each encounter, each moment, presents an opportunity to learn, to act, to refine and to transform. Sometimes, like King Arthur, I am battling dragons within and without; sometimes I am challenged by beasts that threaten to devour me with their anger and fear; sometimes I am fighting for my own sanity, attempting to reconcile the tactual world with a world which can neither be seen, heard or touched.
As a spiritual warrior—when I am blessed to be living smack in the middle of the battlefield—I am fully alive, wrestling at the edge of who I am. It matters not whether I am in prayer, giving my child a bath, or sitting at my computer. The battlefield includes my personal relationships, my inner desires, my overdrawn bank account, and my constant lack of sleep. It embraces my marriage and employment. My frustration, patience, envy, lust and greed. It is a state of mind, a willingness to find G-d in all places and to meet Him fully, allowing Him to penetrate into the deepest recesses of who I am and to dispel all the images of who I think I am.
Each time, and there are many such times, that I confront the imperative of what I must do with the reluctance of what I want to do; each time that I must transform thoughts and attitudes formed through years of life and conditioning into holy thoughts and holy attitudes, I am on the battlefield. Whether it’s giving charity from the few pennies left in the coffer, or taking on an additional responsibility, or offering to help a friend or not even a friend when I can barely stay awake, I am on the battlefield. When tragedy strikes my family, G-d forbid, and I must discover a way to be both genuine with my grief and yet remain cognizant of the good I know that G-d gives to the world, I am being a spiritual warrior.
As a spiritual warrior I discover my faith when I am at the limits of my faith. I find my love of G-d when I am angry with G-d. I find my trust in the Protector of the world when I am at my most frightened. And I find my obedience to the Almighty when I feel the most rebellious.
I am a spiritual warrior when I fully feel my despair, and find the hope to go on. When I feel betrayed, yet discover my trust. When I reach higher than I should, then fail and fall, only to discover that I have landed at a station higher than the one from which I reached.
On this battlefield called Yiddishkeit, I am stretched to the limit only to find that my limit is nowhere near what I thought it was. I am alive and growing, moving, in process. Scared and exhilarated. Craving victory and having not the slightest idea of what it means.
To me, all the rest, as Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi says in his Tanya, is conceit. To be despondent over the fact that I am constantly in the midst of a struggle is to pretend that I am something more than who I really am. It is to pretend that I am a tzaddik, one of the righteous few who have vanquished the negative within themselves, when in fact I can only aspire, at my best moments, to the level of beinoni, the spiritual warrior in the battlefield of life.
The Tanya tells us to rejoice when we are challenged within or without because this is our task: to enter the battlefield. We are, it seems to me, like soldiers who have trained endlessly for battle, and shout in joy when the moment finally arrives to test their abilities and find the real stuff of which they are made.
And this is the spiritual warrior’s challenge: to find the stuff of which he is made, whether it is to his liking or not, and bring himself fully into the struggle with himself and his encounter with G-d.
I find this battle terrifying, because I have no idea where it will lead. It forces me to open myself to G-d and allow Him into the innermost, most intimate confines of myself. It forces me to confront the plaguing question: if I truly let G-d in, what will He do to me once He is there? Who will I be? What will the world have become? And what is my place and purpose within it?
Religious? Me? Hardly. A Torah life is no place for a religious person. Religion is much too safe for such a journey into the unknown, into a meeting place with G-d. Only a warrior can embrace such a task. Only a chassid of the Rebbe can hope to possess such courage.
By Jay Litvin
Tags: Toward a Meaningful Life, Chassidus, personal growth, Spirituality, Jay Litvin
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June 22nd, 2015
When Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi (founder of Chabad Chassidism), already an accomplished scholar and mentor to many disciples, neared his twentieth year, he decided to travel to a center of Torah learning and service of G-d.
At that time (circa 1764) Vilna and Mezeritch were the great Jewish capitals of Eastern Europe. Vilna was the seat of Rabbi Eliyahu, the famed Gaon of Vilna, and Mezeritch was the hometown of Rabbi DovBer (the ‘Maggid’), leader of the chassidic movement.
Years later, Rabbi Schneur Zalman told of the descision which ultimately led to his joining of the chassidic movement:
“I debated as to where I should go. I knew that in Vilna one was taught how to study, and that in Mezeritch one could learn how to pray. To study I was somewhat able, but of prayer I knew very little. So I went to Mezeritch.”
Tags: purpose of life, chassidim, spiritual and material, Alter Rebbe, prayer
Posted in Weekly Parsha, Bereishit, Alter Rebbe, Personal Life, Torah Personalities, Modern, Tzemach Tzedek, Rebbe Maharash, Torah, Emotions & Psychology, Vayishlach | No Comments »
June 22nd, 2015
One who loans money to a pauper in his time of need, of him the verse (Isaiah 58:9) says: “Then you shall call and G-d He will answer, you shall cry out and He will say: Here I am.”
Talmud Yevamot 63a
Rabbi Menachem Mendel of Lubavitch interpreted the Talmud’s words thus: “One who loans money to a pauper in his, the lenders, time of need…” One who persists in helping others even when he himself is experiencing hardship is truly deserving of G-d’s ear.
Tags: money, tzedakah, Torah, G-d's love, Life's Challenges, blessing
Posted in Weekly Parsha, Bereishit, Modern, Personal Life, Torah Personalities, Tzemach Tzedek, Torah, Business, Work & Money, Vayeishev | No Comments »
June 22nd, 2015
“You shall be holy, for I, the Lord your G-d, am holy.”
This opening verse in this week’s Torah portion contains some of the most profound lessons in life.
It dispels fundamental myths about G-d.
It teaches us the meaning of true love.
It uncovers our enormous potential.
It empowers and inspires us to change the world.
The verse is simple, deceptively simple: “You shall be holy, for I, the Lord your G-d, am holy.” But this simple statement carries layers of meaning – as illuminated by a strange Midrash.
The Midrash states: When the verse commands us “be holy” we may think that we humans can be as holy as G-d Himself. Therefore the verse qualifies “for I, the Lord your G-d am holy”:
“My (G-d’s) holiness is above (i.e. greater than) your (human) holiness.”
What is the Midrash trying to tell us? Why in the first place would we consider that humans can be as holy as G-d? And what is the point of emphasizing here that we are not as holy? The verse is telling us to emulate G-d’s holiness and sanctify our lives. In this uplifting and motivational context what benefit is it to remind us that we cannot be as holy as G-d – the exact opposite intention of the verse that compares our holiness to the Divine!
These and other questions compel Chassidic masters to interpret the Midrash in a novel way, offering us a revolutionary way to look at ourselves:
The Midrash is not to be read as a question and answer but rather as a statement of fact: “you shall be holy” can actually be equated with G-d’s holiness. And the power to achieve this level of sanctity is (as the verse continues) “for I, the Lord your G-d, am holy” and have the power to impart My holiness to you humans.
The reason for this is – and here is the real twist – because “My holiness above is (derived) from your holiness,” when we humans sanctify our lives we sanctify G-d.
Not only can we be as holy as G-d, but we actually cause G-d’s holiness!
The implications of this statement are fascinating – and far-reaching.
Our conventional view about the human relationship with G-d is a linear one: G-d is the Creator and we are the creatures. G-d is the “all powerful Father in heaven” and we are mere mortals on Earth. G-d gives and we receive. We are subjects; G-d is King.
In truth however our relationship with G-d is far more complex. What point is there to create humans as dependent creatures that only take? Is G-d “insecure” that He needs subjects to serve Him! [I am using the male “He” simply for convenience; G-d is neither He nor She].
G-d created the human being in the “Divine Image” as an equal “partner” in creation. G-d chose to have a full relationship with us – one of “give and take.” We contribute as much and even more than we receive.
Indeed, the sages tell us that the good deeds of the righteous are greater than G-d’s creation of heaven and earth. The reason: G-d created matter from spirit, and we create spirit from matter.
Yes, G-d chose to be “vulnerable” and to be “dependent” on us. We have the power to sanctify or desecrate G-d in this universe. “Love G-d” is interpreted as meaning “make G-d beloved to others.” We humans are representatives of G-d on Earth. As G-d’s children, our behavior either makes G-d look good or bad. When we behave in an exemplary way, we make G-d beloved to all those that look at us – and the Divine Image within us.
This approach challenges the premise that many people have of religion and G-d. We and G-d are in this together as partners in the unfolding drama of life. We need each other; G-d chose to need us and bound Himself to our behavior: We can deny G-d’s existence and defile His investment in us; or we can illuminate our environment with the Divine.
This is the essence of the most powerful of all miztvot: The mitzvah of Kiddush Hashem – sanctifying G-d. And its converse – the grave sin of desecrating G-d.
The six million killed in the Holocaust – and all those that were ever killed simply for their faith – are called “kedoshim” (as in the name of this chapter), the sanctified. By dying in the name of G-d they sanctify G-d – in direct disproportion to G-d’s desecration at the hands of the barbarians.
As one Holocaust victim told his Nazi tormentor just before the beast put him to death: “I thank G-d for not creating me like you”…
*
So here are the some of the powerful messages in the opening verse:
“You shall be holy, for I, the Lord your G-d, am holy.”
- G-d as a powerful “grandfather figure” in heaven waiting to “strike us with lightning” and we as helpless subjects is nothing more than a myth. G-d does not exist in one place and we humans in another; we are bound together in a relationship, in a symbiotic and synergetic partnership. G-d is the “investor” and each of us is the “producer,” developing product from the resources with which we are blessed.
We are dependent on G-d for life, health and all blessings. G-d’s conscious presence and sanctity in the universe is dependent (kavyochol) on us. We have the power to sanctify G-d and make Him beloved among people, or tragically the opposite.
- This complex relationship/partnership with G-d is the optimal model for true love. True love is embracing vulnerability. It is not about control, but about complementation – binding yourself with a partner, in a mutually dependent union.
By no means does this compromise the independence of each partner; on the contrary: healthy vulnerability enhances independence. The fact that G-d allows himself to be “vulnerable” and allows us the power to sanctify or desecrate His presence is a sign of G-d’s absolute independence and confidence that His gamble will “pay off” and that the Divine image in us will prevail.
Protecting oneself under the guise of “invulnerability” and lack of dependence on others is more weakness than strength. The ultimate statement of strength in love is that you have the power to be vulnerable – and celebrate your vulnerability – with the confidence and trust in your partner.
Only then do we have the ability to release all our potential. As long as we remain afraid to trust, we also remain locked and defined by nothing more than our own resources.
- And what is our potential? We have the power to be like G-d! By imparting His holiness to us, G-d endowed us with the ability to be Divine. Moreover, the sanctity above is dependent on us. We control the fate of G-d’s presence in life.
“Be Holy” tells us about our infinite potential. We have the power not merely to be good human beings and make our world a better place – to tinker with the temporary and improve it a bit. We actually have the capacity to sanctify G-d; to make the mortal immortal and change the world forever.
How you behave in any given moment can either beautify or defile not only the universe but G-d!
We have unfortunately seen too many examples of people desecrating G-dliness, and its unfortunate consequences. Indeed, one of the formidable obstacles today in discussing spiritual ideals is due to the profound negative stereotypes that have been created by years of abuse and distortion of G-d related experiences.
When we reject G-d, are we rejecting G-d or the way G-d was presented to us?
4. Finally, “Kedoshim tih’ue,” Be Holy, is our call to transform the universe. We have been charged with an enormous responsibility and a great gift. We humans are the only ones that can change the course of history.
All our choices either sanctify or pollute our environment.
What can be more motivating than to know that the destiny of the universe – indeed the destiny of G-d Himself – is dependent on your actions?
These are some of the lessons in this one verse.
All in one simple verse…
Tags: self-development, Divine, love, midrash, sanctification, divine image
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June 22nd, 2015
The Russian winter may be long and cold, but every Saturday night the central Beit Midrash (study hall and synagogue) in the town of Dokshits was a warm and merry place. A samovar of panes (a hot drink made with boiling water, vodka and sugar) was set up and everyone warmed their bones. The renowned chassid Reb Areh of Dokshits would then give a class in chassidic teaching.
Once a year, Reb Areh would travel to Lubavitch to the Rebbe, Rabbi Shmuel of Lubavitch. On the Saturday nights following his return, the weekly chassidus ‘n panes ritual would swing into high gear: an extra-large batch of panes was concocted and Reb Areh, fresh from a month of spiritual refueling in Lubavitch, would review the discourses he had heard from the Rebbe during his stay.
Once, when Reb Areh was in Lubavitch, Rabbi Shmuel said to him: “I hear that in Dokshits they study chassidus with panes. Tell me, what connection is there between the teachings of chassidism and a samovar of panes…?!”
So when Reb Areh came home, he put a stop to the refreshment stand: henceforth, the after-Shabbos session would be a chassidus only affair. But on the following week, the crowd of participants was perceptibly smaller and it continued to dwindle throughout the winter. So when Reb Areh was back in Lubavitch and the Rebbe asked, “What’s doing in Dokshits?” he was forced to report that the chassidus class now attracted a fraction of the crowed it had pulled back in its “drink and learn” days.
“Nu,” said the Rebbe, “so bring back the panes. Abi men zol lernen—What’s important is that they learn…”
Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber
Tags: Chassidus, Chassidic stories, chassidim, spiritual evolution, self-development, growth
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June 22nd, 2015
Love your fellow as yourself.
Leviticus 19:18
This is a fundamental principle in the Torah.
Rabbi Akiva
The Talmud relates that Rabbi Akiva had twenty-four thousand disciples, but because they “did not respect each other,” a plague broke out in which they all perished. It is for this reason that the seven weeks between Passover and Shavuot are a time of mourning, for it was in this period that Rabbi Akiva’s students died.[1]
The most famous of Rabbi Akiva’s teachings is the saying:
“‘Love your fellow as yourself’—this is a fundamental principle in Torah.”[2]
One would therefore expect that Rabbi Akiva’s disciples would be the foremost exemplars of this principle; how was it that they, of all people, were deficient in this area?
But it was their very diligence in fulfilling the precept “Love your fellow as yourself” that was their undoing. Our sages have said:
“Just as every person’s face differs from the faces of his fellows, so, too, every person’s mind differs from the minds of his fellows.”[3]
When the twenty-four thousand disciples of Rabbi Akiva studied their master’s teachings, the result was twenty-four thousand nuances of understanding, as the same concepts were assimilated by twenty-four thousand minds, each unique and distinct from its 23,999 compatriots. Had Rabbi Akiva’s students been less concerned with each other’s welfare, this would have been a matter of minor concern; but because each disciple loved his fellows as he loved himself, he felt himself duty-bound to correct their “erroneous” thinking and enlighten them as to the true meaning of their master’s words. For the same reason, they found themselves incapable of expressing a hypocritical “respect” for each other’s views when they sincerely felt that the other’s understanding was lacking, even in the slightest degree.
A Dual Lesson
The greater a person is, the higher the standards by which he is judged; in the words of our sages:
“With the righteous, G-d is exacting to a hairsbreadth.”[4]
Thus, what for people of our caliber would be considered a “minor” failing had such a devastating effect upon the disciples of Rabbi Akiva. But our sages chose to record this story for posterity; indeed, it has been fixed in our lives by a series of laws that govern our behavior in the weeks between Passover and Shavuot each year. Obviously, we, too, have something to learn from what happened to Rabbi Akiva’s disciples.
The lesson is a twofold one: we must learn from their virtues as well as from their mistakes. We must learn to care enough for our fellow man not to indulge his errors and accommodate his failings; this might be the easiest and most socially comfortable way to behave, but, rather than “tolerance,” it bespeaks an indifference toward his welfare. On the other hand, we must never allow this to lessen in the slightest our respect and esteem toward him, no matter how misguided and unresponsive he might be.
If this seems paradoxical, it is. But regarding ourselves, it is a paradox with which we are quite comfortable—every psychologically healthy person loves himself and, at the same time, incessantly strives to improve himself. So it is a paradox that we must also cultivate in our relationship with others. To either temper our efforts to enlighten and better our fellow man out of respect for his views and feelings, or to allow these efforts to compromise our love and respect for him, is to fail to love him as we love ourselves—a principle which Rabbi Akiva considered fundamental to G-d’s blueprint for life and of which Hillel said:
“This is the entire Torah; the rest is commentary.”[5]
Based on an address by the Rebbe, Iyar 17, 5744 (May 19, 1984), and on other occasions[6]
Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber
[1]. Talmud, Yevamot 62b; Tur and Shulchan Aruch, Orach Chaim, 493:1-2.
[2]. Torat Kohanim on Leviticus 19:18.
[3]. Midrash Tanchuma, Pinchas 10.
[4]. Talmud, Yevamot 121a.
[6]. Likkutei Sichot, vol. XXXII, pp. 149-152.
Tags: respect, self-improvement, relationships, love your neighbor, Rabbi Akiva
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June 22nd, 2015
Do not stand by the blood of your fellow.
… to see him dying, and you are able to save him; for example, if he is drowning in a river and a beast or thieves are approaching him.
Rashi’s commentary, ibid.
A cornerstone in the teachings of Rabbi Israel Baal Shem Tov, founder of the Chassidic movement, is the doctrine of hashgachah pratit, “specific divine providence.” Specific divine providence means that not only does G-d oversee and determine all that transpires in the universe, but that also every detail and every aspect of every event is by divine design. If a leaf is torn off its branch by a wind blowing in a distant forest, and is blown this way and that before coming to rest on a specific place—it is because it was so ordained by G-d toward a specific purpose.
The Baal Shem Tov also taught:
“From everything that a person sees or hears he is to derive a lesson in his service of G-d.”
These two principles are closely related; indeed, the second is a derivative of the first. If something happens, and you happen to witness or hear about it, then both the event and the fact that you have been made aware of it are by divine providence. The event could have taken place without your knowledge; so the fact that you have learned of it is also significant. It must prompt you to understand something or to do something, otherwise your awareness of it would have been to no purpose.
Therein lies the deeper meaning of the above-quoted passage from Rashi. Rashi explains the meaning of the verse “Do not stand by the blood of your fellow” by adding the words “to see him dying, and you are able to save him.” But the words “and you are able to save him” read more as statement of fact than a clause; it would seem that, for the sake of clarity, Rashi should have written “if you are able to save him” or “when you are able to save him.” In truth, however, the very fact that you see him dying should indicate to you that you are indeed able to save him. Rashi is saying: Do not hasten to conclude that there is nothing you can do about your brother’s distress. For if this were indeed the case, to what purpose would G-d cause you to witness it?
The Spiritual Dimension
Today, we are painfully aware that many of our brethren are threatened with spiritual extinction, G-d forbid. We see them drowning in materiality, we see them being devoured by a society that has lost its G-d and its moral moorings.
This awareness implies a duty and a responsibility: “Do not stand by the blood of your fellow” applies no less to spiritual dangers than to cases of physical jeopardy. It also carries a divine guarantee: the very fact that you have been made aware of your fellow’s plight means that you are capable of doing something about it.
Based on an address by the Rebbe, Shabbat Parshat Kedoshim 5746 (May 10, 1986)[1]
Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber
[1] Likkutei Sichot, vol.XVI p.527
Tags: self-improvement, relationships, divine providence, perspective, Divine service
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June 21st, 2015
Joseph refused and said to the wife of his master: “… How can I do this great evil, and sin toward G-d?”
Genesis 39:8-9
Remarked Rabbi Bunim of Pshis’cha:
The prohibition against adultery is included within the Seven Noachide Laws commanded to all of humanity. Thus, for Joseph to accede to Potiphar’s wife’s demands would have been a sin on her part as well as his. Why, then, did Joseph say to her, “How can I … sin toward G-d”? He should have said, “How can we sin toward G-d”!
But Joseph, explained Rabbi Bunim, did not want to share in anything with her—not even the pronoun “we.”
Tags: trust, Torah, loyalty, Joseph
Posted in Bereishit, Biblical, Weekly Parsha, Religion, Torah Personalities, Spiritual, Torah, Vayeishev, Joseph | No Comments »
