Life, Death and Reality

June 17th, 2015

Jacob concluded commanding his sons. He gathered his feet into the bed, and expired, and was gathered to his people.

Joseph fell on his father’s face, and wept over him and kissed him. And Joseph commanded his servants the physicians to embalm his father…

They eulogized [Jacob] with a great and sore lamentation. And [Joseph] made a mourning for his father seven days…

And [Jacob’s] sons carried him to the land of Canaan, and buried him in the cave of the Machpeilah Field

Genesis 49:33-50:13

In describing Jacob’s “expiration,” the Torah pointedly avoids the use of the word vayamat, “and he died,” a word it employs with all the other deaths it relates, including Abraham’s (Genesis 25:8) and Isaac’s (35:29). Instead, it uses the euphemisms “he expired” and “he was gathered to his people.” Hence, concludes talmudic sage Rabbi Jochanan, “Our father Jacob did not die.”[1]

The Talmud records the following exchange between Rav Nachman and Rav Yitzchak:

Rav Nachman said to Rav Yitzchak: “So said Rabbi Jochanan: Our father Jacob did not die.”
Asked Rav Yitzchak: “Was it for no reason that the eulogizers eulogized, the embalmers embalmed and the buriers buried?”
Responded Rav Nachman: “I am only citing a verse. It is written, ‘And you, my servant Jacob, fear not, says the L-rd, and do not tremble, O Israel. For behold, I shall save you from afar, and your descendants from the land of their captivity.’[2] The verse equates Jacob with his descendants: just as his descendants are alive, he, too, is alive.”[3]

Spiritually or Literally

There are two ways in which this exchange can be understood. One approach, adapted by several of the talmudic commentaries,[4] is that the statement “Jacob did not die” is not meant in the literal-physical sense–after all, as Rav Yitzchak points out, Jacob was eulogized, embalmed and buried–but in the conceptual-spiritual sense: Jacob is alive because his influence lives on. This, then, is the meaning of Rav Nachman’s deduction from the verse in Jeremiah that “just as his descendants are alive, he, too, is alive”: as long as his descendants disseminate his teachings and carry on his work, Jacob lives.

However, this interpretation fails to explain the uniqueness of Jacob’s eternity: the same can be (and is) said of all righteous individuals whose children or disciples perpetuate their lives. In the words of the Zohar, “when a tzaddik (righteous person) departs, he is present in all worlds even more than he was in his lifetime.”[5] Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi explains: “The life of a tzaddik is not a fleshly life but a spiritual life, consisting wholly of faith, awe, and love of G-d… While the tzaddik was alive on earth, these three attributes were contained in their physical vessel and garment (i.e. the body) on the plane of physical space… His disciples received but a reflection of these attributes, a ray radiating beyond this vessel by means of his holy utterances and thoughts… But after his passing… whoever is close to him can receive a [far loftier dimension] of these three attributes, since they are no longer confined within a [material] vessel, nor bounded by physical space…”[6]

In other words, for a person to whom “life” means the pursuit and attainment of material gains, life indeed ceases when his soul departs from his body. But one for whom life is defined in terms of his positive influence upon others is no less alive after physical “death,” since his positive influence upon others continues for as long as his teachings are studied, his directives are followed and his deeds are emulated. Indeed, he is even more alive than before, as his soul now relates to his disciples free of the physical constraints of time and space.

But this is true of all who live “not a fleshly life but a spiritual life.” Yet it is only in the case of Jacob that the Torah refuses to say “he died.” It is only of Jacob[7] that the Talmud unequivocally states “Our father Jacob did not die.” Rabbi Jochanan and Rav Nachman seem to be implying more than the “conventional” truism that a tzaddik’s life is eternal in the non-corporeal sense.

Indeed, Rashi understands the Talmud’s meaning in the most literal sense. In his commentary on the above-quoted passage, he writes: “Our father Jacob did not die, but lives forever… the fact that the ‘embalmers embalmed’ was only because they thought he had died.” Rabbi Nachman’s proof from the verse in Jeremiah that “just as his descendants are alive, he, too, is alive” is not to be understood in the sense that Jacob lives on in the lives of his descendants, but that “just as when [G-d] gathers the people of Israel from the land of their captivity, He is gathering the living, for it is they who are in captivity–the dead are not in captivity–so, too, he (Jacob) is alive, and G-d will bring him along to the exile and redeem his children before his eyes. The fact that the ‘embalmers embalmed’ was only because to them it seemed that he was dead, but in truth he was alive.”

Reality in Two Dimensions

We thus have two perspectives on reality: the reality defined by Torah, in which Jacob does not die, and the reality of the “eulogizers, embalmers and buriers,” who perceived a lifeless Jacob. According to the first interpretation of Rav Nachman’s and Rav Yitzchak’s words, the difference lies in whether we view reality in spiritual or physical terms: if “life” is a spiritual state, Jacob’s life is unaffected by his bodily demise; if “life” is defined by physical criteria, Jacob is indeed not alive.

According to Rashi’s interpretation, both perspectives relate to the physical reality: while to the “eulogizers, embalmers and buriers” Jacob’s body was a body from which life had departed, the Torah attests that there exists a higher, truer plane of reality, a reality in which Jacob remains physically alive. For Jacob is the embodiment of the attribute of truth,[8] and truth–in the ultimate and absolute sense of the term–tolerates no equivocations. A life confined to the spiritual realm may be “true” enough for other righteous men and women of history, but in the truth of Jacob–the essence and epitome of truth–there are no partial or relative truths. To say that Jacob’s life is spiritually eternal but not physically so, to say that his physical life extended for so many years and then ceased, is to detract from its truth[9]—and everything about Jacob is wholly and utterly true.

According to this, we can better understand Rav Yitzchak’s question, “Was it for no reason that the eulogizers eulogized, the embalmers embalmed and the buriers buried?” Indeed, what does he mean by asking, Was it for no reason that these things were done? Ought not the question to have been, How could the eulogizers have eulogized etc.?

But Rav Yitzchak is not bothered by the fact that Jacob’s body seemed dead to Joseph’s Egyptian servants, or even to Jacob’ sons. The fact that they failed to perceive him as physically alive in no way detracts from the Torah’s attestation that Jacob did not die, neither spiritually nor physically. Torah is the foundation and essence of creation,[10] and the supreme arbiter of reality; if mortal eyes and minds fail to corroborate what Torah establishes as fact, this in no way diminishes the truth of Torah’s description of reality. Rather, Rav Yitzchak’s challenge to Rav Nachman is from the fact that the Torah itself reports the “expiration,” mourning and burial of Jacob. Was the “death” of Jacob an event of no significance? Were the burial arrangements unnecessary? Was he mourned for no reason? But the Torah describes these events as having occurred, and in a manner that implies that Joseph and his brothers acted as they ought to have acted when they perceived Jacob’s soul as having departed his body.

Rav Nachman’s response is that, all this notwithstanding, the Torah clearly regards Jacob as alive, and alive in the same sense that his descendants are alive—as souls residing in physical bodies. So while Jacob’s children’s response to his “death” was the correct response according to Torah–Torah law mandated that Jacob be mourned and buried[11]–this is only because Torah relates to and instructs reality on all levels, including the level on which Jacob’s physical life is perceived to have ceased. At the same time, Torah attests to the existence of the higher reality in which the truth and eternity of Jacob is never compromised, neither in the spiritual level nor on the physical level.

Possibling the Impossible

What are we to make of all this? What implications are there here for those of us who inhabit a reality defined by our five senses and the laws of nature—a reality in which physical life inevitably yields to the eulogizer and the grave-digger?

The Talmud relates that when Moses ascended to heaven to receive the Torah, the angels objected. The Torah had best be left where it is, they argued, here in the spiritual realm. Moses responded:

“What is written in the Torah? ‘I am the L-rd Your G-d who has taken you out from the land of Egypt.’ Have you been descended to Egypt? Have you been enslaved to Pharaoh? What else does it say? ‘You shall have no alien gods.’ Do you dwell amongst idol-worshiping nations? ‘Remember the day of Shabbat.’ Do you work? ‘Do not swear falsely.’ Do you do business? ‘Honor your father and your mother.’ Do you have parents? ‘Do not kill,’ ‘Do not commit adultery,’ ‘Do not steal’—Is there jealousy between you? Do you have an evil inclination?”[12]

The Torah, we are repeatedly told, is not in heaven, nor was it given to angels; it is a document communicated to mortal man to guide and sanctify physical life.[13] Virtually all the Torah’s commandments are physical activities: giving a coin to charity, binding tefillin on one’s arm and head, eating matzo on Passover. Even the more “spiritual” mitzvot–Torah study, prayer, love and awe of G-d–are deeds performed by the physical brain, heart and lips. Intrinsic to the nature of the mitzvah is that it is to be performed by natural means, and in the most natural manner possible.[14]

But there are two ways of viewing the Torah’s delegation to the natural realm:

(a) Since G-d intended that the Torah serve as a guide to physical life, He designed it to conform to its rules and norms. Thus, Torah is subject to the laws of nature and cannot, or may not, supersede them.[15]

(b) Torah, as the divine wisdom and will, precedes and transcends creation itself[16] and is not subservient to natural law. Nature is merely its modus operandi: Torah confines itself to the natural realm because its function is to develop the physical reality, not to escape it or overturn it.

The distinction between (a) and (b) may seem a semantic mind game—the bottom line, after all, is that Torah operates within the confines of nature. But when applied to the business of daily living, it translates into all the difference in the world. What happens when Torah demands the impossible? When it expects a tiny nation to live for four thousand years as a “lamb in the midst of seventy wolves”[17] and not only survive but defang and civilize the seventy wolves? When it tells us to rise above the pain and mortality of the physical state and imbue it with light, joy and eternity? —And to achieve this all with our humanly finite faculties and resources?

One who sees nature’s laws as the basis upon which the divine blueprint for life is predicated, can only reiterate that the impossible is impossible. If the constraints of our empirical reality do not allow it, he maintains, then Torah, which is bound by these constraints, certainly does not expect it of us. Perhaps these are hypothetical goals to strive towards as we do the best we can with the tools at our disposal. But this is the world we live in, and its laws are what define and govern our mission in life.

But one who knows that “our father Jacob did not die,” that the Torah truth that Jacob embodies is not subject to the mortalities of the physical condition, knows that no law or norm can restrict the full and unequivocal implementation of the Torah’s vision of reality. True, the same Torah recounts, lends credence to and instructs the behavior of those who perceived Jacob to have died, for Torah operates within the physical reality, within, even, finite man’s perception of the physical reality; but at the same time, Torah is utterly free of its limits and conventions.

Torah is neither subject to the natural reality nor divorced from it, confined to the supernatural realm of the spirit. It embraces both realities, transcending nature even as it pervades and defines it, making real the impossible even as it employs only the most naturally possible means to do so.

Based on an address by the Rebbe, Av 20, 5731 (August 11, 1971)[18].

Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber.

Tags: Torah, spiritual and material, Jacob, life and death, Tzaddik, Joseph
Posted in Biblical, Weekly Parsha, Bereishit, Soul & Mystical, Religion, Personal Life, Torah Personalities, Daily Life, Spiritual, Life Cycles, Torah, Jacob, Vayechi | No Comments »

Rights of Steppage

June 17th, 2015

Said Rabbi Yosef Yitzchak Schneerson of Lubavitch:

When a person walks along without a thought of Torah in his mind, the very ground under his feet cries out: “Boor! What makes you any better than me? By what rights do you step on me?!”

Tags: spiritual and material, Spirituality, Torah
Posted in Weekly Parsha, Bereishit, Torah Personalities, Modern, Spiritual, Torah, Rebbe Rayatz, Vayechi | No Comments »

Life After Life

June 15th, 2015

This week’s Torah reading (Genesis 47-50) is named Vayechi, “And He Lived,” after the section’s opening words, “And Jacob lived in the land of Egypt.…” Paradoxically, the entire section revolves around a single event: Jacob’s death. Here we read of his final illness, his last instructions to Joseph, his parting blessings to his children, his passing, funeral and burial.

Therein lies an eternal lesson regarding the true meaning of life. Truth, by definition, is unequivocal. It therefore follows that anything conditional or temporary is not true, at least not in the ultimate sense of the word. Love that is conditional upon the loved one’s looks or behavior is not true love, even when it supposedly blooms, fed by those conditions; a person who is wise at certain moments and foolish at others is not truly wise, even in those moments that he is supposedly wise. By the same token, one whose impact on the world ceases with his soul’s departure from his body, has never truly been alive.

So none of the other half-dozen Torah sections that relate the events of Jacob’s sojourn on physical earth attest to the fact of his “life” in their names. For these describe what, taken on its own, can be seen as a temporal life, a life with a beginning and an end, a life confined to a particular body and a particular space of time. Jacob’s true life comes to light in the events relating to his “death,” when his twelve sons gathered round his bedside and he imparted to each his particular role in the eternal legacy of Israel. Only then can we say that “Our father Jacob did not die…. Just as his descendants are alive, he, too, is alive.”[22]

It is only when we see Jacob’s life surviving his physical demise that we know that Jacob truly lived.

Based on an address by the Rebbe, Shabbat Vayechi, 5725 (December 18, 1964)[23].

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

Tags: life and death, Joseph, Jacob
Posted in Weekly Parsha, Bereishit, Biblical, Death, Grief, & Mourning, Torah Personalities, Personal Life, Life Cycles, Torah, Jacob, Vayechi | No Comments »

The Secret

June 15th, 2015

And Jacob called his sons, and said: “Gather yourselves together, that I may tell you that which shall befall you in the end of days.”

Genesis 49:1

The Talmud explains that “Jacob wished to reveal to his sons ‘the end of days’ (ketz hayomin—the time of the final and complete redemption by Moshiach), whereupon the divine presence departed from him.”[1]

This raises the obvious question: Why did Jacob wish to do such a thing? What would such knowledge have achieved? On the contrary, had the children of Israel known the date of Moshiach’s coming, would this not have had a most adverse effect on their morale? Would not the knowledge that the Redemption would be more than 3,500 years in the future be a source of discouragement and despair for the Jews in Egypt?

The Opportunity

In the “Song at the Sea” (the psalm of praise the people of Israel sang at the shore of the Red Sea upon their deliverance from Pharaoh’s armies), there is a verse that reads, “Bring them and plant them on the mountain of Your inheritance, the base for Your dwelling You, G-d, have made; the Sanctuary, O L-rd, that Your Hands have established.”[2] The Zohar explains that had we been worthy, G-d Himself would have brought us into the Holy Land and would Himself have constructed the Beit Hamikdash (Holy Temple) in Jerusalem, making these eternal and unalterable deeds. In other words, the Exodus from Egypt would have constituted the ultimate redemption. It was only because of a series of failings on our part (including the sin of the Golden Calf and that of the Spies) that our entry into the land of Israel and the construction of the Beit Hamikdash were achieved by human means,[3] and were as mortal and vulnerable to corruption as their achievers. Thus we still await the day when G-d Himself will gather us from the ends of earth and rebuild the Beit Hamikdash,[4] making His manifest presence in our lives invincible and everlasting.[5]

It was this “end” that Jacob wished to reveal. Had we known that the Exodus from Egypt (which was foreordained in Abraham’s covenant with G-d) was meant to be the final and ultimate redemption, we would have been driven to seize the moment and ensure that its full potential would indeed be realized.[6]

Building in the Dark

Nevertheless, G-d prevented Jacob from disclosing this to his children. The “end of days” was to remain a mystery, regardless of how its revelation might encourage our efforts to perfect the world and prepare it for redemption. For in order for man to truly participate in the perfection of creation, it is crucial that the time frame for the advent of the messianic era be unknown to him.

As we said above, the final redemption is a divine act, unequivocal and eternal; so if man is to play a meaningful role in bringing it about, it is through deeds that are themselves unequivocal and eternal. Hence the state of galut in which we find ourselves: a state of physical and spiritual displacement, a state in which G-d’s guiding hand in history is hidden and our lives seem abandoned to chance and caprice. When a person retains his integrity and loyalty to G-d even under such conditions, he is manifesting an “eternal” commitment—a commitment unshakable by equivocations of time and place.

Thus, galut is not only something from which we need to be redeemed, but also the condition that enables our meaningful participation in the redemption process. Galut means being in the dark: inhabiting a world in which a corporeal husk obscures its rich spiritual content; a world that is deaf to the chimes of the cosmic clock of history and blind to its own steady advance toward harmonious perfection. Only under such conditions are our positive deeds vested with the eternality that categorizes the messianic; were we privy to the “end of days,” our deeds would be of a provisional nature, buttressed by our clear vision of history’s progression toward perfection.

Supra-Conscious Knowledge

And yet, Jacob did reveal the “end of days” to us. Not that he actually told us when Moshiach is coming—G-d prevented him from doing so to ensure that our experience of galut is complete and yields the “eternal” commitment that makes us genuine partners in the divinely perfect world of Moshiach. But the very fact that he desired to tell us had its effect. The Torah states that “G-d does the desire of those who fear Him”;[7] if Jacob desired that we know, then, on some level or another, this knowledge was communicated to us.[8]

Furthermore, Jacob is one of the three Avot (forefathers) of Israel, of whom our sages have described as “served solely as a vehicle for the divine will, every moment of their lives.”[9] If Jacob desired that we know the secret of the “end of days,” it is a desire that is utterly consistent with the divine will. G-d wants that we should want to know, and that we should indeed know, so that we should be driven by this desire and knowledge. At the same time, He does not allow us to expressly know, so that our deeds should be true and unconditional—not contingent upon such “inside information.”

So we live our lives in the dark, bereft of any conscious sense of our place in history. Seconds before the outbreak of dawn, we perceive only the blackest of nights. But this is only the surface of our lives—the level on which we act to bring redemption to the world. Underlying this surface is a knowing soul—a soul attuned to the supernal timetable, a soul sensitive to the moments most opportune for redemption and empowered to reveal this knowledge and potential.

Based on an address by the Rebbe, Shabbat Vayechi, 5741 (December 20, 1980)[10]

A Holy Man in a Sack

In his blessings to his children before his passing, Jacob assigned to each of them their role in the formation of the Jewish nation. The twelve sons of Jacob became the twelve tribes of Israel, whose twelve individual callings collectively realize the mission of Israel.

Judah, Jacob’s fourth son, was granted the role of sovereign and ruler. In Jacob’s words, “The scepter shall not depart from Judah, nor the legislator’s pen from his descendants; to him nations shall submit, until the coming of Shiloh[11].”[12] Beginning with King David, all legitimate rulers of Israel—kings, nessi’im, exilarchs—up to, and including, Moshiach, were and will be from the tribe of Judah.

By rights, the sovereignty belonged to Reuben, Jacob’s firstborn. But Reuben had sinned against his father,[13] forfeiting this right, which was then transferred to Judah. Why Judah? Our sages[14] identify two virtues for which Judah merited the leadership of Israel:

(a)  When the other sons of Jacob plotted to kill Joseph, Judah saved his life. “What shall we profit by killing our brother and covering his blood?” argued Judah. “Let us sell him to the Ishmaelites and not harm him with our own hands, for he is our brother, our own flesh.” The others accepted Judah’s reasoning, and Joseph was taken out of the snake-infested pit into which he had been thrown and sold into slavery.[15]

(b)  Judah publicly admitted his culpability in the incident of Tamar, thereby saving her and her two unborn sons from death.[16]

It would seem, however, that Reuben was no less virtuous than Judah. Indeed, in both these areas, Reuben’s deeds were greater and his intentions purer.

Regarding the plot to kill Joseph, it was Reuben who first saved Joseph’s life by suggesting to his brothers that, instead of killing him, they should throw him into the pit. As the Torah attests, he did this “in order to save him from their hands, [so that he may later] return him to his father” (Reuben did not know that there were snakes and scorpions in the pit). The Torah also attests that Reuben was not present when Joseph was sold, and records his shock at not finding Joseph in the pit when he returned to take him out and his berating of his brothers for what they had done.[17] Judah, on the other hand, only suggested a more “profitable” way of disposing of Joseph (the Torah says nothing about any hidden intentions), and was the cause of Joseph’s sale into slavery. Indeed, we later find the others accusing Judah: “It was you who told us to sell him. If you would have told us to return him [home], we would have listened to you.”[18]

As for Judah’s public penance, here, too, Reuben excelled him. Reuben, too, admitted and repented his sin. And while Judah was faced with a choice to either admit his responsibility or cause the destruction of three innocent lives, there were no such compelling factors in Reuben’s case. Furthermore, Reuben’s penance did not end with a one-time admission of guilt, but continued to consume his entire being for many years. Indeed, the reason why Reuben was not present at the time of Joseph’s sale—nine years after his original wrongdoing against his father—was that “he was occupied with his sackcloth and fasting.”[19]

Time to Act

As far as personal virtue is concerned, Reuben indeed surpassed Judah, both in the purity of his intentions regarding Joseph and the intensity of his repentance over his failings. But Judah was the one who actually saved Joseph, while Reuben unwittingly placed him in mortal danger. In the same vein, Judah’s repentance saved three lives, while Reuben’s remorse helped no one—indeed, had he not been preoccupied with “his sackcloth and his fasting,” he might have prevented Joseph’s being sold into slavery.

Indeed, Reuben retained his rights as Jacob’s firstborn in all that pertained to him as an individual.[20] But he forfeited his role as a leader, by neglecting the most basic prerequisite for leadership. Believing Joseph safe for the time being, Reuben rushed back to attend to his prayers and penance, forgetting that concern for one’s fellow must always take precedence over one’s own pursuits, no matter how pious and lofty these pursuits might be.

While Reuben prayed and fasted, Judah acted. Judah earned the leadership of Israel by recognizing that when another human being is in need, one must set aside all other considerations and get involved. Even if one’s own intentions are still short of perfection and one’s own character is yet to be refined. Sometimes, one cannot afford to wait.

Based on an address by the Rebbe, Shabbat Vayechi, 5730 (December 27, 1969)[21].

Adapted from the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

Tags: Jacob, Joseph, Reuben, redemption, leadership, Beis Hamikdash
Posted in Weekly Parsha, Bereishit, Beliefs & Concepts, Moshiach & Redemption, Torah, Vayechi | No Comments »

Double Stitching

June 15th, 2015

A man once came to Rabbi Yerachmiel of P’shis’cha with his tale of woe:

“Rebbe, I am a tailor. Over the years, I have earned quite a reputation for my expertise and the high quality of my work. All the nobles in the area order their livery and their ladies’ dresses from me.

“Several months ago, I received the most important commission of my life. The prince himself heard of me and asked that I sew him a suit of clothes from the finest silk to be gotten in the land. But when I brought him the finished product, he began yelling and cursing: ‘This is the best you can do? Why, it’s atrocious! Who taught you to sew?’ He ordered me out of his house and threw the garment out after me.

“Rebbe, I am ruined. All my capital is invested in the cloth. Worse still, my reputation has been totally destroyed. No one will dare order anything from me after this. I don’t understand what happened! This is the best work I’ve ever done!”

“Go back to your shop,” advised Rabbi Yerachmiel. “Remove all the stitches in this garment, sew them anew exactly how you sewed them before, and bring it to the prince.”

“But then I’ll have the same garment I have now!” protested the tailor.

“Do as I say, and G-d will help.”

Two weeks later, the tailor was back. “Rebbe! You saved my life! To be honest, I had little faith in your strange idea. But having nothing to lose, I did as you said. When I presented the result to the prince, his eyes lit up. ‘Beautiful!’ he cried. ‘You have more than lived up to your reputation. This is the finest suit of clothes I have ever seen.’ He rewarded me handsomely, and promised to send more work my way.

“But I don’t understand—what was the difference between the first stitches and the second if the cloth was cut and sewn in exactly the same way?”

“The first stitches,” explained Rabbi Yerachmiel, “were sewn with arrogance and pride. The result was a spiritually repulsive garment, which, though technically perfect, was devoid of all grace and beauty. The second stitches were sewn with a humble spirit and a broken heart, investing in the garment an inner beauty that evokes awe and admiration in everyone who beholds it.”

Tags: arrogance, admiration, ego, humility, pride
Posted in Weekly Parsha, Bereishit, Personal Life, Torah, Emotions & Psychology, Vayechi | 1 Comment »

Yes and No

June 15th, 2015

And Abraham circumcised his son Isaac at the age of eight days, as G-d had commanded him.

Genesis 21:4

Two ladies walk toward each other. How do you know which is superior to the other? When one steps aside for the other, you know that the one for whom the other has stepped aside is of a higher standing… Similarly, Shabbat is equivalent to all the mitzvot of the Torah put together. Yet the mitzvah of circumcision supersedes it.

Jerusalem Talmud, Nedarim 3:9

We live in a binary world: a world in which every object has a positive and a negative pole, a world in which every force has an active and latent mode, a world whose defining logic is built on two fundamental possibilities—“yes” and “no.”

The mitzvot (divine commandments) of the Torah are also cast in this dual mold. The mitzvot fall under two general categories: the positive commandments (mitzvot assei), which spell out the activities that G-d desires that we do (giving charity, putting on tefillin, etc.); and the prohibitions (mitzvot lo ta’aseh), which spell out the activities that G-d desires that we not do (theft, mixing meat with milk, etc.).

The Torah is not merely adapting itself to the nature of the lives it instructs. Indeed, since Torah is “G-d’s blueprint for creation,”[1] the very opposite is true: because the divine will includes both positive and negative elements, the universe that came into being to implement this will is also polarized by the positive and negative, by the active and passive.

Why a World?

G-d’s purpose in creation, say our sages, is that “He desired to have a dwelling place in the lowly realms.” Before G-d’s creation of reality, there was obviously nothing to hinder or obscure His exclusive being. There were no “lowly realms”–no realities distant from Him–as, indeed, there were no lofty realms-no creations aware of and subservient to Him. G-d desired to create a world, a reality distinct from His (at least in its own perception), that would rise above its own self-definition to a recognition of and receptiveness to His truth.

The lowest tier of this reality is the physical world, the most immanent, self-absorbed, and spiritually obtuse of them all. It is the material world, then, that is the focus of G-d’s creation, the arena in which His desire for a “dwelling place in the lowly realms” may be realized.

We make the world a “home” for G-d through our observance of the mitzvot. Whenever we enlist a physical resource or force to do a mitzvah (a piece of animal hide made into tefillin, flour and water baked as matzah for Passover, the human mind engaged in the study of Torah) we divest it of its corporeality and spiritual opaqueness and transform it into an instrument of divine will. Before the mitzvah, the physical object proclaimed, “I exist”; now it proclaims, “I exist to serve G-d.” Before the mitzvah, the physical object manifested the “lowliness” of the material; now it houses the divine, exhibiting a receptiveness and subservience to its Creator.

In the words of the Zohar, the 248 positive commandments of the Torah are the “organs of G-d.”[2] In the human being, an organ is an instrument of the soul, a vehicle for the physical realization of its metaphysical properties. The soul might possess the potential for sight, but only via the eye can it physically see; it is the eye in which the soul’s faculty of sight resides and which facilitates its interaction with physical objects. The same is true of the ear, mouth, brain, heart, etc.—each organ and limb of the human body manifests another faculty or expression of the human soul. Hence the Zohar’s metaphoric description of the mitzvot as “organs” of G-d: it is via the mitzvot that the various expressions of the divine reality are manifested on the physical earth.

Obviously, there is more to the soul than what is manifested by its various organs, singly or collectively. The miracle of life is that flesh can serve as a conduit of spirit; still, there is a limit to how much of the spiritual self flesh can actualize. Physical life expresses but an iceberg tip of the depth and scope of the human soul. The same applies to the divine prototype after which man is modeled: while G-d decreed that something of His essence be present in every act of conformity with His will, there is more to the divine reality than what is embodied by the physical objects and actions of the mitzvot.

This is why, in addition to granting us the positive commandments, G-d also commanded us the prohibitions. Any human deed, no matter how noble or transcendent, is finite and equivocal; no act of man can capture the absoluteness, transcendence and infinity that is the hallmark of the Divine. The prohibition, however, implements the divine will not by doing, but by not doing, and as such, is not compromised by the deficiencies of the mortal deed. A non-act is absolute and unequivocal—there is no limit to the extent to which a person has not done something. By decreeing that a host of non-actions should constitute the fulfillment of His will, G-d has accorded us the ability to relate to His truth unencumbered by the limitations of human endeavor.

What then, one might ask, is the need for the positive commandments? If the purest, most perfect fulfillment of the divine will is the non-act of the mitzvat lo ta’aseh, why didn’t G-d make life a wholly passive affair—an exercise in abstinence?

The answer is as obvious as the question. A life devoted to the passive fulfillment of the divine will might well be free of the shortcomings of human endeavor, but it would also be devoid of its creativity and passion. G-d desired more than flawlessness from His creatures—indeed, the most flawless reality was the non-reality that preceded creation! So it was not perfection that G-d sought in creating a world, but the dynamic quest for perfection embarked on by a world populated by imperfect beings. It was not a spiritual world that G-d set out to create–no world could be more ethereal than the pre-creation nullity–but a corporeal, “lowly realm,” that would recreate itself as a dwelling for Him.

At the same time, He wished to provide this world with the potential for unadulterated contact with Him—a link to His quintessential truth that transcends the limitations of mortal activity. So in addition to the imperative to do, develop, transform and create, He also instructed us to desist, to abnegate desire and self in fulfillment of His will.

Hence the mitzvot assei and the mitzvot lo ta’aseh—a bi-columned Torah consisting of do’s and don’ts, a mandate for both active and passive relationship with G-d. Hence a world bisected by affirmative and negative, being and naught, dynamism and placidity.

The Superdeed

The complementing functions of the mitzvat assei and the mitzvat lo ta’aseh are reflected in the paradox of their relative status in Torah law. On the one hand, the penalties prescribed by the Torah for the violation of prohibitions are far more severe than the punishment for neglecting the fulfillment of a positive commandment, reflecting the loftier nature of the lo ta’aseh. On the other hand, the law states that, as a rule, “a positive commandment takes precedence over a prohibition.”[3]  (For example, in certain circumstances, the observance of the mitzvah of tying tzitzit on a four-cornered garment requires the use of both wool and linen threads; the law is that the positive commandment of tzitzit takes precedence over the prohibition of shaatnez, which forbids the wearing of a garment made of wool and linen.) This reflects the fact that, as explained above, the world was not created for the purpose of man avoiding transgressions, but that he engage in the active endeavor of developing the world into a divine abode.

There is, however, a mitzvah that is endowed with both distinctions, possessing the loftiness of the lo ta’aseh as well as the assertiveness of the mitzvat assei: the mitzvah of circumcision. On the one hand, the failure to circumcise carries the penalty of karet,[4] placing this mitzvah in the same category as the most severe prohibitions (e.g., eating or working on Yom Kippur). On the other hand, it is an active mitzvah, endowed with the positivity and potency of a mitzvat assei. In the mitzvah of circumcision, G-d, who transcends both the “yes” and the “no” of His creation, has combined the transcendence of the passive non-deed with the constructiveness of the active mitzvah.

The uniqueness of the mitzvah of circumcision is evidenced by the fact that it takes precedence over the mitzvah of Shabbat: if the eighth day of a child’s life falls on Shabbat, the circumcision is held on the holy day, despite the fact that the procedure constitutes a melachah (“work,” or constructive act), which would otherwise constitute a violation of Shabbat (see the talmudic passage quoted at the beginning of this essay). This goes beyond the rule that “a positive commandment takes precedence over a prohibition,” since to perform a circumcision on Shabbat we set aside both a negative and a positive commandment. The Torah commands the Jew, “Do not do any work” on Shabbat, making this an explicit prohibition, but it also commands, “On the seventh day you shall rest,” making the observance of Shabbat a positive deed, as well.[5] So the rule that a prohibition is set aside in order to fulfill a positive commandment does not apply to Shabbat, since doing work on Shabbat not only violates a prohibition but also runs contrary to the active endeavor to rest.

Circumcision, however, is even more potent a mitzvah than Shabbat. By observing Shabbat we observe both a mitzvat assei and a mitzvat lo ta’aseh, but these are two separate mitzvot, each with its own distinct qualities. By resting on Shabbat, we achieve the constructive effect of a positive commandment, but this mitzvah also has the limitations of every mitzvat assei. By refraining from work on Shabbat, we observe the prohibition, “do not do any work,” accessing a dimension of union with G-d that is beyond the reach of the active mitzvah, but as a passive act, it is outside the realm of constructive achievement that defines the purpose of creation. Shabbat is special in that it includes both the assei and lo ta’aseh elements of the divine will, but it still falls short of actually capturing the loftiness of the lo ta’aseh with an active deed.

Therein lies the uniqueness of the mitzvah of circumcision, one of only two positive mitzvot (the other is the mitzvah of Korban Pesach) rated by the Torah on a par with the severest (and thus loftiest) of prohibitions. Here man has been empowered to do, and at the same time transcend, the limitations of human deed.

Based on a talk delivered by the Rebbe at a circumcision, II Adar 7, 5711 (March 15, 1951)[6]

___________________________________________________________________

Tags: circumcision, positive commandments, mitzvot, prohibitions, Shabbat
Posted in Weekly Parsha, Bereishit, Religion, Vayeira, Spiritual, Torah | No Comments »

The Vacuum of Survival

June 15th, 2015

And they said  one to another: “…Let us build for ourselves a city and a tower whose top shall reach the skies, and we shall make for ourselves a name, lest we be scattered over the face of the entire earth.”

…And G-d descended… and scattered them from there across the face of the earth, and they stopped building the city.  Therefore its name was called Babel (confusion), for there G-d confused the language of the world.  It was from there that G-d dispersed them over the face of the entire earth.

Genesis 11:3-9

What was their sin? Their motives for building a city with a tower “whose top shall reach the skies” are quite understandable. Mankind was only just reconstructing itself after the Flood which had wiped out the entire human race save for Noah and his family. If fledgling humanity was to survive, unity and cooperation were of critical importance. So they set out to build a common city to knit them into a single community. At its heart they planned a tower which would be visible for miles, a landmark to beckon to those who had strayed from the city and a monument to inspire commitment to their common goal – survival. All they wanted was to “make for ourselves a name” – to ensure the continuity of the human race. And yet, their project deteriorated into a rejection of all that humanity stands for, into an open rebellion against their Creator and purpose. The result: the breakup of man-kind into clans and factions, and the onset of close to four thousand years of misunderstanding, xenophobia and bloodletting across the divisions of language and culture. Where did they go wrong?

The Hollow Tower

But precisely that was their error: they saw survival as an end in its own right. “Let us make a name for ourselves,” they said, let us ensure that human life take root once again on this planet so that there will be future generations who will read of us in their history books. But why survive? For what purpose should humanity continue to inhabit the earth? What is the content of the name and legacy they are laboring to preserve? Of this they said, thought, and did nothing. To them, life itself was an ideal, survival itself a virtue.

This was the beginning of the end. For nature, whether physical or human, makes it extremely difficult to maintain a vacuum; unless a soul or cause is filled with positive content, corruption will ultimately begin to seep in. A hollow name and shrine soon becomes a tower of Babel.

After the Flood

Never has the lesson of the Tower of Babel been more pertinent to our people than it is today. We, too, are a generation struggling to recoup after a Holocaust of destruction which threatened to erase us from the face of the earth. Reconstruction and survival are uppermost in our minds, and together, with the Almighty’s help, we are succeeding. At a time like this, it is extremely important not to repeat the error of the builders of Babel. Rebuild we must, but the objective must be more than a more enduring name, a greater city, a taller tower. If we are to survive, we must give import to our survival. We must fill our name with value, our city with significance, and crown the tower of our resurgence with the higher purpose to which we were created.

Based on an address by the Rebbe, Cheshvan 4, 5720 (November 5, 1959).

Tags: flood, Tower of Babel, soul, holocaust, purpose, survival
Posted in Weekly Parsha, Bereishit, Soul & Mystical, Noah, Spiritual | No Comments »

Mystical Meals

June 14th, 2015

Rabbi Shimon would say… Three who eat at one table and speak words of Torah, it is as if they had eaten at G-d’s table.

Ethics of the Fathers, 3:3

On the surface, Rabbi Shimon’s message is simple and straightforward: utilize your mealtimes to share the wisdom of Torah. This way, the mundane activity of eating becomes a lofty and G-dly endeavor.

But surely the same applies to a single diner or to many who eat scattered about the room. Why “three who eat”? And why specifically when they eat at “one table”? On a deeper level, Rabbi Shimon is conveying the true significance of our need for food.

Hunger In Two Dimensions

The human being consists of two primary components: the physical body and the soul that gives it life and direction. The same is true of every created thing: its physicality and substance is but its outer husk. Within is a “soul,” an inner, spiritual essence and significance.

Ultimately, the soul of the entire universe is one: the drive to fulfill its Creator’s will. At creation, this unified “soul” splintered into a myriad of individual “sparks” that now form the core of every created thing.

But unlike the human soul, which exercises will and choice, all other creatures are passive containers of their purpose and utility. They depend upon man, the crown and apex of G-d’s creation, to develop and utilize them in accordance with the Creator’s design. It is man to whom the Torah, which outlines this design, has been given, and it is man who has been granted the franchise and the tools to implement it.

So the soul of man descends into the trials and trappings of physical life in order to gain access to these “sparks of holiness.” By investing itself within a physical body that will eat, clothe itself, and otherwise make use of the objects and forces of the physical universe, the soul redeems the “sparks” that they incorporate. For when man utilizes something, directly or indirectly, to serve G-d’s will, he penetrates its shell of mundanity, revealing and realizing its function within the overall purpose of existence.

This explains a most puzzling fact of life: Why is it that man derives life and sustenance from the animal, vegetable, and mineral worlds? How is it that the highest form of life is dependent upon these lower tiers of creation?

But in truth, man’s need for the nutrients that his environment provides him (and the many other material resources that sustain and enhance his life) is the manner in which these elements reach fulfillment. When man makes positive use of the energy he derives from them, they become elevated to a station they could never attain on their own. They become an integral part of a conscious, willful being who elects to serve the Almighty. The meat of the beast, the grain in the bread, the water that quenches our thirst—these become the essence of an act of charity, an hour expended in the study of G-d’s wisdom, a feeling of love for G-d in prayer.

In this way, Rabbi DovBer of Mezeritch explained the verse: “The hungry and thirsty, in them does their soul wrap itself.”[19] A person desiring food may sense only his body’s hunger; but, in truth, his physical craving is the external expression of a deeper yen. “Wrapped within” is his soul’s hunger for the sparks of holiness that are the object of his mission in life.

Three At One

When a person sits to eat there are three partners to the endeavor: his body, his soul, and the food—the vital glue that keeps body and soul together as a living organism.

But if his eating is dominated by the perspective of Torah, these “three who eat” do so at a single table. Their eating is an act of unification, a revelation of the underlying oneness of creation and its connection to the One Creator.

 From an address by the Rebbe, Sivan 23, 5742 (June 19, 1982).

Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

Tags: spiritual and material, purpose, sparks, revelation, food, hunger, fulfillment
Posted in Soul & Mystical, Months & Holidays, Chapter Three, Pirkei Avos, Ethics of Our Fathers, Nisan, Torah, Food & Eating | 1 Comment »

The First Creation

June 14th, 2015

“In the beginning G-d created the heavens and the earth.”

Perhaps half the earth’s population would recognize this as the Bible’s opening sentence. But in the view of a number of the biblical commentaries, these words, as written above, are a mistranslation of the original Hebrew.

The precise meaning of the word bereishit is not “in the beginning” (that would be barishonah), but “in the beginning of.” How, then, are we to read the Torah’s first sentence? In the beginning of what?

The commentaries offer various interpretations. Rashi (Rabbi Shlomo Yitzchaki, 1040-1105) says to read the Torah’s first three verses as a single sentence:

“In the beginning of G-d’s creation of the heavens and the earth, when the earth was chaotic and void … G-d said, ‘Let there be light,’ and there was light.”

Another approach is that of Sforno (Rabbi Ovadiah ben Yaakov, circa 1470-1550), who interprets bereishit as “In the beginning of time.” Bereishit is the very first moment of time, a moment without a past; nothing preceded this moment, since with this moment G-d created time itself.

In other words, while time is itself a creation[1] (a most basic principle of the Jewish faith is that every reality was created by G-d), it is the first and most primary of creations. Indeed, “creation” (beriah, in the Hebrew), which means bringing something into being out of a prior state of non-existence, implies a “before” and “after”; so to say that G-d created anything is also to say that He first (or simultaneously) created time. To say, “In the beginning G-d created…,” is also to say, “G-d created the beginning.”

Chassidic master Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi applies this concept to resolve a philosophical problem regarding G-d’s creation of the world. Since G-d is eternal and unchanging, we obviously cannot say that He “matured” to a certain state or had a certain idea “grow on Him.” So why did He create the world only when He did? Why not one year, a hundred years or a billion years earlier, since whatever reasons He had for creation were certainly just as valid then? But this question, says Rabbi Schneur Zalman, is a non-sequitur. Time is itself part of G-d’s creation. We cannot ask why the world was not created earlier, since there is no stretch of time that can be termed “before” creation.

The First Mitzvah

Time’s status as the “first creation” sheds light on another point raised by the commentaries on the first verse of the book of Genesis. In his commentary on this verse, Rashi quotes the Midrash:

The Torah should have begun with, “This month shall be to you the head of months…” (Exodus 12), which is the first mitzvah commanded to the people of Israel. Why does it begin ‘In the beginning of…’?

Torah means “law” and “instruction”; the function of the Torah is to instruct us on the laws of life, which it does via the 613 mitzvot (divine commandments) it addresses to the people of Israel. But the first such mitzvah appears only in the 12th chapter of Exodus, where G-d commands the mitzvah of kiddush hachodesh – the “sanctification of the new month” and the setting of the Jewish calendar. Why, asks the Midrash, does the Torah devote the first of its five books, and a good part of the second, to things other than its primary purpose? While there is many a lesson to be learned from the Torah’s accounts of the creation of the universe, the history of mankind and the lives of the Patriarchs, would it not be more appropriate for the Torah to begin with G-d’s direct instructions to us?

The Midrash goes on to explain the Torah’s reason for opening with its account of the creation – a reason whose deeper significance we have explored on another occasion.[2]

In this essay, we shall dwell on the Midrash’s reference to the mitzvah of kiddush hachodesh as “the first mitzvah commanded to the Jewish people.” Why, indeed, was this our first mitzvah? Obviously, the setting of our calendar has a far-reaching influence on many other mitzvot—it determines when we will sound the shofar, fast and atone for our sins, conduct the Passover seder, as well as a host of other time-specific observances. But it would seem that there are a number of other, no less fundamental mitzvot. In what sense is the mitzvah of setting the calendar more basic to our service of G-d than mitzvot such as Torah study, charity or prayer?

Man and Thing

To understand the relationship between the first mitzvah and the first creation, we must first take a closer look at the dynamics of the mitzvah.

There are two basic aspects to the mitzvah: its relationship to the person performing it, and its relationship to the materials and resources with which it is performed. In the terminology of the Talmudists, there is the gavra (“man” element) of the mitzvah, and the cheftza (“object”) of the mitzvah.

Every mitzvah-act, by virtue of its being the fulfillment of a divine command, creates a link between the person doing the mitzvah and the One who commanded it; indeed, the word mitzvah means both “commandment” and “connection.” In addition, each of the 613 mitzvot has its own particular effect on the mind, character and habits of the person. An act of charity contributes not only the fulfillment of the needs of the recipient but also to the making of a more sensitive and caring giver; putting on tefillin reminds its wearer of his special relationship with G-d and of his duty to commit his mind and heart to serve Him; eating matzah on Passover makes tactual the experience of the Exodus and increases the eater’s awareness of the gift and responsibilities of freedom; studying Torah inculcates the mind of its student with the divine wisdom. It is of the “personal” aspect of the mitzvah that our sages speak when they say, “The Torah was given to refine the human being.”[3]

In addition, a mitzvah has a profound effect on the physical resources with which it is performed—the animal hide in the tefillin, the woolen threads of the tzitzit, the branches covering the sukkah. The act of mitzvah refines and sanctifies these physical substances, transforming them into “objects of holiness” – things whose form and utility express their subservience to the divine will.

On the face of it, it would seem that a mitzvah’s effect on its “person” is far more significant than its effect on its “object.” The person doing the mitzvah is perceptibly changed. Our sages note that “habit becomes second nature”[4] – even a formal, routine act, with little or no conscious awareness of its significance, has an effect upon the mindset and character of the actor. On the other hand, it would seem that nothing really “happens” to the object of the mitzvah, which remains a mute piece of matter. So what does it mean when we say that a thing with which a mitzvah is performed is “refined,” “sanctified” and “transformed”? In what sense is a pair of tefillin “holier” than an ordinary piece of leather?

The Object

Common wisdom has it the more abstract a thing is, the loftier and more worthy it is. Thus it is generally agreed that the ethereal is grander than the real, that idea is greater (more “ideal”) than fact, that the spiritual is holier (i.e. closer to G-d) than the physical. Indeed, our sages refer to the physical world as the “lowliest” of G-d’s creations.[5]

Why is it that greater tangibility renders a thing lowlier and less divine? The Chassidic masters explain the un-G-dliness of the physical as due to its self-centeredness. “I am,” proclaims the physical thing.

“If you wish to search for a deeper meaning to my existence, be my guest. But as far as I’m concerned, I’ve no need to for significance or definition beyond the self-contained fact of my existence.”

This is in direct conflict with the cardinal law of reality, which is that “There is none else besides Him”[6] that G-d is the only true existence, and that everything “else” is not “besides Him” but an extension and expression of His reality.

The first step to diffusing this contradiction is to impose function and purpose on a physical substance. When wood, wire and ivory are formed into a piano, the result is an “object” – matter with a manifest objective. Rather than simply saying “I am,” a piano states:

“There is more to me than the fact of physical matter of a certain quantity and shape: everything about me speaks of other, more transcendent realities. I convey the fact that there is music; that there are people who compose, play and listen to music; that there are craftsmen who assemble instruments to serve this end. My existence is a result of, and servant to, all these truths.”

But this elevation from material to object is only a transcendence of a limited sort. True, a piano (or a book, or a hammer) bespeaks ideas and endeavors beyond its own brute substantiality; but are these ideas and endeavors more G-dly? Are they less in conflict with the truth that “There is none else besides Him”? Perhaps. Perhaps the music being played on the piano expresses a yearning for something beyond mere existence; perhaps it elevates its listener an increment above his animal self and its needs and wants and suggests to him a higher purpose to life. But not necessarily. Music can also be an expression of the ego and its most base aspirations, in which case its “spirituality” is nothing more than an idealization of the very fallacy we are striving to transcend.

But when a physical substance is formed and used as the object of a mitzvah, it becomes a vessel and instrument of the divine. The “I am” of the physical now becomes, “I am nothing on my own; I exist to serve my Creator.”

Time as Material

In this way, the 613 mitzvot of the Torah transform the physical world into what the Midrash calls “a dwelling for G-d”[7] – an abode which houses and serves the divine truth. For every physical thing, force and phenomenon can be utilized to fulfill a divine command: brute matter (the animal hide oftefillin, the wool of tzitzit, the coin or banknote given as charity), the human body (the brain that studies Torah, the lips that pray, the feet that walk to the synagogue), physical energy (Shabbat and Chanukah lights), and the very essence of physicality – time and space themselves.

Every mitzvah is a physical action – an action transpiring in time and space. So every mitzvah “uses” a certain area of both time and space as component parts of its “object,” thereby sanctifying them as instruments of the divine will. Thus our sages have said that it is preferable to perform many “smaller” mitzvah-actions instead of one “big” mitzvah. A common application of this principle is the pushka, or “charity box,” which is a prominent feature of the Jewish home: every day, one drops a few coins in the box; when the box fills, its contents are given to charity. In terms of the objective to aid the needy, nothing is gained by giving $1 a day over 100 days rather than giving $100 in a lump sum; but in terms of the mitzvah’s effect on the person and the physical world, more acts of charity means more refining influences upon the person, and more utilizations of time in fulfillment of a divine command.

Rabbi Israel Baal Shem Tov takes this a step further, saying that it is preferable to perform two mitzvot on two different days than to do two such actions on a single day.[8]

For in this way, two different time units (the “day” being an integral component of time[9]) are refined and elevated through their participation in an act of mitzvah.

Man-Made Time

Torah law distinguishes between two levels in a thing’s utilization by a mitzvah: as an “object of a mitzvah,” or as “instruments of a mitzvah.” A mitzvah’s “object” is the thing or substance with which the mitzvah is actually performed, such as the leather boxes which the Jew binds on his head and arm as tefillin; a mitzvah’s “instruments” are the resources which facilitate and enable the mitzvah’s performance, such as the tools which fashion a piece of leather into tefillin or the food which provides a person putting on the tefillin with the energy to bind them on himself.

Time fills an auxiliary, “instrumental” role in the performance of every mitzvah. There is one mitzvah, however, in which time is the primary “object” – the resource which is actually shaped and formed in conformity with the divine will. This is the mitzvah of kiddush hachodesh, “sanctification of the new month.”

The Jewish calendar is punctuated with numerous “callings of holiness”[10]– the festivals and special days designated by the Torah as possessing special spiritual qualities. These are more than “commemorations” of historical events: the very substance of the time occupied by Passover is imbued with the quality of freedom, that of Sukkot with joy, of Shavuot with the revelation at Sinai, of Rosh Hashanah with G-d’s annual resumption of His sovereignty over the universe, of Yom Kippur with teshuvah – the capacity to access the very quintessence of one’s soul and its bond to G-d. And so it is with every festival and special day on the Jewish calendar – each has its unique “holiness” and divine quality woven into the very fabric of its time for us to “call forth” and actualize by observing the mitzvot of the day.

One would think that the spiritual character of time is fixed and absolute, established by the Creator when time itself was formed. Indeed, such is the case with the weekly Shabbat, which G-d “blessed” and “sanctified” by resting from His work of creation, thereby establishing the seven-day work/rest cycle which defines our week.[11] But with regard to the annual cycle of the festivals, G-d desired that these should be sanctified by human beings. The mitzvah of kiddush hachodesh is that we should fix the calendar based on monthly sightings of the new moon and our calculations of the lunar and solar cycles,[12] and that these sightings and calculations should determine which day shall be a Yom Kippur, which days shall comprise the festival of Passover, and so on. The Torah goes so far as to state that even if those entrusted with the task of making these calculations err, it is their “mistaken” conclusions which create the holiness and specialty of the festivals.[13]

This is the “first mitzvah commanded to the Jewish people.” The mitzvah to “know and believe in the existence of G-d,”[14] to “love your fellow as yourself,”[15] or to “study Torah day and night”[16] might be more fundamental in terms of the mitzvot’s effect upon the person; but in terms of the mitzvot’s transformation and sanctification of the universe, the “sanctification of the month” is the mitzvah whose “object” is the most basic element of the physical creation.[17]

Based on the Rebbe’s talks, Adar II 27, 5717 (March 30, 1957), Cheshvan 24, 5738 (November 5, 1977), and on other occasions[18]

Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

Tags: Cosmic Order, mitzvah, month, Hebrew calendar, time, creation, commandments
Posted in Weekly Parsha, Bereishit, Bamidbar, Months & Holidays, Bamidbar, Torah | 1 Comment »

Torah In The Winter

June 14th, 2015

Each week of the year, another of the Torah’s 54 parshiot (sections) is studied, publicly read in the synagogue, and its lessons applied to daily living. Thus the Jew lives with the Torah: the Five Books of Moses are his calendar, their chapters and verses marking, defining, molding and inspiring the weeks and days of his year.

Simchat Torah is the day on which we conclude the annual Torah-reading cycle. On this day, we read the Torah section of Vezot Haberachah,(Deuteronomy 33-34), and immediately begin a new Torah-reading cycle with the reading of the first chapter of Genesis.

Simchat Torah means The Rejoicing of the Torah, for the Torah rejoices on this day. The Torah is the stuff of the Jew’s life: his link to his Creator, his national mandate, the very purpose of his existence. But the Jew is no less crucial for the Torah than the Torah is for the Jew: it is he and she who devote their life to its study, teaching and practice; he and she who carry its wisdom and ethos to all peoples of the earth; he and she who translate its precepts and ideals into concrete reality.

So if we rejoice in the Torah on Simchat Torah, lifting its holy scrolls into our arms and filling the synagogue with song and dance, the Torah, too, rejoices in us on this day. The Torah, too, wishes to dance, but lacking the physical apparatus to do so, it employs the body of the Jew. On Simchat Torah, the Jew becomes the dancing feet of the Torah.

Why Not on Shavuot?

Simchat Torah immediately follows the festival of Sukkot. Indeed, the biblical name for Simchat Torah is Shemini Atzeret, which means the Eighth Day of Retention; for the function of this festival is for us to retain and absorb the attainments of the seven days of Sukkot.

(Outside the land of Israel, where the festival of Shemini Atzeret/Simchat Torah is observed for two days, the name Shemini Atzeret is usually applied to the first day and Simchat Torah to the second–the day on which the actual conclusion and beginning of the Torah takes place. In essence, however, the two days constitute a single festival, and the name Shemini Atzeret applies to both its days).

But why celebrate Simchat Torah on Shemini Atzeret, the 22nd (and 23rd) day(s) of the month of Tishrei? As a rule, the festivals are located at points on the calendar that mark the historical sources of their import and significance: Passover is observed on the 15th of Nissan, the anniversary of our Exodus from Egypt on Passover; Rosh HaShanah occurs on the 1st of Tishrei, the date of the creation of man; and so on. Accordingly, would it not have been more appropriate to rejoice over the Torah on the 6th of Sivan, the day in which G-d revealed Himself to us at Mount Sinai and granted us the Torah as our eternal heritage?

Indeed, we mark that date with the festival of Shavuot–a festival devoted to re-experiencing the revelation at Sinai and reiterating our covenant with G-d forged by Torah. Yet our joy in the Torah is reserved for the festival of Shemini Atzeret–a date with no apparent historical connection to our relationship with the Torah.

One might explain that our living with Torah through the annual reading cycle, studying it and implementing it in our daily lives, is of greater significance than our original receiving of it at Sinai. But this itself requires explanation: Why do we conclude and begin the Torah on Shemini Atzeret? Why did Moses, who established the Torah reading cycle, not schedule it to end and recommence on the festival of Shavuot?

Calendar Twins

Actually, a closer look at Shemini Atzeret and Shavuot reveals a striking resemblance between the two festivals. Shavuot, too, carries the name Atzeret, for it, too, serves as a vehicle of retention and absorption for the festival that precedes it. The resemblance is further intensified by the fact that, like Shemini Atzeret, Shavuot is also an eighth day of retention–a one-day festival which culminates a cycle of seven. Shemini Atzeret immediately follows the seven days of Sukkot, while Shavuot closes the seven-week sefirah count begun on Passover.

The two Atzerets mirror each other across the yearly cycle. The Jewish year is like a circle with two poles–two key months, Nissan and Tishrei, are both considered, each in its own realm, to be the first and head of the entire year. Nissan 15 is the date of the Exodus, and begins the seven-day festival of Passover. Exactly six months later, on the 15th of Tishrei, begins the other seven-day festival of the Jewish year, Sukkot. And both of these seven-day festivals are capped by a one-day Atzeret. The only break in the symmetry is the fact that the Atzeret of Sukkot is a literal, contiguous eighth to its seven days, while Passover’s Atzeret is a more distant eighth, following a count of 49 (7 times 7) days that begins on the second day of Passover.

This leads the talmudic sage Rabbi Joshua ben Levi to say: The Atzeret of the festival of Sukkot ought to have been fifty days later, like the Atzeret of Passover.

Why, indeed, does Shemini Atzeret immediately follow Sukkot? Rabbi Joshua offers the following parable in explanation:

A king had many daughters. Some of them were married off nearby, and some of them were married off in faraway places. One day, they all came to visit with the king, their father. Said the king: Those who are married off nearby have the time to go and come; but those who are married off afar, do not have the time to go and come. Since they are all here with me, I will make one festival for them all and I shall rejoice with them.

Thus, with the Atzeret of Passover, when we are coming from winter into summer, G-d says:

They have the time to go and come. But with the Atzeret of Sukkot, since we are coming from summer into winter, and the dust of the roads is difficult, and the byroads are difficult … G-d says: They do not have the time to go and come; since they are all here, I will make one festival for them all and I shall rejoice with them (Midrash Rabbah, Song of Songs 7:4).

What is an Atzeret?

To better understand the significance of Rabbi Joshua’s question and the answer provided by his parable, we must first examine the concept of Atzeret. Why does a festival require an Atzeret? What is the difference between an Atzeret that immediately follows a festival and one that comes several weeks later?

The Chassidic masters explain that an Atzeret is the absorption and internalization of what was earlier realized and expressed on a more external level. Atzeret is what digestion is to eating, what assimilation is to study, what conception is to marriage.

Our receiving of the Torah on Shavuot is the Atzeret of our liberation from slavery seven weeks earlier. On Passover we became a free people–free of the taskmaster’s whip, free of subjugation to the cruelest, most debased society on earth. But what is freedom? How is it to be digested, internalized and integrated into our day-to-day existence? Is it freedom from responsibility, from the burden of moral choices, from purpose and definition to life? If such is freedom, then the most liberated creature on earth is … the slave! Indeed, this was the freedom some Jews yearned for when they complained to Moses several months later, We remember the fish which we ate in Egypt, for free.

When G-d revealed Himself to Moses in the burning bush and charged him with the mission of taking the children of Israel out of Egypt, He expressed to him the nature of the freedom to be bestowed upon the newborn nation.

“This is your sign that I have sent you”, said G-d. “When you take this nation out of Egypt, you shall serve G-d at this mountain.”

The purpose of the Exodus was that it should lead to Sinai. The freedom that G-d promised to Israel was not merely freedom from the geographical borders of Egypt, but freedom from all constraints and limitations, physical or psychological, external or internal. Freedom from doubt, freedom from hazard and inconsistency, freedom from servitude to ones own nature, drives and desires. Freedom which enables the soul to realize her full potential, to experience her intrinsic bond with her essence and source, to actualize her mission and purpose in life. In other words, the freedom to be fully and uninhibitedly oneself. Such freedom is possible only through Torah, the divinely authored blueprint for creation which guides and directs us toward the understanding and actualization of who and what we truly are.

So every year, after receiving the gift of freedom on the 15th of Nissan, we embark on a 49-day process of absorbing and internalizing it–a process which culminates in the Atzeret of Shavuot. For seven weeks we labor to assimilate the true, inner significance of the Exodus into the 49 traits and sub-traits of our souls, to mature a circumstantial liberty into a state of inherent freedom.

Thus we graduate (as Rabbi Joshua expresses it) from winter to summer. From the chill of aimlessness to the warmth of passionate purpose; from the hardship of struggle to the delight of achievement; from the gloom of ignorance to the clear summer light of wisdom and understanding.

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

The Second Tablets

For life is not the unbroken progression of development and growth that we plan it to be. Instead, there are blunders, failings and regressions. Our life as a nation was no different: a few short weeks after we stood at Sinai, beheld our Creator, and attained the pinnacle of freedom and perfection, the Golden Calf was being worshipped in the Jewish camp.

But every fall also provides the momentum for a subsequent rise. The debacle of the Golden Calf gave us Yom Kippur–the holiest day of the year, and the source of an even deeper connection to Torah than the revelation at Sinai on Shavuot had achieved.

Following the revelation at Sinai, G-d gave Moses the Two Tablets of the Covenant on which He had inscribed the Ten Commandments which encapsulate the entirety of Torah. Upon beholding Israels violation of everything the Tablets stood for, Moses threw the Tablets from his hands and broke them at the foot of the mountain. But out of the shattered tablets and covenant was born a second set of tablets–a set of tablets containing the Torah on a level that the earlier set did not, and could not, include. On the 10th of Tishrei, observed ever since as Yom Kippur, G-d gave us the Second Tablets, conveying to us a dimension of Torah that only the regenerative power of teshuvah (repentance, lit. return) can evoke.

On the most basic level, the Torah is a set of divinely-ordained precepts, a list of do’s and dont’s which outline the manner in which the Creator of life desired that it be lived; to act accordingly is to connect to G-d as the instrument of His will. This was the dimension of Torah that G-d inscribed on the First Tablets. But the Torah is much more than that, as evidenced by the fact that Torah itself provides the formula for teshuvah.

To rebuild a shattered relationship, one must access that part of the relationship that was never damaged in the first place. The possibility ofteshuvah means that even when a person violates the divine will, G-d forbid, the essence of his connection with G-d is not affected; and the fact that the Torah itself includes the precept of teshuvah means that Torah is the vehicle not only for the connection between ourselves and G-d which is expressed and actualized by our observance of its commandments, but also for the inviolable bond that remains forever unaffected by our deeds. So also one who has shattered the First Tablet dimension of his relationship with G-d can reach deeper into Torah, to the very heart of the relationship tapped by the hunger, the longing, the recoil of teshuvah, and rebuild it anew.

As long as we did not stray from the straight and true path of life ordained by Torah, there was no need–and no opportunity–to employ the power ofteshuvah. This is why the First Tablets contained only the conventional aspect of Torah–the connection with G-d achieved through the fulfillment of His will–while the deeper function of Torah remained locked in sublime latency. It was the Second Tablets, the product of our repentant response to our first (and prototypic) fall as a people, upon which G-d inscribed the essence of Torah–the bond between Him and us that transcends its laws and commandments.

Hidden and Revealed

And Sukkot is the celebration of Yom Kippur.

Teshuvah, by its very nature, is an introverted act: a soul secludes herself with her G-d, agonizes over the distance she has created between them, and in the depth of her anguish finds the redeeming element of her iniquities, the power to repair and sublimate her defective past.

The private nature of teshuvah is demonstrated by a marked difference between the manner in which we received the First and Second Tablets. On Shavuot, the entire Jewish nation gathered around Mount Sinai amidst a tremendous display of divine power; there was thunder and lightening, clouds of fire and smoke, and the triumphant blast of the shofar as the Almighty communicated the Ten Commandments to all of Israel and summoned Moses to the top of the mountain to receive the Tablets of the Covenant. But when Moses received the second set of Tablets on Yom Kippur, no one was there; G-d instructed that it be a silent and private affair, befitting the still, deep waters of teshuvah.

So Yom Kippur is hardly the environment for manifest joy and celebration. And yet, what greater joy can there be for the Jew than his joy in the Torah of the Second Tablets, in the essence of his eternal, all-enduring bond with his Creator? And the nature of joy is that it refuses to confine itself to the inner sanctum of the heart. It bursts its seams, floods the body, pours out the throat in song and sets the feet dancing. Hence the festival of Sukkot, The Time of Our Joy, five days later on the 15th of Tishrei. Sukkot is the joy of Yom Kippur come to light–the joy that the solemnity and inwardness of the day had kept concealed.

For seven days the joy mounts. But as with the freedom gained on Passover, the joy of teshuvah must be absorbed and internalized. Instead of remaining a once-a-year experience, it must be integrated into our nature and daily existence. So the seven-day festival of Sukkot is followed by an Atzeret–a day in which our joy with the essence of Torah reaches its peak, and is immediately married to the cycle of our year-round lives.

Summer and Winter

Thus, the Passover-Shavuot orbit on the one hand, and the Yom Kippur-Sukkot-Shemini Atzeret constellation on the other, represent two dimensions of Torah and its role as the facilitator of the bond between us and G-d.

The journey from Passover to Shavuot represents the straight and true path outlined by Torah: the careful climb from the ignorance and selfishness of infancy to spiritual and moral maturity; the step-by-step progress of the righteous individual (tzaddik) who labors for a lifetime to develop the inherent goodness and perfection of his soul while safeguarding himself from the pitfalls of a corporeal and corrupting world.

On the other hand, the Second Tablets of Yom Kippur, and their celebration and internalization on Sukkot and Shemini Atzeret, represent the triumph of the baal teshuvah (master of return)–the one who, having succumbed to the trials of earthly life, has exploited the negativity of his condition to touch the very core of his soul and stimulate its most quintessential powers.

This is reflected in the alignment of these two festival-systems with the seasons of the year. The springtime festival of Passover and Shavuot, marking the passage from winter to summer, embody the tzaddik‘s measured progression from bud to bloom, from darkness and cold to light and warmth, from spiritual infancy to maturity. The autumn festivals of Tishrei represent the baal teshuvahs return to the cold and gloom of winter to uncover the treasures hidden therein.

The Parable

Now we might understand Rabbi Joshua’s parable and how it explains the difference between the Atzeret of Passover and the Atzeret of Sukkot.

The Supernal King has many married daughters–many souls who have embarked on the mission and challenge of physical life. The soul comes down to earth and is joined to a body in order that their union should yield a progeny of good deeds: deeds which sanctify their material environment and fulfill G-d’s purpose in creation by developing it as a dwelling for His presence. Hence, the depiction of the souls earthly sojourn as a marriage.

Some of the King’s daughters are married off in a near place. These are the souls of the righteous, who, though they descend into physical life, never lose sight of their royal origins. They deal with the material, developing and refining their own physical natures and the world about them; but without falling prey to its adverse influences. They have left their fathers home, but never wander too far off.

But the King also has daughters whose marriages have led them to faraway places: souls whose involvement with the material reality has taken them far from the royal palace; souls who have become deeply enmeshed in the mundanity they came to redeem.

There are tzaddikim and there are baalei teshuvah, and there is also the tzaddik and the baal teshuvah within each and every one of us. We each have our moments and areas of perfect righteousness–moments and areas of our lives that remain forever unsullied by the evil we must contend with. And virtually every man has had the experience–to a greater or lesser extent–of grappling with that evil, being tainted by it, and being challenged to surmount the fall–only to be driven by it to even greater heights than the perfect self could ever attain.

Passover is the festival of the tzaddik and of the tzaddik within us. On Passover we taste the pure, untarnished freedom of a newborn people. So the Atzeret of Passover comes fifty days later. For it is springtime; the roads are clear, and we have the time to go and come. We are free to methodically make our way through the 49 steps from the revelation of Passover to the internalization of Shavuot. It is a gradual, step-by-step journey, characteristic of the gradual, step-by-step trajectory of the tzaddiks path through life.

But on Sukkot we celebrate our capacity for teshuvah, our bond with G-d embodied by the Second Tablets. At this reunion of the daughters that are married afar with their Father and King, they have not the time to go and come. For we are coming from summer into winter, and the dust of the roads is difficult, and the byroads are difficult. We are journeyers along the volatile path of teshuvah, where opportunities must be grasped as they come, and lives are unmade and remade in a single, explosive moment.

So we plunge directly from Sukkot into the Atzeret of Simchat Torah–directly into the immediate internalization of the Second Tablet edition of Torah and its retention through the winters and summers to come.

Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe

Tags: passover, Yom Kippur, The Ten Commandments, Sukkot, freedom, teshuvah, Jewish calendar, festivals
Posted in Weekly Parsha, Simchat Torah, Devarim, Torah, Vezot Habracha | No Comments »