The Married Life

April 15th, 2015

And [Eliezer] said: “I am the servant of Abraham. G-d has blessed my master exceedingly … and has given him sheep and cattle, silver and gold… And Sarah, my master’s wife, bore a son to my master in her old age; and to him he has given all that he possesses…”

Genesis 24:34-36

“And to him he has given all that he possesses”: Eliezer showed them a deed of bequest in which Abraham had given Isaac all his possessions, so that they should hurry to send their daughter [to marry Isaac].

Rashi (ibid., verses 10 and 36)

Abraham lived for an additional thirty-five years after Isaac’s marriage to Rebecca, years in which he himself remarried and fathered six children. So was it advisable—or even permissible[1]—for him to give away “all that he possesses” to Isaac? Surely half of Abraham’s considerable wealth would have sufficed to make Isaac an attractive match for Rebecca’s family.

Being and Naught

The created reality, as we know and experience it, has two dimensions: the physical and the spiritual. Physical things are those we perceive with our senses, or whose existence and qualities we infer from sensory data. “Spiritual” is our name for those realities which, even if their effect upon us is sensed and their existence proven by empirical evidence, are devoid of the qualities (substance, form, quantity, etc.) that make the physical object real to us. We know, for example, that we possess life, but we are unable to define or perceive what “life” is. We recognize and discuss realities such as “reason,” “will,” “love,” “souls,” “angels,” and “holiness,” but theirs is a spiritual existence—nebulous, ethereal and abstract rather than concrete, tangible and definitive.

It is for this reason that the spiritual is regarded as loftier and more G-dly, and the physical as “lowlier”[2] and more distant from G-d. For the cardinal law of reality is that “There is none else beside Him”[3]—that G-d is the only true existence, and that all other “existences” are but extensions and expressions of His being. It therefore follows that the more “reality” and “being” of its own a thing exhibits, the greater a concealment it is of the divine truth.

A physical thing manifestly is, and what is worse (from a spiritual standpoint) is that it presumes to be wholly self-defined and self-sufficient. When we ask the stone, “What are you? What is your source? What is your purpose? What is the significance of your existence?” it replies: “I am. As far as I’m concerned, I always was, always will be, and require no purpose and significance beyond the fact of my existence.” In contrast, a spiritual thing’s “existence” is defined not by its substance and presence but by its function—by the truth it expresses and the purpose it serves. Thus, the existence of the spiritual entity is less in conflict with the axiom “There is none else beside Him,” and it more readily serves, conveys and expresses the Divine.

There is, however, another side to the physical/spiritual differentiation. From where, indeed, stems the physical’s sense of self and unequivocality of being? As with everything in existence, this, too, derives from its divine source. Because G-d’s existence is absolute and unequivocal, because G-d cannot be defined by any function, purpose or significance other than the fact of His being, the physical object also exhibits these qualities. Ultimately, the physical object mirrors, rather than belies, the divine reality.

In other words, both the spiritual and the physical affirm the exclusivity and absoluteness of the divine, but in very different ways. The spiritual entity does so with its subservience and self-nullification (bittul). “I myself am nothing,” it proclaims, “I exist solely to reveal a higher truth.” The self-defined reality of the material world is a lie—a lie to be refuted by establishing the sovereignty of spirit over matter, of the ideal over the real. The “selfishness” of creation is to be quelled by imparting the recognition that G-d is the only true existence and that all else exists solely to serve Him and reveal His truth.

This is the spiritual perspective on reality. The physical perspective is an opposite one: that the material world is the ultimate conveyor of the divine reality. It is true that if one regards creation as something distinct from its Creator, the spiritual is “closer” to G-d: it has less of a “self” and is less “real,” and is thus less of a contradiction of “There is none else beside Him.” But if one delves beneath the surface reality of a world separate from G-d and comprehends that the entirety of creation is but an expression of His truth, then the physical expresses a deeper element of His truth. The spiritual conveys certain divine qualities (divine wisdom, benevolence, infinity, transcendence, etc.) while the physical bespeaks the divine being, mirroring the absoluteness, unequivocality and utter autonomy of G-d’s existence.

It follows, therefore, that the ultimate manifestation of divine truth requires a union of the spiritual and the physical. It requires a spiritual subjugation of the physical’s claim to self-sufficiency and separateness of being, which is ostensibly antithetical to the divine truth. And it requires the cultivation of that very self-sufficiency as the ultimate expression of the divine reality.

This is the purpose of life on earth. It is to this end that the soul, a spiritual being par excellence,[4] enters the physical body and assumes a physical existence. It is to this end that it performs the mitzvot, remaking physical deeds and physical objects into implements of divine will.[5] In the words of the Tanya, “This is what man is all about; [this is] the purpose of his creation and the creation of all worlds, supernal and lowly—that G-d should have a dwelling place (i.e., an environment hospitable to His presence and expressive of His truth) in the lowly (i.e., physical) realms.”[6] When a physical object assumes spiritual subservience to G-d, there is no greater affirmation of the divine truth.

The First Mitzvah

Marriage is the human equivalent of this union of spirit and matter.

Man and woman are the spiritual and physical elements of the human world. Man is a “spiritual” being in the sense that he is a warrior—a creature who comes to challenge the status quo and impose his will on the environment. Woman is “physical” in the sense that she is a nurturer—one who seeks to cultivate and identify with reality rather than master it or supplant it. Man conquers, woman develops. Man achieves, woman is.

Thus our sages have said: “This world we traverse is comparable to a wedding.”[7] “Be fruitful and multiply”[8] is the first divine commandment issued to man, for the imperative to “cleave to one’s wife and become one flesh”[9] is the essence of life and the reason we are here: to effect the union of spirit and matter.[10]

This is why Abraham invested “all that he possessed” in the marriage of Isaac and Rebecca. As the first Jewish marriage described by the Torah, it is the prototype of all subsequent Jewish marriages, both in the literal sense of “building a home in Israel” and in the broader sense of making the world a “dwelling place” for G-d. In this endeavor is invested everything that Abraham possesses: all the resources—spiritual and material—with which the Almighty supplies His people to the end of realizing His purpose in creation.

Based on an address by the Rebbe, Shabbat Chayei Sarah 5752 (1991)[11]

Tags: spiritual and material, Eliezer, marriage
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Separatism

April 15th, 2015

“When I see Your heavens,” sings the Psalmist, “the work of Your fingers, the moon and the stars which You have ordained… G-d our Lord! How majestic is Your name in all the world!”[20]

Indeed, the grandeur, complexity and mystery of the universe bespeak the wisdom and majesty of its Creator. But our world also contains much that, at least to our eyes, is trivial, fractious and deceitful. How do these relate to the singular truth of the Author of reality?

The Kabbalist masters explain that G-d created the whole of existence in the form of a seder hishtalshelut— a “chain of evolution”— in which every reality derives from a higher, more abstract reality that is its mirror and source, which in turn derives from yet a higher, even more abstract reality that is its mirror and source, and so on through the innumerable links in the chain of creation. Thus, what on a higher, more spiritual plane of reality is a subtle, and wholly positive, contrast between two forces, evolves in successive stages of the seder hishtalshelut into diversity, disparity, disharmony, and—ultimately—outright conflict between the various components of G-d’s creation. What on a higher plane of reality is a subtle and wholly positive “contraction” or self-restraint of a divine force, evolves into successively cruder forms of limitation and constriction, and ultimately deficiency and abscess, in G-d’s world.

Chain of Thought

This is true of every object and force in the physical world, from a grain of sand to the law of gravity: each is the final link in a chain of existences reaching upwards to its most spiritual, abstract form.

The same is also true with regard to thoughts and ideas. Often, we might hear someone espousing an idea or presenting an argument that is obviously mistaken and misguided. But the very possibility for such an idea to exist and be propagated is the result of a higher, less obviously erroneous idea, which is itself  the result of an even more subtle error, and so on to the highest link in the chain of ideas.

For example: There are those who argue that since “G-d desires the heart,”[21] it is unnecessary to bother with the actual observance of the mitzvot. It is enough that “My heart is in the right place” and “I am a Jew at heart.”

Such a divorce of deed from faith and feeling is obviously antithetical to the very essence of Judaism. But even among those who accept the importance of the mitzvah (“commandment” or “good deed”) in their relationship with G-d, there exists the tendency to distinguish between different periods or areas of life. For example, there are those who are careful to fulfill their duties to G-d and man during the “Days of Awe” of Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur, but place much less importance on their actions during the rest of the year.

What are the roots for such differentiation between times of the year? We find the same approach among those diligent in their observance of the mitzvot all year round. A person might zealously fulfill every clause in the Shulchan Aruch (Code of Jewish Law), yet divide his life  into “holy” days and “secular” days. On Shabbat and the festivals he enters into his “holy” mode, in which his every thought and deed is directed toward his spiritual development and his service of G-d; the rest of his life, while conforming to the laws of the Torah, is wholly devoted to his material pursuits and the enhancement of his material existence.

A higher, more subtle link in this chain of “separatist” thinking is the idea that while each day of the year must include spiritual and G-dly pursuits, these may be confined to fixed hours devoted to Torah study and prayer. The remainder of the day, when one has no choice but to devote oneself in one’s material affairs, belongs to another domain of life—a domain which, by nature and definition, is separate and disconnected from the “islands of holiness” in its midst.

Finally, there are those who maintain that the Torah must permeate every nook and cranny of one’s life, yet practice a separation of domains within Torah itself, distinguishing between its “revealed,” pragmatic side and its “hidden,” esoteric dimension. Those parts of Torah that are readily digestible by human reason—e.g., the stories of the Torah, the laws put forth in the Talmud and Shulchan Aruch—are to be assimilated into every area and activity of life; but the esoteric parts of Torah—e.g., the teachings of Kabbalah and Chassidism—are the province of saintly mystics who sever all connection with the material world and devote themselves solely to the spiritual realm of life.

All these arguments have the same essential contention at their core: that the spiritual and the material are, and will always remain, two distinct domains. The various levels on which this contention exists derive from and follow one another: a separation between the spiritual and pragmatic aspects of Torah in the mind of one Jew, leads to a separation between the spiritual and pragmatic parts of his days in the mind of his fellow; which leads to a separation between the spiritual and pragmatic days of the week in the mind of a third Jew; which expresses itself in a fourth Jew’s confinement of his relationship with G-d to the holiest days of the year; which ultimately results in a fifth Jew’s complete severance of his actions from his faith.

Basically True

All these arguments are based on truth. “G-d desires the heart” is a statement from the Talmud; it is the prophet Isaiah who describes the period from Rosh HaShanah to Yom Kippur as a time to “Seek G-d when He is to be found;” [22] Shabbat and the festivals are designated by the Torah as distinctly “holy” days, on which G-d’s relationship with the world is elevated to a higher, more spiritual plane; our sages tell us when a person is studying Torah, praying or performing a mitzvah, his very person becomes a “vehicle of divinity”—during these times he is certainly closer to G-d than while attending to his personal affairs;[23] and it is also true that the “esoteric” dimension of Torah is a more spiritual articulation of the divine wisdom and will than its “pragmatic” part.

The basis for all these arguments (which are, in essence, the same argument) is true; it is their conclusions that are erroneous. Yes, G-d created the spiritual and the material as two distinct domains. Yes, a vast gulf separates faith from deed, holy days and activities from ordinary ones, and mystical truths from pragmatic ones. But the entire purpose of life is to bridge this gulf, to integrate these domains. This is why G-d took the spiritual soul and placed it within a physical body and life: so that we translate our faith into deeds, draw the holiness and spirituality of Yom Kippur into the year and of Shabbat into the workweek, fuse our sacred and secular activities into a singular goal of serving our Creator, and unite the sublime and the practical in our mind’s endeavor to grasp His truth.

Based on an address by the Rebbe, Passover 5715 (1955)[24]

Adapted from the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

Tags: spiritual evolution, pragmatism, unity, seamlessness, spiritual and material
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Partner

April 15th, 2015

And the man took a golden ring, a half-shekel in weight; and two bracelets of ten shekels weight of gold for her hands

Genesis 24:22

“A half-shekel”—to allude to the shekalim contributed by the people of Israel, “a half-shekel per head”[1]

Rashi, ibid.

The first marriage of which we read in the Torah is the marriage of Adam and Eve. Theirs, of course, was a marriage wholly made in Heaven: G-d Himself created the bride, perfumed and bejeweled her, and presented her to the groom.[2] One does not get the impression that Adam was much involved in the selection process.

The first instance in which the Torah tells the story of a marriage achieved by human effort is in the chapter that describes the search for a bride for Isaac.[3] Here are detailed the workings of a conventional shidduch: a matchmaker (Abraham’s servant Eliezer), an investigation into the prospective bride’s family[4] and character,[5] a dowry,[6] the initial encounter between the bride and groom,[7] and so on.

The Torah, which often conveys complex laws by means of a single word or letter, devotes no less than 67 verses to the marriage of Isaac and Rebecca. Many of the details are related twice—first in the Torah’s account of their occurrence, and a second time in Eliezer’s speech to Rebecca’s parents. For here we are being presented with a prototype to guide our own approach to marriage—both in the conventional sense as the union of two human beings, and in the cosmic sense as the relationship between G-d and man.[8]

Half of Twenty

One of the details which the Torah includes in its account is the fact that “a ring, a half-shekel in weight” was one of the gifts that Eliezer presented to Rebecca at their meeting at the well in Rebecca’s hometown in Aram Naharayim.

Our sages explain that this was an allusion to, and the forerunner of, the half-shekel contributed by each Jew toward the building of the Sanctuary. As G-d instructs Moses in the 30th chapter of Exodus:

Each man shall give the ransom of his soul to G-d…. This they shall give: … a half-shekel…. A shekel is twenty gerah; a half-shekel [shall be given] as an offering to G-d… The rich man should not give more, and the pauper should not give less, than the half-shekel…[9]

Why half a shekel? We know that, as a rule, “Everything that is for the sake of G‑d should be of the best and most beautiful. When one builds a house of prayer, it should be more beautiful than his own dwelling. When one feeds the hungry, he should feed him of the best and sweetest of his table…. Whenever one designates something for a holy purpose, he should sanctify the finest of his possessions; as it is written,^[10] ‘The choicest to G‑d.’”^[11]

Thus, in many cases Torah law mandates that the object of a mitzvah (divine commandment) be tamim, “whole”: a blemished animal cannot be brought as an offering to G-d, nor can a blemished etrog be included in the “Four Kinds” taken on the festival of Sukkot. Even when this is not an absolute requirement, the law states that, whenever possible, one should strive to fulfill a mitzvah with a whole object. For example, it is preferable to recite a blessing on a whole fruit or a whole loaf of bread, rather than on a slice (hence our use of two whole loaves at all Shabbat and festival meals).[12]

Why, then, does the Torah instruct that each Jew contribute half a shekel toward the building of a “dwelling for G-d”[13] within the Israelite camp?

The Torah’s repeated reference to this contribution as a “half-shekel” is all the more puzzling in light of the fact that in these very same verses the Torah finds it necessary to clarify that a shekel consists of twenty gerah. In other words, the amount contributed by each Jew as “the ransom of his soul” was ten gerah. Ten is a number that connotes completeness and perfection: the entire Torah is encapsulated within the Ten Commandments; the world was created with ten divine utterances;[14] G-d relates to His creation via ten sefirot (divine attributes), and the soul of man, formed in the “image of G-d,” is likewise comprised of ten “powers.”[15] But instead of instructing to give ten gerah, the Torah says to give half of a twenty-gerah shekel, deliberately avoiding mention of the number ten and emphasizing the “half” element of our contribution to the divine dwelling in our midst.

Separated at Birth

For such is the essence of marriage. If each partner approaches the marriage   with a sense of his or her self as a complete entity, they will, at best, achieve only a “relationship” between two distinct, self-contained lives. But marriage is much more than that. The Kabbalists explain that husband and wife are the male and female aspects of a single soul, born into two different bodies; for many years they live distinct and separate lives, often at a great distance from each other and wholly unaware of the other’s existence. But divine providence contrives to bring them together again under the wedding canopy and accord them the opportunity to become one again: not only one in essence, but also one on all levels—in their conscious thoughts and feelings and in their physical lives.[16]

Marriage is thus more than the union of two individuals. It is the reunion of a halved soul, the fusion of two lives originally and intrinsically one.

To experience this reunion, each must approach his or her life together not as a “ten,” but as a “half.” This “half-shekel” consists of “ten gerah”—each must give their “all” to the marriage, devoting to it the full array of resources and potentials they possess. But each must regard himself not as a complete being, but as a partner—a part seeking its other part to make it whole again.

The Sanctuary

The half-shekel ring given to Rebecca for her marriage to Isaac was the forerunner of the half-shekel contributed by each Jew toward the building of the Sanctuary, the “marital home” in the marriage between G-d and man.

The soul of man is “part of G-d above”[17]—a part that descended to a world whose mundanity and materiality conspire to distance it from its supernal source. So even a soul who is in full possession of her ten powers is still but a part. And even when G-d fully manifests the ten attributes of His involvement with His creation, He is still only partly present in our world. It is only when these two parts unite in marriage that their original wholeness and integrity is restored.

So to build G-d a home on earth we must contribute half of a 20-gerahshekel. We must give ourselves fully to Him, devoting the full spectrum of our ten powers and potentials to our marriage with Him. But even as we achieve the utmost in self-realization in our relationship with G-d, we must be permeated with a sense of our halfness—with the recognition and appreciation that we, as He, are incomplete without each other.[18]

Based on an address by the Rebbe, Shevat 27, 5715 (February 19, 1955)[19]

Tags: Eliezer, partnership, halves, shidduch, matchmaking
Posted in Weekly Parsha, Bereishit, Biblical, Personal Life, Love & Marriage, Torah Personalities, Chayei Sarah, Isaac, Torah, Rebecca | No Comments »

Growing Old

April 15th, 2015

And Abraham grew old, and came along in days; and G-d blessed Abraham in everything

Genesis 24:1

The Torah considers old age a virtue and a blessing. Throughout the Torah, “old” (zakein) is synonymous with “wise”; the Torah commands us to respect all elderly, regardless of their scholarship and piety, because the many trials and experiences that each additional year of life brings yield a wisdom which the most accomplished young prodigy cannot equal.[1] As the above-quoted verse emphasizes, when Abraham grew old he “came along in days”—his accumulated days, each replete with learning and achievement, meant that with each passing day his worth increased.[2] Thus, a ripe old age is regarded as one of the greatest blessings to be bestowed upon man.[3]

This is in marked contrast to the prevalent attitude in the “developed” countries of today’s world. In the 20th century western world, old age is a liability. Youth is seen as the highest credential in every field from business to government, where a younger generation insists on “learning from their own mistakes” rather than building upon the life experience of their elders. At 50, a person is considered “over the hill” and is already receiving hints that his position would be better filled by someone twenty-five years his junior; in many companies and institutions, retirement is mandatory by age 65 or earlier. Thus, society dictates that one’s later years be marked by inactivity and decline. The aged are made to feel that they are useless if not a burden, and had best confine themselves to retirement villages and nursing homes. After decades of achievement, their knowledge and talent are suddenly worthless; after decades of contributing to society, they are suddenly undeserving recipients, grateful for every time the younger generation takes off from work and play to drop by for a half-hour chat and the requisite Father’s Day necktie.

On the surface, the modern-day attitude seems at least partly justified. Is it not a fact that a person physically weakens as he advances in years? True, the inactivity of retirement has been shown to be a key factor in the deterioration of the elderly; but is it still not an inescapable fact of nature that the body of a 70-year-old is not the body of a 30-year-old?

But this, precisely, is the point: is a person’s worth to be measured by his physical prowess? By the number of man-hours and inter-continental flights that can be extracted from him per week? What is at issue here is more than the disenfranchisement of an entire segment of the population whose only crime is that they were born a decade or two earlier than the rest; our attitude toward the aged reflects our very conception of “value.” If a person’s physical strength has waned while his sagacity and insight have grown, do we view this as an improvement or a decline? If a person’s output has diminished in quantity but has increased in quality, has his net worth risen or fallen?

Indeed, a twenty-year-old can dance the night away while his grandmother tires after a few minutes. But man was not created to dance for hours on end. Man was created to make life on earth purer, brighter and holier than it was before he came on the scene. Seen in this light, the spiritual maturity of the aged more than compensates for their lessened physical strength; indeed, the diminution of one’s physical drives can be even utilized as a spiritual asset, as it allows a positive reordering of priorities that is much more difficult in one’s youth when the quest for material gains is at its height.[4]

Certainly, the physical health of the body affects one’s productivity. Life is a marriage between body and soul, and is at its most productive when nurtured by both a sound physique and a healthy spirit. But the effects of the aging process upon a person’s productivity are largely determined by the manner in which he regards this marriage and partnership. Which is the means and which is the end? If the soul is nothing more than an engine to drive the body’s procurement of its needs and aims, then the body’s physical weakening with age brings with it a spiritual deterioration as well—a descent into boredom, futility and despair. But when one regards the body as an accessory to the soul, the very opposite is true: the spiritual growth of old age invigorates the body, enabling one to lead a productive existence for as long as the Almighty grants one the gift of life.[5]

Life: A Definition

But there is more to it than that. There is more to the difference between the Torah’s perspective on old age and that of the modern world than the classic dichotomy between body and soul, more than the question of material versus spiritual priority.

At the basis of the institution of retirement is the notion that life is composed of productive and non-productive periods. The first 20-30 years of life are seen as a time of little or no achievement, as a person acquires knowledge and training in preparation for the productive period of life. The next 30-40 years are the time in which his or her creative energies are realized; he now returns what has been invested in him by his now passive elders, and invests, in turn, in the still passive younger generation. Finally, as he enters his “twilight years,” he puts his period of “real” achievement behind him; he has worked hard “all his life,” so he now ought to settle down and enjoy the fruits of his labors. If the creative urge still agitates his aging body, he is advised to find some harmless hobby with which to fill his time. Indeed, time is now something to be filled and gotten over with as he whiles away his days on life’s sidelines, his knowledge and abilities filed away in the attic of old age. He has now returned full circle to his childhood: once again he is a passive recipient in a world shaped and run by the initiative of others.

Torah, however, recognizes no such distinction between life’s phases, for it sees productivity as the very essence of life: the words “a non-productive life-period” are an oxymoron. There are marked differences between childhood, adulthood, etc., but these differ in the manner, not the fact, of a person’s productivity. Retirement and the passive enjoyment of the fruits of one’s labor also have their time and place—in the World To Come. In the words of the Talmud, “Today, is the time to do; tomorrow, to reap the reward.”[6] The very fact that G-d has granted a person a single additional day of bodily life means that he has not yet concluded his mission in life, that there is still something for him to achieve in this world.

Thus, the aphorism “Man is born to toil”[7] expresses a most basic fact of human nature. A person experiences true satisfaction only from something he has earned by his own effort and initiative; underserved gifts and handouts (“the bread of shame” in kabbalistic terminology) are unfulfilling and dehumanizing. As the Talmud observes, “A person would rather a single measure of his own grain than nine measures of his fellow’s.”[8]

A working adult, burdened by the demands of life, may nostalgically reminisce on his childhood “paradise” as a time of freedom from responsibility and toil.[9] As a child, however, he disdained such paradise, desiring only to do something real and creative. Challenge a child with responsibility, and he’ll flourish; cast him as a passive, unproductive recipient of “education,” and he’ll grow despondent and rebellious. For the child, too, is alive, and as such craves achievement; from the moment of birth he is already actively influencing his surroundings, if only by stimulating his parents with his thirst for knowledge and affection.

The same is true of adults of all ages. The promise of a “happy retirement” is a cruel myth: the very nature of human life is that man knows true happiness only when creatively contributing to the world he inhabits. The weakened physical state of old age (or illness, G-d forbid) is not a sentence of inactivity, but a challenge to find new–and superior–venues of achievement.

Why

Indeed, such is human nature: life has meaning only when it is productive. But why? Why was the human being so constructed?

Because G-d created man to be His partner in creation.

The Midrash tells us that “G-d says to the righteous: ‘Just as I am a creator of worlds, you, too, should do so.’”[10] The Midrash also recounts an exchange between a Greek philosopher and talmudic sage Rabbi Hoshiah: “If circumcision is desirable to G-d,” asked the Western thinker, “why didn’t He create Adam circumcised?” Replied Rabbi Hoshiah: “Everything that was created in the six days of creation requires adjustment and improvement by man: the mustard seed must be sweetened, wheat must be milled…” G-d specifically created an unfinished world for man to develop and perfect.[11]

G-d is the ultimate initiator and giver, granting us existence and life and equipping us with faculties and resources. But G-d wanted more than passive recipients of His gifts. He wanted a partnership with us, a partnership in which we would create and give as He creates and gives, and He would receive from us as we receive from Him. So He made the drive for achievement the very essence of human life.

A Course of Action

Yet retirement, mandatory or otherwise, is a fact of modern living. Year after year, it destroys millions of lives and condemns invaluable human resources (indeed, the most valuable human resources we possess as a race) to complete or near-complete waste. What is one to do in face of this human and social tragedy? Should one embark on a campaign to change this practice and the value system that lies behind it? Should one look for the brighter side of retirement and seek to utilize its positive aspects?

Indeed, we must do both. We must change the attitudes of the leaders of the business and professional worlds, and of society as a whole. Most of all, we must change the self-perception of the aged (and the near-aged, and the near-near-aged) themselves. We must tell them: You are not useless; on the contrary, you are a greater asset to society then ever before, and with each passing day and experience your value increases. The life-changes you are experiencing as a result of your advancing years are not a cause for retirement from productive life, but the opportunity to discover new and more meaningful ways to develop yourself and your surroundings. Long life is a divine gift, and the Almighty has certainly supplied you with the tools to optimally realize it.

At the same time, we must exploit the opportunities that the institution of retirement presents us. If there are countless retired men and women desperately seeking ways to fill their time, let us establish for them centers of Torah study, where they can drop in for several hours a day and increase their knowledge and productivity. Let us open such centers in every community and set up classes and workshops in every nursing home. If the struggles of the workplace prevented many from acquiring the Torah’s illuminating perspective on life in their younger years, retirement provides a golden opportunity to learn and grow: education, like productivity, is a life-long endeavor. Torah will give them a new lease on life; it will enlighten them to their true worth and potential, and transform them from futile has-beens into beacons of light for their families and communities. Retirement, if utilized properly, can be directed as the most potent force toward its ultimate eradication from the mind and life of man.

Editor’s note: This essay is based on talks delivered by the Rebbe on his 70th birthday, Nissan 11, 5732 (March 26, 1972), and ten years later on his 80th birthday. On both these occasions, the Rebbe received tens of thousands of letters from well-wishers across the globe; among these were several that suggested that perhaps it is time he considered “slowing down” and “taking it easy” after his many fruitful decades as a leader and activist. The Rebbe’s response was the blistering attack on the very concept of “retirement” articulated here.

The Rebbe also addressed the issue on numerous other occasions, including a series of Shabbat gatherings in the summer of 1980. He then called for the establishment of Torah-study centers for the aged, as recounted above. Hundreds of such study centers–named, at the Rebbe’s suggestion, Tiferet Zkeinim (“the glory of the aged”)–have since been founded in every corner of the globe by the Rebbe’s emissaries. Elements of these talks, as well as several other talks in which the Rebbe discussed the concept of “life as productivity,” have also been incorporated in this essay.

The Rebbe himself was a chief exemplar of the Torah perspective on “retirement” he expounded. He celebrated his 70th birthday by initiating the establishment of 71 new educational and social institutions, virtually doubling the Chabad-Lubavitch worldwide outreach network. On his 80th birthday, he again called for a massive expansion of Chabad’s activities in a six-hour address that ended after 3:00 am., following which the Rebbe proceeded to personally distribute a gift–a special edition of the chassidic classic, the Tanya–to each of the 10,000 men, women and children present, the last participant receiving his Tanya at 6:15am. While the Rebbe had a most impressive list of achievements behind him when he was advised to begin to “enjoy the fruits of his labors” upon his attainment of age 70 in 1972, these pale in comparison with what he had achieved by age 80, which, in turn, is a fraction of the breath and scope of his activities at age 90. Each year brought the revelation of new dimensions to his philosophy and world-outlook, new campaigns and initiatives, new Chabad centers, schools and communities the world over. Also in the last two years of his life, while physically disabled by the massive stroke he suffered in March of 1992, he continued to lead the Chabad movement, issuing directives to his 3500 emissaries on six continents and the many thousands who turned to him for guidance and direction.

Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

Tags: partnership, productivity, achievement, wisdom, retirement
Posted in Weekly Parsha, Bereishit, Biblical, Abraham, Personal Life, Torah Personalities, Daily Life, Chayei Sarah, Life Cycles, Torah, Business, Work & Money | No Comments »

Day in the Life of an Old Man

April 15th, 2015

And Abraham grew old and he came in days…

Genesis 24:1

The phrase ba bayamim, commonly translated “advanced in days,” literally means “he came in[to his] days.” Thus, it is not just another way of saying “old,” but a description of a certain type of agedness—a way of living in which one fully enters into one’s days, rather than merely “marking time” and allowing them to pass by without experiencing them and exploiting them to the utmost.

Human nature is such that our interest in life often wanes as our years accumulate. In our youth, life is exciting and replete with opportunity; we fully immerse ourselves in every moment, every encounter, every experience. But as we age, we become less involved in our days. We have experienced much disappointment; in any case, we’ve seen it all. Life’s joys become less exhilarating, its sorrows less acute.

It is Abraham’s greatness that as he grew old, he continued to enter into his days. A lifetime of seeking and achievement, of trials and triumphs, did not diminish his thirst for life. All his days were fully explored by him, fully possessed, fully utilized.

Based on an address by the Rebbe, Shabbat Chayei Sarah, 5748 (1987)[22]

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[22]. Likkutei Sichot, vol. XXXV, p. 91.

Tags: presence, old age, youth, energy
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Eliezer’s Story

April 15th, 2015

Said Rabbi Acha: The talk of the servants of the Fathers is more desirable than the Torah of the children. For Eliezer’s story is twice recounted by the Torah, while many principles of Torah law are communicated only through allusion.

The Midrash[1]

Human beings love to talk. At times, it seems that we hardly trust a thought or feeling to be our own until we have communicated it to others. To this end, we have invented hundreds of languages and dozens of media—all to say what we feel needs saying.

Indeed, our capacity for self-expression lies at the very heart of our humanity. In the second chapter of Genesis, the Torah describes the creation of man: “And the L-rd G-d formed man [from] the dust of the earth, and He blew into his nostrils the breath of life. And man became a living soul.”[2] Onkelos, in his Aramaic translation/commentary on the Torah, translates the words “And man became a living soul,” as “And man became a speaking spirit.” In the philosophical and Kabbalistic works of our sages, man is called “the speaker.” (The entirety of creation is divided into four realms or “kingdoms”: domem, the “silent” or inanimate creations; tzome’ach, “growing” things; chai, the animal world; and medaber, the speaker—man).

Would it not have been more fitting to define man by his intelligence or spirituality? Of course, the ability to communicate is a mark of intelligence. It is also an indication of “spirituality”—of the ability to transcend the self and relate to something other, different and even opposite than it. But there are other human faculties that exhibit these traits. The fact that man is named “the speaker” implies that the faculty of speech is the essential component of our purpose and mission in life.

Toil of the Mouth

The centrality of speech to man’s purpose in creation is also expressed in the following Talmudic passage:

Said Rabbi Elazar: Every man was created in order to toil, as it is written, “For man is born to toil.”[3] I still do not know, however, if he was created for the toil of the mouth or for the toil of work; when the verse says, “[The toiling soul…] his mouth compels him,”[4] this tells me that he was created for the toil of the mouth. I still do not know, however, if he was created for the toil of Torah or for the toil of speech; when the verse says, “This book of Torah should not depart from your mouth,”[5] this tells me that he was created for the toil of Torah.[6]

An important rule in Torah learning is that when a supposition is introduced by the sages, it remains a valid hypothesis even after it has been “rejected” in favor of another. For the very fact that it has been presented as a possibility implies that it is true, on some level. Ideas to which there is no truth on any level are not entertained in the first place (thus, Rabbi Elazar does not begin by saying, “I do not know if man was created for toil or for relaxation; when the verse says, ‘For man is born to toil,’ I know that he was created for toil”—as he does with the other “rejected” suppositions). If we apply this to the above passage, it means that all three “toils”—the “toil of work,” the “toil of speech,” and the “toil of Torah”—are part of man’s purpose; it is only that the “toil of the mouth” expresses a higher aspect of this purpose than the “toil of work,” and that within the “toil of the mouth,” the “toil of Torah” is loftier than the “toil of speech.”

What, exactly, are these three “toils”? What, in particular, is the “toil of speech,” and why is it greater than the “toil of work,” yet not as lofty as the “toil of Torah”?

The Spoken World

“From my flesh I perceive G-d,”[7] proclaims the verse. Since G-d created us in His image,[8] we can contemplate His “personality” (i.e., the manner in which He relates to creation) by examining the workings of our own souls. The reverse is also true: by examining what the Torah tells us about how G-d relates to our existence, we can understand much about the human personality and man’s place in creation.

In describing the divine act of creation, the Torah does not say that G-d made a world, but that He spoke it. “G-d said, ‘Let there be light,’ and there was light”[9]; “G-d said, ‘Let the earth sprout forth vegetation…’ and it was so”[10]; and so with all other creations, each of which is contained, explicitly or implicitly, in the “Ten Utterances” with which G-d created the world.[11]

For in creating the world, G-d was doing what we do when we speak: He was communicating. He was projecting of Himself to an “audience”—to a reality which (at least in its own perception) is outside of Him. As we do when we speak, G-d wished to see His own “thoughts” and “feelings” take form in a consciousness and perception other than His own.

When we speak, we emulate G-d’s speaking the world into being. We, too, create. We, too, extend ourselves beyond the reality of our own existence to recreate ourselves and our vision of reality in the minds, hearts and deeds of others.

Effort

If we understand “speech,” both in G-d and in ourselves, as synonymous with “creativity,” we begin to understand why the “toil of speech” is central to our uniqueness as human beings. But first, let us examine the statement, “Man is born to toil.”

This, of course, is a fact of life, as well as of human nature—we experience as meaningful and satisfying only that which we have gained by effort and struggle. If a person is not compelled to work for a living, he will embark on endeavors in which he must exert himself to achieve some goal. “Retirement” invariably withers both body and mind unless one starts a second career or challenges oneself in some other way. An effortless life is ultimately a life not worth living. In the words of our sages, unearned gifts are “bread of shame” which bring no satisfaction to their recipient.[12]

Why, indeed, was man made this way? Certainly G-d, who is the essence of good, who is benevolent and merciful,[13] could just as easily have created a world that is free of hardship, and have formed the nature of man so that life in such a world is meaningful and fulfilling. Why did He create man to toil and endow him with a nature that thrives only on struggle and challenge?

But in an effortless world, man would be nothing more than a passive beneficiary of G-d’s gifts. He might derive satisfaction and pleasure from these gifts (were his nature so inclined), but his role in creation would be limited to that of recipient. Unless he were driven to toil—driven to acquire and achieve beyond what comes to him without difficulty—he could not be the “partner with G-d in creation”[14] that G-d desires him to be.

We experience effort and toil when our deeds are met with resistance, when they are at variance with the status quo. An effortless deed is a deed that is fully consistent with the present constellation of forces in the universes; a deed that isn’t challenged by anything because it changes nothing. A deed that, even if it is conducted with great fanfare, does not, in truth, do anything.

Toil defines the point at which we cease to be mere recipients, accepting the world as it is, and begin to be givers and contributors to G-d’s world. The point at which we contest the present reality and begin acting as G-d’s partners in the endeavor to build the world He desires.

Development, Creativity and Transcendence

On the most basic level, we achieve partnership with G-d through the “toil of work”—through our ongoing efforts to develop the resources of creation. Each time we plow and seed the earth to coax nourishment from it; each time we forge wood, stone and other materials into a home; each time we distill energy from matter; we are working. This is toilsome work, for we are combating the inert state of these “raw” materials. It is G-dly work, for we are furthering His enterprise of forming an ordered and civilized world out of an initial state of “chaos and formlessness.”[15] We are fulfilling the divine will expressed in the verse: “He did not create [the world] for chaos; He created it that it be settled.”[16]

This, however, is the most rudimentary level of partnership with G-d: we contribute to G-d’s work but are only involved at a lower, secondary plane. The innovative and creative aspects of the endeavor are solely the domain of the “senior partner,” while our role is limited to furthering what He has initiated. G-d, after all, created the world, while we only develop what He has created.

A higher level of partnership is achieved when we introduce our “speech”—our capacity for creativity—into our involvement with G-d’s world. When we redefine reality by communicating our experience of it to others. When we speak worlds into being, as G-d spoke the world into existence. On this level, we are partners with Him not only in that we are both contributors, but also in that we are both creators.

This level of partnership, which the Talmud calls “toil of the mouth,” consists of two elements: the “toil of speech” and the “toil of Torah.”

Mirroring the Ten Utterances of creation are the Ten Commandments spoken by G-d at Sinai. If the Ten Utterances are the “source code” of the natural world, the Ten Commandments are the essence of a higher reality—the reality of Torah. The Torah embodies a divine vision of reality which supersedes the natural reality: a reality of unadulterated goodness and perfection; a reality that is a consummate actualization of the divine will.

The Ten Utterances derive from the Ten Commandments, for the natural world, which was designed as the environment within which the Torah is to be realized, draws its essence and raison d’etre from the Torah; yet they are a lowlier and coarser expression of the divine self-expression. The Zohar goes so far as to refer to the Ten Utterances as “mundane words” in relation to the sublime words of the Ten Commandments, saying that it is beneath G-d, so to speak, to utter the world into being, as “it is not the way of the King to engage in mundane talk.”[17]

Thus the Talmud distinguishes between two areas of human creativity: the “toil of speech,” which are our creative efforts within the context of the natural world (“speech” being a reference to the Ten Utterances), and the “toil of Torah”—the effort to impose a higher, supra-natural reality upon the world by implementing the divine will, as expressed in the commandments of the Torah, in our daily lives.[18]

G-d in the Details

And yet, the Midrash also states that “The speech of the servants of the fathers is more desirable than the Torah of the children.”

In the 24th chapter of Genesis, the Torah relates the story of the journey of Abraham’s servant, Eliezer, to Mesopotamia to find a bride for Abraham’s son, Isaac. We read how Abraham summons Eliezer and sends him on his mission, instructing him to choose a bride from the family of Abraham’s brother, Nachor. Eliezer arrives in Mesopotamia and prays to G-d, asking for His guidance in finding a worthy bride for his master’s son. He then devises a sign: the maiden who, when asked for a drink of water, will offer to draw water for his camels as well, is the one destined to marry Isaac. Rebecca appears and fulfills all the requirements of the sign; when Eliezer asks after her family, he learns that she is a granddaughter of Nachor. The servant thanks G-d for “leading me on the path to the home of my master’s brother.”

Eliezer is invited to the home of Rebecca’s family. At this point, we read all the details of the events of that day for a second time—this time in Eliezer’s words, as he relates them to Rebecca’s family. The point of the story, once again, is the show of divine providence in the affairs of man. “The matter has been ordained by G-d,” agree Bethuel and Laban, Rebecca’s father and brother. “We can say nothing, good or evil.”

This long (67-verse) chapter evokes much discussion by the sages. Not only is the Torah uncharacteristically detailed in its description, but it twice recounts the entire story almost verbatim. This, in a book so concise that many complex laws are derived from an extra word or letter! Hence the conclusion that the Torah prefers the conversations of our forefathers’ servants to the intricacies of Torah law addressed to and studied by their descendants.

Eliezer’s story is a classic example of the “toil of speech”—of the manner in which we apply our creative and communicative skills to create a world in partnership with G-d. A series of events takes place at the city well of Mesopotamian town and results in the marriage of a certain woman to a certain man. These are wholly natural[19] events, strung together by what is commonly described as “coincidence.” But Eliezer transforms these events into “speech”—into a cohesive and meaningful narrative. Eliezer tells how he prayed[20] to G-d for success, expressing his belief that what is about to unfold is G-d’s doing rather than “the blind workings of fate”; he asks for a sign, and presides over its fulfillment; he then tells the story to Bethuel and Laban, communicating to them what he has experienced and convincing them that “The matter has been ordained by G-d.” In Eliezer’s experience and telling, a piece of the natural world is defined as the handiwork of G-d, as an expression the Creator’s involvement with His creation.

Ultimately, the study and implementation of Torah law ranks higher in the hierarchy of “toils” than the seeking of G-d within the workings of creation. Through the “toil of speech,” one relates to the Creator only on the level of the Ten Utterances, whereas through Torah, one supersedes the natural reality, realizing a partnership with G-d that transcends the “mundane talk” of creation. Nevertheless, there is a specialty to the “toil of speech” that makes Eliezer’s story more desirable than “the Torah of the children.” G-d derives a special pleasure from His partnership with us as we go about our daily affairs, integrating Him into the most commonplace details of the narrative of our lives.

Based on the Rebbe’s talks on various occasions[21]

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Tags: partnership, toil, words, speech, Eliezer
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The Oven Stokers of Mezerich

April 15th, 2015

Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi told:

In Mezeritch, it was extremely difficult to be accepted as a disciple of our master, Rabbi DovBer.[7] There were a group of chassidim who, having failed to merit to learn directly from our master, wanted at least to serve his pupils: to bring them water to wash their hands upon waking, to sweep the floors of the study hall, to heat the ovens during the winter months, etc. These were known as “the oven stokers.”

One winter night, as I lay on a bench in the study hall, I overheard a conversation between three of the “oven stokers.”
“What was the specialty of the test of the Akeidah?” [8] the first one asked. “If G-d revealed Himself to me and commanded me to sacrifice my only son, would I not obey?”

Answering his own question, he said: “If G-d told me to sacrifice my only son, I would delay my doing so for a while, to keep him with me for a few days. Abraham’s greatness lay in that ‘he arose early in the morning’[9] to immediately fulfill the divine command.”

Said the second one: “If G-d told me to sacrifice my only son, I, like Abraham, would waste not a moment to carry out His command. But I would do so with a heavy heart. Abraham’s greatness lay in that he went to the Akeidah with a heart full of joy over the opportunity to fulfill G-d’s will.”[10]

Said the third: “I, too, would carry out G-d’s will with joy. I think that Abraham’s uniqueness lay in his reaction upon finding out that it was all a test. When G-d commanded him ‘Do not touch the child and do nothing to him,’[11] Abraham was overjoyed-not because his only child would not die, but over being given the opportunity to carry out another command of G-d: not to slaughter his son.”

Rabbi Schneur Zalman concluded: “Do you think this was mere talk? Each of them was describing the degree of self-sacrifice he had attained in his service of the Almighty.”

Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

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Tags: Maggid of Mezerich, akeidah, self-sacrifice, Mezerich, joy, Chassidic stories
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Three Lovers of Israel

April 9th, 2015

Three great Chassidic leaders were famous for their ahavat yisrael (“love of a fellow Jew”): Rabbi Zusha of Anipoli, Rabbi Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev, and Rabbi Israel Baal Shem Tov.

Rabbi Zusha was a living example of the maxim that “Love covers up all iniquities.”[12]

What the ordinary observer would perceive as a glaring deficiency, or even an outright sin, would not “register” in his holy eyes and mind. Rabbi Zusha was simply incapable of seeing anything negative in a fellow Jew.

Rabbi Levi Yitzchak’s love found expression in his incessant efforts as an advocate for the people of Israel. Unlike Rabbi Zusha, he was not blind to their misdeeds and failings; but he never failed to “judge every man to the side of merit”[13]

to find a justification for, and even a positive aspect to, his behavior. (A typical story tells of how, upon seeing a wagon driver who was greasing his wheels while reciting his morning prayers, Rabbi Levi Yitzchak lifted his eyes to Heaven and cried: “Master of the Universe! Behold the piety of Your children! Even as they go about their daily affairs, they do not cease to pray to You!”)

But the Baal Shem Tov’s love ran deeper yet. To him, ahavat yisrael was not the refusal to see the deficiencies of a fellow Jew, or even the endeavor to transform them into merits, but an unequivocal love regardless of their spiritual state. He loved the most iniquitous transgressor with the same boundless love with which he loved the greatest tzaddik; he loved them as G-d loves them—as a father loves his children, regardless of who and what they are.

Adapted from the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

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Tags: ahavat yisrael, Berditchever, Reb Zusha of Anipoli
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The Natural Jew

April 9th, 2015

And G-d revealed Himself to [Abraham], in the Plains of Mamre, as he sat in the doorway of his tent in the heat of the day

Genesis 18:1

It was the third day following Abraham’s circumcision, and G-d came to visit him to fulfill the mitzvah of visiting the sick

Rashi on verse; Talmud, Bava Metzia 86b

In 1798, the founder of Chabad Chassidism, Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi, was arrested on charges of treason against the Czar and imprisoned in the Peter-Paul Fortress, situated on an island in the Neva River in Petersburg. During his 53-day imprisonment, the Rebbe was frequently ferried across the river to a building on the mainland to be interrogated by the Czar’s secret police.

One night, as the small boat was making its way across the river, the sky cleared and a quarter moon illuminated the skies. Wishing to avail himself of the opportunity to fulfill the mitzvah of kiddush levanah (“sanctification of the new moon”),[1] Rabbi Schneur Zalman requested from the official in charge that the boat be stopped for a few minutes. The official refused.

Suddenly, the boat came to a complete halt. Nothing the ferryman could do would advance it a single oar-sweep. Rabbi Schneur Zalman stood up in the boat and recited the first few verses of Psalm 148, which preface the blessing of the moon.

But the Rebbe did not continue with the recitation of the blessing itself. As suddenly as it had halted, the boat resumed its movement toward the opposite shore. Again Rabbi Schneur Zalman turned to the official in charge and asked that the boat be halted.

“If you give me your blessing, in writing,” said the official, “I’ll stop the boat.”

The Rebbe promised to fulfill his request. At a word from the official, the ferryman pulled in his oars and the Rebbe proceeded to perform the mitzvah of kiddush levanah.[2]

The Decree

This story demonstrates the principle that the mitzvot (divine commandments) of the Torah are designed to be acted out within the natural world, not to overwhelm it and supersede it. In the words of the Midrash,

When G-d created the world, He decreed: “The heavens are G-d’s, and the earth is given to man.” [3] But when He wished to give the Torah to Israel, He rescinded His original decree, and declared: “The lower realms may ascend to the higher realms, and the higher realms may descend to the lower realms.” [4]

G-d is infinite, beyond all definition and categorization; the physical reality is finite, and can relate only to definable and categorizable realities. So the very nature of creation dictates that an unbridgeable gulf separate the earthly from the divine. Man may reach for heaven, but the limitations of the physical state invariably shackle him to earth. G-d may make an appearance on earth, dispelling its materiality and corporeality; but this means that the very characteristics that make the earth “earthly” have been suspended. No connection has been established between the lower realms and the higher realms, for at such times, the lower realms are no longer “lower realms.”

This was the prevailing state of affairs before G-d gave us His Torah on Mount Sinai. Man was capable of great, noble, even holy deeds; but all human achievement was confined either to the “lower” or the “higher” realms—to the physical or to the supernal dimensions of existence. Man could develop and refine his physical self and world; he could even profoundly influence the supernal worlds and G-d’s relationship with His creation; but he could not bridge the gap between the two realms. He was unable to sanctify the physical—to make G-d a present and palpable reality in his life. The earthly and the G-dly remained two distinct, self-contained worlds.

This “decree” was rescinded with the revelation at Sinai. At Sinai, G-d commanded us the mitzvot; six hundred and thirteen human deeds, involving every area of human life, were deemed by G-d to constitute the fulfillment of His will. After Sinai, when physical man takes a physical coin, earned by his physical prowess and toil, and gives it to charity; or when he forms a piece of leather to a specified shape and dimensions, inserts into it parchment scrolls inscribed with specified words, and binds them to his head and arm as tefillin; or when he bakes flour and water as unleavened bread (matzah) and eats it on the first night of Passover—he is doing a mitzvah. A finite, physical deed becomes the realization of a divine desire.

Through the mitzvot, the lower realms ascend to the higher realms without being divested of their lowliness. On the contrary: the very features and characteristics that define the earthly as “lowly”—its physicality, finiteness and tactility—serve as vehicles of connection with G-d.

Hence Rabbi Schneur Zalman’s reluctance to avail himself of any supra-natural aids to the fulfillment of a mitzvah. For to do so would counteract a most basic function of the mitzvah. The specialty of the mitzvah over other avenues of relationship with G-d lies in that even as it elevates a human deed to become the very embodiment of a divine desire, the mitzvah remains a wholly natural deed—a deed belonging to the human and physical realms of existence.

The Third Day

The principle of the “natural mitzvah” also sheds light on an episode in the life of the first Jew, Abraham.

In the closing verses of the 17th chapter of Genesis, we read how, by command of G-d, Abraham circumcised himself and all the members of his household. Chapter 18 opens by telling of a divine visit to the recuperating Abraham: “G-d revealed Himself to him in the Plains of Mamre, as he sat in the doorway of his tent in the heat of the day.”

Our sages explain that G-d came to pay Abraham a “sick call”—indeed, G-d’s visit to Abraham is cited as a source for the mitzvah of bikkur cholim, “visiting the sick.” “It was the third day following his circumcision,” says the Talmud, “and G-d came to inquire after his health.”[5]

But why did G-d wait three full days to visit the ailing Abraham? G-d’s delay is even more puzzling in light of the fact that the natural healing process following circumcision takes three days.[6]

 The Talmud tells us that visiting the sick not only serves to uplift the spirits of the ill, but actually contributes to their recuperation.[7]

 According to this, G-d delayed His visit to Abraham until such time as one of the primary functions of bikkur cholim was no longer operative!

Abraham’s Mitzvah

Abraham lived several hundred years before the revelation at Sinai; in his day, the “decree” dissevering the earthly from the supernal was still in force. So though he was a man with great—indeed, unprecedented—achievements in both the earthly and supernal realms, his deeds could not bridge the schism between the two worlds.

Nevertheless, as the father of the Jewish people, Abraham’s was a life that embodied the saga of a people, enfolding within it every milestone of Jewish history.[8]

 The giving of the Torah at Mount Sinai also had its precedent and prototype in the life of the first Jew.

The Sinai in Abraham’s life was G-d’s granting him the mitzvah of milah (circumcision). This was the only one of the 613 mitzvot of the Torah expressly commanded to Abraham; this was the only occasion in which he was empowered to sanctify the physical,[9] to surmount the divide between the human and the divine. Indeed, it was Abraham’s fulfillment of the mitzvah of circumcision that paved the way for our empowerment at Sinai to bring together the higher and the lower realms through the observance of the mitzvot.

As the archetypal mitzvah, Abraham’s circumcision had to be a completely natural act, in keeping with the aim that the mitzvot should be enacted within the natural world and thus effect a true union between the earthly and the divine. Not only the performance of the mitzvah itself, but also the preparations for it, as well as its aftermath, had to strictly conform to the natural mold. Had G-d visited Abraham before the third day, this would have alleviated the pain and discomfort that is naturally experienced during this period of time as the result of the act of circumcision. This would have constituted a supra-natural intervention in Abraham’s mitzvah, diminishing its “naturalness” and the extent to which it bound the humanness of its observer with its divine commander.[10]

A Swath of Life

As the example of Abraham’s circumcision demonstrates, a mitzvah extends far beyond its momentary act of fulfilling the divine will. It reaches backward and forward in time to embrace all that leads up to and enables the act and all that results from it, and include them all in the encounter with G-d that the mitzvah effects.

So the cost of a mitzvah, whether it involves an outlay of money, time or effort, or even hardship or pain, should not be regarded as a “sacrifice” or “the price to pay” for an opportunity to serve the divine will. Rather, it should be welcomed as the way in which a greater area of our life is elevated to inclusion in an act of mitzvah—an act that marks the pinnacle of human achievement and our most profound medium of relationship with G-d.

Based on the Rebbe’s talks on Shabbat Vayeira, 5725 (1964) and 5750 (1989) and on other occasions[11]

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Tags: connection, spiritual and material, circumcision, mitzvot
Posted in Weekly Parsha, Bereishit, Biblical, Abraham, Alter Rebbe, Torah Personalities, Vayeira, Modern, Torah | No Comments »

The Rebbe’s Budget

April 8th, 2015

Chassidic master Rabbi Israel of Ruzhin presided over a “court” famed for its opulence and splendor. Everything about the Rebbe, from his stately mansion to his luxurious coach, bespoke royalty.

A wealthy merchant once challenged him: “Where are the saintly tzaddikimof previous generations who subsisted on bread and water and distributed the remainder of their income to charity? Is it proper for a man who is supported by the community to ride in a coach pulled by four white horses?”

Replied Rabbi Israel: “There are three types of individuals who come to a Rebbe. There are those who come to him with an aching soul, seeking his counsel and aid in their service of G-d. Others come to ask that he pray for their health, prosperity and other material matters. Finally, there are the wealthy men who come only to revel in their wealth as evidenced by the size of their contribution.

“The money given by those who come for spiritual reasons, the Rebbe uses for his charitable works. The money contributed by those enlisting the Rebbe’s aid in material matters goes to support the Rebbe’s material needs. And what does the Rebbe do with the money given by the rich to exhibit their wealth? He buys beautiful horses.”

Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

Tags: Israel of Ruzhin, charity, Chassidic stories, ego, grandeur
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