Barefoot Beasts: The Spiritual Meaning of Shoes

April 8th, 2015

All who walk on their paws among the four-legged animals, those are unclean for you

Leviticus 11:27

For example, the dog, the bear and the cat

Rashi, ibid.

On several occasions, our sages emphasize the importance of placing a protective barrier between one’s feet and the ground. “A person should sell the roof-beams of his home,” they enjoin, “in order to buy shoes for his feet.”[1] They go so far as to count one who walks barefoot among “those who are shunned by G-d.”[2]

Chassidic teaching speaks of an equally critical need for spiritual shoes—for a shield between the person and the “earth.” To walk barefoot through life—to allow full, unmitigated contact between oneself and the mundanity and materiality of our world—is deleterious to our mission and role as a “holy people” whose lives are driven by higher, loftier aspirations.

(On the other hand, we invite and insist upon uninhibited contact with “holy ground”—with those areas and aspects of the material world which openly display their divine source and purpose. Thus, when G-d appeared to Moses in the burning bush, He instructed: “Remove your shoes from your feet, for the place on which you stand is holy ground.”[3] By the same token, the kohanim serving in the Holy Temple went barefoot; in fact, a service performed by a kohen with even the slightest barrier between his feet and the ground was invalid.[4])

The Torah’s repudiation of barefootedness extends to the animal kingdom as well: only hoofed animals are kosher, “fit” for consumption for the Jew. Animals who “walk on their paws” with no “shoe” between the soles of their feet and the ground are excluded from our diet, for this anatomical feature reflects a nature and characteristic we should avoid ingesting into ourselves.[5]

The Dog, the Bear and the Cat

The Zohar tells us that “There are three [internal] governors [in man]: the brain, the heart and the liver.”[6] The brain is the seat of the intellect; the heart, of the emotions and character; and the liver, the most complex and important of the metabolic organs, represents the physical self.[7]

Of the thousands of species of animals who “walk on their paws,” Rashi cites three examples: the dog, the bear and the cat. For just as there are three basic dimensions to man, so there are three basic types of materiality—intellectual materiality, emotional materiality and physical materiality—represented by these three hoofless beasts.

The Talmud notes that “A dog acknowledges its master; a cat does not acknowledge its master.”[8] In contrast, the cat is cited for its refinement and positive traits (“Had we not been given the Torah, we could still learn modesty from the cat”[9]), while the dog is a virtual symbol of crassness and impudence.[10]

“Acknowledging one’s master” in the spiritual sense is to possess an awareness of G-d and an appreciation of His mastery over us. The “cat” represents one who is deficient in this area. His heart may be noble and refined; but his mind is a material mind, consumed with material thoughts and the indiscriminate acceptance of the material conceptions of reality.

The “dog,” on the other hand, “acknowledges his master”—his mind is in the right place. His “hooflessness” is expressed in the baseness of his character and emotions. It is in this area that he fails to erect any defenses against the materiality of the earth.

Then there is the barefoot creature whose materiality is of the purely physical sort. His is not an intellectual deficiency or an emotional weakness, but a simple hedonism. Lacking “hooves” between his physical self and material earth, he indulges his physical drives without restraint. He is, in the words of the Talmud, one of those “who eat and drink like a bear, are swaddled with flesh like a bear… and are restless as a bear.”[11]

Split Hooves

For an animal to be kosher it must have hooves; but an utterly shod creature (such as the camel or horse) is also “unclean.” The hooves must be split.

For the purpose of life on earth is not to escape its materiality, but to sanctify it. So while unmitigated contact with the earth makes for a non-kosher creature, so does the absence of any contact whatsoever.

Both extremes are unacceptable. There must be a certain element of distance and aloofness in our earthly involvements, lest we become enslaved by that which we have come to master. But involvement there must be, for developing the physical world into a “home for G-d” is the essence of our mission in life.

Based on an undated entry in the Rebbe’s journal and on a talk delivered on Av 29, 5710 (August 12, 1950)[12].

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Tags: refinement, shoes, paws, brain, mind, heart, character, materialism, emotions, animals
Posted in Weekly Parsha, Soul & Mystical, Vayikra, Shemini, Spiritual, Torah | 1 Comment »

The True Meaning of Divine Service

April 8th, 2015

The Torah portion of Tzav renders a detailed account of the Temple service. Nearly all the tasks associated with the Temple and its maintenance were performed by the descendants of the priestly family, the Kohanim. It would seem, then, that the majority of the information presented has little relevance to the average person, who is not of priestly lineage. However, all the Jewish people are, in truth, considered Kohanim, as the verse states: “And you shall be unto me a priestly kingdom and a holy nation.”[1] Each detail of the Temple service is actually an instruction for us in how to conduct our lives and draw closer to the Divine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Based on Likkutei Sichos, Shabbos Parshas Tzav, vol. 37, pp. 1-6. Essay by Chaya Shuchat.

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Tags: seamlessness, Holy Temple, Priestly service, Priest
Posted in Weekly Parsha, Tzav, Religion, Vayikra, Spiritual, Torah | 1 Comment »

The Covenant

April 8th, 2015

The following story was told by Rabbi Israel Spira, the Rebbe of Bluzhov, who had witnessed it firsthand in the Janowska Concentration Camp:

Each morning at dawn, the Germans would lead us out of the camp for a day of hard labor that ended only at nightfall. Each pair of workers was given a huge saw and expected to cut their quota of logs. Because of the horrendous conditions in the camp and starvation rations on which we supposed to subsist, most of us could barely stand on our feet. But we sawed away, knowing that our lives depended upon it; anyone collapsing on the job or failing to meet their daily quota was killed on the spot, G-d forbid.

One day, as I pulled and pushed the heavy saw with my partner, I was approached by a young woman from our work detail. The pallor of her face showed her to be in an extremely weak physical state. “Rebbe,” she whispered to me, “do you have a knife?”

I immediately understood her intention and felt the great responsibility that rests upon me. “My daughter,” I begged, concentrating all the love and conviction in my heart in the effort to dissuade her from her intended deed. “Do not take your own life. I know that your life is now a living hell, from which death seems a blessed release. But we must never lose hope. With G-d’s help, we will survive this ordeal and see better days.”

But the woman seemed oblivious to my words. “A knife,” she repeated. “I must have a knife. Now. Before it is too late.”

At that moment, one of the German guards noticed our whispered conversation and approached us. “What did she say to you?” he demanded of me.

We both froze. Conversing during work was a grave transgression. Many a camp inmate had been shot on the spot for far lesser crimes.

The woman was first to recover. “I asked him for a knife,” she said. To my horror, she then addressed her request to the guard: “Give me a knife!”

The German, too, guessed her intention, and a devilish smile flickered on his lips. Doubtless he had seen the bodies of those who, out of desperation, threw themselves during the night at the electrified fence that surrounded the camp; but this would be a new, novel sight for him. Still smiling, he reached into his pocket and handed her a small knife.

Taking the knife, she hurried back to her work station and bent to a small bundle of rags that she had placed on a log. Quickly unraveling the bundle, she took out a tiny infant. Before our astonished eyes, she swiftly and skillfully circumcised the week-old boy.

“Blessed are You, G-d our G-d, King of the Universe,” she recited in a clear voice, “Who has sanctified us with His commandments and commanded us to enter him into the covenant of Abraham our Father.”

Cradling the child in her arms, she soothed his cries. Then, she addressed the heavens: “Master of the Universe! Eight days ago you gave me a child. I know that neither I nor he will long survive in this accursed place. But now, when you take him back, you will receive him as a complete Jew.”

“Your knife,” she said, handing the holy object back to the German. “Thank you.”

Adapted from the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

Tags: holocaust, circumcision
Posted in Tisha B'Av, Bereishit, Weekly Parsha, Months & Holidays, Lech-Lecha, Miracles, Beliefs & Concepts, Personal Life, Torah, Av | No Comments »

A Holy Land

April 8th, 2015

And G-d revealed Himself to Abram, and said: “To your descendants I will give this land.”

Genesis 13:7

And [G-d] said to him: “I am G-d, who has taken you out of Ur Casdim to give you this land as an inheritance.”

Genesis 15:7

In the year 2488 from creation (1272 bce), Joshua marched the armies of Israel, 600,000 strong, across the Jordan River to conquer the land that G-d had promised to Abraham.

In a series of battles that spanned seven years, the Israelites defeated the armies of the thirty-one kings of Canaan. Joshua then divided the land among the twelve tribes of Israel, and each tribe proceeded to settle its allotted share. But pockets of resistance remained, and the process of conquering and settling the Holy Land was completed only four hundred years later by King David, who defeated the Philistines and conquered the city of Jerusalem from the Jebusites.

With David’s son, Solomon, began four centuries of Jewish sovereignty over the Holy Land—a period which overlapped the First Temple Era, when the first Beit HaMikdash (Holy Temple) stood in Jerusalem. But in 3205 (555 bce), the northern kingdom of Israel[1] was conquered by Shalmaneser, king of Assyria, and the ten tribes living there were exiled. A century later, the southern kingdom of Judea was conquered by Nebuchadnezzar, king of Babylonia, and it, too, came under foreign rule. In 3338 (422 bce) Nebuchadnezzar destroyed the Holy Temple in Jerusalem, and virtually all of the Jewish people were exiled from their land.

The Return

The Jewish people returned to the Holy Land after a 70-year exile in Babylonia. Led by Ezra and Nechemiah, they rebuilt the Holy Temple and began a second period of national life in their homeland. The Second Temple Era lasted 420 years, until the destruction of Second Temple by the Romans in 69 ce and the subsequent dispersion of Israel to the four corners of the globe.

The First and Second Temple periods differed in many areas—spiritually, halachically (in matters pertaining to Torah law), materially, culturally and politically. One of these differences was that under Joshua the people of Israel conquered the Land and ultimately established full Jewish sovereignty over its territory, while the Jews under Ezra came as settlers with a franchise from the Persian emperors under whose dominion the Holy Land lay. Indeed, for much of the Second Temple Era the Holy Land was under the political hegemony of foreign kings—the Persians, the Greeks, and following a brief 70-year period of independence following the Hasmonean revolt, the Romans.

This suggests a superiority of the First Temple Era. Indeed, in many respects, the Second Temple Era was inferior to that of the First Temple.[2] However, a most basic law pertaining to the halachic status of the Holy Land implies the very opposite: that the settlement of the land under Ezra was of greater and more lasting significance to our connection to the Holy Land than its conquest under Joshua.

The Land of Israel is referred to by the Torah (as it is in many of the earth’s languages) as a “holy” land. In essence, this reflects its special place in G-d’s creation and in His providence over His world[3]; in practice, the holiness of the Land of Israel is expressed in the fact that many of the mitzvot (divine commandments) of the Torah relate specifically to its territory and cannot be fulfilled anywhere else. And while the essential holiness of the Land of Israel is intrinsic and exists at all times and under all conditions, its halachic holiness is a factor of its possession by the Jewish people. Only those parts of the Holy Land that actually came under Jewish possession are obligated in the mitzvot that relate to the Land. In other words, by taking possession of the Land of Israel the Jewish people also “sanctified” it, establishing the boundaries within which these special mitzvot can be fulfilled.

There were two such “sanctifications”: the sanctification achieved by Joshua’s conquest of the land, and the sanctification effected by its settlement under Ezra. Torah law distinguishes between the two: Joshua’s sanctification of the land was temporary, and when the people of Israel were exiled to Babylonia the land reverted to its halachically “non-holy” status. But the effect of Ezra’s sanctification was permanent, remaining in force also after the destruction of the Second Temple and the exile of Israel. To this day, the halachic boundaries for the mitzvot of the land are the boundaries of the Jewish settlement in the Second Temple Era, not those of the First Temple Era.

Maimonides explains: since the first sanctification was a achieved by conquest, it endured only as long as the conquest endured. The second sanctification, however, was not achieved by the establishment of political sovereignty, so it is not dependent upon it; thus, the fact that the land was taken from us did not diminish its holiness.[4]

Gift or Inheritance

The Rogatchover (famed scholar and analyst of Torah law, Rabbi Yosef Rosen, 1858-1936) relates these two “sanctifications” to the two verses quoted at the beginning of this essay. In the 13th chapter of Genesis, we first read of G-d’s promise to Abraham, “To your descendants I will give this land.” Later, in chapter 15, we read of the covenant that G-d made with Abraham in which He reiterated this promise; here, the word “inheritance” first appears as a description of Israel’s relationship with the land.

According to Torah law, a gift might be temporary, but never an inheritance, which, by definition, is interminable. (Thus the law states that a person can instruct that his field should be given to someone for twenty years, following which it should be transferred to someone else; but if he says “My son should inherit the field for twenty years,” his statement has no legal validity, since “a gift can be terminated, while an inheritance cannot be terminated.”[5]) The verse in chapter 13, in which G-d promises to give the land to Abraham’s descendants, refers to the conquest by Joshua, whose effect was reversible. In chapter 15, G-d is referring to the acquisition of the land by Ezra which, like an inheritance, is everlasting.[6]

The terms “gift” and “inheritance” also reflect the nature of these two acquisitions of the Land. In a gift, the recipient’s connection with the given thing is imposed upon him by the will and rights of the giver; thus the giver also determines the extent and duration of the gift. The right over an inheritance, on the other hand, is something intrinsic to the nature of the inheritor: the inherited thing is his not because it has been given to him, but by virtue of who and what he is. Thus, no outside factor can limit the inheritance

Joshua’s sanctification of the Land was achieved by an external dynamic—the conquest; so—like the gift—it was contingent upon the extent and duration of the vector that imposed it. When the conquest ceased, so did its effect on the halachic status of the Land.

In Ezra’s time, the Jewish people sanctified the Land not by conquering it, but by settling it. Thus they asserted their intrinsic bond with the Land—a bond that is not contingent upon military might or political rule. They came as heirs, whose relationship to the land derives from within—from who and what they are—rather than from what has been imposed by a superior force. So the sanctity they effected in the Land was—like the inheritance—immune to the influence of external forces, and did not cease when the armies of Rome drove them from their homeland.

Land as Life

The purpose of creation, say our sages, is that “G-d desired a dwelling in the physical world.”[7] Namely, that man should sanctify the material existence and develop it into a “home” for G-d—a place where His quintessential being is manifestly present and expressed. Thus, the endeavor to conquer and settle the Land, and thereby transform it into a “Holy Land,” can be said to represent the overall objective of life on earth.

Just as there were two primary modes of sanctification of the Land—the “conquest” mode of the First Temple Era and the “settlement” mode of the Second Temple Era—so, too, are there two modes of sanctification in the macrocosmic endeavor of life, corresponding to the two primary states of man: that of the tzaddik (perfectly righteous person) and the baal teshuvah (“returnee” or penitent).

In the narrow sense of these terms, the tzaddik is a person who is utterly and perfectly good, without a single misdeed to his behavior or negative trait to his character, while the baal teshuvah is one who has succumbed to evil but has returned to a righteous life. In the broader sense, the tzaddik is one whose spiritual life is characterized by harmony and tranquillity, while the baal teshuvah is one who engages in a perpetual struggle with the negative within him and in his world.

Both the tzaddik and the baal teshuvah participate in the development and sanctification of the material world. The tzaddik, however, affects the world from without. Aloof from the cares and trappings of material life, the tzaddik radiates from his goodness upon it, vanquishing the forces of darkness with his superlative light. But because this is a transformation from above, it is sustainable for only as long as the tzaddik maintains his influence upon it. For the world itself has not changed; it has only been overwhelmed by a superior force.

The baal teshuvah, on the other hand, transforms the world from within. He is no stranger to material life, no aloof observer of its contortions and corruptions; when he sanctifies the mundane, it is a sanctity coming from within, from the world’s inner potential to house its Creator. Lacking outside sources of holiness, the baal teshuvah delves into the nature of the material to uncover therein the light implicit within the darkness, the holiness implicit within the mundanity. And because it represents a transformation from within, the divine home constructed by the baal teshuvah is self-sufficient and immutable.

In the First Temple Era, we were a nation of tzaddikim. Born at Sinai and formed in the spiritual cocoon of a generation of desert life, we had no experience with the Land, with the material dimension of creation. So we conquered it, overwhelming it with our superior force, with the spirit’s natural preeminence over the material. But because this was a conquest imposed from above, the holiness of the Land could be maintained only as long as the conquering element remained in force. When we turned away from G-d, when we lost our spiritual edge, we also lost the Land, and the Land lost its holiness.

Returning from Babylonia, we entered the Land as a nation of baalei teshuvah (returnees)—a nation who had succumbed to evil only to best it in its own arena, a nation now intimate with the material world and wise to its wiles. This time, we settled the Land. Our aim was not to conquer it and assert our dominance over it, but to develop it from within, to unleash its own potential as a divine abode.

This time, the sanctity we evoked in it was intrinsic and enduring. So even when our sins and failings subsequently banished us from our land, the Land remained holy, for the most powerful armies and the most potent evils could not efface the quintessential holiness we had effected in our ancestral heritage.

Based on the Rebbe’s talks, Av 20 and 30, 5738 (August 23 and September 3, 1978), and Sukkot 5724 (1963)[8].

Adapted from the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

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Tags: baal teshuvah, Beis Hamikdash, Joshua, sanctification, Ezra, inheritance, exile, redemption, Israel
Posted in Weekly Parsha, Bereishit, Beliefs & Concepts, Lech-Lecha, Exile, Torah | 1 Comment »

Experience

April 7th, 2015

Chassidic master Rabbi Nachum of Chernobyl (1730-1797) devoted much money and effort to ransoming Jews who had been imprisoned by the poritzim (feudal overlords) of Eastern Europe for their failure to pay a debt, for some real or imagined offense, or, often, for no reason other than the caprice of the local poritz.

On one occasion, Rabbi Nachum was himself arrested on some trumped-up charge and found himself in dire need of the very help he extended to others. As he sat in a dank, underground cell wondering what he might have done to deserve such suffering, he had a vision in which he was told:

“Abraham’s labor of love was the mitzvah of providing hospitality to travelers. It was for this reason that G-d instructed him, ‘Go, you, from your land, from your birthplace, and from your father’s house.’[24] By becoming a homeless wayfarer himself, he was able to better appreciate the needs he filled in others and the depth of his kindness to them.

“It is for this reason, Reb Nachum, that it was decreed that you suffer imprisonment: in order that you gain a deeper appreciation of the mitzvah to which you have devoted your life.”

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

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[24]. Genesis 12:1.

Tags: faith, Chassidic stories, Abraham, Chassidic history, Rabbi Nachum of Chernobyl
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Wealth

April 7th, 2015

As the sun began to set, a deep slumber fell upon Abram; and, behold, a dread, a great darkness, descended upon him. And [G-d] said to Abram: “Know that your children shall be strangers in a land not theirs, [where] they will be enslaved and tortured … and afterwards they will go out with great wealth.”

Genesis 15:12-13

For much of our history, we have indeed been “strangers in a land not ours.” There was the Egyptian Exile that preceded our birth as a nation; the Babylonian Exile that followed the destruction of the First Temple; the Greek Exile during the Second Temple Era; and our present exile, which began with the Roman destruction of the Holy Temple in 69 ce and from which we have yet to emerge after more than nineteen centuries under the hegemony of alien powers.

Exile—galut, in Hebrew—is much more than a person’s physical removal from his homeland. A person in exile is a person severed from the environment that nourishes his way of life, his principles and values, his spiritual identity. In exile all these are in jeopardy, for the onus is now on him alone; he must call upon his own resources of resolve and perseverance to survive. In the words of our sages, “All journeys are dangerous.”[12]

Why are we in galut? Galut is commonly regarded as a punishment for our national and individual failings. Indeed, the Prophets repeatedly describe it as such, and in our prayers we lament the fact that, “Because of our sins, we were exiled from our land.”[13] But if galut was solely punishment for sin, its intensity would gradually diminish as the sins that caused it are atoned for; yet we find that galut grows darker and deeper as it progresses. Furthermore, our state of galut was foretold to Abraham in his covenant with G‑d as an integral part of the Jewish mission in history long before the sins for which it atones were committed.

The Promise

A clue to a deeper significance of galut can be found in the “great wealth” that G-d promised to Abraham as the result of his children’s sojourn in the land of Egypt. Indeed, this promise is a recurrent theme in the Torah’s account of the Egyptian Exile and the Exodus—to the extent that one gets the impression that this was the very purpose of our enslavement in Egypt.

In G-d’s first communication to Moses, when He revealed Himself to him in the burning bush and charged him with the mission of taking the Jewish people out of Egypt, He makes sure to include the promise that, “When you go, you will not go empty-handed. Every woman shall ask from her neighbor, and from her that dwells in her house, vessels of gold and vessels of silver and garments… and you shall drain Egypt [of its wealth].”[14]

During the plague of darkness, when the land of Egypt was plunged into a darkness so thick that the Egyptians could not budge from their places, the Jewish people—whom the plague did not affect—were able to move about freely inside the Egyptians’ homes. This, says the Midrash, was in order that the Jews should be able to take an “inventory” of the wealth of Egypt, so that the Egyptians could not deny the existence of any valuable objects the Jews asked for when they left Egypt.[15]

And just prior to the Exodus, G-d again says to Moses: “Please, speak into the ears of the people, that each man ask his [Egyptian] fellow, and each woman her fellow, for vessels of silver and gold.” G-d is virtually begging the Children of Israel to take the wealth of Egypt!

The Talmud explains that the Jewish people were disinclined to hold up their departure from Egypt in order to gather its wealth:

To what is this comparable? To a man who is locked up in prison and is told: “Tomorrow you shall be freed from prison and be given a lot of money.” Says he: “I beg of you, free me today, and I ask for nothing more” … [So G-d had to beseech them:] “Please! Ask the Egyptians for gold and silver vessels, so that the righteous one (Abraham) should not say: He fulfilled ‘They will be enslaved and tortured,’ but He did not fulfill ‘and afterwards they will go out with great wealth.’”[16]

But certainly Abraham, too, would have been prepared to forgo the promise of “great wealth” if this were to hasten his children’s liberation. Obviously, the gold and silver we carried out of Egypt was an indispensable component of our redemption.

The Glitter in the Gold

The Talmud offers the following explanation for the phenomenon of galut:

“The people of Israel were exiled amongst the nations only so that converts might be added to them.”[17]

On the most basic level, this is a reference to the many non-Jews who, in the course of the centuries of our dispersion, have come in contact with the Jewish people and have been inspired to convert to Judaism. But Chassidic teaching explains that the Talmud is also referring to “souls” of a different sort that are transformed and elevated in the course of our exiles: the “sparks of holiness” contained within the physical creation.[18]

The great Kabbalist Rabbi Isaac Luria[19] taught that every object, force and phenomenon in existence has a “spark of holiness” within it—a pinpoint of divinity that constitutes its “soul,” its spiritual essence and design. This “spark” embodies the divine desire that the thing exist, and its function within G-d’s overall purpose for creation. When a person utilizes something to serve his Creator, he penetrates its shell of mundanity, revealing and realizing its divine essence.

It is to this end that we have been dispersed across the face of earth: so that we may come in contact with the sparks of holiness that await redemption in every corner of the globe.

Every soul has its own “sparks” scattered about in the world, which actually form an integral part of itself: no soul is complete until it has redeemed those sparks related to its being. Thus a person moves through life, impelled from place to place and from occupation to occupation by seemingly random forces; but everything is by divine providence, which guides every man to those possessions and opportunities whose soul is intimately connected with his.

Thus the Torah relates how Jacob risked his life to retrieve some “small jugs” he had left behind after crossing the Yabbok River.[20] “The righteous,” remarks the Talmud, “value their possessions more than their bodies.”[21] For they recognize the divine potential in every bit of matter, and see in each of their possessions a component of their own spiritual integrity.

The Lesson

At times, a person might be inclined to escape galut by enclosing himself in a cocoon of spirituality, devoting his days and nights to Torah study and prayer. But instead of escaping galut, he is only deepening his entrenchment within it, for he is abandoning limbs of his own soul—his sparks of holiness —in the wasteland of unrefined materiality.

It is only by meeting the challenges that divine providence sends our way, by utilizing every bit of material “gold” and “silver” toward a G-dly end, that we extricate these sparks from their galut, achieve a personal redemption, and hasten the universal redemption when “The great shofar shall be sounded, and the lost shall come from the lands of plenty, and the forsaken from the lands of stricture, and they shall bow to G-d on the Holy Mountain in Jerusalem.”[22]

Based on an address by the Rebbe, Passover 5721 (1961).[23]

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Tags: exile, redemption, galut, raising the sparks
Posted in Weekly Parsha, Bereishit, Biblical, Soul & Mystical, Beliefs & Concepts, Lech-Lecha, Abraham, Torah Personalities, Exile, Spiritual, Moshiach & Redemption, Torah | No Comments »

Garments

April 7th, 2015

“The righteous emulate their Creator,” say our sages.[1]

If you want to know how to behave in a given situation, see what G-d does.

On the whole, G-d chooses to run His world in accordance with a series of unchanging (and thus predictable) behavior patterns—what we call “the laws of nature.” It would be just as “easy” for Him to rain down manna from heaven as to cause grain to grow and flour and water to bake into bread; but with the exception of one forty-year period in our history, G-d has consistently chosen to nourish us via natural bread from the earth rather than miracle bread from the heavens.

So we, too, manage our lives in accordance with the rules of nature. While we believe with complete faith that G-d is the sole provider of life and sustenance, we labor to construct the natural vehicles through which His providence may flow. We know that to be nourished by a piece of bread supposedly produced by human hands is no less a “miracle” than to be nourished by “bread” falling from the heavens; nevertheless, we do not sit around waiting for manna to rain down upon us, but devote hours, energy and talent—resources that could have been devoted to “holier,” more spiritual pursuits—to plowing, sowing, milling, kneading and baking, or to earning the money to pay others to produce our bread.

In the 12th chapter of Genesis, we find our model for this approach to life in the behavior of the first Jew, Abraham. G-d had commanded Abraham to take up residence in the Holy Land; but when shortly thereafter a famine swept through the land, Abraham journeyed to Egypt, where there was bread to be had. Approaching Egypt, a land notorious for its depravity, Abraham realizes that he is in mortal danger on account of the beauty of his wife, Sarah, and he tells her to say that she is his sister, lest he be killed by an Egyptian coveting her beauty.

The famine in the Holy Land and Abraham’s travails in Egypt are counted among the “Ten Tests” which established the depth and invincibility of his faith in G-d.[2] At first glance, however, it would seem that Abraham “failed” these tests: he did not stay in the Holy Land, trusting that G-d would provide for him even under conditions of famine; he did not assume that if G-d desired that he live, no lust-maddened Egyptian could take his life.

In truth, however, a disavowal of the natural tools of life does not imply a greater faith in G-d. Indeed, to do so is to go against the divine desire that we live within the natural world as G-d’s “partners in creation.”[3] The true test of faith lies in how a person regards his natural activities. Does he consider them the source of his achievements? Or does he recognize that they are merely “garments” within which G-d enclothes and disguises His essentially supra-natural sustenance of our lives?

Abraham’s faith did not prevent him from going to Egypt when the natural sources of nourishment ceased to function in the Holy Land, or from resorting to connivance and deceit to ensure his safety when his life was threatened. Indeed, the fact that he could take these actions and experience their apparent success in bringing him material gain and, at the same time, relate to G-d as the sole source of his safety and enrichment, was the ultimate proof of his faith in G-d.

Joseph

But G-d, on occasion, does perform “miracles”—events in which the cloak of consistency and predictability is swept away and His involvement in our lives stands denuded from the garments of nature. In this, too, we are enjoined to emulate our Creator: there are occasions in our lives that call for a “miraculous” response, for a mode of behavior that utterly disregards the dictates of nature and convention.

These, however, are the exception rather than the rule, to be employed under exceptional circumstances in our lives, or by exceptional individuals whose entire lives emulate the miraculous dimension of G-d’s relationship with our reality.

Such an individual was Abraham’s great-grandson, Joseph. When Joseph was incarcerated in an Egyptian prison and did a good turn for a fellow prisoner, the chief butler of Pharaoh, he availed himself of the opportunity to request of him:

In three days’ time, Pharaoh will lift up your head and restore you to your station…. But remember me when your situation is improved. Pray, do me a kindness and make mention of me to Pharaoh, and have me taken out from this house.[4]

Joseph, however, is criticized for his behavior; indeed, he is punished for placing his trust in man rather than relying solely on G-d. “The chief butler did not remember Joseph, but forgot him,” and he was left to languish for two more years in Pharaoh’s dungeon.[5]

What for Abraham was desirable behavior and a demonstration of his faith in G-d, was a breach of faith for Joseph. For Joseph belonged to that select group of righteous individuals whose mission in life is to emulate their Creator in the miraculous, rather than the natural, plane of His relationship with His creation.

The Many and the Few

These two approaches to life were personified by two great Talmudic sages— Rabbi Ishmael and Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai. In the words of the Talmud:

It is written: “And you shall gather your grain.”[6] What does this come to teach us? But since it says, “This book of Torah shall not cease from your mouth [and you shall study it day and night],”[7] I would have thought that one must take these words literally; comes the verse to teach us, “you shall gather your grain”—conduct yourself also in the ways of the world. These are the words of Rabbi Ishmael.

Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai said: If a person plows in the plowing season, sows in the sowing season, reaps in the reaping season, threshes in the threshing season, and winnows when there is wind, what shall become of the Torah? But when Israel does the will of the Almighty, their work is done by others, as it is written, “And[8] strangers will stand and graze your sheep…” [9]

The Talmud concludes: “Many did like Rabbi Ishmael, and succeeded; like Rabbi Shimon, and did not succeed.”

In every generation, a few elect “Josephs” rise to a state of utter aloofness from the ways and cares of the material world, exemplifying the truth that, in essence, there is literally “none else besides Him.”[10] But for the vast majority of us, the path through life is the path blazed by Abraham: a path in which G-d clothes His involvement in our lives in the garments of nature and we employ the resources and norms of our physical existence as the implements of our relationship with Him.

Based on a letter by the Rebbe dated Kislev 2, 5707 (November 25, 1946)[11]

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Tags: Abraham, Egypt, spiritual and material, relationships, divine providence, faith, reality
Posted in Bereishit, Biblical, Weekly Parsha, Passover, Lech-Lecha, Miracles, Beliefs & Concepts, Torah Personalities, Nisan, Torah, Joseph | No Comments »

The Irremovable ‘R’

April 7th, 2015

And G-d spoke to Abram, saying: “… No longer shall you be called  Abram. Your name shall be Abraham, for I have set you a ‘father of multitudes of nations.’ ”

Genesis 17:3-5

Still, the letter reish in “Abram” remained in place.

Rashi on verse

Abraham’s name change, in conjunction with his circumcision and his entry into a covenant with G-d, marked a profound turning point in his life. Up until this point, the thrust of Abraham’s life was his spiritual relationship with G-d; from this point on it was to be his role as a leader of the masses, a teacher of the divine truth to the rather un-divine multitudes.[8]

Thus the Hebrew letter hei was added to his name. “Abram” (Avram, in the Hebrew) is an acronym of av ram, which means “exalted father”; “Abraham” stands for av hamon goyim—“a father of multitudes of nations.” But according to this, his name should have been changed to “Abham”; why was the letter reish, which stood for the ram (“exalted”) in his name, left in? There is no reish in the phrase “a father of multitudes of nations.”

Often, there is a tendency for teachers and leaders to water down their message to their constituents. For myself, goes this line of thinking, I ought to indeed pursue the ultimate, ponder the most abstract truths and set the highest standards. But it is foolish to expect the same of everyone else. How can one compare the spiritual capacity of he who leads an ordinary, mundane existence to that of one who has been seeking G-d all his life? If I speak of such matters and make such demands, I will only be perceived as out of touch with reality. Indeed, the rarefied insight and pious behavior I have attained will only be made crude and debased by its communication to the masses.

Therein lies the lesson of the irremovable reish in Abraham’s name. G-d added a hei, anointing him as a leader for the hamon (“multitudes”), but left the reish of  “exalted” in. For the true mark of a teacher is one who can convey the most sublime truths to the most ordinary of minds, and the true mark of a leader is one who can inspire the loftiest aspirations in the most mundane of hearts. Such a teacher and leader was Abraham, and such is the quality of leadership he bequeathed to his heirs in their role as a “light unto the nations.”[9]

Based on an address by the Rebbe, Shabbat Lech Lecha 5744 (October 15, 1983) [10]

Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber.

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Tags: kabbalah, leadership, teachers, teaching, Hebrew letters
Posted in Weekly Parsha, Bereishit, Biblical, Abraham, Lech-Lecha, Torah Personalities, Torah | No Comments »

Three Days, Three Words

April 7th, 2015

Editor’s note: The following is a free translation of a story that appeared in the Israeli newspaper Yediot Achronot on Iyar 4, 5717 (May 5, 1957). We have left the article basically as it was written, wishing to convey the “outsider’s” perspective of the Israeli reporter and his impression of the people and the events he describes.

On the eve of Independence Day last year, as the bonfires were being raised on Mount Herzl in Jerusalem, the lights were burning also in Tzafrir (Kfar Chabad),¹ the Chabad-Lubavitcher village in the Lod Valley.

For four days, since the evening of Rosh Chodesh Iyar, the village had been in deep mourning and grievous anguish, the likes of which the Lubavitcher chassidim had not known in many years. On that black and bitter night, a band of fedayeen² entered the village. They made their way to the synagogue of the local agricultural school, where the school’s young students were in the midst of the evening maariv prayers, and raked the room with fire from their Karl-Gustav rifles. They reaped a cruel blood-harvest: five children and one teacher were killed and another ten children wounded; their pure, holy blood soaking the siddurim that fell from their hands and splattering the synagogue’s white-washed walls.

The village chassidim, brawny, broad-shouldered Russian Jews with thick black beards and bushy brows, stood dumbfounded before the terrible scene that met their eyes. A pogrom in Israel! A pogrom in Chabad! they whispered, and bit their lips in rage. The women stood there too, hefty, handsome Russian matrons, wringing their hands and murmuring to themselves in Russian and Hebrew, their eyes emitting an endless stream of tears.

This was not a common scene for the Lubavitchers. These chassidim, who had survived the pogroms in Czar Nikolai’s Russia and whom the Red Army could not intimidate, who had been banished to the frozen plains of Siberia, whose backs decades in Stalin’s prisons and camps could not bow, now stood stooped and despairing. Now, that the blow had hit home in the heart of the Jewish state.

In the center of the village stood Rabbi Avraham Maayor who had been a high-ranking officer in the Russian Army. Avraham Maayar, of whom legend told that he calmly stood and sang chassidic melodies as a band of soldiers beat him with the butts of their rifles, now stood crying out at the heavens: “Master of the Universe, Why?! How have the children sinned?!”

Despair and dejection pervaded the village, and began to eat away at its foundations. There were some who saw what happened as a sign that their dream of a peaceful life in the Holy Land was premature. Perhaps we should disband, seek refuge in safer havens? The village was slowly dying.

The Village Waits

But it was clear to all that before any decisive move would be made, the Rebbe had to be consulted. Nothing would be done without his knowledge and consent. All awaited the telegram from “there,” from New York, but the telegram was inexplicably not forthcoming. Four days had passed since the terror had struck. A lengthy telegram had immediately been dispatched informing the Rebbe of all the details of the tragedy, and an answer was expected that very night. But the Rebbe was silent. What happened, many wondered, why doesn’t he respond? Has he not a word of comfort for his stricken followers?

A telegram from the Rebbe, it should be clarified, is an integral part of Chabad-Chassidic life across the globe. Every problem, every decision pertaining to the communal or private life of the Lubavitcher chassid is referred to the Rebbe’s headquarters in Brooklyn, and whatever the reply, that is what is done. And the answer is always forthcoming, whether by regular post, express mail, or emergency telegram—depending upon the urgency of the matter—and always short, succinct, and to the point.

Why, then, is the Rebbe’s answer on such a fateful matter tarrying? The village elders had no explanation, and, as the hours and days went by, the question continued to plague their tormented souls, and their anguish and despair weighed increasingly heavier on their hearts.

The Telegram

And then, four days after the tragedy, the telegram arrived. The news spread throughout the village: A telegram from the Rebbe! The telegram has arrived! The entire village, men, women and children, assembled in the village square to hear the Rebbe’s reply.

And the Rebbe was characteristically succinct. The telegram contained a single sentence—three Hebrew words—but these three words sufficed to save the village from disintegration and its inhabitants from despair. Behemshech habinyan tinacheimu, wrote the Lubavitcher Rebbe, Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson. “By your continued building will you be comforted.”

The chassidim of Kfar Chabad now had a firm grasp on their future: they knew what they had to do. They must build! The Rebbe said to build! And that by their continued building they will be comforted! That very night the village elders held a meeting to discuss how the Rebbe’s directive might be implemented. After a short discussion, a decision was reached: a vocational school will be built where children from disadvantaged backgrounds will be taught the printing trade. On the very spot where the blood was spilled, the building will be raised.

The Rebbe Knew

The next morning, all residents of the village gathered at the empty lot adjoining the agricultural school and began clearing and leveling the land in preparation for the building. The joy was back in their eyes.

In the weeks that followed, letters arriving from relatives and friends in New York described what had transpired there in those four endless days in which the village had awaited the Rebbe’s reply.

For the entire month of Nissan, the month of the redemption, it is the Rebbe’s custom to devote himself entirely to the service of the Creator, reducing his contact with his chassidim to a minimum. Rare is the individual who is granted an audience with the Rebbe in this period, and all but the most urgent correspondence is postponed until the close of the auspicious month.

When the month of Nissan ends, a festive farbrengen (chassidic gathering) is held at the Rebbe’s headquarters on Eastern Parkway in Brooklyn, marking the Rebbe’s resumption of his involvement with his thousands of followers across the globe. The Rebbe speaks for hours, his talks interspersed with bouts of song and l’chaims, often until the wee hours of the morning.

That year, the farbrengen marking the close of Nissan was also held. The tragic news from the Holy Land had arrived in New York moments before the farbrengen was scheduled to begin, but the Rebbe’s secretaries decided to withhold the news from him until after the gathering. But what his assistants did not tell him, his heart seems to have told him. That night, the Rebbe spoke of Jewish self-sacrifice and martyrdom al kiddush Hashem (for the sanctification of G-d’s name), about the rebuilding of the Holy Land, and the redemption of Israel. Tears flowed from his eyes as he spoke. All night he spoke and wept, sang and wept, and wept still more.

Why is the Rebbe weeping? Only a few of those present could guess—those who knew about the telegram from Kfar Chabad.

The farbrengen ended. The chassidim dispersed to their homes, and the Rebbe retired to his room. With great trepidation, two of the Rebbe’s closest chassidim knocked on the Rebbe’s door and handed him the telegram from Israel. The Rebbe sank into his chair. He locked his door and did not open it for three days. After three days of utter seclusion, he called his secretary and dictated his reply: Behemshech habinyan tinacheimu. By your continued building you will be comforted.

The chassidim of Kfar Chabad have fulfilled their Rebbe’s request. Without the aid of philanthropists or foundations, they have raised 50,000 Israeli pounds, and today, one year after the tragedy, the new building of the vocational school is completed.

Tomorrow, as the citizens of Israel celebrate their eighth Independence Day, the chassidim of Kfar Chabad will hold a farbrengen and relate, again and again, the story of the three-word telegram that saved the village.

Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber.

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Tags: Chassidic stories, Chassidic history, Kfar Chabad, Israel, anti-semitism
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Prayer

April 7th, 2015

The following is an excerpt from the diary of the previous Lubavitcher Rebbe, Rabbi Yosef Yitzchak Schneersohn (1880-1950), in which he recounts an incident from his early childhood.

…I then remembered how as a small child, still studying with the late Reb Yekutiel the melamed, I would run to the synagogue to listen to father[2] pray, and how heavy my heart was: why doesn’t father pray briskly, as the entire congregation does, as my uncles do? I once asked why this is so and my uncle Raza[3] told me that father cannot pronounce the Hebrew words easily, and I agonized greatly over this.

I enter the synagogue. Not a soul is to be found, only father is standing, his face to the wall, praying. He is beseeching G-d, he is appealing for mercy. But I do not understand: why is he supplicating more than all other worshippers? Why does he need G-d’s mercy more than other people?

Suddenly, father begins to sob. My heart sinks within me: father is crying! Not a soul in the house of G-d, and father is crying. I bend an ear and I hear him say, “Shema Yisroel…,” and sob, “Hashem Elokeinu…,” and sob. He then falls silent. And then again, in a mighty voice emerging from the depths of his heart, “Hashem echad!” in a flood of tears and a terrifying voice.

This time I could no longer contain myself. I went to my mother (may she live long) and wept: Why does father pray longer than all the other worshipers? My uncle Raza says that father has difficulty pronouncing the words. Why cannot father recite Hebrew at a proper speed? And today I saw that father is crying, come with me, my mother, I will show you that father is crying…!

“What can I do?” responded my mother. “Can I have him sent to cheder? Go to your grandmother and ask her, perhaps she can do something about this.”

I rushed to take the advice of my mother and went to my grandmother (of blessed memory), the saintly Rebbetzin, and posed to her my innocent question. My grandmother said to me: “Your father is a great chassid and tzaddik.[4] With each and every word he utters, he first thinks of the meaning of the word that he is saying.”

I remember how at that moment she calmed me, and how from then on my attitude toward my father changed; for I knew that father is apart from and above other men. With his every move I saw that father is father. Father awakes in the morning and dons the tefillin and reads the Shema. Then, he goes to serve his mother tea (I also wish to do so but they prevent me by saying that I will be hurt by the boiling water).

Father washes his hands before meals not like other people. Other people pour water over their hands only twice, but father takes the pitcher with his right hand, then hands it over to his left hand, and pours three times in succession over his right hand; then he takes another pitcher of water and, using the towel to hold it in his right hand, pours three times over his left.

Every day, before the afternoon minchah prayers, father again goes to serve a cup of tea to his mother and sits there for about an hour. Everyone speaks, speaks with gusto, but father is mostly silent. Sometimes he speaks, speaking softly.

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Tags: Chassidic history, Chassidic stories, Power of Prayer
Posted in Weekly Parsha, Bereishit, Noah, Beliefs & Concepts, Torah Personalities, Modern, Rebbe Rashab, Prayer, Torah, Rebbe Rayatz | No Comments »