The Missing Complaint

March 25th, 2015

One month after Passover, on the 14th of Iyar, comes Pesach Sheni, the “Second Passover.” Today, we commemorate the occasion by eating matzah on that day. When the Holy Temple stood in Jerusalem, this day served as a “second chance” for those who were unable to bring the Passover offering on its appointed day on Nissan 14.

In the ninth chapter of Numbers, the Torah relates the circumstances that led to the institution of the Second Passover:

G-d spoke to Moses in the Sinai desert, in the first month of the second year following their Exodus from the land of Egypt, saying:

“The children of Israel shall prepare the Passover [offering] at its appointed time. On the fourteenth of this month, in the afternoon … in accordance with all its decrees and laws….”

There were, however, certain individuals who had become ritually impure through contact with a dead body, and therefore could not prepare the Passover offering on that day. They approached Moses and Aaron … and they said: “…Why should we be deprived and not be able to present G-d’s offering in its time, amongst the children of Israel?”

And Moses said to them: “Wait here, and I will hear what G-d will command concerning you.”

And G-d spoke to Moses, saying… “Any person who is contaminated by death, or is on a distant road, whether among you now or in future generations, shall prepare a Passover offering to G-d. They shall prepare it on the afternoon of the fourteenth day of the second month, and shall eat it with matzahs and bitter herbs….”[1]

The Talmud points out that the above verses appear in the Torah out of chronological context. The events leading to the establishment of the Second Passover took place in the month of Nissan in the year 2449 from creation (1312 bce); chronologically, this would place them in the very first chapter of the book of Numbers. Instead, Numbers begins with an account of the census taken of the Jewish people a month later, in Iyar of that year. From this the Talmud derives the rule that “There is no earlier and later in the Torah.”[2]

Why, indeed, aren’t these events transcribed in the order in which they occurred? Our sages explain that the Torah does not wish to begin the book of Numbers with something that is “a disgrace for Israel. For in the forty years that the people of Israel were in the desert, this was the only Passover offering they brought.”[3]

But why should this be regarded as a “disgrace”? The reason that the people of Israel brought no other Passover offering until they entered the Holy Land was that G-d did not allow them to. G-d had instructed that the annual Passover offering should be observed only “When you come into the land that G-d shall give to you”;[4] the first two Passovers—the one observed in Egypt and the one held in the desert on the following year—were exceptions to this rule, specifically commanded by G-d. So of what deficiency in Israel’s behavior are our sages speaking?

The answer lies in the story of the “Second Passover” itself. A group of Jews had found themselves in a state which, by divine decree, absolved them from the duty to bring the Passover offering. Yet they refused to reconcile themselves to this. They refused to accept that this avenue of relationship with G-d should be closed to them. And their impassioned plea and demand—“Why should we be deprived?”—swayed G-d to establish a new institution, the “Second Passover,” to enable them, and all who might find themselves in a similar situation in future generations, “to present G-d’s offering in its time, amongst the children of Israel.”

Therein lies the “disgrace” in those thirty-eight Passoverless years in the Sinai Desert. Why did the Jewish people reconcile themselves to the divine decree? Why did they accept this void in their relationship with G-d? Why did they not clamor for the opportunity to serve Him in the full and optimum manner that the mitzvot of the Torah describe?

The Lesson

For more than 1900 years now, our Passovers have been incomplete. We eat the matzah and the bitter herbs, we drink the four cups of wine, we ask and answer the four questions, but the heart and essence of Passover, the Passover offering, is absent from our seder table. For G-d has hidden His face from us, has removed the Holy Temple, the seat of His manifest presence on physical earth, from our midst.

The lesson of the “displaced” ninth chapter of Numbers is clear: G-d desires and expects of us that we refuse to reconcile ourselves to the decree of galut and its diminution of His manifest involvement in our lives. He desires and expects of us that we storm the gates of heaven with the plea and demand: “Why shall we be deprived?!”

Based on an address by the Rebbe, Sivan 11, 5741 (June 13, 1981)[5]

Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

[5]. Likkutei Sichot, vol. XXIII, pp. 62-72

Tags: galut, seder, Divine will, time, exile, gallus
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The Distant Road

March 25th, 2015

The fourteenth day of the month of Iyar is Pesach Sheini, the “Second Passover.” When the Holy Temple stood in Jerusalem, this day served as a “second chance” for those who were unable to bring the Passover offering on its appointed day one month earlier, on the 14th of Nissan.[1]

In the ninth chapter of Numbers, the Torah relates the circumstances that led to the institution of the Second Passover. On the first of Nissan in the year 2449 from creation (1312 bce), two weeks before the first anniversary of the Exodus,

G-d spoke to Moses in the Sinai desert … saying: “The children of Israel shall prepare the Passover [offering] at its appointed time. On the fourteenth of this month, in the afternoon … in accordance with all its decrees and laws….”

There were, however, certain individuals who had become ritually impure through contact with a dead body and therefore could not prepare the Passover offering on that day. They approached Moses and Aaron … and they said: “…Why should we be deprived and not be able to present G-d’s offering in its time, amongst the children of Israel?”
And Moses said to them: “Wait here, and I will hear what G-d will command concerning you.”

And G-d spoke to Moses, saying… “Any person who is contaminated by death, or is on a distant road, whether among you now or in future generations, shall prepare a Passover offering to G-d. They shall prepare it on the afternoon of the fourteenth day of the second month, and shall eat it with matzot and bitter herbs….”[2]

The Power of Return

The eternal significance of the Second Passover, says the previous Lubavitcher Rebbe, Rabbi Yosef Yitzchak Schneersohn, is that it is never too late to rectify a past failing. Even if a person has failed to fulfill a certain aspect of his mission in life because he has been “contaminated by death” (i.e., in a state of disconnection from the divine source of life[3]) or “on a distant road” from his people and G-d, there is always a “Second Passover” in which he can make good on what he has missed out.

The Second Passover thus represents the power of teshuvah—the power of “return.” Teshuvah is much more than repentance, much more than “turning a new leaf” and achieving forgiveness for past sins. It is the power to return to one’s past to rectify its failings and reclaim its missed opportunities.

Teshuvah is achieved when a negative deed or experience is applied in a way that completely transforms its significance. When a person’s contact with death evokes in him a striving for life he would never have mustered without that experience; when his wanderings on distant roads awaken in him a yearning for home he would never have otherwise felt—these hitherto negative experiences are literally turned inside out. Contact with death is transformed into a more intense involvement with life; distance into a greater closeness.

Beyond Torah

This explains the unique circumstances under which the institution of the Second Passover became part of Torah.

Virtually all of the mitzvot of the Torah, including those governing rare and unforeseeable circumstances, were directly commanded by G-d to Moses. The law of the Second Passover is one of the few cases in which a “new” mitzvah was elicited by a petition from mortal men[4]—by the outcry of several individuals who protested, “Why shall we be deprived?!”

Why wasn’t the provision for a “Second Passover” included in the Torah’s initial legislation of the laws of Passover? Because the gift of teshuvah could not have been granted through the regular channels of Torah law.

Torah is the articulation of the divine will via a body of 613 commandments and prohibitions, a code of law that describes what G-d desires that we do and not do. If Torah defines a certain deed or situation as contrary to the divine will, it cannot subsequently regard it as positive and desirable. Thus the Midrash tells,

They asked Wisdom, “What is the punishment for the sinner?” Wisdom replied: “Evil pursues sinners.”[5]
They asked Prophecy, and Prophecy replied: “The soul who sins shall die.”[6]
They asked Torah, and Torah replied: “He shall bring a guilt-offering and he shall be forgiven.”[7]
They asked G-d, and G-d replied: “Let him do teshuvah and he shall be forgiven.”[8]

Torah can provide a formula for repentance; but it can see no way of escaping the fact that the person has transgressed the divine will. At most, it can forgive the deed and reconnect the person to his source of life. But it cannot change the negativity of sin—the fact that, at a certain point in time, the person had been in a state of disconnection from G-d.

So the Second Passover, with its premise that nothing, not even the past, is beyond rectification, could not have entered our lives through the conventional “chain of command” of Torah. It took a small group of Jews, contaminated by death and languishing on a distant road, to elicit the gift of teshuvah from the Almighty.

Their cry, “Why shall we be deprived?!” expressing a depth of yearning for attachment to G-d that only their currently distant state could have evoked, prompted G-d to supersede the formulation of His will as expressed in Torah and grant them a mandate to redefine the past with a “Second Passover.”

An Instant Life

A central principle in Chassidic teaching is that the entirety of the divine wisdom, from the most technical deliberations of halachah (Torah law) to the most esoteric kabbalistic passage, constitutes “one Torah.” The Torah may possess a “body” and a “soul,” but these together constitute a single, wholly integrated organism: the soul, or the spiritual significance, of a law is reflected in its body, and every “limb” and “organ” of its body has its corresponding significance in its soul.

The same is true of the laws governing the first and second Passovers. An entire tractate in the Talmud (Pesachim) details the hundreds of laws that apply to the Passover offering. Most of these apply equally to both Passovers;  but there are several significant differences. These “technical” differences reflect the deeper conceptual import of the two Passovers: the original Passover observed by the “straight and true,” and the Second Passover established for the baal teshuvah, the “returnee.”

One of the primary differences between the two Passovers is that the Passover offering brought on the afternoon of Nissan 14 is followed by a seven-day festival,[9] while the Second Passover is but a single day.

Seven days signify a process, a routine, a natural course of action. G-d created the world in seven days and thereby stamped a seven-day work/rest cycle into the very fabric of the natural reality. The heart of man possesses seven major attributes (love, fear, harmony, ambition, devotion, connection and receptiveness), reflecting the seven divine attributes (sefirot) that G-d invested in His seven-day creation. So when we speak of a seven-day Passover, we speak of the graduated, step-by-step accomplishments of the tzaddik—the righteous  individual who builds his relationship with G-d and fulfills his mission in life in accordance with the formula and “game plan” set forth in the Torah.

Not so the baal teshuvah, the one who strays from the natural course of his soul and then rebounds with a thirst for life that only those who have wandered in a deathly wasteland can experience. The Talmud tells the story of Elazar ben Durdaya, a man who transgressed virtually every sin in the book. One day, a harlot said to him, “Elazar ben Durdaya could never repent.” The recognition of how far he had gone shook him to the very core of his soul; “he placed his head between his knees, and wailed and sobbed until his soul departed from his body.” Upon hearing the story of this man, Rabbi Judah HaNassi wept and said: “There are those who acquire their world through many years’ toil, and there are those who acquire their world in a single moment.”

The essence of teshuvah is a single wrench of self, a flash of regret and resolve. “There are those who acquire their world in many years,” said the greatest tzaddik of his day, building it brick by brick with the conventional tools of achievement; “and there are those who acquire their world in a single turn[10] and moment”—in a single instant that molds their future and redefines their past.[11]

Not every baal teshuvah achieves the instantaneous transformation of Elazar ben Durdaya. But the one-day duration of the Second Passover expresses the nature of teshuvah: not the conventional, progressional life of the tzaddik, but the baal teshuvah’s drastic leap from extreme to extreme.

Conquering Inflation

Another halachic difference between the two Passovers is the prohibition against leavened foods.

The first Passover wages an all-out war on all leavened substances: not only is the eating of any form of leaven severely forbidden, but every last speck and crumb must be banished from our premises. Not so on the Second Passover. Although the Passover offering is then, too, eaten with the unleavened matzah, there is no need to rid ourselves of leaven; in the words of the Talmud, “leaven and matzah are with him in the house.”[12]

The Chassidic masters explain the spiritual significance of the prohibition of leaven on Passover: leaven, dough that has risen and inflated, represents the tendency of the human ego to rise and swell. Leaven must be completely eradicated from our premises, since an inflated ego is the source of all evil. The entire Torah is based on the premise that “There is none else besides Him”[13]—that G-d is the only absolute reality, since every created thing is completely dependent on Him who continually supplies it with life and existence. One who perceives himself as an existence in his own right, ultimately rejects the entire Torah.

The tzaddik’s reality consists of two distinct spheres: the permissible and the forbidden; that which he develops and that which he disavows. The 248 positive commandments of the Torah relate to those elements of his character and his environment which he utilizes in his service of G-d; the Torah’s 365 prohibitions define what is not within his power to redeem and sublimate, and is therefore off limits to him. Leaven and everything that it represents has no place in his life.

The baal teshuvah, however, is one who, having already wandered off into the forbidden realm, now exploits these negative elements and experiences to fuel his quest for divine life. In his home, leaven and matzah both reside; what is beyond the ken of the “first Passover” personality forms an integral part of the baal teshuvah’s service of G-d.

The Repentant Righteous

The Talmud cites a dispute between several sages regarding the status of the Second Passover. Some are of the opinion that it is “a festival in its own right” while others maintain that it is a “fulfillment of the first,” to be defined solely as a second chance for a failed opportunity.[14]

(There are several practical ramifications to this issue. For example, if one reaches the age of legal maturity [“bar mitzvah”] during the month between the two Passovers, or if a non-Jew converts to Judaism during this period, should they bring a Passover offering on the Second Passover? If the Second Passover is defined as a “fulfillment of the first,” then it would apply only to those who were obligated to observe the first and failed to do so. The new adult or new Jew has no lack to fulfill. On the other hand, if it is “a festival in its own right,” then anyone who has not brought a Passover offering on the First Passover can do so on the Second Passover.)

These two definitions of the Second Passover apply to its “soul” as well as to its “body.” In fact, it is only in the soul of the law that both opinions can be fully applied. Regarding the “body” of Torah law, we can only follow one opinion: though we regard both as legitimate Torah views (in the words of the Talmud, “these and these are both the word of the living G-d”[15]), in practice, we follow the majority opinion. But when it comes to the soul of Torah—to the conceptual-spiritual significance of the law—all opinions are equally applicable.

On the most basic level, teshuvah is the result of a sin in the literal sense, making the terms baal teshuvah and tzaddik mutually exclusive: one who hasn’t actually transgressed the divine will cannot experience teshuvah and the powerful attraction to G-d only it can bring. This is the equivalent of seeing the Second Passover exclusively as a “fulfillment of the first”—a phenomenon that comes only as the result of actual failing.

Yet there is also another, more universal teshuvah. The essence of teshuvah is the drive to return to one’s former, unblemished state—a drive that is fueled by the presently deficient state itself. Ordinarily, we consider the sin-free soul of a tzaddik to be perfect in its relationship with G-d, and thus devoid of the possibility for teshuvah. Yet in truth, the very placement of the soul into a physical body, and her subsequent enmeshment in material needs and concerns, is itself an infringement on her original, uninhibited bond with G-d. The very birth of man means that the physical faculties of the body are now the medium through which the soul must perceive, experience and relate to her Creator, greatly limiting the quality and scope of her spiritual life.

But as with the standard  teshuvah for “real” sins, the distant road of physical life holds the potential for an even more intense, more meaningful bond with G-d than before. In this sense, the Second Passover is “a festival in its own right,” offering an opportunity for a teshuvah that is not limited to the literal sinner: an opportunity to exploit the distance and spiritual lifelessness of the material world as an impetus to greater and deeper connection with one’s source.

Based on an address by the Rebbe, Iyar 13, 5724 (April 25 1964)[16]

Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

Tags: sacrifices and offerings, seder, Divine will, teshuvah, body and soul, Jewish law, Frierdiker Rebbe, baal teshuvah
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The Conquest of Time

March 24th, 2015

“There is no ‘earlier’ or ‘later’ in Torah,” states the Talmud,[1] meaning that the events recounted by the Torah do not necessarily follow in chronological order of their occurrence. For Torah will often disregard the time-context of an event for the sake of an insight or lesson that can be derived from its appearance in proximity to earlier or later event or in a certain conceptual context.

The Talmud derives this rule from the Torah’s account of the origins of Pesach Sheini, the “Second Passover.” In the ninth chapter of Numbers, we read how “in the second year from the exodus from Egypt, in the first month” G-d commanded Moses that the Jewish people should offer the korban pesach (“pascal lamb”) as they did a year earlier, on the eve of the Exodus. The Torah goes on to relate that a group of Jews who were in a state of ritual impurity–a state which prevented them from participating in the Passover offering–approached Moses with the protest: “Why should we be deprived?!” We, too, cried they, desire to serve G-d by bringing a korban pesach, as the entire community will. In response to their cry, G-d instituted a “Second Passover”: beginning with that year, and for all future generations, a person who was ritually impure or on a “distant road” on Passover eve will be given the opportunity to do so one month later, on the fourteenth of Iyar.

As cited above, all this occurred in the first month of the second year from the Exodus. And yet, the Torah, for its own reasons, relates this event several chapters after its account–in Numbers 1-4–of the census the Jewish people that was taken on “the second month of the second year from the Exodus.” Hence the rule, “There is no earlier or later in Torah.”

Everything in Torah, and every detail thereof, is significant and instructive. The fact that the Talmud considers the case of the “Second Passover” to be the source of the principle that “There is no earlier or later in Torah,” although the Torah abounds with many demonstrable instances of this (Rashi cites one example as early as Genesis 6:3), implies that this particular case is intrinsically connected to this particular rule.

The eternal significance of the “Second Passover” is that there are no missed opportunities, that it is never too late to rectify a past failing. Even one whose compromised spiritual state (his “ritual impurity”), or his alienation from his people and G-d (his being “on a distant road”), have prevented him from fulfilling a certain aspect of his mission in life, there is always a second chance.

Therein lies the essence of teshuvah, Torah’s formula for the rectification of a deficient past. The term is commonly translated as “repentance,” but teshuvah is more than regret over and atonement for wrongdoing. “Repentance” implies only that, at most, a past misdeed will have no adverse effect on one’s present and future, but it cannot change the fact that, in the past, one has done wrong or has failed to achieve what might have been achieved. Teshuvah–the word literally means “return”–is the endeavor to undo and re-do the past, to transform prior failings into virtues and fill yesterday’s vacuums with content.[2] The group of petitioners that approached Moses did not ask that they be excused for their inability to offer the korban pesach; they asked that they “not be deprived,” that they be accorded an opportunity to fulfill an aspect of their relationship with G-d whose appointed time had found them in a spiritual state that precluded their doing so.

Thus, the story of the “Second Passover” gives rise to the principle that “There is no earlier or later in Torah.” That a life lived by Torah is not subject to the tyranny of time, that for such a life, the past is no less replete with opportunity than the future.

_____________________

Tags: teshuvah, time, Jewish calendar, sacrifices and offerings, repentance
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The Humble Truth

March 24th, 2015

The visitor from Hungary stopped a passerby on a street in the town of Lizensk, Galicia, with the request: “Can you please direct me to the home of the great Rabbi Elimelech?”

The man raised his eyes in astonishment: “You mean to tell me that you journeyed all the way from Hungary to see this ‘Rebbe of Lizensk’?! Have the exaggerations and embellishments about this man traveled that far already? I know this Rabbi Elimelech personally, and I can tell you that there is nothing exceptional about him. I’m afraid that you’ve wasted your time and money on these silly rumors.”

The visitor was outraged. “You lowly, despicable man!” he cried. “What do you know?! You obviously have no understanding of anything holy and spiritual!” Still fuming, the visitor stormed off.

Later that day, when he entered Rabbi Elimelech’s study for his appointed audience, he nearly fainted with shame and remorse. The man he had derided earlier on the street was none other than Rabbi Elimelech himself! With tears in his eyes, he begged the Rebbe’s forgiveness.

“Why are you so upset?” asked Rabbi Elimelech. “There’s no need to apologize. I told you the simple truth, and everything you said was also true…”

Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

Tags: Chassidic stories, humility
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Meat

March 24th, 2015

When G-d your G-d shall broaden your borders, as He has promised you, and you will say, “I shall eat meat,” for your soul shall desire to eat meat, you may eat meat to your soul’s desire.

Deuteronomy 12:20-23

“Last and first You created me” (Psalms 139:5) … If man is worthy, he is told: You are first among the works of creation. If he is not worthy, he is told: The flea preceded you, the earthworm preceded you.

Midrash Rabbah, Vayikra 14:1

There are those who contest the “morality” of eating meat. What gives man the right to consume another creature’s flesh? But the same can be said of man’s consumption of vegetable life, water or oxygen. What gives man the right to devour any of G-d’s creations simply to perpetuate his own existence?

Indeed, there is no such “natural” right. When man lives only to sustain and enhance his own being, there is no justification for him to tamper with any other existence to achieve this goal. As a great chassidic master put it, “When a person walks along without a thought of G-d in his head, the very ground under his feet cries out: ‘Boor! What makes you any better than me? By what rights do you step on me?!’”[1] The fact that man is a “higher” life form scarcely justifies the destruction of dumb or inanimate creatures. Moreover, according to the teachings of kabbalah, the souls of animals, plants and inanimate objects are actually loftier than that of the human being; for in the great collapse of the primordial world of Tohu[2]the higher elements fell lowest (as the highest stones in a collapsing wall fall farthest), so that the loftier sparks of divine light came to be incarnated in the lower tiers of the physical world.

Man does have the right to consume other creatures only because—and when—he serves as the agent of their elevation. The spiritual essence of a stone, plant or animal might be loftier than that of a man, but it is a static “spark,” bereft of the capacity to advance creation’s quest to unite with its Creator. The cruelty of the cat or the industry of the ant is not a moral failing or achievement, nor is the hardness of the rock or the sweetness of the apple. The mineral, vegetable and animal cannot do good or evil—they can only follow the dictates of their inborn nature. Only man has been granted freedom of choice and the ability to be better (or worse, G-d forbid) than his natural state. When a person drinks a glass of water, eats an apple, or slaughters an ox and consumes its flesh, these are converted into the stuff of the human body and the energy that drives it. When this person performs a G-dly deed—a deed that transcends his natural self and brings him closer to G-d—he “elevates” the elements he has incorporated into himself, reuniting the sparks of G-dliness they embody with their source. (Also elevated are the creations that enabled the G-dly deed—the soil that nourished the apple, the grass that fed the cow, the horse that hauled the water to town, and so on).

Therein lies the deeper significance of the above-quoted verse, “and you will say, ‘I shall eat meat,’ for your soul shall desire to eat meat.” You might express a desire for meat and be aware only of your body’s craving for the physical satisfaction it brings; in truth, however, this is the result of your soul’s desire to eat meat—your soul’s quest for the “sparks of G-dliness” it has been sent to earth to redeem.

Desire

There is, however, an important difference between the consumption of meat and that of other foods. The difference involves “desire” and the role it plays in the elevation of creation.

The human being cannot live without the vegetable and mineral components of his diet. Thus, he is compelled to eat them by the most basic of his physical drives—the preservation of his existence. Meat, however, is not a necessity but a luxury; the desire for meat is not a desire motivated by need, but desire in its purest sense—the desire to experience pleasure.

In other words, animals are elevated—their flesh integrated into the human body and their souls made partner in a G-dly deed—only because G-d has instilled the desire for pleasure in human nature.

This means that the elevation of meat requires a greater spiritual sensitivity on the part of its consumer than that of other foods. When a person eats a piece of bread and then studies Torah, prays or gives charity, the bread has directly contributed to these deeds. In order to perform these deeds, the soul of man must be fused with a physical body, and the piece of bread was indispensable to this fusion. Man eats bread in order to live; if he lives to fulfill his Creator’s will, the connection is complete. But man eats meat not to live, but to savor its taste; thus, it is not enough that a person lives in order to serve his Creator for the meat he eats to be elevated. Rather, he must be a person for whom the very experience of physical pleasure is a G-dly endeavor, something devoted solely toward a G-dly end; a person for whom the physical satisfaction generated by a tasty meal translates into a deeper understanding of Torah, a greater fervor in prayer, and a kinder smile to accompany the coin pressed into the palm of a beggar.[3]

Thus the Torah says: “When G-d your G-d shall broaden your borders, as He has promised you… you may eat meat to your soul’s desire.” From this the Talmud derives that, “originally, they were forbidden to eat ‘meat by desire’ (bassar taavah); it was only after they entered the Land [of Israel] that they were permitted to eat meat by desire.”[4] For the first generation of Israel’s existence as a nation—from the time they received the Torah and erected the Sanctuary in the Sinai Desert until they settled in the Holy Land—the only meat they were permitted to eat was the meat of thekorbonot, the animal sacrifices offered to G-d in the Sanctuary. The consumption of this meat was a mitzvah, which meant that its elevation was achieved by the fact that eating it constitutes a direct fulfillment of a divine commandment. However, they did not have the capacity to elevate “meat of desire”—meat that is eaten for the purpose of granting pleasure to its consumer. So the consumption of such meat was forbidden.[5] It was only after G-d “broadened their borders,” granting them a mandate to make “holy” an adjective of “land,” that they were enabled to sanctify this most corporeal corner of human life.[6]

Similarly, our sages have said that “a boor is forbidden to eat meat.”[7]The license given to man to partake of the world and subjugate it to serve him is not unconditional. It is contingent upon his sensitivity to the spiritual essence of G-d’s creatures, and his commitment to serve them by making them component parts of his sanctified life. It takes an individual with broad spiritual horizons to properly relish a steak.

Based on the Rebbe’s talks, Shabbat Parshat Re’eh, 5719 (August 29, 1959) and Cheshvan 10, 5711 (October 21, 1950)[8]

Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

Tags: sanctification, food, animals, pleasure, spiritual and material
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Kindred Kindness

March 24th, 2015

One of the twenty-one species of non-kosher birds listed in the 14th chapter of Deuteronomy is the chassidah (stork). The word chassidah is the feminine form of chassid, which means “benevolent one.” The chassidah is so named, say our sages, because “she does kindness with her compatriots.”[9]

So why is the chassidah an impure bird? “Because she does kindness with her compatriots,” explained Rabbi Menachem Mendel of Kotzk. “One must be kind to all G-d’s creatures, not only to ‘one’s own.’ ”

Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

Tags: Jewish law, love your neighbor, sacrifices and offerings, kosher, kindness
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Unanimous Verdict

March 24th, 2015

The issue of capital punishment excites much heated and vociferous discussion. One aspect of the debate concerns the fallibility of human judges and the element of uncertainty that accompanies their decisions. Can human judges be entrusted with the weighty responsibility of ruling on life and death matters? Another factor is whether capital punishment is right in itself. Does a society have the right to condemn its citizens to death? Does one injustice justify another?

What is the Torah’s position on the death penalty? The Torah is adamant in its views on  the sanctity of life. No one has the right to harm or destroy any aspect of life, even if it affects only the individual himself. The entire Torah may be suspended to preserve a life, indeed, a court that metes out the death penalty once in seventy years is labeled in Torah as a court of “executioners”! Yet, Torah allows for and advocates capital punishment in certain instances. So we have a self-contradictory situation, where the Torah permits the court to put someone to death, but when they do so legally, the Torah declares them ‘executioners’! How does the Torah reconcile its view on the absolute value of human life with its condoning of capital punishment? How does the Torah ensure that the judges will not err and will be true?

In Jewish law, the court’s primary responsibility is to find merit for the accused, and to seek to preserve his life. “The congregation will judge him and the congregation will preserve him”[1]. The process of trying a capital case is overwhelmingly skewed towards the benefit of the defendant. No circumstantial evidence is accepted. The testimony of not one but two eyewitnesses is required, and both are carefully cross-examined for any discrepancies in their accounts. Furthermore, capital punishment is only meted out in a case where deliberate intent can be conclusively proved. Two witnesses must be produced who can testify to having warned the defendant in advance that his action was wrong, and of the consequences of that action.  Another requirement of capital cases is the rule of “halanat hadin,”[2] that a guilty verdict must not be completed in one day, but must be deferred for another day in order to leave more opportunity to find credit.

In Maimonides’ Laws of Sanhedrin[3], the following law is cited: “If a Sanhedrin[4] opens a capital case with a unanimous guilty verdict, he is exempt, until some merit is found to acquit him; then, those who convict will be in the majority, and then he will be put to death.”

The source of Maimonides’ ruling is in the Talmud Sanhedrin.[5] The reason given for the exemption is that the court did not fulfill the condition of “halanat hadin“, deferring judgment for the next day in order to find merit. Since they have all found him guilty, they will no longer find merit for him.

It is possible to interpret the meaning of the Talmudic passage in one of two ways. One is that the court’s verdict is disqualified, due to the lack of “halanat hadin“. Another way of viewing it is that by failing to find even one facet of merit, the Sanhedrin has disqualified itself from judging the case.

From Maimonides’ ruling it appears that he accepts neither interpretation. The condition of halanat hadin is not mentioned by Maimonides, indicating that this was not a primary factor in his ruling. Also, the ruling does not say “the court exempts him”, but rather “he is exempt, until some merit will be found… then,… he will be put to death”.  In other words, the court’s lack of finding merit places a temporary obstacle in the way of actually carrying out the verdict. The defendant is exempt, but the judgment is not vacated. We must therefore seek to understand Maimonides’ position that the verdict is a valid one, but merit must be found in order to carry out the sentence.

According to Jewish thought, the purpose of punishment is for expiation of the sin. Indeed, it can even be said that ‘punishment’ is an inaccurate translation of the Hebrew ‘onesh’. Punishment is not retribution, a Divine ‘getting even.’ It is a cleansing process, like a needle used to remove a splinter. Furthermore, reward and punishment in Torah is actually cause and effect. The Torah’s prescription for various forms of behavior (be it positive or negative) is no more punishment than say, fire ‘punishing’ the hand that is placed into it.

This is stated explicitly regarding the punishment of lashes: “Once he has been flogged, he is as your brother.”[6] Carrying out a capital verdict expunges the sin and enables the condemned one to experience eternal life[7]. Maimonides rules regarding all who incur death by the courts, or punishment by lashes, that “their death or lashes do not atone for their sinsuntil they will do teshuva and confess their guilt.”[8] It is understood from Maimonides’ wording that the intention of the sentence is to bring atonement to the soul of the judged, which is facilitated through teshuvaand confession (confession being a form of repentance).

Since the death penalty is meant to serve as atonement, it can only be applied in a case where atonement can be achieved through death. Certain crimes, however, are considered so severe that no death penalty can be meted out for them. The crime is so horrific that the defendant, as it were, is not worthy of being put to death by the court and thereby attaining expiation for the crime. One example of this is if witnesses bring false testimony that results in the court putting to death an innocent person. If the defendant had not yet been executed, and the treachery is discovered, the false witnesses are punished in the same manner they had intended for the victim.  But if the victim had already been put to death, the false witnesses are not punished.[9]

The Kessef Mishnah[10] explains the ruling thus:

“Their sin is too great to bear, and it is not fitting to give them the death penalty, as this would atone for them. It is more proper to leave them be, so that they will be judged after death with severe punishment.”

Such might also apply in a situation where the case against the accused was so compelling, and his guilt so obvious, that not a single judge on the Sanhedrin could put forth any argument in his favor. He would be exempt from the death penalty not due to innocence on his part, but rather because his sin is too great to deserve expiation through this method.

However, Maimonides’ ruling states that “he is exempt, until…,” which indicates that the court’s ruling stands, and he is only temporarily exempt, until some merit can be found for him. In other words, the court is not exempting him from punishment; rather, their judgment is valid, but merit must be found in order to carry out the sentence.

According to Maimonides, the explanation is that, in his essence, every Jew truly desires to fulfill G-d’s will, to fulfill all mitzvot and distance himself from sin.[11] However, with certain individuals this desire exists on a revealed level, and in others it may be completely concealed. Being, though, that all have a soul, the essential goodness must eventually be brought to the surface.  Goodness is inherent to the nature of the soul; it is not superimposed onto the personality, but is an essential part of its identity. Therefore, every individual, even one convicted of a capital crime, must possess some merit, because his true will and essence is the goodness within him.

In a case where not a single member of Sanhedrin can find any favor for the accused, this indicates a situation where the goodness is so hidden that not even the Sanhedrin – who are trained to “infer one thing from another.[12] and reveal hidden dimensions – can find it.  Therefore, the verdict of the court cannot be carried out.  This does not indicate a defect in the court’s judgment; after all, a judge can only decide on what his eyes see.[13] Nevertheless, the Torah states as fact that every Jew’s essential desire is to do good.  Therefore, the court cannot impose a verdict upon him until some merit is found for him.

As mentioned, the purpose of punishment in Jewish law is to allow the defendant to achieve kapparah – expiation of the sin. The punishment brings atonement through revealing the defendant’s inner good. If the judges all see only guilt, they have not succeeded in fulfilling their purpose to ‘preserve’ the person by penetrating the soul’s essence, and their punishment will not have the desired effect. Only once a merit is found, and the essential goodness revealed, can the punishment be carried out, and the defendant then merits eternal life in the World to Come.

The above ruling teaches us a profound lesson regarding the sensitivity required in our attitudes to our peers. The job of the Sanhedrin is to “preserve” the defendant by finding merit for him. This applies even in a case where the crime was so horrific and the guilt so obvious that every member of the Sanhedrin came to an immediate guilty verdict. How much more so, then, does this apply to people in our spiritually starved generation, who may be in a state of slumber with regard to their G-dly nature, yet their heart – their inner being – is awake to G-d and His Torah.[14] Our role, when dealing with others, is not to be vindictive, punitive or judgmental, but rather to assist each person in getting in touch with his or her spiritual essence.

This applies particularly in this month of Elul, known as the month of mercy, when G-d is “in the field”, and is open to receive anyone who so wishes, with a friendly and shining countenance.[15] Now is a time when the goodness of every soul shines forth, and the inner desire of each person to “greet the king” is expressed. When we find merit in another person, we help unveil his spark of G-dliness, and bring out in him his essential desire to “be with the King”.

Through finding positive merit, every person can be aroused to complete teshuva, which will naturally lead to complete expiation and atonement for sins. There will be no need for further punishment or sentencing, and each person, as a healthy soul in a healthy body, will enjoy a good and sweet year, both in physical and material matters.

From an address of the Rebbe, Shabbat Parshat Ki Tissa, 5745[16]

Adapted from the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe by Chaya Shuchat.

Tags: repentance, Sanhedrin, Maimonides, death, good and evil, teshuvah, judgment, Talmud
Posted in Weekly Parsha, Devarim, Shoftim, Torah | 1 Comment »

My Father’s Siddur

March 24th, 2015

I rediscovered my father’s siddur among my books last week — a siddur he must have given me when I was a little girl. Stuck in the pages were little pieces of ripped paper for bookmarks, written in the simple handwriting of a nine-year-old. The sections were marked “Bedtime Shema,” “Blessings for Various Occasions,” and “The 13 Principles of Faith.” Now, I could understand my interest then in the Shema and the Blessings… but I thought, “What was a nine-year-old doing marking off the 13 Principles of Faith?” I had forgotten how often I would sit alone in my room reading…

I believe with perfect faith that the Creator, blessed be His name, is the Author and Guide of everything that has been created, and that He alone has made, does make, and will make all things.

 I realize now that this nine-year-old knew something very deep in her soul, something that transcended logic, and certainly something that transcended her level of intellectual understanding. So I got to thinking about her and the course of her life.

Feeling very deeply and very purely about G-d and the nature of existence, this little girl packed a lunch one day, put her father’s siddur under her arm, and set off on her journey through life. She wanted to experience her love for G-d in the world and share it with the people she met. So she went on her way and knocked on the very first door she came to. The door opened and a big, booming voice hollered out at her:
“G-d? Don’t be so naïve!”

So she knocked on another door and a voice called out, not loud like the first one, but sarcastically, which the little girl thought was much worse: “Do you have to think so much about everything? Can’t you just be like everyone else?”

And so she went from door to door. But instead of sharing the light and the joy she got from her father’s siddur, she heard:

“Why do you waste your time helping people? No one would do anything for you!”

“It’s a cold, cruel world. When are you going to grow up?”

“What’s the matter with you? Don’t you want to be popular?”

But this is the one that hurt her the most:

“If you eat that second piece of cake, you’ll get fat, and then none of the boys will like you.”

Gee, the nine-year-old thought, somebody wouldn’t like me because I ate a second piece of cake? Is that what this world is about? And she began to cry. And as she cried, her father’s siddur fell out from under her arm and she realized that she probably wouldn’t be needing it anymore, so she took it and put it in a box which she put in the darkest corner of her basement.

And so, the nine-year-old grew up, and excelled in a lot of things that would make her popular, and studied how to dress from girl magazines, and made very, very sure that she never, never had a second piece of cake.

And she went to college and learned a lot of things that would make her successful and well-liked, and she went to corporate America where she wore three-inch heels and a three-piece business suit, and learned to give really great handshakes, because, we all know, only wimps have weak handshakes.

And her father’s siddur sat at the bottom of a box, gathering dust, its glow somewhat dimmed by years of neglect, its heart beating ever so faintly, whispering, I believe with perfect faith, I believe…

And the nine-year-old went on to do some terrible things. But she didn’t know that they were so terrible, because she was just a little girl—and she was just doing what everyone was telling her to do.

And then one day she fell to the bottom of a deep well, and while she was sitting there wondering if anyone would come by and find her, a big hand reached down and helped her up out of the well. The owner of the hand said in a voice, ever so gently, “Aren’t you Jewish?”

And the girl didn’t want to say yes, because she didn’t even know what that meant anymore. She never really learned anything about being Jewish, she just knew what she felt in her soul long, long ago, but it was too far and too buried and besides, she didn’t want to be naïve.

But the owner of the hand was persistent, and kind, and taught her about being a Jew. And it was never sarcastic, or mean. It didn’t even care if she was popular or not.

And then one night, the owner of the hand asked her to join it for her first Shabbat meal, and when the meal was over, she asked… could she please have a second piece of cake?

And she went back to the beginning of her journey and knocked on the first door she had come to so long ago and said to the voice of the person who said he didn’t believe in G-d, “I’m sorry. I don’t believe in you anymore.”

And she knocked on all the other doors and quietly told all the other voices that although she wished them well, she was going to have to go her own way…

…which led her right down into the darkest corner of her own basement, which to her surprise, was now filled with light. While she was away on her journey, someone must have replaced all the bulbs!

And it didn’t take long before she found her father’s siddur under layers and layers of dust, and after she cleaned it off, she held it close to her heart for a very, very long time. And then, when she thought she was ready, she opened her father’s siddur and she read:

I believe with perfect faith that the Creator, blessed be His name, is the Author and Guide of everything that has been created, and that He alone has made, does make, and will make all things.

…and I believe with perfect faith in the coming of Moshiach, and though he tarry, I wait daily for his coming.

By Rochel Chana Schilder

Tags: Outreach, transformation, children, self-discovery, prayer, redemption, Power of Prayer
Posted in Weekly Parsha, Devarim, Shoftim, Torah | 3 Comments »

The Bottom Line

March 24th, 2015

It is told of the chassid Reb Binyamin Kletzker that one year, when totalling the annual accounts for his lumber business, he summed up the long column of figures in his ledger with the words: “total: Ein od milevado” (“There is none else besides Him”[16]).

In relating this story, the Lubavitcher Rebbe notes that Reb Binyamin wrote “There is none else besides Him” on the last line of his tally. If there is truly none else besides Him, what were all the other figures about? Why wasn’t the chassid inspired to write these words as the very first entry in his ledger?

But the entire point of Chabad Chassidism,[17] the Rebbe explains, is not to renounce and denigrate the material world, but rather to elevate it by infusing it with an awareness of the divine. If the purpose of a business is merely to satisfy one’s selfish needs and wants, it is indeed contradictory to the truth that “There is none else besides Him”; but if the business serves to increase one’s awareness of Divine Providence and to support a life dedicated to serving G-d, it becomes an instrument and facilitator of this truth.

That Reb Binyamin Kletzker was steeped in the awareness that every plank of wood in his yard and every ruble in his strongbox “is actually considered naught and absolute nothingness in relation to the divine force… that brings it into being”[18] did not make him a less astute businessman or a less careful accountant. When he sat to do his accounts, he entered every item of income and expenditure, each loss and each profit, in complete accordance with the dictates of the so-called “real world.” But to him, the total of it all was that “There is none else besides Him.”[19]

Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

Tags: unity, purpose of life, God, spiritual and material, purpose of existence
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Two Witnesses

March 24th, 2015

By two witnesses… shall a thing be established

Deuteronomy 19:15

Torah law distinguishes between two types of witnesses. The first type of witnesses (“witnesses,” according to Torah, are never less than two individuals) “establish a thing” only in the sense that they inform us of its existence. For example, if Reuven borrows $100 from Shimon, the obligation for him to return the money exists regardless of whether there were witnesses to the loan or not. It is only that, without the witnesses, the court would not have sufficient proof of the existence of the obligation (should Reuven deny it) and could not compel Reuven to carry it out. This category of witnesses are called eidei birur—“clarifying witnesses.”

A second category of witnesses literally “establish a thing”: without their witnessing, the thing would not exist. For example, Torah law requires that a marriage be witnessed by two witnesses. Without these witnesses, the marriage does not take effect, even if all parties involved admit that everything else was in order. This category of witnesses are called eidei kiyum—“establishing witnesses”—for their witnessing of the event is an integral part of the process which establishes a new legal state.

The clarifying witness and the establishing witness are both “witnesses” in that they observe a certain fact or occurrence. But they differ greatly in their function and the manner in which they carry it out. Clarifying witnesses fulfill their function by testifying before the court—if they witness the loan but do not tell the court what they saw, their observation is of no legal significance. Establishing witnesses fulfill their function by observing  the event—it is their observation itself that establishes the fact, even if they never testify to what they saw.

This essential difference between the clarifying witness and the establishing witness translates into various legal differences. For example, while Torah law requires that witnesses be cross-examined, this requirement applies only to clarifying witnesses, not to establishing witnesses. Cross-examination is part of the testifying process: testimony can be properly understood and fully convincing to the court only when the witnesses are cross-examined. Thus, clarifying witnesses, whose function is to testify to the truth of an event or fact, require cross-examination. Not so establishing witnesses, whose witnessing of the event, rather than their testimony, is what establishes its truth.[17]

Nature and Man

The Torah is G-d’s blueprint for creation.[18] When the Torah recounts an event that occurred at a particular point in history, or decrees a law regarding a particular conflict or relationship between two individuals, it is also describing the very structure of life and reality. Every story contains a universal truth; every law relates to our relationship with G-d and the purpose of our creation. The two different types of witnesses described above, and the legal distinctions between them, relate not only to the witnessing of loans and marriages, but also to the cosmic witnesses that establish the truth of all truths: the all-pervading truth of G-d.

Two types of witnesses attest to the divine reality: nature and man. “I set as witnesses before you today the heavens and the earth,” says Moses to the children of Israel.[19] For does not the earth, from the vital energy in its every blade of grass to the intricate structure of its every grain of dust, bespeak the wisdom of G-d? Does not the vastness of the heavens reflect the infinity of their Creator? “When I see Your heavens,” sings King David, “the work of Your fingers, the moon and stars which You have ordained… the beasts of field, the birds of heaven, the fish of sea… O G-d our L-rd, how majestic is Your name in all the earth!”[20]

The second witness is man. In the words of the prophet, “You are My witnesses, says G-d.”[21] Man bears witness to the truth of G-d through his observance of the mitzvot, the divine commandments. When a person puts on tefillin, the leather, parchment and ink out of which they are fashioned, the arm and head about which they are wrapped, the mind that meditates upon their significance and the heart that is aroused by the deed—these all become instruments of the divine will, the means by which a divine commandment is fulfilled. When a person contributes to charity, the hand that does the giving, the metal or paper that facilitates the exchange, and the energy and resources that were expended to earn the money, all become vehicles of G-dliness. In the words of the Midrash, the performer of a mitzvah is making “a dwelling for G-d in the physical world”[22]—transforming the materials of his or her life into something that houses and realizes the divine truth.

Making Him Real

Both nature and the mitzvah-performing person are witnesses to the truth of G-d. Yet they differ greatly in the manner and function of their witnessing. The first is a “clarifying witness” who testifies to the divine essence of reality; the second is an “establishing witness” who makes real the divine in our world.

The heavens and the earth do not make G-d real—they only bespeak His reality. In fact, they only do so when “cross-examined in court”—when their testimony is coaxed from them by the astronomer’s telescope and the psalmist’s soul. In and of itself, the natural world actually conceals the divine presence; it is only through our examination and interrogation of nature that we make it speak and tell us about G-d.

Man on the other hand, is an “establishing witness”: his life generates G-dliness. Our every performance of a mitzvah makes G-d a reality in this world, regardless of the extent to which we publicizes our deeds or are even aware of what they achieve. Like the establishing witness, we effect an essential change in the reality to which we relate, regardless of whether we testify to what we have “witnessed.”

Based on the Rebbe’s talks on various occasions[23]

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

Tags: creation, nature, Divine will, Jewish law
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