March 19th, 2015
The world was created with ten [divine] utterances.
Ethics of the Fathers, 5:1
G-d formed every beast of the field and every bird of the air, and brought them to the man to see what he would call them. And whatever the man called every living creature, that was its name.
Genesis, 2:19
Says the Midrash: “When G-d came to create man, He consulted with the angels…. Said they to Him: ‘This man, what is his worth?’ Said He to them: ‘His wisdom is greater than yours.’ G-d brought before them the beasts, the wild animals and the birds and asked them, ‘This, what is its name?’ and they did not know. He then brought them before man… and man said, ‘This is a shor (ox), this is a chamor (donkey), this is a sus (horse) and this is a gamal (camel)….’ ”[1]
Naming things seems easy enough. One selects a syllable or two, coins a word and attaches it to an object. If one wants to be scientific about it, one selects a distinctive feature or two, transfigures them into a Latin-sounding name of eight or ten syllables, and—presto!—one has a name. Why, then, is the ability to name names indicative of a wisdom greater than that of the angels? And why does the Creator consider this ability on the part of man as the one thing that most characterizes his worth as a human being?
A World of Words
The world was created by divine speech. G-d said, “Let there be light… oceans… trees… fish…” and these words came to constitute the essence of every created entity. In other words, what we experience as physical light is not merely something that the divine words “Let there be light” caused to come into being; it is the very word light being continually articulated by the Creator as a verbal expression of the desire that it exist. The same is true of all other creations: a cow, a fish, a tree, a stone—these are all our physical perceptions of the divine words they embody.
[The “ten utterances,” which are quoted in the Torah’s account of creation, actually specify only the names of a few primary creations (light, water, land, etc.) and several general categories (stars, trees, fish, birds, etc.). But these elementary creations contain within themselves—on both the linguistic and physical levels—the myriad particulars of the created existence. Ultimately, every created thing has a name in the Holy Tongue, a name that, if not explicit in the “ten utterances” of the first chapter of Genesis, is nonetheless implicit therein, by the means of gematria or one of the several other systems of letter transfiguration of the Hebrew language.] [2]
Therein lies the difference between the Holy Tongue (lashon hakodesh) and other languages. In all other languages, a word is assigned to an existing entity. If there was a reason why a particular word was originally married to a particular object, this is not a matter of great relevance. If the English word ox were to be chosen for that obstinate, silly-looking animal with the long ears, while the word donkey referred to the heavy-set fellow with the horns, this would not make a whit of difference. Language would still be performing its commonly assumed function: identifying objects by some agreed-upon arrangement of verbal sounds and letters. But language, in its truest, “holy,” sense, is far more than that. In the Holy Tongue, a word precedes its subject, creates it, and constitutes its very being. It articulates the divine desire that it be, expressing its Creator’s perception of its qualities and function—of the end toward which He created it.[3]
So for Adam to call even a single creature by its original, quintessential name, he had to know it utterly. He had to possess the wisdom and insight to penetrate its external form and recognize the “holiness” within—the divine utility and purpose that lies at its heart.[4]
Calling Forth
This ability to recognize and name most expresses the role of man in creation. Every creature possesses the potential to articulate its Creator’s goodness and perfection. But it is man who actualizes this potential through his development and utilization of his fellow creations and his incorporation of them in his service of the Almighty. Only man has been imbued with the essentially divine quality of “free choice”; thus, only his actions have moral significance. All of creation can, therefore, realize its divine purpose only through him.[5]
This is the deeper significance of the Hebrew word vayikra, “and he called,” used by the Torah in describing Adam’s calling the name of every creature. As its English counterpart, the Hebrew word kara connotes both “calling” and “calling forth”; Adam’s calling of names was a demonstration of his ability to call forth and bring to light the “name” and essence of every created thing, by recognizing and developing its potential to serve him in his service of G-d.
When man harnesses the ox to the plow and uses the proceeds to perform a self-transcending act such as charity, prayer or Torah study, every element of creation that was involved in this act—the energy of the ox, the vegetative potential of the soil, the nourishing water and sunlight—achieves something it could never have on its own. It transcends the limits of its own external being and realizes the purpose for which it was created.
This is an excerpt from “Beyond the Letter of the Law” by Yanki Tauber published by The Meaningful Life Center.
___________________
[1] Midrash Rabba, Bereishit 17:5.
[2] See Tanya, part II, ch. 1
[3] The same is true of a person’s name: it forms the channel through which his soul radiates life into his body, doing much to define his nature and character. In the words of Elazar ben Pedat, “One’s name has an influence on one’s life” (Talmud, Berachot 7b). Our sages have therefore said that parents’ naming of their child is “a small prophecy.”
[4] The angels may have been able to know the essence of a creature from the perspective of the spiritual realm they occupy. But to relate to a fodder-chomping ox and discern the way in which its physical, animal qualities can be directed to serve the divine purpose in creation was beyond their spiritually defined (and confined) abilities.
[5] In the words of the Talmud (Kiddushin 82a): “The entire world was created to serve me, and I was created to serve my Creator.” Chassidic master Rabbi Mendel of Kotzk thus advised: “A person should always have two pockets in his garment: in one he should keep the verse, “I am but dust and ashes,” and in the other the talmudic adage “For my sake was the world created.”
Tags: potential, names, Adam & Eve, creation, midrash, G-d's names, Divine service, light, transcendence, angels
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March 19th, 2015
Ten things were created on the eve of Shabbat at twilight. These are: the mouth of the earth[1]; the mouth of the well[2]; the mouth of the donkey[3]; the rainbow; the manna; the staff[4]; the shamir[5]; and the writing, the inscription, and the tablets [of the Ten Commandments].
Ethics of the Fathers 5:6
“Twilight” (bein hashemashot) is a halachic (Torah-legal) term for a time-period that marks the transition from day to night and from one calendar day to the next.
According to Torah law, the calendar day runs from nightfall to nightfall;[6] thus, Shabbat begins Friday evening at nightfall and ends at nightfall on Saturday night. “Nightfall” is when the light of day has faded to the point that three middle-sized stars are visible in the sky. The halachists calculate this to be the point at which the sun has descended 5.9 degrees below the horizon; this occurs approximately 30 minutes after sunset, depending on the location and the time of year.[7]
Nightfall, however, only marks the point at which the night—and the next calendar day—is certain to have begun. Between sunset and nightfall is the period defined as “twilight,”[8] a time-period with laws and rules of its own. The previous day has ended (or perhaps ended), yet the following day has not yet (or perhaps not yet) commenced.
Talmudic and halachic literature present three definitions of “twilight”:
a) It is a period that is “possibly day, possibly night.” According to this definition, the concept of “twilight” is wholly a product of our ignorance of the precise point at which one day ends and the next begins. Nevertheless, our ignorance results in special laws that apply to this period.
b) It is an admixture of day and night; a time-period in which day and night “overlap,” so that it possesses both qualities.
c) It is neither day nor night, but an entity of its own which effects the transition from day to night and from one day to the next.[9]
The Mediator
The above-quoted mishnah from Ethics of the Fathers enumerates ten things that G-d created in the closing moment of the six days of creation, “on the eve of Shabbat, at twilight.” But if twilight is a product of our ignorance as to the precise moment at which the day ends, it follows that for G-d, the creator of night and day, there is no “twilight.” Obviously, then, the twilight of which our mishnah speaks is an actual entity, a time period that is some sort of intermediary between one day and the next, as in definitions “b” or “c” above.
In truth, “b” and “c” are essentially the same definition. Chassidic teaching explains that an “intermediary”—a thing or force that facilitates a transition from one state to another—must include elements of both states, as well as an overriding element that effects the transition. Thus, a poet who wishes to translate a poem from English into French must possess mastery of both languages; indeed, if his translation is to capture the full power and beauty of the poem, his mastery of the two languages must be greater than what would be required to write such a poem in either language.
Another example of this principle: A child psychologist must be familiar with the world of childhood. A psychologist who counsels adults must have knowledge and insight primarily into the psyche and experiences of adults. But a psychologist counseling adolescents—people who are struggling with the transition from childhood to adulthood—must have intimate knowledge of both worlds, and more so than either of his colleagues.
Each and every day of time was created by G-d for a specific purpose; each possesses qualities and potentials uniquely its own.[10] Thus, the days of our lives do not simply begin where the previous day leaves off. Rather, there is a “gap” between them that must be bridged, a transition that must be effected. Hence the special quality and function of “twilight”—the period that possesses qualities of both days and can thus bridge this gap and facilitate this transition.
This is especially true of the transition from Friday to Shabbat—a transition from work to rest, from achievement to repose, from flux to tranquillity. A transition between two time-periods which differ greatly in their function, nature and very essence.[11]
The Cosmic Week
Our sages tell us that the original week of creation embodies the whole of history, which likewise constitutes a “week”: six “workday” millennia, followed by a seventh, sabbatical millennium.
Thus, writes Nachmanides, the first day of creation, which saw the creation of light, embodies the first millennium of history—the millennium of Adam, “the light of the world,”[12] when the world was still saturated with knowledge of its Creator and was sustained by the indiscriminate benevolence of G-d[13]; the second day, on which the Creator distinguished between the spiritual and the physical elements of His creation, yielded a second millennium of judgment and discrimination—as reflected in the Flood which wiped out a corrupt humanity and spared only the righteous Noah and his family; the third day, on which the land emerged from the sea and sprouted forth greenery and fruit-bearing trees, encapsulates the third millennium, in which Abraham began teaching the truth of the One G-d and the Torah was given on Mount Sinai; the fourth day, on which G-d created the sun and the moon, “the two great luminaries: the greater luminary… and the lesser luminary,” corresponds to the fourth millennium, in which the First Temple (2928-3338) and the Second Temple (3408-3829) in Jerusalem served as the divine abode “from which light emanated to the entire world”[14]; the fifth day, the day of fish, birds and reptiles, unfolded into the lawless and predatory Dark Ages of the fifth millennium[15]; the sixth day, whose early hours saw the creation of the beasts of the land, followed by the creation of man, is our millennium—a millennium marked by strong, forceful empires, whose beastly rule will be followed by the emergence of Moshiach, the perfect man who brings to realization the divine purpose in creation and ushers in the seventh millennium—the “World to Come”—a time of perfect peace and tranquillity.
Nachmanides also notes that each thousand-year “day” is preceded by a “twilight”—an “overlapping” period which, while technically belonging to the previous millennium, contains the beginnings of the next. Thus, Abraham was born 52 years before the third millennium, King Solomon built the First Temple 72 years before the fourth, and so with each millennium.[16]
Therein lies the special significance of the twilight following the sixth day of creation, on which G-d created the ten things enumerated by the mishnah. For on the macro-historical level, this is the twilight which facilitates the transition from the six millennia of history to the age of Moshiach.
The significance of this time is of primary relevance to our generation. For it is we, who have entered the final quarter of the sixth millennium,[17] who are living in this most crucial juncture of history—the twilight that translates six thousand years of human toil and achievement into “the day that is wholly Shabbat and rest, for life everlasting.”
The Dichotomy
In his parting words to the people of Israel, Moses enjoins: “You shall keep the mitzvah, the decrees and the laws which I command you today to do them.”[18] The Talmud interprets this to imply:
“Today to do them”—and not to do them tomorrow;
“Today to do them”—and tomorrow to receive their reward.[19]
In other words, our present-day world and World to Come represent two different modes of existence, each of which is confined to a world all its own. Our present world is the environment for deed and achievement, but without the possibility to enjoy, or even envision, the fruits of our labor. On the other hand, the World to Come is a world of ultimate reward, tranquillity and bliss, but one that precludes any further achievement on the part of man. The Talmud goes so far as to quote the verse, “There will come years of which you will say: I have no desire in them,”[20] and declare: “This refers to the days of the Messianic era, in which there is neither merit nor obligation.”[21] As one chassidic rebbe expressed it, “In the days of Moshiach we will yearn for the hardships and challenges of galut.”
Intrinsic to our nature is that we derive true satisfaction only from what we achieve in the face of challenge. Yet it is the paradox of life that true satisfaction can be experienced only under conditions of tranquillity, and that true challenge can exist only under conditions in which the satisfaction of achievement lies hidden and unknowable beyond the horizon of one’s goal.
Hence the delegation of the reward of our deeds to an unknowable “tomorrow,” and delegation of achievement to a strife-ridden “today.” Were the first six “workday” millennia of history to include more than the merest hint of the satisfaction implicit in our attainments, its challenges, and thus its achievements, would be greatly diminished. On the other hand, were the seventh millennium to include the conditions that allow for true achievement, it could not serve as the arena for true satisfaction.
Thus reality consists of two worlds locked into dichotomy by their very natures and their most basic functions. In the words of the Ethics, “A single moment of teshuvah[22] and good deeds in this world is greater than all of the World to Come. And a single moment of bliss in the World to Come is greater than all of this world.”[23]
Yet there also exists a third arena, an environment in which these two worlds overlap, a reality that incorporates both deed and reward, both struggle and tranquillity; a twilight that mediates between the six work “days” of creation and the ultimate Shabbat.
Graven Words
How does a person experience tranquillity while in the pith of struggle? How can a person enjoy perfection while still grappling with his shortcomings? When he is completely one with what he is doing.
“This is the law of the Torah,” proclaims the verse introducing the laws of the Red Heifer.[24] The chassidic masters point out that the word chukat (“the law of”) used by the verse derives from the word chakikah, “engraving”; thus the above verse may also be rendered, “this is the engraving of the Torah.” Indeed, the Torah was first given to us in the form of Ten Commandments engraved into two tablets of stone.
Chassidic teaching explains that a person’s relationship with the truths he bears can be like that of a parchment scroll with the words written upon it, or like that of a stone tablet with the words engraved in it. The scroll, too, serves as a platform and medium for its words, yet the substance of the scroll and the substance of the words remain two distinct entities, however strongly the ink might adhere to the parchment. The stone tablet, on the other hand, is one with its message: the words are the stone and the stone is the words. The Torah is telling us that its words should be engraved words rather than written words to us: words that are the very form and substance of our lives, rather than something superimposed upon its surface.[25]
This is the significance of the last three of the ten things created “on the eve of Shabbat, at twilight”—the “writing, the inscription, and the tablets” of the Ten Commandments.[26] On the twilight between the six days of creation and the first Shabbat, G-d bestowed upon us the capacity to not only carry out His blueprint for creation, but to engrave it in our very selves, so that everything we do is in full harmony with who and what we are.
As “tablets” of Torah, we transcend the dichotomy of deed and reward. For when a person is completely one with his path through life, his most arduous climb is a tranquil flight of soul and his most painful deficiencies are the building blocks of an integral and perfect self. In such a person, the sharp defining line that divides achievement from satisfaction is muted, creating a “twilight” in which the two distinct, mutually exclusive worlds are merged.
Today, we stand at this most unique moment of history. At this time of transition, on the threshold between today and tomorrow, as six millennia of human endeavor approach their climax into the tranquil perfection of the eternal Shabbat, we are, in a sense, in possession of the best of both worlds. Let us seize the moment.
Based on the Rebbe’s talks on Elul 23, 5742 (September 11, 1982) and on other occasions[27]
Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber
[1]. Which swallowed Korach (Numbers 16:32).
[2]. The “Well of Miriam” – the miraculous stone which provided water to the people of Israel during their wanderings in the desert (Exodus 17:6, Numbers 21:16-18).
[3]. Of Bilaam (Numbers 22:28).
[4]. Of Moses (Exodus 4:17).
[5]. A worm which split stones for the construction of the Holy Temple in Jerusalem (Talmud, Gittin 68a).
[6]. As per Genesis 1:5: “And it was evening, and it was morning: one day.”
[7]. Twenty-four minutes after sunset on March 22 in the Land of Israel (see Siddur HaRav, Seder Hachnassat Shabbat; et al).
[8]. The actual duration of “twilight” is a matter of debate between the halachists. According to one opinion, “twilight” is the entire period between sunset and nightfall; according to other opinions, it is a certain time period within this period. Another opinion is the twilight occupies but “the blink of an eye”—a brief moment that intervenes between day and night (see Talmud and commentaries, Shabbat 34b; Siddur HaRav, ibid.; Encyclopedia Talmudit, vol. III, s.v. Bein HaShemashot [pp. 122-126] and sources cited there).
[9]. See Talmud, ibid.; Mishneh Torah, Laws of Eruvin 1:21; Ritva, Yoma 47b; Mefaane’ach Tzefunot, p. 177-178.
[10]. Zohar, part III, 94b; Responsa of Rashba, no. 423.
[11]. See Inside Time, WIR, vol IX, no. 24.
[12]. Midrash Tanchuma, Noach 1.
[13]. Cf. Talmud, Pesachim 118a.
[14]. Jerusalem Talmud, Berachot 4:5.
[15]. 240-1240 ce in the secular calendar.
[16]. Nachmanides’ commentary on the Torah, Genesis 2:3.
[17]. We are now in the year 5764 from creation.
[19]. Talmud, Eruvin 22a.
[21]. Talmud, Shabbat 151b.
[22]. “Return.” In its narrower sense, teshuvah is repentance for sin; in its broader sense, it is the rebounding from negative and challenging experiences to an acme of achievement unattainable under conditions of tranquillity and perfection .
[23]. Ethics of the Fathers 4:17
[25]. Torah Ohr, Chukat 56a.
[26]. The other things created at this time likewise represent realities that are of a “twilight” quality—realities relating to the transition from our world to the world of Moshiach.
[27]. Hitvaaduyot 5742, vol. IV, pp. 2240-2243, 2249-2253; Hitvaaduyot 5745, vol. IV, pp. 2068-2069, 2079-2080; et al.
Tags: Talmud, Jewish law, Jewish calendar, creation, Shabbat, transition, time, redemption
Posted in Months & Holidays, Pirkei Avos, Ethics of Our Fathers, Chapter Five, Torah, Nisan | 1 Comment »
March 19th, 2015
Ben Zoma would say: Who is wise? One who learns from every man. As it is written: “From all my teachers I have grown wise, for Your testimonials (eidosecha) are my meditation.”[1]
Ethics of the Fathers, 4:1
It would seem that a wiser person is also a more critical person, since he has the insight to see his fellow for what he truly is. So why does Ben Zoma say “Who is wise — One who learns from every man”? Perhaps to become wise, a person should learn from everyone; but the wiser he becomes, would he not find less value in those inferior to himself?
One possible answer is that the wise man gleans positive knowledge and instruction also from negative traits and deeds. Thus, Rabbi Zusya of Anipoli learned seven things from a thief: a) What he does, he keeps to himself. b) He is ready to take risks in order to achieve his goal. c) The smallest detail is of great importance to him. d) He invests great effort and toil in what he does. e) He is swift. f) He is confident and optimistic. g) If at first he fails, he is back time and again for another try.[2]
Another, deeper perception of every man as one’s teacher is to be found in the verse from Psalm 119 quoted by Ben Zoma: “From all my teachers I have grown wise, for Your testimonials (eidosecha) are my meditation.” At first glance, only the first half of the verse pertains to our mishnah’s point. What pertinence does the fact that “Your testimonials (i.e. the mitzvot) are my meditation” have with learning from every man?
Indeed, the Hebrew word eidosecha, “Your testimonials,” from the root eid, “witness” or “testifier,” usually refers to the divine commandments, whose observance attests to G-d’s sovereignty over the universe and His relationship with us. But there is also another significance to the term—that it refers to each and every one of us. “‘You are My attesters (eidai),’ says G-d”[3] — every single individual, by virtue of his being, bears testimony to the greatness of his Creator.
It is in this context that Ben Zoma quotes the entire verse. “From all my teachers I have grown wise,” says King David, expressing the elementary lesson that to grow wise one must learn from every man. Furthermore, the wiser he became, the more teachers David had. Why? Because “Your testimonials are my meditation.”
True, wisdom enables one to see past the veneer of conduct and grasp the inner motives and desires of men. But the truly wise individual looks even deeper, beyond personality and character, to perceive the quintessence of humanity: man as a testimonial to G-d, Who created him in His image.
Every human being expresses another of the infinite faces of the Creator, and thus serves as a unique and unduplicated insight into the all-embracing, all-pervading source of all wisdom. It takes a truly wise man to look at his every fellow, including the externally corrupt and despicable individual, and perceive the testimony he bears about his Creator.
This is an excerpt from “Beyond the Letter of the Law” by Yanki Tauber published by The Meaningful Life Center.
[1] Psalms 119:99.
[2] From Hayom Yom, a calendar with quotations from the works and talks of Rabbi Yosef Yitzchak Schneersohn of Lubavitch, compiled and arranged by Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneersohn
[3] Isaiah 43:10
Tags: learning from failure, education, judgment, love your neighbor, wisdom
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March 19th, 2015
Rabbi Jonathan would say: Whoever fulfills the Torah in poverty, will ultimately fulfill it in wealth.
Ethics of the Fathers 4:9
Our sages have said: “The only true poverty is poverty of the mind.”[1] According to this, we can understand the deeper significance of Rabbi Jonathan’s words.
It is a common perception that in order to succeed in any given field, a person requires a certain degree of self-assurance. He must approach his subject with the confidence that “I can do it,” that he possesses the character and mental capacities required to master it. Without at least a trace of such “arrogance” he stands little chance of attaining his goal.
Regarding the study and implementation of Torah, the very opposite is true. To comprehend Torah is to comprehend the wisdom of G-d; to follow its commandments is to actualize the divine will in physical life. One who believes that his mortal mind possesses the capacity to master Torah or that his physical being is a fit vehicle to fulfill the mitzvot, is least capable of attaining these goals. His understanding of Torah will most likely be a biased perversion of the divine truth; his daily life will probably be guided by a humanly-contrived ethos rather than the will of G-d.
A person must approach Torah with the understanding that his finite mind is inadequate a tool to grasp the infinite and eternal truth of Torah, and that “were it not that G-d helps him, he could not overcome” the subjectivity and egocentrism of his physical self.[2] He must understand that Torah is a gift from G-d, and that all the studying, analyzing and theorizing involved in its pursuit is merely the construction of a “vessel” to receive its divine essence. He must understand that the sanctification of physical life is beyond the capacity of mortal man, and that he can only commit himself to fulfill the divine will and pray to G-d for assistance in overcoming his negative drives.
A person who fulfills the Torah in poverty—who recognizes the poverty of his mind before the infinite perfection of the divine truth—will ultimately fulfill it in wealth. G-d will grant him the mental and psychological resources to assimilate the wisdom of Torah and fully realize its precepts in his daily life.
Based on an address by the Rebbe, Sivan 14, 5746 (June 21, 1986)
—————-
[1]. Talmud, Ketubot 68a.
[2]. Ibid., Kiddushin 30b.
Tags: Divine will, money, ego, mind, spiritual and material, absolute truth, arrogance
Posted in Months & Holidays, Pirkei Avos, Chapter Four, Ethics of Our Fathers, Nisan, Torah | No Comments »
March 19th, 2015
Who is rich? He who is satisfied with his lot.
Ethics of the Fathers 4:1
The chassid Rabbi Moshe Rubin would tell the story of a man who had been told that he would receive all the land he could manage to cover on foot in one day.
The man ran and ran, loath to pass up the opportunity to aquire one more acre, one more yard. When he could run no longer, he crawled. As he finally collapsed from exhaustion, he stretched out his hands, straining to cover yet another few inches. “This, too, is mine,” were his dying words.
Tags: money, materialism, Chassidic stories, spiritual and material
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March 19th, 2015
Who is rich?—one who is satisfied with his lot. As it is written [in Psalms]: “If you eat of the toil of your hands, fortunate are you, how good it is for you!”[1]
Ethics of the Fathers, 4:1
Does this mean that only carpenters and porters can taste fortune and goodness? Is the Psalmist advising all businessmen, lawyers and university professors to abandon their offices and classrooms and “eat of the toil of your hands”?
But our mishnah simply states, “Who is rich?—one who is satisfied with his lot,” and then proceeds to quote the verse from the Psalms. Obviously, the concept of gaining one’s living by the toil of one’s “hands” applies to every individual, regardless of vocation.
Patriarchal Precedent
In Genesis 28 the Torah describes the first night in Jacob’s journey from the Land of Israel to Charan. When darkness fell, “he took from the stones of the place and placed them about his head” in order to protect himself from wild beasts as he slept.[2] But if Jacob was concerned with the threat of physical beasts, why did he shield only his head, exposing his body to the dangers of the wild?
But the Torah is telling us of a deeper, internal barrier that Jacob was erecting. Jacob knew that he was leaving behind his earlier life as a “wholesome man, who dwells in the tents of study,”[3] for the cannibalistic world of commerce and materialism. After decades of secluded study in the Holy Land, he was to spend twenty years in the company of the corrupt and manipulative Laban, in order to build his family and amass the material means to support it. During this time he labored round the clock (“in the day the heat consumed me, and the frost by night; and my sleep departed from my eyes[4]”) until he was “exceedingly successful,” and gained “much cattle, maids, servants, camels and donkeys.”[5] Yet he only devoted his “body,” his external self, to this necessary but spiritually barren aspect of his life, while jealously reserving his “head,” his innermost mind and choice talents, for his higher priorities.
So after twenty years in the jungle of Charan Jacob could look back at a fortune created by much genius and skill and refer to it as but “the toil of my hands”[6]
If you wish to be truly rich, our mishnah is saying, expend only the toil of your “hands,” the more external elements of your talents and faculties, in your material involvements, reserving the “toil of your head” for the more lofty things in life. Save the best of your mind, heart and self to gain true wisdom, serve your Creator, and fulfill your mission in life.
Based on an address by the Rebbe, Kislev 9, 5711 (November 18, 1950)
This is an excerpt from “Beyond the Letter of the Law” by Yanki Tauber published by The Meaningful Life Center.
[1] Psalms 128:2
[2] Genesis 28:11; see Rashi’s commentary
[3] Ibid., 25:27
[4] Ibid., 31:40
[5] Ibid., 30:43
[6] Ibid., 31:42
Tags: work, money, materialism, attitude, spiritual and material
Posted in Months & Holidays, Pirkei Avos, Chapter Four, Ethics of Our Fathers, Torah, Nisan | No Comments »
March 19th, 2015
Be humble before every man.
Ethics of the Fathers, 4:10
Let’s be realistic. Is there no one out there who is less intelligent, less accomplished or less virtuous than yourself? Okay, discount the half-dozen degrees by which your ego inflates your self-perception. Still, is there no one on earth who is less worthy than you? So what does it mean to “be humble before every man”? Is the mishnah telling us that it is our moral duty to underrate ourselves? To do so would be a sinful waste of our G-d-given talents, which can never be optimally realized unless we are aware and appreciative of what we have been given and what we have accomplished. In the words of Rabbi Yosef Yitzchak of Lubavitch: “Just as it is imperative that a person recognize his own shortcomings, it is no less crucial that he recognize his advantages and strengths.”
How, then, does a person make a true evaluation of himself, for the worse and for the better, and at the same time experience a genuine feeling of humility before every other individual?
The Larger Picture
Chassidic teaching offers two approaches to develop a true feeling of humility toward someone whose character or behavior is obviously inferior to one’s own: a) the “mutual dependency” approach and b) the “relative expectation” approach.
The first approach begins with the recognition that we are all one, that together we comprise a single organism whose various cells, limbs and organs complement and complete one another. A body includes both the sophisticated brain and the “crass” functional foot; but, ultimately, the brain is dependent on the foot just as the foot is dependent on the brain. If the foot is indebted to the brain for its vitality and direction, the brain is dependent on the foot to realize many of its goals.
The humble man looks at the larger picture rather than the particulars, at the unified purpose of life on earth rather than only at his function within this purpose. No matter how lofty his own role may seem in relation to his fellow’s, he is grossly limited without him. The knowledge that his own life’s work is incomplete without his fellow’s contribution arouse feelings of humility and indebtedness toward his fellow: he recognizes that even the coarsest “limb” of the mutual body fulfills a deficiency in himself.[1]
Defining Humility
In this approach, humility is not equated with a sense of inferiority. Rather, it stems from a feeling of equality and mutual need. In becoming humble, a person first realizes that any greater measure of intelligence, refinement, spiritual sensitivity, etc., that he may divine in himself in relation to his fellow is nothing to feel superior about: these are only the tools that have been granted him for his individual role. He also recognizes the limitations of his own accomplishments, and the manner in which they are fulfilled and perfected by the communal body’s other organs and limbs. So he is humbled by the ability of his inferior fellow to extend and apply their shared mission on earth to areas that lie beyond his individual reach.
The second approach, however, defines “humility” in the more commonplace sense—as a feeling of inferiority in relation to one’s fellow. How is this truly and truthfully achieved in relation to every man? By conducting a thorough evaluation and critique of his own moral and spiritual standing. In doing so, one is certain to find areas where he has failed to prove equal to what is expected of him. That his fellow may be guilty of the same or worse is irrelevant: concerning his fellow’s behavior he is in no position to judge. “Do not judge your fellow until you are in his place”[2] say our sages, for you have no way of knowing how his nature, his background and the circumstances surrounding any given deed may have influenced his behavior. However, regarding your own behavior you are “in his (i.e., your own) place” and in a position to know that, despite all the excuses and justifications you may have, you could have done better. With such an approach, a person will “be humble before every man” in the most literal sense of the term, perceiving his every fellow as superior to himself.[3]
Fighting Fire with Fire
Which approach to take? On the whole, the Torah tells us to accentuate the positive in ourselves. True, soul-searching and self-critique are important, for a person must never delude himself. However, excessive dwelling on one’s shortcomings and failures leads to a down-spiraling vortex of depression, despair and inertia, resulting in the very opposite of constructive action. So, generally speaking, the precept “Be humble before every man” should be employed in the first manner outlined above: not by disparaging oneself in relation to another person, but by recognizing the indispensability of each of one’s fellows to the completeness of one’s own attainments.
But there is also a time and place for the second approach. The soul of man is a “spark of G-dliness,” inherently and utterly good; yet man must also contend with the egocentric drives of his “animal soul.” Physical life is basically the struggle between these two selves, between the divine-seeking G-dly self and the material-seeking mundane self.[4]
In the course of this struggle, a person may encounter a lack in his character that proves especially resistant to all his efforts. He may find this negative trait reinforced by a sense that “this is the way it is, there is nothing to be done”—a “humility” and a self-depreciating despair that actually stem from the ego-driven arrogance of his animal self. In such a case, one must “fight fire with fire” and administer a dose of its own medicine to his animal soul. He must humble himself by contemplating the lowliness of his animal nature, and that his compliance with its drives and arguments renders him inferior to even the lowliest of men.[5]
This is the constructive side of the second approach to humility, as a sense of inferiority. For at times, this is the only way for a person to break the arrogant “humility” of his animal self and proceed with the lifelong quest for self-refinement.
This is an excerpt from “Beyond the Letter of the Law” by Yanki Tauber published by The Meaningful Life Center.
[1] As one wise man put it, “The test of humility is in your attitude to subordinates” (Orchot Tzaddikim, Sefer Ha-Middot, 15c, ch. 2).
[2] Ethics of the Fathers, 2:4.
[3] “A sage said: ‘I never met a man in whom I failed to recognize something superior to myself: if he was older, I said he has done more good than I; if younger, I said I have sinned more; if richer, I said he has been more charitable; if poorer, I said he has suffered more; if wiser, I honored his wisdom; and if not wiser, I judged his faults lighter.’ ” (The Testament of Judah Asheri)
[4] See opening chapters of Tanya.
Tags: personal growth, ego, humility, arrogance, self-discovery
Posted in Months & Holidays, Pirkei Avos, Chapter Four, Ethics of Our Fathers, Torah, Nisan | 1 Comment »
March 16th, 2015
One whose wisdom is greater than his deeds, to what is he compared? To a tree with many branches and few roots…. But one whose deeds are greater than his wisdom, to what is he compared? To a tree with many roots and few branches….
Ethics of the Fathers 3:17
But isn’t it the other way around? Is not wisdom the root of deed, and every act of man the outgrowth of what he knows and understands?
Indeed, the tree of life is rooted in the mind. But there are times that we act upon a conviction that does not devolve from our mind’s conception of life, and is even antithetical to it.
In his Tanya, Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi discusses a phenomenon that is unique to Jewish history: the apostate martyr. Throughout the centuries, countless thousands of Jews were forced to choose between their faith and their lives; in the overwhelming majority of cases, they chose to die rather than renounce their Jewishness. Many creeds and causes have their martyrs; but Jewish martyrdom is unique in that it included many whose day-to-day lives were distant from the very principles for which they died. It is reasonable that the devout believer or the committed idealist might elect to die for the faith and ideals to which he has devoted his life; what defies all logical explanation is the fact that Jews whose understanding of Judaism was negligible, Jews who did not observe the mitzvot in their daily lives, went to their deaths rather than disavow a commitment which they had rejected in their lifetimes.
In truth, concludes Rabbi Schneur Zalman, every mitzvah is a supra-rational act, deriving from the Jew’s intrinsic, immutable bond with G-d. But only rarely are we attuned to this stratum of our being. Our daily lives are conducted on the rational plane of the psyche, where a person’s deeds are dictated by his understanding and appreciation of himself and his goals in life. But there are times—such as when our very identity faces its ultimate challenge—when our deepest self asserts itself in our thoughts and actions. Our endeavor in life should be to actualize this supreme commitment at all times, not only in “moments of truth” generated by acute crisis.[1]
In other words, there are two “trees” in the human soul. There is the tree of rational life, whose roots—the wisdom, knowledge and understanding the person has amassed—generate and nourish the branches, leaves, flowers and fruits of his actions and achievements. But underlying this tree is another tree—a tree in which deeds are the roots of wisdom. On this level, a person’s deeds are embedded in the soil of supra-rational faith and commitment, and nourish his understanding of himself, his world and his G-d.
Based on an address by the Rebbe, Cheshvan 25, 5719 (November 8, 1958)[2]
This is an excerpt from “Beyond the Letter of the Law” by Yanki Tauber published by The Meaningful Life Center.
_________________
[2]. Likkutei Sichot, vol. IV, pp. 1210-1212.
Tags: mitzvot, rational, soul, Alter Rebbe, inner self
Posted in Months & Holidays, Chapter Three, Pirkei Avos, Ethics of Our Fathers, Torah | 5 Comments »
March 12th, 2015
A Pre-Freudian Slip
With the specter of terrorism haunting the world and other threatening clouds on the horizon, this week bring us a piece of good news. It comes in the form of a prediction, which actually began as a type of positive “Freudian slip” (though it happened before Freud, and by a man who preceded Freud and offered us a far healthier psychological perspective on man, a man this column has deemed as the true father of psychology).
Though we are usually loathe to make predictions, at times it can be uplifting to be shown the bigger picture, providing, of course, that these predictions are channeled into responsible action, lest they be rendered as superficial moments of sensationalism, or juvenile spurts of temporary glee, which wear off like a sugar high.
About two hundred and fifty years ago this week, Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi — the Alter Rebbe – surprised the community with a seemingly different type of Freudian slip. The first leader of Chabad was reading from the Torah scroll in the synagogue, and a word slipped from his mouth pronounced differently to the way it was written in the scroll he was reading from, but the word that he said did not come not from his subconscious. It came from his supra-conscious.
Here is how the episode is documented in a book called Konanto M’Oz authored by Rabbi Avrohom Moshe Rabinovitz. He heard the story from his grandfather, HaRav HaChassid Yehuda Aryeh Leib Tziviak, who related that when he lived in Warsaw he in turn heard the story from the elder Chassidim of the Rebbe Rashab. They told the story in the name of the actual chassid who was called up to the Torah section when the Alter Rebbe “mispronounced” this word in Parshat Pekudei.
Rabbi Schneur Zalman was reading this week’s Torah portion of Pekudei in the book of Exodus, which enumerates the various contributions that the Jewish people had eagerly made toward the building of the portable temple in the desert and the total sums that had been given. The Torah relates that 301,775 shekels of silver were donated, and that 300,000 of these were molten and manufactured into 100 support pieces which made up the portable foundation upon which the walls of the traveling Temple were assembled whenever the Jews camped between their travels. Addressing the remaining silver from the contributions that was not used in the manufacture of the support pieces, the Torah continues: “And the one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five shekels…”(Exodus 38:28), and it was in this verse that The Alter Rebbe pronounced a word differently to the way it was written.
“The one thousand” in Hebrew is pronounced “Ha’elef.” The Alter Rebbe was widely known as supreme master of Hebrew grammar, and there was great surprise when he read this verse aloud for the entire community to hear and pronounced the word “hei’elef.” In addition to sounding different, the unusual pronunciation changed the meaning of the verse dramatically, to “And the five thousand seven hundred and seventy-five shekels…”.
In spite of the people’s shock, someone pointed out to the Alter Rebbe that he had not pronounced the word the way it was written, and he proceeded to reread the entire verse several times, but repeated the same pronunciation four times in a row. After the fourth attempt at reading the verse the traditional way, the Alter Rebbe enter a trance-like state for several moments and when he came out of it he whispered that the pronunciation that had slipped from his mouth was a divine hint as to the time of the coming redemption.
Fast forward.
We are presently in the Hebrew year of 5775 – the year the Alter Rebbe as referring to when he read He’elef (instead of ha’elef) – five thousand seven hundred and seventy-five!
Yes, my friends, we are now in an historical year – earmarked by none other than the Alter Rebbe as a time of redemption more than two centuries in advance.
This is exciting to be sure, but for us to be able to take part in the excitement, and indeed to be empowered to prepare to experience this event in the fullest possible way, we must be well informed of what exactly it is that we are anticipating, and what we can do to help usher in the redemption.
Because, after all is said and done, the redemption – both personal and global – is dependent on our actions. As the same Alter Rebbe males clear in his classic Tanya (opening of chapter 37). So, the prediction is only as powerful as the efforts we generate in manifesting the prediction.
In other words: 5775 is a year of awesome responsibility on our part. We can’t lay back and relax, saying, hey, the Alter Rebbe took care of business by declaring this year as the year of redemption. On the contrary: His pronunciation tells us what great gift and responsibility we carry to make this a tangible reality.
But wait! Is redemption even a Jewish concept?!
Redemption is an integral part of Judaism. It is as central to Torah as the very belief in G-d. The question is why?
Because redemption, the way Judaism sees it, is the purpose of all of existence; it is the realization of the divine plan – a world that is in total harmony with its Creator and His design. Think of a machine that is in sync with the engineer who designed it.
Moreover, redemption is actually not so much a novelty as a return to the quintessential nature of existence – one that is aligned with the soul of existence in its entirety and every detail in particular. The universe has a collective body and soul, and every individual component within the universe has its own body and soul, and they match each other with exquisite perfection.
In the truest and most natural state of existence, each body-soul entity is a unique seamless continuum of matter and spirit that resonates with purpose. In the real ‘real world’, there is no tension or angst; dissonance and contradictions do not exist in a world that is in touch with itself and aligned with its purpose.
But in the world as we know it, our bodies can lose their conscious awareness of our souls — as matter today is out of sync with spirit, and it is this misalignment between matter and spirit that is the source of the constant tension between our bodies’ desire for material satisfaction and our souls’ thirst for spiritual growth. The classic battle between survival and transcendence. As every animal does, we want to perpetuate our own existence and look after our own best interests, but we also feel yearnings to be able let go of our self-centeredness and to be bigger than the sum of our own self. Selfish versus selfless; it is the catch-22 of a soul living in a body in a world that is out of sync.
But our world out of sync also shows signs of hope. Only a few decades ago, living to be middle aged was good luck, and now, humanity has time and resources to research what can increase the well-being and quality of life of a population that lives more than double as long—on average—as its predecessors did one hundred years earlier. Human rights and equality are prized in an unprecedented manner, and our fingertips have instant access to more information that we could possibly integrate in a lifetime. A world once defined by fragmented components is now increasingly discovering its inherent unity.
The world is giving us the tools we need to be able to get back in sync. The same technological advances that have given us all the gadgets that steal our attention, have given us a deep and comprehensive understanding of the deceptive simplicity of the universe. As the body of scientific knowledge has continued to grow, we have become progressively more aware of the uniformity that lies beneath the surface of all the bewildering variety with which we are surrounded. All the different shapes and sizes, all the different textures and colors, are made of the same two ingredients — mass and energy, presented in ways that we perceived as being completely different.
At the same time as the world bombards us with more stimuli than we can handle, it sends us a message that beneath the superficial disparity and tension lies unity. It helps us understand that despite the contradictions that surround us and despite the global body-soul dichotomy, everything in the universe is part of the same singular master purpose that pervades all of existence and has infinite different manifestations.
The world is moving back to its true natural state and it is moving fast, but it will not complete the job on its own for the job is ours to finish.
As we increase our awareness of our own individual body-soul reality and the barriers between the elements that make us who we are become less defined, we become increasingly aligned with our true purpose and it can start once again to resonate throughout our being.
The more we get in touch with who we truly are and with what is true and important, the closer we get back to our natural state of being and the closer we get to our own individual redemption.
And the more we increase this awareness globally, the more aligned the world becomes with its true nature, and the closer we bring it to the ultimate universal redemption.
So in this year of hei’elef ushva hame’ot vachamishah veshiv’im – 5775 – may the Alter Rebbe’s pronunciation of the words resonate within us and motivate us to act.
Every utterance of a tzaddik, especially on the caliber of the Alter Rebbe, perpetually echoes through the chambers of history. And now that are in the year 5775, we carry a great responsibility and obligation to do our part in being aware that the redemption is upon us, and acting on that awareness in our daily lives, by introducing more unity in everything we do.
No doubt that if we fulfill our in this unfolding drama, we will set the stage for the final redemption when, in the words of the Rambam at the conclusion of his magnum opus, Mishne Torah:
There will be no famine or war, envy or competition . . . The occupation of the entire world will be solely to know G-d . . . as it is written “The world will be filled with the knowledge of G-d as the waters cover the ocean bed” (Isaiah 11:9)”’
— Maimonides, Laws of Kings 12:5
Tags: Chassidus, Mishkan, Moshiach, Chassidic history, Freud, kabbalah, Alter Rebbe, redemption, purpose of life
Posted in Weekly Parsha, Shmot, Beliefs & Concepts, Moshiach & Redemption, Torah, Vayakhel, Pikudei | 2 Comments »
March 11th, 2015
Do not judge your fellow until you have stood in his place.
Ethics of the Fathers, 2:4
Rabbi Israel Baal Shem Tov (the “Besht,” founder of the Chassidic movement) taught: “Your fellow is your mirror. If your own face is clean, the image you perceive will also be flawless. But should you look upon your fellow man and see a blemish, it is your own imperfection that you are encountering – you are being shown what it is that you must correct within yourself.”
We don’t need to look to modern psychology for an interpretation of the Besht’s outlook. We can find it in another of his teachings, the principle of “Particular Divine Providence” (hashgacha pratit). Nothing is by chance, the Besht would always stress. Every event in a person’s life is predetermined and purposeful, and an integral part of his divinely ordained mission in life. So a person never “chances” upon anything: if he witnesses an event or phenomenon, there is a reason for this experience, a reason that is closely tied to his own path in life. It therefore follows that if divine providence causes him to see his fellow’s degradation, it is for a positive and constructive end: to open his eyes to a failing of his own.
In The Eyes Of The Beholder
Ultimately, this is the only way a person can truly recognize and deal with his own imperfections. “Love covers up all sins,”[1] said the wisest of men, and what greater love is there than the love of self?
A person’s self-kinship blinds him to his own deficiencies. Yet a negative trait or deed, so innocent and justifiable in himself, appears in all its dreadfulness when discerned in others; here he cannot but be appalled at the depths to which his fellow has sunk.
So the most effective way to open a person’s eyes to the negative in himself is to show him what is wrong with his fellow and to then tell him that he, too, suffers from the same lack in one form or another. If he truly wishes to improve himself, if he truly searches his heart until he discovers what it is that the Almighty was pointing out to him by causing him to see what he saw, his self-love will no longer obscure what has been so glaringly presented to him in the person of his fellow.
Still, one may ask: A person’s mission in life involves not only the development and perfection of his own self and character but also his responsibility towards his fellow man. So why must he conclude that he is being shown his fellow’s failing as a message concerning his own personal state? Perhaps he is being prompted
by divine providence to rebuke and rehabilitate his fellow?
Particular Divine Providence
To answer this question, we must first take a closer look at the principle of “Particular Divine Providence.” Particular divine providence means that not only is every event purposeful, but also its every aspect and nuance.
For example, the same event can imply different things to different observers, depending on how much they know about the people involved and the events that led up to it. Divine providence is particular in that it shows each observer precisely what is applicable to him. So if you witness an event, it stands to reason that everything about it, including the particular way in which it has affected you, has a specific application to your life.
The same applies to a person’s witnessing of a negative act or behavior pattern on the part of his fellow. There are two distinct elements here: a) the fact of his fellow’s wrongdoing; b) his fellow’s guilt, culpability and decadence. The former does not necessarily imply the latter: one may be aware of what his fellow has done wrong, yet such knowledge may be accompanied with understanding, compassion and vindication.
So when G-d makes a person aware of his fellow’s deficiency for the sole reason that he can do something about it, this is all that person would perceive-the fact of his fellow’s problem and what he could do to resolve it. To also sense another’s guilt and lowliness is completely unnecessary; on the contrary, it only hinders his ability to reach out to him in a loving and tolerant manner.
Thus, if he also senses his fellow’s degradation, he must conclude that this aspect of the experience also serves a purpose. Divine providence has provided him with a mirror with which to discern his own shortcomings.
The Three Sons of Noah
This idea is expressed in the Torah’s account of Noah’s drunkenness and the response it evoked in his three children:
“Noah began to work the land, and he planted a vineyard. He drank of the wine and became drunk, and lay exposed in his tent.
Cham… saw the shame of their father, and told his two brothers outside. Shem and Japheth took the garment, placed it upon their shoulders, walked backwards, and covered the shame of their father; their faces were backward, and the shame of their father they did not see.[2]”
What is meant with the words “the shame of their father they did not see”? Do we not already know this from the (twice-repeated) fact that they turned “their faces backward”? But the Torah wishes to stress that the different ways in which the sons of Noah reacted to the knowledge that their father lay drunk and exposed in his tent mirrored their own spiritual states.
Cham’s own decadence was reflected in his vision of his father’s debasement. But when Shem and Japeth were made aware of their father’s state, their reaction lay solely in what they must now do to correct the situation: not only did they avoid physical sight of their father’s degradation, they also did not perceive his guilt or disgrace. The shame of their father, they simply did not see.[3]
This is an excerpt from “Beyond the Letter of the Law” by Yanki Tauber published by The Meaningful Life Center.
[1.] Proverbs 10:12.
[2.] Genesis 9:20-23
[3.] From an address by the Rebbe, Tishrei 27, 5726 (October 23, 1965).
Tags: judgement, self-development, divine providence, judgment, love your neighbor, personal growth
Posted in Months & Holidays, Chapter Two, Pirkei Avos, Ethics of Our Fathers, Torah, Nisan | No Comments »
