Seeking the Week

March 11th, 2015

And you shall count for yourselves from the morrow of the Sabbath, from the day on which you bring the omer offering, seven complete weeks shall there be; until the morrow of the seventh week you shall count fifty days…

Leviticus 23:15

The teachings of Kabbalah and Chassidism describe seven basic character traits in the heart of man: chessed (love, benevolence); gevurah (restraint, awe, fear); tiferet (harmony, synthesis); netzach (competitiveness); hod (devotion); yesod (communicativity) and malchut (regality, receptiveness). Each of these traits includes nuances of all seven, making a total of forty-nine aspects of human character.

This is the deeper significance of the “counting of the omer,” the mitzvah to count forty-nine days from Passover to Shavuot. As the above-quoted verse specifies, the mitzvah is to count both the days and the weeks. (Thus, on the seventh day we say, “Today is seven days, which are one week, to the omer”; on the eighth day we say, “Today is eight days, which are one week and one day, to the omer”; and so on). For the count corresponds to the forty-nine elements of the heart, which consist of seven “weeks” each comprised of seven “days.”

The counting of the omer is our annual re-experience of our ancestors’ forty-nine-day count from their Exodus from Egypt to the revelation at Mount Sinai. Four generations of subjection to the most depraved society on earth had caused them to sink into the “forty-nine gates of profanity,” contaminating every trait and sub-trait in their character. Following their liberation from Egypt, they embarked on a process of purification, in order that they be worthy to receive the Torah from G-d at Sinai. Each day, they grappled with another corner of their heart, cleansing it and refining it; each week, they completed the perfection of another of the seven basic components of their character. Forty-nine days after the Exodus, they presented their perfected selves to G-d, who chose them as His “kingdom of priests and holy nation,” ¹ and communicated to them their charter as His people—the Torah.

Each year, we repeat the process. On Passover, we are granted the potential to liberate ourselves from the profanities in which we have become enmeshed as a result of our servitude to material life. But this is only an “arousal from Above,” a flash of freedom which must now be internalized through painstaking self-refinement. We count the days and the weeks to Shavuot, focusing on our corresponding minor traits and basic characteristics in the quest for a perfected self.

Counting in the Night

When the Beit HaMikdash (Holy Temple) stood in Jerusalem, an offering of a measure (omer²) of barley, brought on the second day of Passover, marked the commencement of the seven-week count. Barley serves mainly as animal feed; the omer offering thus represented a state of man in which his “animal soul” (his physical drives and desires) requires refinement and rectification. On the fiftieth day—Shavuot—an offering of two loaves made of wheat was brought, signifying that we have graduated to human food—that we have attained the true potential of man as a creature who transcends the merely animal.

Today, we lack the opportunity to bring the omer offering on Passover and the “two loaves” on Shavuot. This, because we are in a state of galut (“exile”), deprived of the Beit HaMikdash and the divine presence it introduced into our lives. In galut, the mitzvot we perform are but faint echoes of those performed in the Temple era. ³ Daily we pray for the restoration of a relationship with G-d uninhibited by the distortions of the spiritual darkness we inhabit today.

If we cannot offer the omer or the “two loaves,” at least we can count the days. But even the mitzvah of counting the omer has been diminished by the galut. According to most halachic authorities, ⁴ the count has true significance only when it follows the offering of the omer; thus, our counting today is not a full-fledged biblical commandment (mitzvah d’oraita), but a rabbinical ordinance that merely commemorates the mitzvah fulfilled in the times of the Beit HaMikdash.

Maimonides, however, is of the opinion that even today, counting the omer is a biblical precept. ⁵ A third opinion is an interesting combination of the first two: according to Rabbeinu Yerucham, ⁶ it is a biblical mitzvah to count the days also when the Beit HaMikdash is not extant, but the mitzvah to count the weeks applies only when the omer is offered, and is thus today only a rabbinical commandment. ⁷

What does this mean in terms of our internal “counting of the omer”? That while we are able today to refine specific elements of our character—perhaps even all forty-nine of them—we lack the capacity to piece these together into a perfect self.

The quest for perfection proceeds at all times and under all conditions, even in the darkest hours of galut. Advances are made in this quest, pinpoints of perfection achieved within an imperfect self and world. But actual perfection—including the actual perfection of a complete portion of the soul—can only be attained when the divine home is restored in our midst. Today, we might hold all the pieces of the puzzle in our hands, yet the complete picture eludes us. Only upon our emergence from galut will the forty-nine days of our soul amount to seven complete weeks.

Based on an address by the Rebbe, Lag B’Omer 5711 (May 24, 1951) ⁸

Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

Tags: Beis Hamikdash, Exodus from Egypt, Counting the Omer, emotions, time, Jewish law, personal growth, Jewish calendar
Posted in Months & Holidays, Counting the Omer, Torah, Nisan | No Comments »

Running After You

March 11th, 2015

Draw me / after you we shall run / the king has brought me into his chambers.

Song of Songs 1:4

“Draw me”—this is the Exodus from Egypt; “after you we shall run”—this is the counting of the Omer; “the king has brought me into his chambers”—this is the revelation at Mount Sinai.

Chassidic teaching

King Solomon’s “Song of Songs,” which our sages have called the holiest book of the Scriptures,[1] describes our relationship with the Almighty via the story of the love between a maiden and her beloved, employing the passions and imagery of physical love as a metaphor for the unique bond between G-d and His people.

In every relationship, there are times when one partner takes the initiative, and times when the other partner plays the active role. In the above quoted verse we see the initiative shift from one partner to the other and back again: the maiden calls on her beloved to “draw me” (his initiative), promises to run after him (hers), and concludes by speaking of how he brings her into his chambers (his). This double shift of initiative is reflected in our sages’ interpretation of this verse as the voice of the maiden Israel recalling her “bridal love”[2] for G-d at the time of the Exodus: “Draw me” refers to how G-d drew us to Him at a time when we, submerged in the paganism of Egypt, were unwilling or unable to seek Him ourselves; “after you we shall run,” speaks of a phase in the relationship—the seven weeks of preparation and self-refinement that followed the Exodus—in which we were the active suitors; and finally, “the king has brought me into his chambers” again refers to a time when we were the passive recipients of a divine initiative—G-d’s revelation of His essence to man at Mount Sinai.

The kabbalists call these countercurrents in our relationship with G-d “arousal from above” and “arousal from below,” and explain how, as is the case in human relationships, both are necessary to achieve an ideal union. It is important that we “run after you”—that our lives be driven by the quest to transcend the mundane and reach for the divine. But it is also important that we recognize those times and areas in the relationship in which our own abilities are grossly inadequate, and we can only surrender to the supernal forces that call to our soul.

Before and After

More specifically, there are two forms of “arousal from above”: one that precedes our active quest, and one that follows it. As in the above-quoted verse from Song of Songs, “draw me” is followed by “after you we shall run,” which is followed, in turn, by “the king has brought me into his chambers.”

The first initiative must come from Above. In the words of the Talmud, “a prisoner cannot release himself from prison”:[3] the soul of man, confined to a material body and encumbered by material impulses, requires an “arousal from above” to waken its desire to unite with the Almighty. We experience such “arousals” all the time: remember the last time you were struck with a sudden joy, or fear, or regret, that had no identifiable source or cause? When you were suddenly seized with a resolve to rectify a deficient past and place a new emphasis on your spiritual development? That was G-d drawing you to Him, stirring your soul’s latent love for its Creator.

All too often, these awakenings resound briefly in our consciousness and then dissipate without any real and lasting effect upon our lives. In order for their momentum to carry over into our internal and behavioral selves, they must be reciprocated with “an arousal from below”—with an initiative, on our part, to pursue G-d with every fiber of our being.

On the other hand, however, even the most ambitious of human efforts remains a human effort, defined and confined by the limitations of the human state. So it, too, falls short of achieving the ultimate union between man and G-d. Thus, the first two phases of our relationship with G-d are both inadequate, and for opposite reasons: because the initial “arousal from above” appears without any effort and involvement on our part it is too removed from our reality to be meaningful to us, while our “arousal from below” is too much a part of our reality to truly touch the divine.

Hence the third phase—an “arousal from above” that follows our own efforts to relate to G-d. Because it comes from G-d, it is as potent, as infinite and as true as its source. And because it has been preceded by our efforts, it falls on fertile ground, touching us deeply and permeating our lives.

This also explains a curious discrepancy in the grammatical structure of the verse from Song of Songs. Why does the narrator begin in first person singular (“draw me”), and change, in mid-sentence, to first person plural (“after you we shall run”), only to conclude by reverting to the singular (“the king has brought me into his chambers”)? Because the divinely initiated awakenings touch the “one” in us—the singular essence of our souls—while our own quest for G-d embraces the plurality of feelings, characteristics, traits and faculties that make up the “miniature universe”[4] that is man. In our relationship with G-d, it is important that both these elements be present; that the most basic core of self be touched, but that also the surface of our lives, with its great diversity of drives, wants and levels of consciousness, be permeated with an awareness of G-d and the striving to connect with Him. Only when both the “me” and the “we” of the self are involved can the relationship be both true and real, both absolute and relevant.

Annual Climb

“So said G-d: I remember the kindness of your youth, your bridal love, following me in the wilderness, in an unsown land.”[5] The prophet is speaking of the time that the people of Israel followed G-d out of Egypt into the desert, where they were betrothed to G-d at Mount Sinai.

As we said, the original union between G-d and Israel also included the three phases recounted above: an initiative by the divine groom, the response of the earthly bride, culminating with another “arousal from above,” this second one stimulated by the “arousal from below” that preceded it.

First there was the Exodus, when “the King of all Kings revealed Himself to them and redeemed them.”[6] At that time, the people of Israel were steeped in the idolatry of their Egyptian masters and naked of all meritorious deeds;[7] indeed, the Midrash relates that when G-d split the sea for the people of Israel and drowned the pursuing Egyptians in it, the guardian angel of Egypt complained: “How are they any different from them? These are idol-worshippers, and these are idol-worshippers!”[8] Nevertheless, G-d chose to draw His people to Him in a unilateral act of love.

There then followed seven weeks of intense preparation on the part of Israel to make themselves worthy of G-d’s choice: forty-nine days devoted to the refinement of the forty-nine traits of the human character.[9] This is the phase of the relationship to which the maiden Israel refers when she sings “after you we shall run”—”we,” the plural world of my mortal heart, runs after you, seeks you in every avenue of its diverse and fragmented self. We lag far behind you, perceiving only your shadowy back as we run after you; but we are running, impelling ourselves beyond the corporeal life into which we were born, beyond the conventions of our own nature.

The forty-nine-day run brought us to the foot of Mount Sinai. There “the king brought me into his chambers,” raising our relationship to a height of intimacy and union no humanly-generated love could ever have achieved. But because this divine initiative was preceded by our “arousal from below” it penetrated our wakened souls and permeated every nook and nuance of our ready hearts.

“These days are commemorated and reenacted.”[10] The festivals commanded by the Torah do not merely commemorate the fundamental events of our history, but constitute their annual re-experience. Every Passover, we are again showered with a unilateral outpouring of divine love, as G-d again draws us to Him. This is followed by the forty-nine day sefirah (“count”), in which we again climb the forty-nine rungs of our psyche, refining and elevating our multi-faceted selves in the quest to run after G-d and make ourselves worthy of His embrace. Thus aroused, we are in a position to truly experience the divine revelation of Shavuot, the day on which the King brings us into His innermost chambers and enables us to relate to His most intimate self.

Based on the Rebbe’s talks of Lag B’omer 5711 (1951), Shavuot 5713 (1953), and on other occasions[11]

Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

________________________

Tags: arousal from above, Exodus from Egypt, love of G-d, spiritual evolution, transcendence, Counting the Omer, King Solomon, Song of Songs
Posted in Months & Holidays, Counting the Omer, Nisan, Torah | 1 Comment »

Why Midnight?

March 10th, 2015

So said G-d: “At midnight, I shall go out into the midst of Egypt…”

Exodus 11:4

At midnight of Nissan 15th, 2448 (1313 bce), G-d broke the last manacle of Egyptian bondage by killing all Egyptian firstborn, and the nation of Israel was born as a free people.[1] The time is significant: twice the Torah emphasizes that the event occurred exactly at midnight,[2] and to this day, “midnight” is a factor in our annual re-experience of the Exodus at the seder held each year on the eve of Nissan 15.[3]

But can an event actually take place at midnight? It would seem not. If midnight is the line that divides the night in two, then it is not a time period of any duration. No matter how minute a time-particle we might envision as occupying the center of the night, this particle can itself be halved—its first half would belong to the first half of the night and its second half to the post-midnight half of the night. Indeed, a more literal translation of the Hebrew words kachatzot halailah, rendered above as “at midnight,” would read, “as the night divides.”[4] How, then, can anything be said to occur at the time that “the night divides”?

The Midrash cites two opinions as to the nature of the night’s “division” that first Passover eve. According to Rabbi Yishmael, “The night’s Creator halved it”; according to Rabbi Judah ben Beteira, “He who knows His times and moments halved it.”[5]

Sixteenth-century sage Rabbi David ibn Zimra (the “Radbaz”) explains: Rabbi Yishmael is saying that G-d, who created night, day and time itself, can obviously manipulate them at will. G-d literally split the night in two, opening an expanse of timelessness between its halves. In this “time-vacuum” G-d smote the Egyptian firstborn and freed the Children of Israel. Rabbi Judah, however, is of the opinion that G-d effected the Exodus within physical time, not in some time-transcendent reality. What G-d did was to coordinate His action with the exact midpoint of the night, so that the initial state ended with the night’s first half, and the state effected by His action began with the onset of its second half. This He was able to do because “He knows His times and moments” absolutely.[6]

[In other words, every action is the effecting of a change from state A to state B. So in truth, no time duration is required in which to effect a change, only a point in time[7] to mark the end of state A and the beginning of state B. But since no physical instrument, human or artificial, can measure time with absolute accuracy, man, in timing his deeds, can, at best, define a stretch of time (perhaps, even, a very small stretch of time) within which the change will take place. G-d, however, who has absolute knowledge of “His times and moments,” can position His deed (in this case, the taking of the lives of the Egyptian firstborn and Israel’s transformation from slavery to freedom) exactly on the durationless line that halves the night, effecting a change at the very point that lies between the night’s former and latter parts.]

What is the point of all this? Why did the plague of the firstborn have to transpire precisely at midnight? And what is the significance behind the differing scenarios of Rabbi Yishmael and Rabbi Judah?

The Tenth Plague

The plague of the firstborn was the tenth of a series of plagues visited upon the Egyptians. But there was a basic difference between this plague and the first nine—a difference that touches on the very nature and function of the plagues themselves.

The primary objective of the first nine plagues was to prove a point—to instill an awareness among the Egyptians. In Moses’ words to Pharaoh: “So said G-d: ‘With this you shall know that I am G-d: behold, I shall strike … the waters of the Nile, and they shall turn to blood”; “If you do not let My people go, I will send swarms of wild beasts at you … in order that you know that I am G-d”; “Once again, I am sending all My plagues… In order that you know that there is none like Me in the land.” [8] The tenth plague, however, was more than a demonstration of divine power: it came to punish and destroy, to break Egypt and free Israel from its midst.[9]

This explains a puzzling difference between the first nine plagues and the plague of the firstborn. The first nine plagues threatened only the Egyptians; the Children of Israel were immune to them.[10] The Midrash tells us that during the plague of blood, if an Egyptian and a Jew drank from the same cup, the Jew drank water while the Egyptian drank blood; that during the plague of darkness, a Jew could enter an Egyptian’s home in broad daylight while to the Egyptian the world was shrouded in darkness.[11] But in the case of the plague of the firstborn, the Jews were as vulnerable to the plague as their Egyptian neighbors, and a series of protective measures had to be taken so that the Jewish firstborn would not also die.

The Jews were commanded to make a “Passover offering” (korban pesach) to G-d—slaughter a lamb or goat, sprinkle its blood on the two doorposts and the lintel of their homes, and eat its meat that night with matzah and bitter herbs. That night, the Jewish people also circumcised themselves. It was only in the merit of these two mitzvot that the Jewish firstborn were spared.[12] In the words of the prophet, “I passed over you, and I saw you weltering in your blood (i.e., the blood of circumcision and the blood of the korban pesach) and I said to you: By your blood you shall live!”[13]

The Jews in Egypt were a people meritorious in faith but deficient in behavior. On the one hand, we are told that their faith in G-d and His promise of redemption never wavered, even in the darkest moments of their ordeal;[14] on the other hand, they had assumed the pagan practices of their enslavers.[15] Thus, the first nine plagues, whose function was “in order that you know that I am G-d,” had no cause to afflict the Jewish people, whose awareness of the divine truth was beyond reproach. But when the tenth plague came to punish and destroy the Egyptians for their sins and to “take out a nation from the womb of a nation”—to extract the Jew from the society of which he was part and forge him into a holy people—here, G-d’s “attribute of justice” had cause to argue: “How are these any different from these? These are idol-worshippers, and these are idol-worshippers!”[16]

Thus, on the night of Nissan 15, it was necessary to differentiate between Egyptian and Jew. G-d had to pass over the homes of the Jews when the Egyptian firstborn were killed—indeed, it is this divine discrimination that gives “Passover” (Pesach, in the Hebrew) its name. To this end, G-d clothed a nation “bare and naked of virtues”[17] with mitzvot, in order to distinguish them from their neighbors.

Two Visions of Midnight

However, there is still much that requires clarification. If we were no less deserving of punishment, and no more deserving of redemption, than our enslavers—if the divine sense of justice dictated that “these are no different than these”—what moved G-d to grant us the mitzvot to distinguish us from the Egyptians? And if, on the other hand, G-d wished to redeem us despite all, why the need for these special mitzvot to protect us from the plague of the firstborn?

Indeed, G-d chose to redeem us not because we were any “better” than the Egyptians, but because of His intrinsic love for us. In the words of the prophet Malachi: “Is not Esau a brother to Jacob? … But I love Jacob.”[18] Even when there is no cause to distinguish between Jacob and Esau, G-d chooses Jacob. At the very onset of Moses’ mission to free the Jewish people, G-d told him to communicate to Pharaoh that “Israel is My child, My firstborn.”[19] I love him with a father’s unconditional love, G-d is saying, a love that transcends considerations of virtue and deservedness.

This, explain the Kabbalistic masters, is the reason why the Exodus took place at midnight. The first half of the night embodies the divine attribute of justice (din or gevurah), and its second half, the divine attribute of benevolence (chessed). Midnight is the juncture that fuses and supersedes them both, since the power to join two opposites can only come from a point that transcends their differences. “Midnight” is thus an expression of a divine involvement in creation that transcends all standard criteria for punishment or reward.[20]

“At midnight,” said G-d to Moses, “I shall go out into the midst of Egypt.”[21] “‘I’—and not an angel; ‘I’—and not a messenger.”[22] At midnight I shall disregard all the “attributes,” norms, and processes I have established to define My governance of the world and relate to you as I am and as I choose.

At the same time, G-d provided us with mitzvot with which to deserve our redemption. For a most basic feature of the covenant that G-d desired to forge with us is that the deepest aspects of our relationship with Him should be manifested in our daily lives via the mitzvot of the Torah;[23] that the most sublime spiritual truths be actualized by the means of physical deeds. So although G-d superseded all standards of deservedness and undeservedness to redeem us, He granted us the means by which to deserve our redemption—the mitzvot of korban pesach and circumcision.

[Indeed, both these mitzvot embody, on a human scale, the divine response they were designed to elicit. The offering of the korban pesach was an act that defied all conventions of logic and feasibility. The Jews were commanded to take a lamb—one of the deities of Egypt—and keep it bound in their homes for four days, slaughter it, sprinkle its blood on their doorposts and eat its flesh. Reason argued, “Can we slaughter the idol of Egypt before their eyes, and they won’t stone us?”[24] But reason was set aside to do the will of G-d. G-d responded in kind, setting aside the norms of His “justice” and “benevolence.”

Circumcision, the bodily sign of our covenant with G-d, also emphasizes its supra-rational basis. The Jewish child is circumcised at the age of eight days, when he cannot possibly appreciate the significance of the deed or even be aware of it. Why don’t we wait until the age of intellectual maturity (as we do, for example, with the mitzvah of tefillin)? Again, this is a mitzvah given to us by the Almighty to access the reason- and rule-transcending essence of our relationship.]

Halving the Night

Hence the alternate interpretations offered by Rabbi Yishmael and Rabbi Judah as to the nature of the midnight of the Exodus.

Rabbi Yishmael sees the Exodus as a supra-natural, supra-rational event. To him, midnight of Nissan 15 is no temporal landmark in time. To take the Jews out of Egypt, G-d stopped the clocks of creation, splitting night, time and natural order apart to reveal the divine essence and will that underlies and transcends all.

Rabbi Judah, on the other hand, focuses on the natural dimension to the Exodus. True, to pass over the homes of the Israelites as their Egyptian peers were destroyed, to extract a nation from a nation it all but resembled morally and spiritually, there had to be a divine choice that superseded the rules and standards that G-d has built into creation. But is it not also true that this choice had to be accessed and actualized from within the terms of these rules and standards themselves? Is not the entire point of the Exodus, and of the revelation at Sinai to which it led, that man make himself a worthy vessel to the divine, and that our finite, physical world be developed as a receptacle to the infinite goodness and perfection of its Creator?

To Rabbi Judah, midnight of Nissan 15 is a point in time—a point of entry for the all-transcending truth of G-d, but an integral part of our “conventional” existence all the same.

Based on the Rebbe’s talks on Passover of 5721 (1961) and 5722 (1962), and Shabbat Bo and Shabbat Yitro of 5740 (January 26 and February 9, 1980)[25]

Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

[1]. The Jews physically left Egypt twelve hours later, at midday of Nissan 15. But from the moment the firstborn were killed, the last vestige of Egyptian resistance to their release crumbled and they were a free people.

[2]. Exodus 11:4 (see Rashi) and 12:29.

[3]. Midnight is the deadline for the eating of the matzah and the bitter herbs, and, when the Holy Temple stood in Jerusalem, for the eating of the meat of the Passover offering (today it is the deadline for eating the afikoman which represents the Passover offering at our seder). See Tosafot, Megillah 21a; Shulchan Aruch, Orach Chaim 477a; Ramoh and Dagul Mirvavah, ibid.

[4]. As per Rashi’s first interpretation, which he considers the “straightforward meaning, which best explains the verse in its context.” But also according to the second interpretation cited by Rashi, which translates kachatzot as “about midnight,” the plague of the firstborn took place exactly at midnight—see there.

[5]. Mechilta, Exodus 12:29.

[6]. Radbaz Responsa, vol. I, ch. 814.

[7]. In geometry, a “point” occupies no area, representing not a quantity of space but a position relative to which area is defined. It is in this context that we use the term “point” to connote the same in regard to time.

[8]. Exodus 7:17, 8:17-18 and 9:14.

[9]. In ancient Egypt, the firstborn held all the key religious and governmental positions (Pharaoh himself was a firstborn, and was spared only so that he should witness the liberation of Israel and the destruction of his army). The death of all firstborn spelled the demise of Egyptian power and prestige.

[10]. Exodus 8:18-19, 9:6, 9:26, and 10:23.

[11]. Midrash Rabbah, Shemot 9:9 and 14:3.

[12]. To this day, all Jewish firstborn are obligated to fast on the day before Passover in acknowledgment that they, too, deserved to die in the plague of the firstborn.

[13]. Ezekiel 16:6.

[14]. See Exodus 4:31; Mechilta, Shemot 14: 31.

[15]. See Zohar Chadash, beginning of Yitro; Yalkut Reuveni, Shemot 14:27 and Zohar, part II, 170b.

[16]. Yalkut Reuveni and Zohar, ibid.

[17]. Ezekiel 16:7; Rashi on verse.

[18]. Malachi 1:2.

[19]. Exodus 4:22.

[20]. Ohr HaTorah, section 5 of the discourse Vayechalek.

[21]. Exodus 12:2.

[22]. Sifri on Deuteronomy 26:8; Passover Haggadah.

[23]. In G-d’s words to Moses: “When you take this nation out of Egypt, you shall serve G-d at this mountain”—i.e., receive the Torah at Mount Sinai (Exodus 3:12).

[24]. Exodus 8:22.

[25]., Likkutei Sichot, vol. III, pp. 864-872; vol. XXI, p. 55-61.

Tags: time, Mt. Sinai, Exodus from Egypt, Egyptian slavery, 10 plagues
Posted in Passover, Months & Holidays, Nisan, Torah | 1 Comment »

Wet Matzah

March 10th, 2015

It is rare to find a substance so utterly and uncompromisingly rejected by the Torah. There are other foods whose consumption is forbidden; but this the Torah forbids us to eat, derive benefit from in any way (e.g. sell, feed to one’s animals, or use as kindling), or even keep in our possession. Usually, a forbidden substance becomes ‘‘nullified” if it mixes with a much greater quantity of permissible substances;[1] but of this, the Torah forbids the slightest trace—even if it blends with something a million times its volume, the entire lot becomes unfit for consumption.

We are speaking, of course, of chametz, or leaven, on Passover. In the weeks before the festival, the Jewish home is the scene of an all-out, take-no-prisoners, war of extermination. Floorboards are scraped, furniture dismantled, countertops boiled. On the night before the festival we conduct a solemn search for any survivors and consign them to the flames on the next morning. The enemy: the minutest bread crumb, beer stain or pasta residue—anything in which grain and water have come together and fermented, rendering the product chametz and utterly intolerable for eight days a year.

On the spiritual level, leaven, whose primary feature is that it rises and inflates itself, embodies pride. This explains our uncompromising rejection of chametz. Other negative traits might be tolerable, or even useful, in small, greatly diluted doses. Depression, for example, has been declared ‘‘a grave sin,”[2] for man is commanded to ‘‘serve G-d with joy”;[3] but a small dash of melancholy, counterbalanced by a hundredfold helping of joy, may serve a positive function, reflecting a necessary concern over one’s shortcomings and the commitment to rectify them. The same applies to anger, stubbornness, chutzpa, and a host of other character traits: as a rule, they are undesirable, yet in the proper context and in the right proportions, each has its positive applications. Arrogance and pride, however, are of such spiritual toxicity (the Talmud states that G-d says of the arrogant one, ‘‘I and he cannot dwell in the same world”[4]) that we must forgo any attempt to exploit them, and must totally eradicate them from every crevice of our hearts.[5]

The 49-Day Difference

And yet, despite the severity of the prohibition of chametz, it is only forbidden for eight days and several hours a year,[6] while other, less ‘‘toxic” elements are forbidden year-round. In other words, there is a state of being, which Passover represents, in which arrogance and pride are objectionable in any context and quantity. After ‘‘Passover,” however, chametz becomes permissible and even desirable.

This duality is also expressed in the laws governing the offerings brought to G-d in the Beit Hamikdash (Holy Temple). In the Beit Hamikdash, it was ‘‘Passover” all year round: all grain offerings had to be unleavened, in keeping with the divine command that ‘‘no leaven… may be brought as a fire-offering to G-d.”[7] This, too, reflects G-d’s utter abhorrence of arrogance and pride. Nevertheless, on the festival of Shavuot, two loaves of bread, specifically commanded to be ‘‘baked leavened,”[8] were offered in the Beit Hamikdash.

Thus, Passover and Shavuot represent two polar points in the desirability of pride. On Passover, chametz is wholly and utterly forbidden, while on Shavuot it is not only permitted but is a mitzvah, commanded and desired by G-d.

Passover marks our birth as a people, when G-d extracted a clan of slaves from the “forty-nine gates of depravity” of pagan Egypt and set them on the journey toward Sinai, where He took Israel as His eternal bride on Shavuot. Connecting Passover and Shavuot is the forty-nine day sefirat haomer (‘‘counting of the omer”), during which we are commanded to conduct a daily count of the days that have passed from the day of the Exodus.

The kabbalists explain that the human character consists of seven basic attributes (attraction, rejection, synthesis, competitiveness, devotion, communicativity, and receptiveness[9]), reflecting the seven divine attributes (midot elyonot or sefirot) that G-d invested in His creation of reality.[10] Each of these seven contains elements of them all, making for a total of forty-nine traits in the human heart.[11] Thus, we speak of the utterly corrupt society of Egypt as a moral nadir of “forty-nine gates of depravity.” These are paralleled by “forty-nine gates of understanding”—the ladder and process by which one achieves the refinement and perfection of all elements in one’s character.

Therein lies the significance of the forty-nine day count and climb from Passover to Shavuot. On the first day of Passover, we were physically removed from the evil of Egypt; yet we still had to remove the ‘‘Egypt” from within us, to cleanse our hearts and minds of the residue of four generations of pagan environment and practice.[12] Each day of the sefirah involved the internal exodus from another of Egypt’s ‘‘gates of depravity” and the entry into another of the ‘‘gates of understanding.” After forty-nine days, we attained the internal purity required to receive the divine election and communication of Shavuot.

Hence the difference between Passover and Shavuot regarding chametz. One who is still burdened with negative drives and emotions (though he has already abandoned the negative behavior they engender[13]) lacks the ability to sublimate the most potent and corruptible of the heart’s traits—pride. So immediately following the Exodus, chametz is banned. It is only upon attaining the full refinement of all forty-nine compartments of the heart on Shavuot that the offering of leaven to G-d becomes a mitzvah, appropriate and desirable. On this level, pride is no longer the self-inflationary chametz of the ‘‘Passover” personality, but the selfless pride of one who has cleansed his heart of every last vestige of self-interest and has dedicated it exclusively to the service of his Creator.[14] This is a pride not in what one is or has achieved, but an expression of the majesty of He Whom he serves and Whose reality he conveys in his every thought, word and deed.

The Eighth Day Soak

This also explains an interesting law regarding Acharon Shel Pesach, the eighth and final day of Passover.

One example of the extremes to which we go to avoid every trace and prospect of chametz on Passover is the practice, by many communities, of refraining from eating matzah shruyah (“soaked matzah”) on the festival. Matzah is made of water and flour that have been speedily and thoroughly blended and baked, to avoid any chance of leavening. Once baked, the flour in the matzah will not leaven; matzah (or ‘‘matzah meal” made by grinding matzah to a fine ‘‘flour”) may now conceivably be mixed with water and other liquids in the preparation of food for the festival. However, there remains an extremely slight chance that some of the flour might have failed to mix completely with the water at the time of the matzah’s original baking, leaving a few particles of raw flour at risk of leavening should they come in contact with water. For this reason, many halachic authorities, including Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi, rule that it is best to avoid the use of matzah shruyah on Passover.[15] This ruling has been accepted by many segments of the Jewish community, to the extent that there are those who are careful not to even place matzah on the table during mealtimes unless it is securely covered, lest a drop of liquid meet with a crumb of matzah. This is one of the many examples of the unparalleled lengths to which we go in the avoidance of chametz on Passover.

On the other hand, Rabbi Schneur Zalman permits the use of matzah shruyah on the eighth day of Passover. Furthermore, his successors, the rebbes of Chabad, made a point of wetting matzah at every course of the meals of Acharon Shel Pesach.

The eighth day of Passover is a rabbinic institution, as opposed to the first seven days, which are biblically ordained. Nevertheless, the observance of the rabbinical “added days” to the festivals are just as binding for the Jew as their biblical sisters; in fact, Torah law is even more stringent regarding certain aspects of their observance, for the very reason of forewarning any inclination to treat them lightly.[16] Indeed, with the exception of the eating of matzah shruyah, we are no less diligent in our rejection of leaven on Passover’s final day. Why, then, this exception?

Tasting The Future

As explained above, the forty-nine day sefirah count represents the process of refining the seven basic attributes of the heart as each comprises elements of all seven, making for a total of forty-nine traits. This is why the Torah speaks of the sefirah count as consisting of weeks (‘‘Seven weeks you shall count for yourselves… and you shall make a Festival of Weeks (Chag Shavuot) for G-d…”[17]). In our daily count, we, too, emphasize its weeks: on the twenty-fifth day, for example, we say, ‘‘Today is twenty-five days, which are three weeks and four days of the omer [count].” Indeed, the very name Shavuot means “weeks.” For also the internal ‘‘count” consists of seven ‘‘weeks,” being the refinement of the seven attributes of the heart that are each a unit of seven.

The eighth day of Passover is the seventh day of the sefirah count and the final day of its first week. Thus, on this day we achieve a ‘‘taste” of the perfection of Shavuot, having refined elements of all seven basic traits as they are reflected in the various nuances of the first trait, ‘‘attraction.” In other words, each week of the sefirah is a microcosmic sefirah-count of its own, consisting of seven “days” or sub-traits; having concluded a full week of character refinement, the eighth of Passover is a mini-Shavuot, and thus shares its leaven-tolerant quality. While outright chametz is still strictly forbidden, we mark this milestone on the road to perfection with the positive use of a chametz-vulnerable element, employing wetted matzah to enhance our festival meal.

This corresponds to another feature of the eighth day of Passover—its identification with Moshiach. The haftarah (reading from the prophets) for this day (Isaiah 10:32-12:6) describes the coming of Moshiach and the harmonious perfection of a time when “the world shall be filled with the knowledge of G-d as the waters cover the sea.” Rabbi Israel Baal Shem Tov instituted a special meal, “the feast of Moshiach,” on the afternoon of Acharon Shel Pesach, as a time that is profoundly suited to “taste” and experience the divinely perfect world we are creating with our positive efforts—a world in which “the spirit of impurity shall cease from the earth”[18] and everything, including the pride so abhorrent to G-d today, shall be sublimated as a wholly positive and altruistic force.[19]

Therein lies the lesson of the eighth of Passover: even if perfection seems a far-off goal, you possess the ability to create a ‘‘taste” of perfection in the here and now. Start with a single trait of your personality, with a small corner of your community. If you wholly devote yourself to it, you will find in it elements of your entire self, of the entire universe.

Your creation of this micro-model of messianic perfection will serve as the catalyst for its realization on a holistic, and ultimately universal, level.

Based on the Rebbe’s talks on the eighth day of Passover in the years 5727 (1967) and 5737 (1977)[20]

Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

Tags: chametz, kabbalah, Jewish law, sacrifices and offerings, ego, Exodus from Egypt, arrogance
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Walls of Water

March 10th, 2015

by Ari Sollish

And the water was a wall for them, on their right and on their left.
Exodus 14:22 and 14:29

On the 21st day of Nissan in the year 2448 from Creation (1313 bce), the young Jewish nation met with their first communal crisis. Seven days earlier, G-d had “extracted a nation from the bowels of a nation”[1] by pressuring Pharaoh to release the Children of Israel from the shackles of bondage that had oppressed them for the past 210 years in Egypt. But Pharaoh had since reconsidered his decision to let the Jews go, and now, after a furious chase, he and his army had successfully cornered them at the Red Sea. There was no escape.

The Children of Israel cried to Moses, who in turn pleaded with G-d on their behalf. The response? A command: “Go! Move forward!” One man, Nachshon Ben Aminadav from the tribe of Judah, took heed of G-d’s call and jumped into the sea. When he began to drown,[2] Moses raised his staff above the sea and G-d miraculously parted its waters, thus allowing the Children of Israel passage on the dry seabed. When the Jewish people were safely out of the water, Moses once again lifted his staff, this time sending the full force of the waves crashing down on the Egyptians. This act finally ended the Egyptian slavery and brought closure to this painful chapter in Israel’s history.

It is in commemoration of this miracle—known as “keriyat Yam Suf – the parting of the Red Sea”—that we celebrate every year with Shevi’i Shel Pesach (the seventh day of Passover) and Acharon Shel Pesach (the eighth and final day of Passover).

While many of us are familiar with the Torah’s account of the splitting of the sea, few are aware of the fierce battle waged in the heavens that ultimately determined the fate of the Jews and the Egyptians.

On the verse, “And the water was a wall for them, on their right and on their left,” the Midrash relates that just as the Jewish people were about to cross the sea, the celestial angels appeared before the heavenly court, challenging the events that were about to transpire. “Why,” they demanded, “should the Children of Israel be spared from the sea and the Egyptians fall victim to it? Both nations are equally guilty of idol worship!” The Midrash continues: “In which merit was Israel saved? ‘On their right and on their left’: ‘on their right,’ in the merit of the Torah that they would accept, as it says, ‘From His right hand He presented the Fiery Torah to them’; and ‘on their left,’ this is [the merit of] tefillah (prayer).”[3] In other words, Torah and tefillah were the two merits that acted as a “wall,” protecting the Jewish people on either “side” from being likened to—and thus destroyed with—the Egyptians.

But why were two merits necessary? From an anecdote in the Talmud it would seem that Israel’s acceptance of the Torah alone should have provided sufficient merit to distinguish between Jew and Egyptian. The Talmud states that of all the nations to whom G-d offered His Holy Torah, only the Children of Israel accepted every word unconditionally.[4] Thus, at Mount Sinai, G-d reciprocated Israel’s “choice” by proclaiming them His “chosen nation,” forever setting Jew apart from non-Jew.[5] So if the Jews were “chosen” based on their acceptance of the Torah, why was the second merit of prayer necessary to justify their deliverance at the sea?

“Freedom” in two acts

Like most liberating experiences, the Exodus did not occur in an instant. Two unique steps were required to transform a band of slaves into a nation of free men.

The first step occurred on the 15th day of Nissan, the day Pharaoh ordered the Jews to leave the Land of Egypt. On that day, the Children of Israel experienced freedom in the most literal sense of the word—their bodies physically left the borders of Egypt. However, although they had left Egypt, Egypt had not left them. Psychologically and emotionally they were still enslaved—they thought and felt like slaves, for the roots of more than two centuries of slavery could not be destroyed by merely transplanting them to another land. No, they needed to experience something that would shake them to their very core, something that would purge any remaining residue of Egypt. This experience came seven days later, at the “parting of the sea.”

Keriyat Yam Suf accomplished what no simple turn of a key could: it freed their minds and hearts, rousing them from their slavery-induced slumber that had prevented them from truly integrating the transformation their bodies had undergone days earlier.[6] When they saw their former taskmasters being plunged into the sea just moments after they had been spared from its abyssal grave, their freedom suddenly became a reality. No longer were they enslaved. No longer did they think or feel like slaves. And realizing this for the very first time, they rejoiced—and sang.[7]

Contemporary Hieroglyphics

Today, although there might not be a literal “Egypt” threatening our freedom, there exists a “quasi-Egypt” within each one of us and within society as a whole, an element that like the Egypt of old attempts to ensnare and enslave us. As the Sages state: “In every generation (and every single day) a person must regard himself as one who has personally come out of Egypt (today).”[8] Consequently, our focus must be to destroy this “Egypt,” and break free of its shackles.

What is this modern day “Egypt,” and how does it enslave us? On a personal level, “Egypt” is the multitude of thoughts, feelings, desires, and habits that run contrary to the Divine will. On a communal scale, “Egypt” is a society that promotes existentialism as a theology and selfishness as a way of life, while all but rejecting the notion of spirituality, selflessness, and a “higher purpose.”  Thus, every day our mission and mandate is “Exodus”—to forsake and disavow the “Egypt” that attempts to prevent us from accessing the wealth of spirituality that is our essence, and to reach a state of spiritual transcendence, a state in which we are able to comfortably express and actualize our spiritual yearnings.

But just as it was with the Exodus of thirty-three centuries ago, our personal modern exodus is similarly comprised of two distinct stages.

The first step in this journey—which corresponds to “physically” leaving our personal “Egypt”—is to affect behavioral change in our service of G-d. At this stage our personality is still intact, but the liberation has begun due to our change of behavior and attitude. Nonetheless, this is only freedom of a literal sort, for true freedom involves transcending our very nature, even our good habits. As long as our actions are an extension of our disposition, we are not truly free of our past. Complete exodus means freeing ourselves of the parameters of our own character and personality.

To better illustrate this, let us look at two individuals. One who is a thinker by nature, preferring quiet study to heated debate, might naturally feel more inclined to quench his spiritual thirst with Torah study, an intellectual activity that suits his strengths. Someone who is more passionate and emotionally charged, on the other hand, might prefer investing the majority of his energy into prayer, which our Sages have termed “service of the heart.”[9] Have these two individuals achieved a personal exodus? On the most external level, yes, for they are serving G-d. On a deeper level, however, they are still enslaved, for the amount of energy channeled to the mind and heart is determined by the individual’s nature, and not by what G-d wants, namely, a seamless synthesis of the two. Thus, their freedom is as of yet incomplete, for their minds and hearts are not equally and completely open to G-dly service.

The second and ultimate step in personal exodus is “keriyat Yam Suf,” when we free ourselves from our natural tendencies and dispositions, thus completely erasing every remaining trace of “Egypt” within us. Such freedom is demonstrated when we not only serve G-d, but also do so with equal measures of mind and heart, despite our natural propensity toward one or the other. We transcend our natural tendencies. Conducting our spiritual affairs in such a manner means that we have experienced complete exodus—“leaving Egypt” and witnessing the “parting of the sea.”[10]

Thus, the Midrash maintains that to experience the “parting of the sea,” the culmination of exodus when freedom illuminates even the deepest, darkest recesses of our being, requires both merits of Torah (mind) and prayer (heart), for it is only through serving equally in these two realms that we may touch upon the true meaning of freedom—freedom from our very nature.

Magic & Mirrors

In addition to concluding the exodus from Egypt, keriyat Yam Suf served another purpose: it paved the way for the giving of the Torah on Mount Sinai.[11] And this too required Israel’s fusion of mind and heart.

When G-d gave the Torah to the Children of Israel on the sixth day of Sivan, He redefined reality. Until that moment in time, things were destined to remain stagnant—trapped, as it were, in their status quo. No one possessed the ability to truly “recreate” matter, the power to cause a qualitative shift in any given object. Sure, you could use a raw material such as wood to craft a table, but the table remains of the same quality (substance and matter) as the original, unprocessed wood—essentially all you have done is modify its form. All of this changed at Sinai. Mold animal hide into the black boxes of tefillin, said G-d, and you have not just reshaped the original leather, you have now recreated it as a holy object, with specific rules governing its treatment. Fashion tzitzit from ordinary wool, and the wool is now infused with an acute measure of holiness. The same is true with the citron we use as an etrog on Sukkot, and with the matzah we eat on Passover. Any physical object that is used in the performance of a mitzvah is transformed from mundane to divine, the ultimate in qualitative transformation. Indeed, this is the purpose for which we were given the Torah and mitzvot at Sinai: to transform matter into spirit. We take the world on its most material, base state, and transform it into a channel for Divine energy.

But how is that possible? How can an ordinary object transform into something spiritual, if “physical” and “spiritual” are polar opposites? The truth is, it can’t. But then again, it doesn’t have to. For at the core of every created entity lies a spark of the Creator, a spark that is as genuinely G-dly as the loftiest of souls and the most supernal of angels. The material facade need only fade, and what remains is the pure expression of divine will, thought and speech that is ready to unite once again with her Originator. This, then, is the power of mitzvot. When we utilize something in the act of a mitzvah, we are essentially stripping away the object’s trivial, material shell, and instead demonstrating its role in the implementation of G-d’s Will.

This is the deeper significance of the parting sea. Metaphorically speaking, the natural state of being is “sea”: the divine energy that enlivens every creature is buried and hidden deep within the mask of materialism, much like the literal sea conceals the life that is submerged within its depths. At keriyat Yam Suf, though, the sea split—the smoke and mirrors of materiality disappeared momentarily, and all that was left to see was the “master illusionist” Himself. Nonetheless, keriyat Yam Suf was merely the first step, for no real permanent changes occurred—the miraculous transformation in nature lasted only temporarily. What it did accomplish, however, was to pave the way for the revelation at Sinai, where every single Jew was granted the ability to access the spiritual spark within physicality and affect a permanent change on any object used in the performance of a mitzvah.

The Chassidic masters explain that before anything transpires in the macrocosmic world, it must first occur within the microcosm of man.[12] Thus, in order for the sea to split, in order for the divine spark of creation to become manifest, the Children of Israel had to first uncover the G-dly soul within themselves.

How does one reveal his soul? When one’s spiritual service transcends his nature, for the capacity of transcendence stems exclusively from the soul, which like its source is limitless and not bound by any “nature.” Thus, the Midrash maintains that before the sea parted, before G-dliness revealed its face within creation, the Jewish people required both merits of Torah (mind) and prayer (heart), the dual service that is the litmus test of one who has tapped into his soul and reached beyond his natural proclivities. And once Israel’s soul became manifest, the rest of creation followed suit.

Living the Future

The third Rebbe of Lubavitch, Rabbi Menachem Mendel,[13] once remarked that the first two days of Passover celebrate the exodus from Egypt, while the last two days of Passover celebrate the Geulah, the Final Redemption. Thus, the splitting of the sea and the ultimate Redemption are intimately intertwined.

The Final Redemption is the ultimate embodiment of the transformation of materiality experienced at keriyat Yam Suf and Mount Sinai, for it is then that our physical senses will actually perceive the G-dliness inherent in creation. And like the G-dly manifestation of keriyat Yam Suf and Sinai, this too is dependent upon Israel’s divine service.

The implication is a powerful one. Sometimes we look at the world around us and doubt if things will really change for the better. Certainly, we think, we cannot change the world. What we must remember is the lesson of keriyat Yam Suf: that the key to “parting the sea” and producing global change lies in our hands. All it takes is for us to “split” our own “sea,” to rouse our soul from its slumber and allow its flame to illuminate our life, and the world automatically becomes a better place—a place with greater light. This, then, is the catalyst for the ultimate “splitting of the sea,” the complete and Final Redemption, when spirituality will be manifest in creation so that “all flesh together will see”[14] the divine tapestry woven throughout mankind and the universe.

Based on an address of the Rebbe given Shabbat Parshat Beshalach 5723 (1963)[15]

Tags: revelation, kabbalah, redemption, mitzvot, midrash, Exodus from Egypt
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Vital Fluids

March 10th, 2015

Said Rabbi Levi: On that night, the blood of the Passover offering mingled with the blood of circumcision, as it is written: “And I passed over you, and I saw you weltering in your blood; and I said to you, ‘By your blood you shall live!’ and I said to you, ‘By your blood you shall live!’ ” [1]

Midrash Rabbah, Ruth 6:1

As our sages explain, when G-d came to redeem the Jewish people from their exile in Egypt, He found them “naked of mitzvot.” So He gave them two commandments—the mitzvah of circumcision and the mitzvah of korban pesach (the Passover offering)—so that they should merit the redemption. [2]

One of the things that these two mitzvot have in common[3] is that they each relate to a particular age or phase in a person’s life. The prescribed time for circumcision is at the age of eight days, soon after the infant’s entry into physical life.[4] The korban pesach was brought by the head of the household—a status a person attains only at an advanced point in his life, after having raised a family and assumed a position of authority in the  lives of a significant number of individuals.[5]

Circumcision marks a beginning: a Jew is born, and immediately enters into a covenant that binds his life to G-d. The korban pesach, on the other hand, is brought by a person in mid-life—a person with a past, perhaps even a past that requires re-evaluation and change. Indeed, when instructing the people of Israel to bring the korban pesach, Moses tells them to “retract your hands from idol-worship, and take the lamb,”[6] emphasizing that this mitzvah was to mark a break from their idolatrous past and a redefinition of their lives as servants of G-d.

Our every moment embodies this duality, being both the first moment of the rest of our lives and the culminative moment of all we acheived and experienced up until that point. The challenge to us, as individuals and as a people, is to mingle the “blood of circumcision” with the “blood of the Passover offering”: to combine the freshness of birth with the lessons of maturity, to make our every moment a pristine beginning that, at the same time, is the fruit of a rectified and optimized past.

Based on a public letter by the Rebbe, Nissan 11, 5729 (March 30, 1969)[7]

——————–

Tags: redemption, maturity, mitzvot, sacrifices and offerings, circumcision, birth
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There and Here

March 10th, 2015

The wicked son says: “What is this work for you?” For you, [he says,] not for himself, excluding himself from the community… So tell him, “This is because of what G-d did for me when I left Egypt.” For me, not for him–had he been there, he would not have been redeemed.

The Passover Haggadah

“Freedom?” mocks the “wicked son” at the Passover seder “You call this freedom? To me it looks like work. All you’ve done is exchange the service of Pharaoh for the service of G-d. Frankly, Pharaoh was the less demanding master…”

Had he been there, he would not have been redeemed, we inform him. Indeed, our sages tell us that only twenty percent of the Jewish people departed Egypt for Sinai on the first Passover.[1] The other 80% refused to leave, preferring the freedom from responsibility of the slave to the freedom to transcend one’s finite self of the committed Jew. In Egypt, G-d accepted every Jew as he was, despite his moral and spiritual station; there was, however, one condition: one had to desire freedom in order to deserve it.

Had he been there, he would not have been redeemed, we also inform him. The exodus from Egypt was before the revelation at Sinai, before G-d chose each and every Jew as His own. There, redemption was a matter of individual choice. Had he been there, he would still be there. But he was not there—he is here.

“Here” is after Sinai. “Here,” free is what we are, not something that we elect or decline to be. “On that day,” prophesies Isaiah, “you will be gathered up one by one, O Children of Israel.”[2] In the future redemption of Moshiach, “not a single one will be forsaken.”[3]

Based on an address by the Rebbe, Passover 5728 (1968)

————–

Tags: freedom, redemption, Exodus from Egypt, Egyptian slavery, seder
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Then and Now

March 10th, 2015

Then: “They baked the dough which they brought out of Egypt as matzoh cakes, since it had not risen. For they were driven our of Egypt and could not delay; neither had they prepared any provisions for themselves.”[1]

Now: “In leisure and serenity you will be redeemed; in quietness and confidence shall be your victory.”[2]

Then: “You left Egypt in haste.”[3] “The nation escaped.”[4]

Now: “You will not go out in haste, nor will you go in flight.”[5]

Then: An opportunity had presented itself and we were on the run.

Egypt had enslaved our bodies and infiltrated our souls. Then, at the stroke of midnight that first Passover eve, an overwhelming revelation of Divine truth neutralized the forces that imprisoned us both without and within. Without, Pharaoh was humbled and consented to release us. Within, we were inspired to break free of the idolatry of Egypt, to shake off the grime of two centuries of subjugation to the most depraved society on earth. But revelations tend to come and go in a flash.

Any moment, Pharaoh may change his mind for the nth time and give chase. Any moment, the pagan mores and slave mentality which still pervaded our minds and hearts may reassert themselves. We were escaping Pharaoh, and we were escaping ourselves.

Now: For thirty-three centuries we have been seeking G-d, and finding Him.

For 33 centuries we have been studying His wisdom and imparting it to the world, making the outlook, ethos and ideals of Torah an integral part of human thinking and behavior.

For 33 centuries we have been doing, thinking and feeling G-d’s mitzvos—implementing His will in our daily lives. In doing so, we have molded our nature in accordance with His desire. We have developed the world in accordance to His blueprint for creation.

Then: We had a spiritual experience.

Now: We are ready.

———

Tags: freedom, redemption, Jewish law, Exodus from Egypt, Egyptian slavery
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Purim: Ani Yehudi

March 5th, 2015

How Purim Changed the World

One surprising and exhilarating expression uttered this week by a President of a small European country defines a watershed moment in history.

On Monday Czech President Milos Zeman addressed the annual AIPAC conference in Washington DC, expressing his unprecedented support of Israel. If you haven’t heard his speech make sure to listen to it.

It is startling to hear a European leader — in glaring contrast to other European and world leaders — stand in unwavering solidarity with Israel and Jews with such pride and lack of apologetics. Simply extraordinary — an act that will go down in history when future generations look back at this time.

But there was one word that he used in his passionate support that takes his commitment to an entirely other level: That word was “yehudi.” “I am a Jew. Ani Yehudi.

Here are his words in context:

There is a growing wave of so-called international terrorism, but I always say: Islamic terrorism. And that’s why we need… to fight against this growing wave. The first phase is of course expression of solidarity.

You know the famous slogan: Ich bin ein Berliner. Now we all must say ‘I am a Jew.’

To these words the 16,000 plus crowd in attendance rose to their feet and gave him a rousing ovation.

As they sat down, President Zeman continued:

Ani Yehudi (“I am a Jew” in Hebrew).

Beyond President Zeman’s unabashed courage, I don’t know if he was aware the profound significance of the word he chose: Yehudi. And it’s special connection to this week’s holiday of Purim.

Throughout the Purim Megillah — the scroll we read on Purim, relating the entire story — Jews are referred to with the unusual name Yehudim (in plural), or Yehudi — Mordechai HaYehudi (in singular). The usual name for Jews in the Torah is Yisroel, Bnei Yisroel, the children of Israel or Bnei Yaakov, the children of Jacob, and other similar names.

Asks the Talmud (Megillah 13a) why is Mordechai called Yehudi (when he didn’t come from the tribe of Yehuda, Judah)?And it answers: Because he repudiated idolatry. And anyone who repudiates idolatry is called yehudi.

The word yehudi (from the root ho’daah) means one who acknowledges, referring to one who accepts and believes in G-d, and thereby refutes anything that is un-G-dly.

Even as “all the king’s servants at the king’s gate kneeled and bowed before Haman… Mordechai would not kneel or bow” (Esther 3:2). This infuriated Haman to the point that he plotted and successfully convinced the king to annihilate all the Jews in his empire, which means all the Jews on earth!

“There is one nation,” argued Haman to Persian King Achashveirosh, “scattered and dispersed among the nations throughout the provinces of your kingdom, whose laws are unlike those of any other nation and who do not obey the laws of the King. It is not in the King’s interest to tolerate them” (Esther 3:8).

Haman was absolutely right; he hit the nail on the head: Jews — yehudim — live in this world and refuse to bow and worship any man or man-made entity. They acknowledge and accept the one and only G-d — the One Higher Reality that created us all.

And that is precisely what disturbed Haman so: The fact that there is a nation that will not conform and bend to society’s “norm.” Hitler voiced similar sentiments in his Mein Kampf.

And that is exactly what troubled anti-Semites throughout history, and today.

As Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu proudly affirmed in his powerful — and notorious — speech before Congress two days ago:

We’re an ancient people. In our nearly 4,000 years of history, many have tried repeatedly to destroy the Jewish people. Tomorrow night, on the Jewish holiday of Purim, we’ll read the Book of Esther. We’ll read of a powerful Persian viceroy named Haman, who plotted to destroy the Jewish people some 2,500 years ago. But a courageous Jewish woman, Queen Esther, exposed the plot and gave for the Jewish people the right to defend themselves against their enemies.

The plot was foiled. Our people were saved.

Today the Jewish people face another attempt by yet another Persian potentate to destroy us. Iran’s Supreme Leader Ayatollah Khamenei spews the oldest hatred, the oldest hatred of anti-Semitism with the newest technology. He tweets that Israel must be annihilated — he tweets. You know, in Iran, there isn’t exactly free Internet. But he tweets in English that Israel must be destroyed.

And he concluded his remarks by saying:

You stand with Israel, because you know that the story of Israel is not only the story of the Jewish people but of the human spirit that refuses again and again to succumb to history’s horrors.

Facing me right up there in the gallery, overlooking all of us in this august chamber is the image of Moses. Moses led our people from slavery to the gates of the Promised Land.

And before the people of Israel entered the land of Israel, Moses gave us a message that has steeled our resolve for thousands of years. I leave you with his message today: Chizku ve’imtzu, al tiru ve’al te’artzu m’pneihem, “Be strong and resolute, neither fear nor dread them” (Deuteronomy 36:6).

My friends, may Israel and America always stand together, strong and resolute. May we neither fear nor dread the challenges ahead. May we face the future with confidence, strength and hope.

May God bless the state of Israel and may God bless the United States of America.

The Prime Minister didn’t cite the end of the verse, ki Adonay Eloheycha hu haholech imach lo yarpecha velo ya’azveka (because G-d your Lord is the One who is going with you, and He will not fail you or forsake you), and didn’t make the obvious connection between the opening and the conclusion of his speech: That as yehudim in the time of Purim, our strength came not from replying on man-made security, but on the divine, so too today our strength and resolve stems from our being yehudim.

But Czech President Milos Zeman did (knowingly or unknowingly) make the connection: Ani Yehudi. The power to overcome any challenge is the yehudi — acknowledging the Divine and rejecting the human gods.

As President Zeman pointed out “our society is too hedonistic, too consumption oriented, and there is cowardice and appeasement.”In other words — our society is busy worshiping “Haman” and other man-made idols.

Ani Yehudi — I am a Jew — declared the President of a non-Jewish republic. I too am acknowledging the One G-d and repudiating the hedonistic idols of our times.

We may never know why the President of the Czech Republic is so different than other leaders and nations in our time, standing out in its public and steadfast support of Israel and Jews. But the Ani Yehudi declaration will go down in history as a moment when the modern world committed to the power of Yehudi.

Moreover: Ani Yehudi is not only an affirmation of Mordechai’s behavior in the times of Purim, and of the behavior of Jews throughout the millennia, but it adds a new dimension: that even the nations of the world embrace the Yehudi principle.

Even the biggest lie has some truth to it. For centuries anti-Semites have been accusing Jews of conspiracies to conquer the world. In 1903 the Protocols of the Elders of Zion were published as an antisemitic hoax purporting to describe a Jewish plan for global domination. Despite having been exposed as fraudulent by The Times of London in 1921, the Protocols continued to be accepted as fact, and were translated into multiple languages, and disseminated internationally in the early part of the 20th century. Henry Ford funded printing of 500,000 copies that were distributed throughout the US in the 1920s. Hitler was a major proponent. It was studied, as if factual, in German classrooms after the Nazis came to power in 1933.

While all these conspiracy theories are latently false, there is a kernel of truth which lies behind them all: The Jews indeed have always had a plan to conquer the world. But this plan is neither malicious or insidious; neither manipulative or secretive. It is quite open for all to see. Just look into the Bible: Be fruitful and multiply and fill the world and conquer it.”

The “Jewish plot” is to transform an initially narcissistic world into a selfless one; crass materialism and hedonism into soulfulness and generosity. To turn takers into givers.

Over the millennia Jews had to struggle with a hostile world. They had to contend with a selfish society that was offended by Mordechai not “bowing and prostrating” himself. The world did everything it could to extinguish the flame of Yehudi — one who acknowledged only G-d and denies all other forms of worship But as the years rolled on, slowly slowly, the “plot” began to succeed. The world has indeed become a kinder, gentler place.

And now, with the words of President Zeman, ani Yehudi, provoked by the recent rise of European anti-Semitism — he showed us all, that Purim is not just a victory for the Jews (Yehudim) against their adversaries. Indeed, it demonstrates how Purim has changed the very face of this earth. Ani Yehudi: Not just Jews, but a non-Jewish President of a Republic declares ani Yehudi — I too am a force that acknowledged the Divine, and denies the hedonistic world of self-interest.

One single word tells the entire story of history. When President Zeman made an interesting choice of words — Ani Yehudi — he captured the entire purpose of existence: To repudiate every form of hedonism and idolatry, and to embrace and acknowledge the Divine purpose of existence.

Happy Purim!

Tags: Europe, Israel, anti-semitism, Persia, Jewish history, purim, Yehuda
Posted in Purim, Months & Holidays, Adar, Torah | 3 Comments »

The Vegetarian Era

March 4th, 2015

Rabban Gamliel said: Whoever did not speak of the following three things [at the seder] on Passover, has not fulfilled his obligation [to relate the story of the Exodus]. These are: the Passover offering, matzah, and maror.

The Passover Haggadah

On Passover we were freed from the taskmaster’s whip and set on the road to becoming a people sovereign in their land. But the Exodus was more than a transition from slavery to independence: it was a liberation from the confines of the corporeal to the infinite expanses of spirit. We were taken from the most materialistic and promiscuous society on earth (“the depravity of the land”[1]) to a covenant with G-d as His “kingdom of priests and holy people.”[2]

We were not, however, transformed into a flock of angels or a community of disembodied souls. We remained physical beings, inhabiting a body and indentured to its needs. How, then, is the Jew to regard his own physicality? Is it a mere tool, to be used but never indulged? Should it be provided only with the bare minimum it needs to hold the soul and support its spiritual pursuits, or is there value or even virtue in the experience of physical pleasure and the enhancement of physical life with objects of luxury and beauty?

The Torah’s view on the matter appears to be mixed. On the one hand, we find expressions of a decidedly “ascetic” approach to life. The Talmud interprets the verse, “be holy,”[3] as a commandment to “abstain also from that which is permissible to you,” and warns against being “a hedonist with the Torah’s permission” who indulges in every permissible pleasure.[4] The Ethics of the Fathers declares: “This is the way of Torah: Eat bread with salt, drink water in small measure, sleep on the ground, and live a life of hardship.”[5] And the first thing that chassidim coming to study under the tutelage of Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi were told was: “What is forbidden, one must not; what is permitted, one need not.”[6]

On the other hand, the Torah admonishes the nazir (one who vows to abstain from wine), “Is what the Torah has forbidden not enough, that you assume further prohibitions upon yourself?” and calls him a “sinner” for having deprived himself of one of G-d’s blessings.[7] “Man,” says the Talmud, “is obligated to say: ‘The entire world was created for my sake; and I was created to serve my Creator.’”[8] So not only the necessities of life, but the entirety of creation—including those elements whose sole human utility is to make life more pleasurable—can, and should, serve a life devoted to the service of its Creator. Our sages go so far as to say that “a person will have to answer for everything that his eye beheld and he did not consume.”[9]

Bread, Vegetable, and Meat

One approach to the resolution to this paradox can be found in the three primary symbols of the Exodus: the Passover offering, matzah, and maror (the “bitter herb”).

All three are foods, and—eating being the most physical of human deportments—can be seen as representative of the various areas of physical life. Matzah, the humble “bread of poverty,”[10] represents the bare necessities of life. The Passover offering, a yearling lamb or kid slaughtered in the Beit Hamikdash (Holy Temple), roasted whole, and eaten at the seder—luxuries whose function is solely to give pleasure. Maror, a vegetable, represents a middle ground between these two extremes: more than the minimalist bread, less than the sumptuous meat.[11]

A further examination of the three seder staples yields another interesting distinction between them. Ever since the Beit Hamikdash was destroyed, we have been unable to bring the Passover offering; today, it is present at the seder table only in the form of the uneaten, purely commemorative, zeroah (“shankbone”) placed on the upper right-hand corner of the seder plate. We eat the maror, but it, too, is not the full-fledged Passover mitzvah it was at the time that the Beit Hamikdash stood in Jerusalem. According to Torah-law, the bitter herb is to be eaten as an accompaniment to the meat of the Passover offering; when there is no Passover offering, there is no biblical commandment (mitzvah mide’oraita) to eat it. Nevertheless, our sages decreed that the maror should be eaten on the first night of Passover in commemoration of the “real” maror commanded by the Torah. The only one of the three Passover foods that has the full status of a mitzvah mide’oraita today is the matzah.[12]

“From the day that the Beit Hamikdash was destroyed,” say our sages, “it was decreed that the homes of the righteous should be in ruins… The servant need not be better off than the master.”[13] As long as G-d remains homeless, expelled from His manifest presence in the life of man, the Jew, too, is a stranger in the material world. In essence, matter is no less a creation of G-d, and no less capable of serving and expressing His truth, than spirit; but in times of dimmed divine presence, the substantiality of the physical all too readily obscures rather than reveals its G-dly essence. In such times, we must limit our involvement with the material, lest our immersion in its density dull our spiritual senses and blur the divine objectives of our lives.

Thus, no Passover offering is possible in the spiritually opaque world we presently inhabit: dealing with the bare bones of physicality is challenge enough without the meat of opulence clogging our lives. Indeed, as seen from the most basic vantage point on life (i.e. the mide’oraita perspective), only the austere matzah is needed; anything beyond that is a foray into hostile territory whose risks rival its potential rewards.

Nevertheless, our sages have opened a tract of this territory to exploration and development, empowering us to make positive and G-dly use of much of physical life. While steering clear of the overtly superfluous “meat,” they broadened our physical fare to include “vegetables”—physical goods and experiences that, while not of the strictest necessity, are more of a need than a luxury. “Meat,” however—pleasure for the sake of pleasure—remains out of bounds, constituting a degree of involvement with materiality that cannot be dealt with in our era of spiritual darkness. Indeed, a clear distinction must also be drawn between the “bread” and “vegetable” realms: maror is a bitter vegetable, emphasizing the fact that whenever our material involvements extend beyond life’s strictest necessities, they constitute a most difficult and trying challenge, demanding a greater degree of vigilance not to allow the means to obscure the end.

Where We’re Heading

None of this means that the Jew regards the physical as evil or irredeemable. On the contrary—he knows that “meat” was, and will again be, a basic component of the seder. He knows that in the proper spiritual environment, the most physical of experiences can be as pure an expression of the G-dly essence of existence as the most sublime prayer. And it is this knowledge that enables him to keep the proper perspective on whatever aspect of physical life he is able to “handle” under his present circumstances.

The story is told of the visitor who, stopping by the home of Rabbi DovBer of Mezeritch,[14] was outraged by the poverty he encountered there. The great chassid’s home was bare of all furnishing, save for an assortment of rough wooden boards and blocks that served as benches for Rabbi DovBer’s students during the day and as beds for his family at night. “How can you live like this?” demanded the visitor. “I myself am far from wealthy, but at least in my home you will find, thank G-d, the basic necessities: some chairs, a table, beds for the children…”

“Indeed?” said Rabbi DovBer. “But I don’t see any of your furnishings. How do you manage without them?”

“What do you mean? Do you think that I carry all my possessions along with me wherever I go? When I travel, I make do with what’s available. But at home—a person’s home is a different matter altogether!”

“Ah, yes,” said Rabbi DovBer. “At home, it is a different matter altogether…” 

Based on the Rebbe’s writings, including a journal entry dated “Passover 5701 [1941], Nice”[15]
Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

Tags: meat, vegetarian, seder, Nazir
Posted in Months & Holidays, Passover, Personal Life, Torah, Nisan | No Comments »