The Third Seder

March 4th, 2015

“In every generation,” say our sages, “a person is obligated to see himself as if he himself has come out of Egypt.”[1] 

Mitzrayim, the Hebrew word for “Egypt,” means “boundaries” and “constrictions”; yetziat mitzrayim, “going out of Egypt,” is the endeavor to rise above all that inhibits the soul of man, be it limitations imposed by an outside force, or the physical, psychological or spiritual limitations imposed by habit and nature.

One of the most constricting elements of the human condition is the phenomenon of time. Time carries off the past and holds off the future, confining our lives to a temporal sliver of “present.” But on the first night of Passover we break the bonds of time, having received a mandate to experience the Exodus “as if he himself has come out of Egypt.” We recall the Exodus in our minds, verbalize it in the telling of the Haggadah, digest it in the form of matzah and wine. As we passover the centuries, memory—those faded visages of past that generally constitute our only answer to the tyranny of  time—becomes experience, and history is made current and real.

Leap to the Future

Passover is an eight-day festival, with two opening and two closing days of heightened observance and commemoration (Yom Tov[2]).  While the theme of redemption runs as a current through the entire festival, the first days of Passover focus primarily on the first redemption—our liberation from Egypt thirty-three centuries ago—while the closing days highlight the final Redemption—the future era of divine goodness and perfection heralded by Moshiach. On the first two nights of Passover we conduct the seder, reliving our redemption from Egypt in the telling of the Haggadah, the eating of the matzah and the bitter herbs, and the drinking of the four cups of wine. On the seventh day of Passover, we read the “Song at the Sea,” which contains an important allusion to the Messianic era;[3]  on the eighth day, the haftarah (reading from the Prophets) is from Isaiah chapters 10-12—one of the primary prophecies on the future Redemption. Rabbi Israel Baal Shem Tov, founder of the Chassidic movement, instituted the custom of partaking of “Moshiach’s Feast”—a mirror seder of sorts that includes matzah and (four cups[4] of) wine—on the afternoon of the eighth day of Passover.

Thus our transcendence of time enters a new, heightened phase: it is one thing to vitalize memory to the point of actual re-experience, but quite another to make real an event that lies in the future, especially an event that has no parallel in the history of man. Yet in the closing hours of Passover, we enter into the world of Moshiach. Having vaulted over millennia of past on the seder nights, we now surmount the blank wall of future, to taste the matzah and wine of the ultimate redemption.

Based on an address by the Rebbe, Passover 5732 (1972)[5]

. Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

Tags: Moshiach, redemption, Exodus from Egypt, transcendence, boundaries, seder
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The Real G-d

March 4th, 2015

I riffle through my calendar, bursting with oh-so-weighty commitments and appointments: deadlines to meet, errands to complete, phone calls to return. I am running feverishly, from one task to the next. But nothing I do seems to engage my very essence, or access my inner core. I am still searching for the “real me.”

We humans are created in the image of G-d.  Like G-d, we have our external selves, and our internal essence.  With our external selves, we perform many functions, some of which are quite vital and necessary for our survival.  But our essence is survival itself – our very purpose and reason for being.

On Passover, “G-d Himself came down to Egypt. Not an angel. Not a fiery Seraph. Not through any medium or agent. No one but G-d, the Holy One, Blessed be He. G-d Himself, in all His glory.”[1]

G-d can reveal Himself through many characters and qualities. He can choose to enclothe Himself in all types of garments and manifestations. To descend to Egypt, however, G-d chose to go Himself. No agent or messenger was sufficient. To enter Egypt, G-d dropped all the external dimensions of His Being, and exposed His true Self.

What was Pharaoh’s Egypt? The cesspool of civilization, a country wallowing in its own arrogance and depravity. What was G-d’s mission? To rescue the Jewish people from the midst of this ugliness, and elevate them to be sanctified and consecrated to Him. This task engaged G-d’s very essence. This was something that G-d would not delegate to any one of His myriad angels and messengers, characteristics or attributes.  And in doing so, G-d imparted to us some of His own powers and abilities. For all times, forever after, we have the capacity to discover G-dliness even as we descend into the lowest recesses of society and culture. Even when it seems dark and hopeless, we can reach out and inspire another hungry soul, another aching heart, and help them access truth and tranquility. Indeed, this is the mission of our lives: to enter a corrupt world in order to refine and transform it.

The task of redeeming ourselves, our family and friends, and our society from the depths of debasement cannot be accomplished half-heartedly or perfunctorily.  The real me, and the real you, are exposed when we are actively engaged in activities that better the lives of others and enrich our society.

My day has not changed much. I am still running along the same treadmill, rushing to work in the morning, frantically completing my tasks, arriving home exhausted at night. But inside, something is different. My job is not merely a means to earn some much-needed cash. It has become a mission. It is my divinely ordained little corner of the universe, to be sanctified by me alone. In this, I can find myself. I can let myself go, and be the real me.

I still hurry to catch the train, but along the way I take a moment to smile at a stranger and offer him a seat. As I make eye contact, I know what I have accomplished. For that brief moment, two people out of millions shared a small taste of humanity, nay–divinity.

At work I still face the same anxieties and frustrations that I always did. But I manage to snatch a few moments for myself, to indulge in a quiet prayer. It energizes and uplifts me. It reminds me once again, in the midst of the hectic hustle-and-bustle of daily living, that I serve a higher purpose. I connect with G-d and recall that I can always lean on Him for support, not to lose sight of who I really am.

I play my telephone messages, and one makes me pause. It is from an old acquaintance of mine, and she desperately needs a favor. I am inclined to delete this message, but something makes me stop. I replay it carefully, and resolve to make this call a priority.

The office chatter still swirls around me. I am not aloof to it; I indulge like anyone else. But something inside is different. I am not as quick to chime in with a cutting remark or a juicy bit of gossip. Instead, I attempt to contribute words that soothe, that comfort, that inspire. And I can feel the difference. I smile more at people, and they smile back at me.

I arrive home at the end of the day, still tired, still exhausted. But underneath all that is a sense of exhilaration. Some of my private inhibitions have eased, and my sense of repression is abating. I feel as if I have left Egypt. I have found my inner self.

—————-

[1] Text of Passover Hagaddah.

Tags: inner self, Exodus from Egypt, Egypt, Egyptian slavery
Posted in Months & Holidays, Passover, Torah, Nisan | 1 Comment »

The Question of Freedom

March 4th, 2015

by Simon Jacobson

What is the healthiest thing you can do for your child to help arm him or her with tools to prevent many of today’s social maladies? As we witness the deep void in children’s lives today, there is a profound lesson that can be gleaned from a 3000 year old tradition.

In homes across the world, young children begin the Passover Seder by asking the Four Questions. Looking beneath the surface of this custom reveals a powerful universal message regarding freedom for both our children and ourselves. It illuminates an internal deeper dimension of the human need to explore and question, which lies at the very heart of freedom.

Throughout history the silencing of the masses has been a powerful tool employed by monarchs and dictators whose tyrannical rule was threatened by individual expression. In contrast, freedom in America today is essentially based on the right to challenge and to question.

Every unhealthy and dysfunctional experience is always shrouded in silence. Not allowing man to ask, to challenge and to probe is perhaps the worst crime of all. It invalidates the individual, demoralizes the psyche and enslaves the free spirit in a superimposed box of distortions.

Religion is perhaps the greatest victim of this malady. Wherever I travel, I meet countless people who have been hurt by “authorities” who have dogmatically imposed religious teachings upon them. Frequently I hear: “I was never allowed to ask questions;” “Do what you’re told or God will get even with you.” The underlying implication is: “Listen, behave, fall in line – conform!”

Asking questions is an essential human quality. Observe an infant beginning to crawl and exploring her little world, or watch a child dismantle his toys. Curiosity is an inherent part of our nature. We naturally dissect our universe; we take things apart; we explore the universe and try to understand what makes it work. The root of all knowledge is the curiosity to know what is beneath, to search for the deeper purpose of existence. Nothing is more freeing than the human need to challenge the status quo and believe that through our exploration things can become better.

Think of the last time you were silenced by a parent, an authority or a spouse. Now think of the last time someone listened to you. Sincerely listened – asking how you are, what are your concerns, what are your questions. Is there a more empowering experience than that simple gesture of allowing you to be you – the freedom to express yourself, to allow your true self to emerge? To be uniquely you.

As a child I remember being called upon to ask the Four Questions that begin the Passover Seder. However, it was only in more recent years when my own children asked me the questions, I realized that not all of them are directly answered. Why encourage children to ask and then not give direct answers?

I have learned that the beauty of the Passover questions is precisely that: Questions. Life’s journey is learning how and what to ask. And after all, the wise question is half the answer. Jewish tradition alters many activities on the Seder night for one reason only: to provoke and motivate children from the youngest age to question, to probe, to ask and ask again. The Four Questions invite children on a journey of inquiry so that from a young age they are imbued with the confidence that asking is not just for adults. From childhood on questions become the cornerstone of the story of Passover, the story of Freedom.

Our education system today can learn a compelling lesson from the Passover questions. We need to encourage children’s natural inquiry so as to cultivate the unique talents in each of our kids rather than boxing them into certain standards. How many casualties result from schools that are generally geared toward the average child, the ones that ”fit in”? What about all those unique individuals that stand out, are different, too advanced, too slow or gifted in different ways? And what does a conformist system do even to the ‘regular’ kid? Is there such a thing as a ‘regular’ kid?

So this Passover demand of your children to ask and challenge. Allow them to express their unique selves. Indeed this also includes the “child within.” As adults we too could use a heavy dose of childhood fascination to explore new horizons, new challenges and greater hopes. This year let us teach ourselves and our children to celebrate the beginning of our glorious human quest to search, to question and to discover our unique place and contribution in this world.

Tags: inner child, seder, children, parenting
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The Original 15 Step Program

March 4th, 2015

The Passover Seder: A Blueprint for Freedom

by Simon Jacobson

In our shaken and uncertain world the message of Passover has never been more timely.

The Hebrew word for Egypt, ‘Mitzrayim,’ is rooted in the word ‘meitzar,’ which means boundaries, limits, restrictions. Thus Egypt represents all forms of constraints and confinements: psychological, emotional and spiritual. Any trap, any enemy from within or from without that inhibits our free expression is a form of mitzrayim.

Thus the Exodus from Egypt is the single most important element in life: The ability to free ourselves from our confines and traps. The need to do so always exists, but the necessity is even greater in these fear-ridden, uncertain days both here in America and in Israel.

What better time to reaffirm and relive G-d’s promise to Abraham that we will be freed from Mitzrayim and that we will come out with great wealth. This promise was true for the first Exodus from Egypt and is true today, as we relive and recreate the Exodus. “Each generation and every day one must envision himself as if he just left Mitzrayim.”

On the first night of Passover a new energy enters the world, the energy of freedom and transcendence. How do we tap into this energy? How do we access this power that allows us to transcend and eliminate our personal and global miztrayims freeing ourselves from their shackles?

The Passover Seder is the answer. The Seder is a profound mosaic that provides us with the keys to open the doors of freedom on Passover Eve. The actual name “Passover Seder” is an oxymoron: The word Pesach (Passover) means to jump, to pass over the normal order, whereas Seder means order and organization! The Seder is actually a systematic order that allows us to transcend order, a structure that allows us to transcend structure. Like music: By playing the defined structure of the musical scale we have the power to create music that defies all structures, and to play an infinite number of combinations and songs.

One of the objectives of the Seder is to connect us to our inner child. That is why there is so much emphasis on children during the Seder. Just as the innocence of a young child has not been tarnished by the harsh responsibilities and emotional entanglements of adult life, so too each and every one of us has an inner child which has not been negatively affected by the coarseness of the physical world. The fifteen steps of the Seder help to connect us to this unblemished innocence that is at the core of every person.

You can download our FREE beautifully designed 15 Steps Handout. These fifteen keys can be used to open up doors and help free us of our own limits and confinements, fifteen steps that we can climb to reach a greater place.

Tags: Exodus from Egypt, inner child, seder, freedom, psycho-spiritual journey
Posted in Months & Holidays, Passover, Torah, Nisan | 2 Comments »

The Muddy Path

March 3rd, 2015

If He had split the sea for us, but did not take us across it on dry land—it would have sufficed for us

The Passover Haggadah

The above lines are from the Dayyeinu hymn, sung at the Passover Seder, in which we enumerate fifteen things that G-d did for us when He liberated us from Egypt and took us to be His chosen people. We thank G-d for each of these things individually, recognizing each as a distinct and unique gift. Thus we say: “If He had taken us out of Egypt, but had not punished [the Egyptians]—it would have sufficed for us…. If He had fed us the manna, but had not given us the Shabbat—it would have sufficed for us….” and so on.

Many of the commentaries on the Haggadah are puzzled by the meaning of the above-quoted stanza: what does it mean that it would have sufficed for us had G-d split the sea for us but had not taken us across it on dry land? Of what use would the splitting of the sea have been to us had it not enabled us to cross to the other side and escape Pharaoh’s pursuing armies?

The Avudraham[1] explains that the emphasis is on the fact that we crossed the things that have profoundly impacted our lives as Jews sea on dry land. In order to save us from the Egyptians, it would have been enough that the sea split and we trudged through the mud and silt that naturally covers the sea bottom. To show His love for His people, G-d performed an additional miracle, making our path as dry and firm as land that has never been covered by water.

But the fifteen things enumerated by the author of the Haggadah in Dayyeinu are not simply a list of miracles performed by G-d in the course of the Exodus (of which there were many others), but major developments in Jewish history: the Exodus itself, the splitting of the sea, the manna, the giving of the Torah, the entry into the Holy Land, the building of the Beit HaMikdash—to this very day. What, then, is the lasting significance of our crossing the Red Sea “on dry land”?

Spiritual Scuba

We each inhabit two worlds—worlds that are often as far apart from each other as two worlds can be. One world is the “revealed” portion of our existence: our professional, family and social lives, our conscious thoughts and feelings. But we simultaneously inhabit a “hidden” world—a world of subconscious drives and desires, of innately known truths and deeply-held convictions that rarely, if ever, see the light of day.

Kabbalistic and Chassidic teachings refer to these two worlds as our “land” reality and our “sea” reality. On land, things are out in the open—so much so, that they often seem disconnected from their environment and source of life (looking at a throng of suited businessmen striding down a busy city sidewalk, it is hardly apparent that they derive their nourishment from the earth). In the sea, everything is submerged and hidden. At most, we might catch a shadowy glimpse of what transpires close to the surface; of what lurks in its depths we see nothing at all.

What is the case on the individual level is also true of creation as a whole. There are the “revealed worlds,” which include the material and physical realities, as well as those spiritual realities that are fathomable and accessible to us. But beyond this “land” lies the mysterious sea, the supra-natural and supra-rational strata of creation.

Much of the pain and frustration in our lives stems from the rift between our “land” and “sea” personalities. If only we could reconcile our revealed life with our subconscious self! If only we could recognize our true will and uncover our deepest yearnings; if only the countless choices we make each day in our “terrestrial” existence would reflect who we truly are and what we truly desire!

This, explain the Chassidic masters, is the spiritual significance of the “splitting of the sea.” When G-d split the Red Sea, He also split “all the waters in the world,”[2] from the physical seas on earth, to the individual sea of every soul, to the cosmic sea that suffuses the deepest secrets of creation. In the words of the Psalmist, G-d “transformed the sea into dry land; they traversed the river on foot.”[3] What is ordinarily submerged and inaccessible became manifest and tactual, and traversing the depths of one’s soul was like walking on firm terrain.

After “the children of Israel passed through the midst of the sea on dry land,”[4] the waters reassumed their natural course. Again the sea world was obscured, again the subconscious became a mystic and secret place. But a precedent had been established, a potential implanted in our souls. Never again was the sea to be impregnable, never again were the revealed and hidden in man to constitute two hermetic worlds. With His splitting of the seas, G-d empowered us to penetrate our individual seas, to blaze pathways of dry land on the ocean floors of our souls.

The Intermediate Man

In his Tanya,[5] Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi speaks of three spiritual personalities: the rasha (iniquitous individual), the tzaddik (perfectly righteous individual) and the beinoni (the intermediate).

The rasha is one whose “revealed” life—his deeds, speech and conscious thoughts—is at odds with his hidden essence. His soul is “literally a part of G-d above,”[6] but his daily life includes acts that are a transgression of the divine will. His quintessential desire is to cleave to his source, but he consciously desires things that impede his relationship with G-d.

In the tzaddik, there is complete harmony between the hidden and revealed portions of his soul. His intrinsic love of G-d dominates his life, so that he is drawn to everything that enhances his bond with the Almighty and is repelled by anything that threatens it. He is one who has transformed his sea into dry land, whose quintessential self and manifest self are one and the same.

Between the rasha and the tzaddik is the beinoni, the “intermediate.” The beinoni desires evil; but he never allows his negative impulses to find expression in action, speech, or willful thought. In other words, the beinoni is a behavioral tzaddik and a psychological rasha. On the behavioral level, his life is in complete conformity with his inner identity as a spark of the divine torch. Psychologically, the dissonance between his essence and his manifest self remains.

The beinoni is one who has split his sea, but who still struggles along its muddy bottom. He has penetrated his hidden self enough to get him to the other side. He gets the same “results” as the tzaddik: his daily life is a perfect reflection of his innermost self. But his sea has not been transformed into dry land. Life for him is a constant struggle with the contradiction between sea and land.

Double Split

The Tanya tells us that every man has the capacity to be a beinoni—to gain complete mastery over his behavior and not allow a single evil impulse to find expression in actual deed. But few can attain the state of the tzaddik. Indeed, there is something about the beinoni, something about his perpetual battle with evil, that makes his life richer and more G-dly than the perfect existence of the tzaddik. G-d desires both beinonim and tzaddikim in His world, for each realizes a dimension of His purpose in creation that the other cannot fulfill. On a more subtle level, we each have our beinoni periods and our tzaddik moments—periods of struggle and moments of harmony—both of which are integral to a complete self.

On the seventh day of the Exodus, G-d granted us the capacity for both: for virtue and for perfection, for successful struggle and for harmonious wholeness. He split the sea for us, empowering us to manifest our hidden self in our daily lives. And He transformed the sea into dry land, enabling us to aspire to a complete synthesis of our mystic essence and our terrestrial character.

Based on an address by the Rebbe, Passover 5718 (1958)[7]

Adapted from the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

Tags: soul, Exodus from Egypt, miracles, seder
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The Mountain and the Sea

March 3rd, 2015

We all know the feeling: we wake up one morning to the realization that the world is not as we would like it to be. A common experience, to be sure, but many and diverse are the ways in which a person may react to it.

One man embarks on a quixotic crusade to change the world. A second gives up the world for lost and retreats into whatever protective walls he can erect around himself and his loved ones. A third takes the “practical” approach, accepting the world for what it is and doing his best under the circumstances. A fourth recognizes his inability to deal with the situation and looks to a higher authority for guidance and aid.

The Four Factions

Our forefathers experienced just such a rude awakening on the seventh day after their exodus from Egypt.

Ten devastating plagues had broken the might of the Egyptians and forced them to let the Jewish people go. After two centuries of exile and slavery, the children of Israel were headed toward Mount Sinai and their covenant with G-d as His chosen people and a “light unto the nations.”

Indeed, this was the stated purpose of the Exodus; as G-d told Moses, “When you take this nation out of Egypt, you will serve G-d at this mountain.”[1]

But suddenly the sea was before them, and Pharaoh’s armies were closing in from behind. Egypt was alive and well; the sea, too, seemed oblivious to the destiny of the newly-born nation.

How did they react?

The Midrash[2] tells us that the Jewish people were divided into four camps. There were those who said “Let us throw ourselves into the sea.” A second group said “Let us return to Egypt.” A third faction argued “Let us wage war upon the Egyptians.” Finally, a fourth camp advocated: “Let us pray to G-d.”

Moses, however, rejected all four options as inappropriate, saying to the people, “Fear not, stand by and see the salvation of G-d, which He will show you today; for as you have seen Egypt this day, you shall not see them again, forever. G-d shall fight for you, and you shall be silent.”[3]

“Fear not, stand by and see the salvation of G-d,” explains the Midrash, is Moses’ response to those who had despaired of overcoming the Egyptian threat and wanted to plunge into the sea. “As you have seen Egypt this day, you shall not see them again,” is addressed to those who advocated surrender and return to Egypt. “G-d shall fight for you,” is the answer to those who wished to battle the Egyptians, and “you shall be silent” is Moses’ rejection of those who said, “This is all beyond us. All we can do is pray.”

What, then, is the Jew to do when caught between a hostile world and an unyielding sea? “Speak to the children of Israel,” said G-d to Moses, “that they shall go forward.”[4]

The Tzaddik in the Fur Coat

The road to Sinai was rife with obstacles and challenges. The same is true of the road from Sinai, our three-thousand year quest to implement the ethos and ideals of Torah in our world. Now, as then, there are several possible responses to an adverse world.

There is the “Let us throw ourselves into the sea” approach of those who despair of their ability to resist, much less impact, the big bad world out there.

Let us plunge into the sea, they say, the sea of the Talmud, the sea of piety, the sea of religious life. Let us sever all contact with an apostate and promiscuous world. Let us build walls of holiness to protect ourselves and our own from the alien winds which storm without, so that we may foster the legacy of Sinai within. An old chassidic saying refers to a such-minded individual as “a tzaddik in peltz”–“a holy man in a fur coat.” There are two ways to warm yourself on a cold winter day: you can build a fire, or wrap yourself in furs.

When the isolationist tzaddik is asked, “Why do think only of conserving your own warmth? Why don’t you build a fire that may warm others as well?,” he replies, “What’s the use? Can I warm up the entire world?” If you persist, pointing out that one small fire can thaw several frozen individuals, who may, in turn, create enough fires to warm a small corner of the universe, he doesn’t understand what you want of him. He’s a tzaddik, remember, a perfectly righteous individual. There’s no place for partial solutions in his life. “It’s hopeless,” he sighs with genuine sadness, and retreats into his spiritual Atlantis.

The Slave and the Warrior

A second “camp” says “Let us return to Egypt.”

Plunging into the sea is not an option, argues the Submissive Jew. This is the world that G-d has placed us in, and our mission is deal with it, not escape it. We’ll just have to lower our expectations a little.

This Exodus business was obviously a pipe dream. How could we presume to liberate ourselves from the rules and constraints which apply to everyone else? To be G-d’s “chosen people” is nice, but let us not forget that we are a minority, dependent on the goodwill of the Pharaohs who hold sway in the real world out there.

Certainly, it is our duty to influence the world. But then again, the Jew has many duties: it is his duty to pray three times a day, to give to charity and observe the Shabbat. So we’ll do what we have to. Yes, it’s a tough life, keeping all these laws while making sure not to antagonize your neighbors; but who ever said that being a Jew is easy?

A third response to an uncooperative world is that of the Fighting Jew. He understands that it is wrong to escape the world, and equally wrong to submit to it. So he takes it on, both barrels blazing. The Fighting Jew strides through life with a holy chip on his shoulder, battling immorality, apostates, anti-semites, “Hellenist” Jews, and non-fighting Jews. Not for him is the escapism of the first camp or the subservience of the second—he knows that his cause is just, that G-d is on his side, that ultimately he will triumph. So if the world won’t listen to reason, he’ll knock some sense into it.

The Spiritualist

Finally, there is the Jew who looks at the world, looks at the first three camps, shrugs his shoulders and lifts his eyes to the heavens. He knows that turning his back on the world is not the answer, and that neither is surrendering to its dictates and conventions. But he also knows that “The entirety of Torah was given to make peace in the world,”[5] that “Its ways are ways of pleasantness, and all its paths are peace.”[6]

“You hope to peacefully change the world?!” say the other three camps. “When was the last time you looked out the window? You might as well try to empty the oceans with a teaspoon.”

“You’re absolutely right,” says the Praying Jew. “Realistically, there’s no way it can be done. But who’s being realistic? “Do you know what the common denominator between all three of you is? Your assessments and strategies are all based on the natural reality. But we inhabit a higher reality. Is not the very existence of the Jewish people a miracle? Ours is the world of the spirit, of the word.”

“So basically your approach is to do nothing,” they counter. “Again you are employing the standards of the material world,” answers the Praying Jew, “a world that views prayer as ‘doing nothing.’ But a single prayer, coming from a caring heart, can achieve more than the most secure fortress, the most flattering diplomat or the most powerful army.”

Forward

And what does G-d say? “Speak to the children of Israel, that they shall go forward.”

True, it is important to safeguard and cultivate all that is pure and holy in the Jewish soul, to create an inviolable sanctum of G-dliness in one’s own heart and one’s community. True, there are times when we must deal with the world on its own terms. True, we must battle evil. And certainly we must acknowledge that we cannot do it all on our own. True, each of these four approaches have their time and place. But neither of them is the vision to guide our lives and define our relationship with the world about us. When the Jew is headed towards Sinai and is confronted with a hostile or indifferent world, his response must be to go forward.

Not to escape reality, not to submit to it, not to wage war on it, not to deal with only on a spiritual level, but to go forward. Do another mitzvah, ignite another soul, take one more step toward your goal. Pharaoh’s charioteers are breathing down your neck? A cold and impregnable sea bars your path? Don’t look up, look forward. See that mountain? Move toward it.

And when you do, you will see that insurmountable barrier yield and that ominous threat fade away. You will see that despite all the “evidence” to the contrary, you have it within your power to reach your goal. Even if you have to split some seas. If only you move forward.

Based on an address by the Rebbe, Shvat 10, 5722 (January 15, 1962)

Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

Tags: faith, Exodus from Egypt
Posted in Months & Holidays, Passover, Torah, Nisan | 1 Comment »

The Journey

March 3rd, 2015

Today is seven days, which are one week, to the omer

Counting of the Omer for the 8th day of Passover

There was once a people who lived in a deep valley ringed by high mountains. A perpetual mist, trapped by the mountain walls, hung over the valley, allowing only a dim light to penetrate. Generation after generation were born, lived and died in this gray world.

The old men of the valley told stories of a brighter, warmer world beyond the mountains, a world made joyous and beautiful by a thing called “the sun.” At times, a listener of these stories would be inspired to set out for this sunlit world. But the mountains were steep, the trails treacherous, the maps uncertain, and the goal but a fanciful idea. They all came back empty-handed.

One day, a mighty wind forced a breach in the cloud-cover and, for a fleeting minute, the valley was flooded with light and warmth. For the first time in their lives, the people of the valley beheld the face of the sun. Then the wind receded, the breach was closed, and once again they were in their familiar, sunless world.

“So this is the sun!” exclaimed the people of the valley. “This is sunlight! This is what it is like to live a life of light, beauty and joy! We must leave this dark, cold place. We must set out for the sun-blessed world beyond the mountains.”

So the people began climbing out of the valley. The mountains were as steep as ever, the trails as fraught with hardship and uncertainty. But whenever they faltered in their path, whenever they began to doubt the attainability of their goal, they would remember that moment of sunlight and it would drive them to press on. Inspired and prodded by that vision, they climbed out of the clouds to the world of the sun.

The Climb to Sinai

For two hundred and ten years, our ancestors lived in darkness. Enslaved by the Egyptians, the most debased society to ever dwell upon the face of the earth, the Jews inhabited a spiritual fog which shut off every vestige of manifest G-dliness.

Their elders spoke of an age-old promise, made by the G-d of their fathers, that they would one day leave this sunless world. They spoke of a mountain top upon which G-d would show Himself to them, take them to Him as His chosen people, and grant them His Torah, the revelation of His wisdom and will. They spoke of a land, basking in the light of divine providence, in which they would fulfill their destiny as “a light unto the nations.”[1]

But this was little more than a fantasy. The darkness of their world seemed impregnable. They had no idea what this place in the sun was like, much less how to get there.

Then, at the stroke of midnight on Nissan 15, 2448 (1313 bce), a breach opened up in the clouds of their exile and they beheld the face of their Creator. On that night, “the Holy One, Blessed be He, revealed His very self to them and redeemed them.”[2]

G-d, of course, could have simply lifted them out of Egypt and brought them to Mount Sinai that very night. But He wanted it to be their journey, their achievement. So after that momentary vision, the face of G-d receded.

Then began the arduous climb to Sinai. The Jews were out of Egypt, but Egypt was still deeply imbedded within them. For seven weeks they struggled to refine the seven traits of their souls, to cleanse it of the profanity of Egypt and make themselves worthy candidates for the divine choice.

This was something that they had to achieve on their own, in the darkness of their deficiencies and the coldness of their alienation. But it was that initial vision of the divine light that inspired, encouraged and drove them in their journey.

Each year, on the first night of Passover, we commemorate the events of the night of the Exodus. Through the seder observances, we reexperience the liberating vision that impels our annual emergence from our personal “Egypt” and drives our internal liberation “from slavery to freedom, from darkness to a great light.”[3]

But the revelation of the Exodus is but a brief, momentary flash. On the following day we begin our 49-day trek to Sinai, reenacted every year with the “Counting of the Omer.”[4] Beginning with the second night of Passover, we count the days traversed from the Exodus, chronicling the milestones and stations of our journey of self-refinement.

The 50th day is the festival of Shavuot, when we once again stand at Sinai to receive G-d’s Torah and be chosen as His very own “kingdom of priests and holy nation.”[5]

Days and Weeks

In commanding us to count the days from Passover to Shavuot, the Torah instructs:

You shall count for yourselves from the morrow of the Shabbat, from the day on which you bring the omer offering, seven complete weeks they shall be; until the morrow of the seventh week, you shall count fifty days… And you shall proclaim that very day a holy festival…[6]

In other words, not only the days, but also the weeks are to be counted. Thus, on the seventh day of the count we say, “Today is seven days, which are one week, to the omer”; on the 25th day we say, “Today is twenty-five days, which are two weeks and three days, to the omer”; and so on to the last night of the count, when we say, “Today is forty-nine days, which are seven weeks, to the omer.” Indeed, the very name of the festival that culminates the count, Shavuot, means “weeks,” emphasizing that it is the product of the seven- etc.) making a total of week count from the second day of Passover.[7]

Kabbalistic teaching explains that there are seven basic impulses in the heart of man: chessed (love, benevolence); gevurah (restraint, awe, fear); tiferet (compassion, harmony); netzach (ambition, competitiveness); hod (humility, devotion); yesod (communicativity, connectedness) and malchut (regality, receptiveness). Each of these traits includes nuances of all seven (e.g., chessed of chessed, gevurah of chessed, tiferet of chessed, forty-nine aspects to the human character.

Thus, the basic journey is one of seven weeks, each devoted to perfecting another of our seven primary attributes. The days are details and aspects of the weeks, a count within a count, a journey within a journey.

The Contradiction

The Torah’s emphasis on the weeks of the omer count gives rise to a seeming contradiction in its instructions as to how the count is to be conducted. The Talmud devotes a lengthy discussion to resolving this inconsistency and arriving at a decisive interpretation of the Torah’s words.

For the Torah not only instructs us to count seven weeks from the second day of Passover—it says that these should be “seven complete weeks.” This seems to imply that the count should include seven full calendar weeks, each running from Sunday to Shabbat. This would mean that the festival of Shavuot will always fall on a Sunday—the day after the seventh “complete” week has been concluded.[8]

The Talmud, however, rejects this hypothesis. For the Torah explicitly instructs, “You shall count fifty days.” Obviously, then, the “complete weeks” of the omer count are not the Sunday-to-Shabbat weeks that populate our calendar, but “man-made” weeks—seven-day units created by our count. Otherwise, the count would, in most years, total more than fifty days. (For example, if the 1st of Passover occurs on a Tuesday, and we were to insist on seven “complete” Sunday-to-Shabbat weeks, Shavuot will occur on the 54th day of the count.)

But there are certain years, concludes the Talmud, in which the configuration of the calendar is such that there is no inconsistency, and all Torah’s words are implemented in their most literal sense. When the first day of Passover falls on a Shabbat (as it does this year), the seven weeks of the omer are “complete” in every sense: they are fully personal weeks, each containing seven days of our individual count; and they are complete calendar weeks, corresponding to the seven-day cycle which G-d instituted at the very beginning of creation, and which continues to define our experience of time.[9]

The Man-Made Week

But why are the Torah’s instructions expressed so ambiguously, fraught with inconsistency and open to misinterpretation? And why is the counting of the omer so structured that in certain years the count is more “complete” than in others?

As explained above, the entire point of the omer count is that our journey to Sinai be a personal one, the product of our own efforts. Of course, no human achievement can equal the perfection of the divine. But that which is granted us from Above, however perfect and infinite, is never as deeply appreciated or as intensely identified with as that which we attain with our own finite capabilities. In the words of the Talmud, “A person would rather have a kav of his own [grain] than nine kavim of his fellow’s.”[10]

The only truly “complete weeks” are G-d’s weeks—the weeks that are the product of His original work of creation. Man-made weeks are forever bound by the limitations and deficiencies of their mortal creator. Yet it is man-made weeks that connect Passover and the Exodus with Shavuot and Sinai. “You shall count for yourselves,” instructs the Torah. This is your climb, your journey.

Hence the contradiction—an inconsistency built in to the very nature of the omer count. On the one hand we are striving towards Sinai, toward our election as G-d’s chosen people. The goal is perfection: the refinement of all seven dimensions of the heart and all their 49 subdimensions. On the other hand, it is we who are conducting the count; we who are struggling up the steep slopes of our valley, we who compose and define the weeks of the omer.

The inherent paradox in these two objectives is reflected in the contrary implications in the Torah’s instructions. On the one hand, the Torah insists on seven “complete”—apparently G-d-made—weeks; on the other hand, it emphasizes that these are to be personal weeks, the product of our count rather than of divine creation.

In truth, however, the omer count is a place where the finite and the infinite converge, where divine revelation and human effort combine to move a people toward their encounter with G-d. For though the actual count begins “on the morrow of the Shabbat”—on the day after the first of Passover—it is driven by the revelation of the Exodus. Though the actual count is conducted in the valley of human subjectivity, it is that original, momentary flash of light that penetrates the darkness of our valley, impels us on our journey, and empowers us to forge upwards and attain the summit.

When Passover Falls on Shabbat

So there are two elements in our every journey: that which we receive and that which we achieve. As we traverse the quests and climbs of life, at times one, at times the other, of these elements dominates while the other recedes to the background.

At times, the divine influence in our lives dominates. We sense a higher power carrying us along, granting us the understanding and vision with which to meet life’s challenges and the courage and fortitude to surmount them. At such times, we appreciate that we are part of something greater than ourselves; that our achievements are the outgrowth of a perfection that transcends the human, reflecting the divine source of all our gifts.

At other times, our selfhood and individuality dominate. The divine influence recedes, heightening our sense of our own strengths and weaknesses, of our responsibility for our failures and successes. We experience difficulty and disappointment, alienation and despair; but also fulfillment, pride, and true identification with our achievements.

Finally, there are those moments, rare and exquisite, when the received and the achieved coalesce in our journey: when our vision of the sun is fully integrated into our struggle up the mountainside. Times when we sense the enormity of what has been revealed and granted to us and, at the same time, fully identify with them. Times when we are not only aware of what is divine and infinite in our lives, but when our experience of them is an intensely personal experience, for we have incorporated them into our self and personality.

The seven weeks of the omer count are always “complete weeks”—complete in that they represent the optimum of our personal efforts at self-perfection, and complete in that they are driven by a vision that has the perfection of the divine. Usually, however, these two aspects of “completeness” are in conflict with each other: an overt emphasis on the divinely granted vision will detract from our sense of fulfillment and identification with our achievements. So the divine input into our lives retreats to the realm of “memory,” “intuition” and “spiritual experience” to allow for our construction of wholly man-made weeks to bridge Passover and Shavuot.

But there are certain years in which these man-made weeks coincide with the divinely-ordained weeks of the calendar. When the first day of Passover falls on Shabbat, each of “our” weeks is also a Sunday-to-Shabbat week, alluding to a special window of opportunity. In these years we are particularly empowered to integrate our divine endowments with our personal achievements.

In these years, our journey from Exodus to Sinai is comprised of “seven complete weeks” in every sense: weeks that combine the perfection of the divinely granted with the intensity of the personally achieved.

Based on the Rebbe’s talks, Passover 5751 (1991)[11]

Adapted from the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

Tags: psycho-spiritual journey, Counting the Omer, kabbalah, sefirot
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The Great Shabbat

March 3rd, 2015

The Shabbat before Passover is called “The Great Shabbat” (Shabbat HaGadol), because a great miracle occurred on that day…

Why was [the commemoration of the miracle] not instituted on the tenth of Nissan, regardless of whether it fall on Shabbat or on a weekday, as all other commemorative dates were instituted?

Shulchan Aruch HaRav, Orach Chaim 430:1

A cursory look at our calendar indicates that we measure time in an awkward and inconvenient manner.

To distinguish a certain day, we refer to two different time-cycles: the seven-day weekly cycle, and the 29.5 day lunar cycle, which gives us an alternating 29 and 30-day month. These two time-systems are asynchronous: a day’s place in the month has no bearing on its place in the week.[1] So if the 10th of Nissan falls on Shabbat one year (as it did in the year of the Exodus), it may fall on a Monday the next year; and if the Shabbat before Passover is Nissan 10 one year, it may be Nissan 14 the next. Would it not have been much simpler to employ a single cycle in which a fixed number of “weeks” make up the “month,” so that any given day may be placed in a single, unvarying context?

But life itself is not a singlar state of being, or even a series of compatible states. Life is a multifaceted phenomenon, with certain facets diverging from, or even clashing with, the others. The absence of synchrony between the week and the month is due to the fact that these two time-cycles reflect two very different areas of our lives.

The Miraculous Month

The seven-day week is nature’s built-in time-cycle. G-d created the universe in seven days—six days of creative involvement followed by a seventh of rest and withdrawal. As a result, a seven-day cycle of work and rest has been ingrained in creation as nature’s inner clock. This is the significance of the mitzvah of Shabbat: that man attune his life to G-d’s creation, alternating a six-day exercise of his own creative powers with a day of withdrawal from material creativity.

But G-d wanted more—more than our development of His world in harmony with its built-in cycle of creation, more than our realization of our in-born potentials. He wanted us to be miracle-workers: to be forever reinventing and recreating ourselves, forever challenging the status quo imposed by nature and habit, forever transcending the strictures of normalacy and convention. To this end, G-d introduced lunar time into our lives, instructing us, in the first mitzvah commanded us as a people, to establish a calendar based on the phases of the moon.

In contrast with the regular, monotonous week, the lunar month is forever changing and regenerating itself. As the moon wanes and waxes in the nighttime sky, the lunar month follows suit, growing with the expanding moon in the first half of the month, reaching its climax with the “full moon” on the 15th, dwindling to nothingness with the shrinking moon of the second half of the month, and being reborn on the night of the “new moon.” Indeed, the Hebrew word for “month,” chodesh, means “renewal.” For while the week represents the natural potential of man, the lunar month stands for what is innovative, original and miraculous in our achievements.[2]

This explains why all the festivals on the Jewish calendar are set in accordance with the day of the month, rather than the day of the week.[3] The festivals represent a transcendence of the natural order—the Exodus on Passover, the miracles of Chanukah and Purim, and so on. These days are landmarks of the miraculous in the terrain of time, signposts indicating stores of norm-surpassing potential. Every year, as we arrive at these junctures in our journey through time, we are afforded the opportunity to tap these reservoirs of the supernatural and translate them into personal miracles.

The Mutiny of the Firstborn

There is, however, one exception to this rule, one case in which the date of a miraculous event in our history is identified for posterity by its place in the weekly cycle. This exception is Shabbat HaGadol, the “Great Shabbat,” which commemorates a “great miracle”[4] that transpired shortly before our Exodus from Egypt.

The miracle occurred on the 10th of Nissan, 2448 (1313 bce), five days before the Exodus. The Jewish people exited the land of Egypt on Thursday,[5] Nissan 15, meaning that, in that year, Nissan 10 was a Shabbat. But instead of commemorating the miracle on the lunar date of its original occurrence, as is done with all other festivals and commemorative dates of the Jewish calendar, the event is remembered each year on the Shabbat before Passover.

Various reasons are given for this departure from the standard practice.[6] But the name given to this day—“The Great Shabbat”—suggests a deeper reason as well, a reason connected with the very significance of Shabbat and the weekly cycle.

What happened on that “Great Shabbat” five days before the Exodus?

On the eve of their departure from Egypt, the Jewish people were commanded to bring a “passover offering” (korban pesach) to G-d. “On the tenth of this month,” G-d instructed Moses, “every man shall take a lamb for his family, one lamb for each household… It should be held in safekeeping until the fourteenth of this month; the entire community of Israel shall then slaughter their sacrifices in the afternoon. They shall take the blood and place it on the two doorposts and on the lintel… They shall eat the meat that night, roasted over fire, with matzos and bitter herbs…

“I will pass through Egypt on that night, and I will kill every firstborn in Egypt, man and beast… The blood will be a sign for you on the houses where you are staying; I will see the blood and pass over you—there will not be any deadly plague among you when I strike the land of Egypt.”[7]

The Talmud relates what happened when 600,000 Jews began rounding up their lambs on the 10th of Nissan. The lamb was worshipped as a deity in ancient Egypt, so this caused quite a commotion. The firstborn of Egypt, who held the key social and religious positions in Egyptian society, asked the Jews why they were doing this, and were told: We are preparing an offering to G-d. In four days hence, at the stroke of midnight, G-d will pass through Egypt in order to execute the tenth and final plague: all firstborn will die, and the Jewish nation will be freed.

The firstborn of Egypt, who had already witnessed the first nine plagues occur exactly as Moses had warned, were understandably alarmed. They approached Pharaoh and his generals and demanded that the Jews be freed immediately. When Pharaoh refused, the firstborn took up arms against Pharaoh’s troops, killing many of them. This event is alluded to by the Psalmist, who sings: “[Offer thanks to G-d,] who[8] smote the Egyptians with their first born.”[9]

Where’s the Miracle?

What was so “great” about this miracle? Indeed, what was the miracle? That the firstborn took up the cause of the Israelites was a natural and understandable development: after all, all of Egypt had nine times witnessed the fulfillment, with deadly accuracy, of the previously forecasted plagues (what is amazing is the extent of Pharaoh’s self-destructive stubbornness, possible only because G-d had “hardened his heart”[10]). Furthermore, the firstborns’ mutiny was not successful. Though they inflicted heavy casualties on Pharaoh’s forces, they failed in their attempt to force the freedom of the Jewish people. Our conditions in Egypt were unchanged by the events of “The Great Shabbat”!

This explains why this event belongs to the “weekly” or natural of our life’s time-cycles, rather than to its “monthly” or miraculous orbit. The “great miracle” was in fact a perfectly natural occurrence, both in the predictability of its development and that it in no way changed the essential nature of the prevailing circumstances.

Yet we mark the event as a miracle, indeed as a uniquely “great miracle.” For true greatness lies not in overturning the circumstances of one’s existence, but in working within these circumstances to “miraculize” them.

In the miraculous trajectory of our lives, we transcend the natural, the conventional and the normal. But a greater feat, a more miraculous miracle, is to elevate them and perfect them; to create, wthin their confines and parameters, a higher and more transcendent reality.

This is what we achieved in Egypt on the “Great Shabbat.” We were slaves to the Egyptians; yet we refused to be intimidated by a society that deified the material and proclaimed a lamb a god, and we proceeded to slaughter the idol of our masters. Without hesitation we explained our actions to the leading citizens of the superpower that ruled us.

On that “Great Shabbat,” a transformation took place. Not a transformation that overturned the natural parameters of our reality, but a transformation in which that very reality was converted to our cause. By acting courageously in our fulfillment of the divine will, we caused the most prestigious segment of Egyptian society to press for our redemption.

Whether or not their effort was successful is far less relevant than the fact that the natural and normal became instruments of the miraculous. Indeed, the fact that it was not successful places the greater emphasis on the true significance of what happened on that “Great Shabbat”—the Shabbat that most powerfully exemplifies the “natural time” dimension of our lives.

From an address by the Rebbe, Shabbat Hagodol 5743 (March 26, 1983)[11]

Tags: Shabbat, transformation, miracles
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The Frog in the Oven

March 3rd, 2015

The river will swarm with frogs. They will come up and enter your home, your bedroom, and your bed… your ovens and your kneading bowls

Exodus 7:28

The Talmud[1] relates that when Chananiah, Mishael and Azariah (three Jewish officers in the court of Babylonian emperor, Nebuchadnezzar) faced the choice to either bow before an idolatrous image or be thrown into a fiery furnace, they took their lesson from the frogs which plagued Egypt in Moses’ time. If the frogs entered the ovens of Egypt to carry out the will of G-d, they reasoned, we, certainly, should be willing to sacrifice ourselves for our Creator.

To the Jew, “self-sacrifice” is more than the willingness to die for his beliefs—it is the way in which he lives for them. It is the willingness to give up his very self—his most basic wants, desires and aspirations—for the sake of his relationship with G-d. Indeed, the Hebrew term for self-sacrifice, mesirat nefesh, means both “the giving of life” as well as “the giving of will.”

Thus, the lesson of self-sacrifice is derived from a frog—a cold-blooded creature—who enters a burning oven. The ultimate test of faith goes beyond the issue of physical life and death; it is the willingness to go against the grain of one’s nature for the sake of a higher truth.

Based on an address by the Rebbe, Shabbat Va’eira 5718 (1958)[2]
______________________

Tags: self-sacrifice, higher reality, 10 plagues
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The Freedom To Passover

March 3rd, 2015

On the night of the fifteenth of Nissan, it is a positive commandment (mitzvat assei) to relate the miracles and wonders that were performed for our forefathers in Egypt, as it is written, “Remember this day, on which you went out of Egypt”—just as it is written, “Remember the day of Shabbat.”

Mishneh Torah, Laws of Leaven and Matzo, 7:1

What is freedom? When pressed to define this most basic human need and aspiration, we usually find ourselves explaining what freedom is not. Freedom is not slavery, it is not confinement, it is not inhibition. But is that all there is to freedom—the absence of subjugation? Or is there a positive/dynamic aspect to the state of freedom?

The same could be asked about another much desired and little understood state: rest. Rest is not movement, not toil, not creating; but what is it? Is it merely the negation of activity, or is rest itself an active pursuit?

The Torah implies that it is. In the second chapter of Genesis we read that “G-d concluded, on the seventh day, the work that He had done; and He rested on the seventh day from all the work that He had done.”[1] But if G-d rested on the seventh day, why does the verse say that He concluded His work on the seventh day? Our sages explain: on the seventh day G-d created the final and culminating element of His creation—the element of rest. “What was the world lacking? Rest. With the onset of Shabbat came rest.”[2] Rest is a existent phenomenon, a creation, not merely the absence of work.

“Work” is the movement from self outward, the projection of one’s creative powers to effect changes on one’s environment; “rest” is the endeavor to focus inward, to withdraw to the quintessential core of one’s being. For six days G-d projected outward, creating a universe that is “outside” and distinct of Himself. On the seventh day of creation He rested—He shifted His focus inward, drawing creation back into His omnipresent being.[3] Thus Shabbat is a “holy” day, a day of heightened spiritual sensitivity;[4] a day on which the created reality more deeply identifies with its supernal source.

The same applies, on the human level, to our weekly implementation of the divine cycle of creation in our own lives. Six days a week we project outward, developing and perfecting G-d’s world. On Shabbat, we actualize our “partnership with G-d in creation”[5] by resting: by delving into the inner essence of our own souls and of the soul of creation.

So Shabbat is not a day of inactivity, but a day devoted to the activity of rest. A day in which we endeavor to seek our own spiritual center, to better attune ourselves to the self that is one with the divine essence of all. True, the laws of Shabbat are replete with forbidden activities—in order to rest, one must cease to outwardly project; but the prohibition against work is only one aspect of the phenomenon of rest. In the Torah, there are two versions of the Sixth Commandment: in Exodus 20 it reads, “Remember the day of Shabbat, to sanctify it,” while in the fifth chapter of Deuteronomy it reads, “Keep the day of Shabbat.” The Talmud explains that, “ ‘Remember and ‘Keep’ were expressed by G-d in a single utterance.”[6] The dynamic inward focus of Shabbat (“Remember”), and the avoidance of materially creative deeds (“Keep”), are the active and passive dimensions of a single endeavor: the endeavor of rest.

Thus Maimonides begins his codification of the laws of Shabbat with the statement: “Resting from work on the seventh day is a positive commandment, as it is written, ‘On[7] the seventh day you shall rest.’ Whoever works on this day, negates [this] positive commandment, and also transgresses a negative commandment—‘Do[8] not do any work’”[9] Maimonides is emphasizing that although the bulk of Shabbat’s laws (twenty-eight out of the thirty chapters in Maimonides’ own section on Shabbat) address what is not to done on the seventh day, the imperative to rest on Shabbat is firstly and foremostly a positive commandment. “The positive commandment of Shabbat is to rest, not merely to cease working.”[10]

A Dynamic Equation

This explains the enigmatic passage in Maimonides’ Mishneh Torah, quoted at the beginning of this essay, in which he compares the commandment to “Remember this day, on which you went out of Egypt” to the imperative to “Remember the day of Shabbat.”[11] Many of the Mishneh Torah’s commentaries have puzzled over the significance of this comparison and have offered various halachic explanations for it.[12]

Legal constructs aside, Maimonides is alluding to a conceptual correlation between the defining characteristic of Shabbat and that of Passover.[13] On Passover, as on Shabbat, we are empowered to experience a state that, on the surface, seems to have no intrinsic content of its own, being only the negation of something else. But just as Shabbat rest is more than the absence of toil, so, too, the freedom of Passover is a dynamic freedom, not merely the absence of bondage.

Freedom is commonly perceived as the removal of all external constraints on a person’s development and self-expression. Freedom is the natural state of man, this line of reasoning implies; free him of all outside forces that limit and inhibit him, and you have a free human being.

Passover embodies a far more ambitious freedom. The exodus from Egypt, which marked the end of Israel’s subjugation to their Egyptian enslavers, was but the first step of a seven-week journey, a forty-nine step climb in the conquest and transcendence of self that culminated in our receiving the Torah at Mount Sinai on the festival of Shavuot.[14] Nor does Shavuot represent the final realization of freedom: at Sinai, we were granted the potential and challenge to attain yet a deeper dimension of liberty and self-transcendence.

Thus Shavuot is the only festival that has no calendar date—the Torah designates it not as a certain day of a certain month (as it does all other festivals) but as the day that follows a seven-week count from the festival of Passover. This is to emphasize that Shavuot is an outgrowth of Passover—that the significance of the Exodus came to light only on the day we stood at Sinai. As G-d tells Moses at the onset of his mission to liberate the Jewish people, “This is your sign that I have sent you: when you take this nation out of Egypt, you shall serve G-d at this mountain.”[15] Standing before Pharaoh, Moses did not merely demand, in the name of G-d, that he “Let My people go,” but “Let My people go, that they may serve Me.”[16]

What is the significance of this liberating “service”? It means that man, no matter how free of external constraints, is a finite creature, ever subject to the limits of his own nature and character. That to attain true freedom he must therefore transcend his humanity–his emotional, intellectual, even spiritual self–and access the “spark of G-dliness” that is his infinite, supra-human self. The Torah, G-d’s blueprint for life on earth, outlines the observances and practices that enable us realize our divine essence in our daily lives.

The day we left the borders of Egypt we were “free” in the conventional sense—no longer could an alien taskmaster dictate what we must or may not do. We then proceeded to also free ourselves of the alien influences that constrained us from within: the pagan habits and mind-set that centuries of subjection to the depraved culture of Egypt had imposed on us, and our own inborn negative inclinations.[17] Then, at Sinai, we were empowered to strive for yet a deeper dimension of freedom—a freedom that is not the negation of adversarial forces and influences, but the surmounting of our own, positive psychic and behavioral patterns. There is nothing negative about our human potential; but we are capable of more, of raising our achievements to a level in relation to which yesterday’s “liberated” self is limited and subjective.[18]

Thus our sages have said: “In every generation a person must see himself as if he has himself come out from Mitzrayim (Egypt).”[19]

The Hebrew word for “Egypt,” mitzrayim, means “boundaries,” and the endeavor to free ourselves from  yesterday’s boundaries is a perpetual one. For freedom is more than the drive to escape foreign and negative inhibitors: no matter how free of them we are, we remain defined by the boundaries of self and self-definition. Freedom is the incessant drive to “pass over” these boundaries, to draw on our divine, infinite potential to constantly overreach what we are.

Based on the Rebbe’s talks on Passover of 5740 (1980)[20] and on other occasions

Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

Tags: Exodus from Egypt, transcendence, freedom
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