The Runaway Soul

January 8th, 2015

The Torah sections of Tazria (Leviticus 12-13) and Metzora (14-15) discuss the laws of tzaraat, a spiritual illness whose identifying mark was a white patch or patches appearing on the skin of a person, on the walls of a home, or on a cloth or leather garment.

Not every white patch indicates tzaraat; there are several secondary symptoms that determine whether the person (or house or garment) should be declared tamei (“impure”). In the human body, one of the signs oftzaraat is if the white patch subsequently caused (at least) two hairs in its area to turn white.

Regarding this law, there is a remarkable passage in the Talmud that recounts a “debate” taking place in the “academy of heaven”:

It was debated in the academy of heaven: If the white patch precedes the white hair, it is impure; if the white hair precedes the white patch, it is pure; but what if there is doubt (as to which came first)?

The Holy One, Blessed be He, said: “It is pure.”

The entire academy of heaven said: “It is impure.”

Said they: “Who shall decide it for us? Rabbah bar Nachmeini.” For Rabbah bar Nachmeini had declared: “I am singular in the laws of tzaraat…” They dispatched a messenger [to bring him to heaven]… Said [Rabbah]: “Tahor, tahor (‘Pure, pure’).”[1]

Flight From Self

To understand the meaning of this debate between “the Holy One” and the “academy of heaven,” and why a mortal human being was called upon to decide between them, we must first understand the nature of the tzaraatdisease in general, and the significance of the “white patch” and the “white hair” in particular.

Chassidic teaching explains that the human soul is driven by two contrary forces: the drive to “run” or escape (ratzo), and the drive to settle (shov). Every time we are overcome by excitement, love, ambition or yearning, we are “running,” escaping the self to reach for something greater, more beautiful and perfect than it. Whenever we experience awe, humility, devotion and commitment, we are “settling”—affirming our connection to our existence, our place in the world and our mission in life. Ratzo drives us to climb a mountain, shov to build a home; ratzo to pray, shov to do a mitzvah.

In the spiritually healthy soul, the will vacillates between ratzo and shovlike the rise and fall of a well-balanced pendulum, like the contraction and expansion of a smoothly beating heart. The constraints of our place in the world, the finiteness of our nature and body, the boundaries of our very being—these impel us to escape them, to strive for the unbounded and the infinite. But our very escape brings us to a place from which we better appreciate the beauty and necessity of our existence. Thus the ratzo peaks and provokes a counteraction of shov, of return to oneself and one’s place in the world

Tzaraat is the condition in which this crucial balance in disrupted, in which the pendulum of the soul ascends in its ratzo arc but fails to swing back inshov. The will escapes the self but fails to return, leaving behind a vacuum in which all sorts of undesirable elements can now take root like weeds in an abandoned garden.

This is the significance of the “white patches” and the “white hairs” that are the symptoms of tzaraat. A patch of white skin indicates that life and vitality have departed from (this part of) the body. Still, a white patch alone does not mean that the will’s failure to “settle” has resulted in any negative developments in the character and behavior of the person. But when we see white hairs sprouting in the white patch—when we see dead things feeding on this dead place—we have a full-blown case of tzaraat.

On the other hand, the existence of white hairs, in and of themselves, do not indicate tzaraat. These might represent the ordinary garbage that we lug through life, the run-of-the mill negative traits and experiences which actually have the positive function of challenging us and provoking our finest talents and most potent energies. It is only when the white hairs are caused by the white patch that something serious is afoot. Such a condition indicates that the person has “run away” with his escapist impulses so high and so far that he has completely abandoned his commitments to life and productivity, leaving behind a hollow and lifeless self that is a breeding ground for what is worst in human nature.

Hence the law that a white hair is a symptom of tzaraat only when “the white patch precedes the white hair,” indicating that this dead growth is the result of a certain area of the person’s life having been drained of its vitality.

Two Visions of Man

What is the root cause of tzaraat? Ratzo is the escape from self, while shovis the return to self. It would therefore seem that tzaraat—ratzo without shov—derives from excessive selflessness. In truth, however, the very opposite is the case. Ratzo is what the soul desires to do, while shov is what the soul is committed to do. Escapist behavior is the ultimate self-assertion, while “settling down” is the ultimate submission. Tzaraat, then, derives from a lack of humility, from the failure to yield one’s own will to the will of one’s Creator.

This explains the aforementioned debate between “The Holy One” and the “academy of heaven.” The Kabbalists speak of two types of divine energy that nourish our existence: a divine light that “fills the worlds,” entering within them to relate to the individual character of every creature; and a divine light that “encompasses the worlds”—a transcendent energy to which we can relate only as something “mystical” or “spiritual”—something that is “outside” of ourselves.

Of course, the divine essence is neither “filling” nor “encompassing.” Ultimately, G-d’s relationship with our existence cannot be defined as internal or external—it is neither and both, for the divine reality is beyond such distinctions and characterizations. But G-d desired to relate to us in a manner that is consistent with our reality. In our experience, there are things that are “internal”—things that we can understand and empathize with—and things that are “encompassing,” meaning that they are beyond the parameters of our understanding. So He, too, relates to us via these two channels, making Himself available to us via rational and apprehensible media (e.g., the laws of nature), as well as through “mystical” and “spiritual” vectors.

There are numerous differences between these two modes of divine energy and their effects upon us, discussed at length in the works of Kabbalah and Chassidism. One basic difference is that the divine light that “fills the world” give credence to our sense of reality and selfhood, while from the perspective of the “encompassing” light, which transcends the parameters of our existence, our “reality” has no true validity and our sense of self is little more than an illusion.

The “academy of heaven” is an allusion to the “filling light,” while “The Holy One” (kedushah, “holiness,” meaning transcendence) connotes the “encompassing light” of G-d. So regarding the case in which there is doubt as to whether the white hair came before or after the white patch, the “academy of heaven” is inclined to declare this a case of tzaraat. For this is the divine perspective on man that recognizes man’s selfishness. If tzaraatis a possibility, we must suspect that it has indeed occurred.

“The Holy One,” however, sees man as an essentially selfless being. From the standpoint of the “encompassing light,” tzaraat is an anomaly. If there is clear and conclusive evidence that a person has indulged his escapist desires to such an extreme, the laws of tzaraat apply. But where there is doubt, this divine perspective is inclined to declare him “pure.”

The Verdict

Who might decide between these two divine visions? Only one who is in touch with the overriding vision, with the singular truth that transcends both the “filling” and the “encompassing” modes of divine relationship with reality.

Rabbah bar Nachmeini was “singular in the laws of tzaraat.” He was a human being, but a human being who had so thoroughly devoted himself to G-d’s Torah that he had uncovered its singular core—uncovered the divine vision of reality as it relates to the very essence of G-d rather than to the “filling” or “encompassing” elements of His light.

When Rabbah bar Nachmeini pondered the laws of human selfishness and selflessness, he saw man as G-d Himself sees him: as a creation utterly devoted to the will of its Creator. A creation who, even if touched by the possibility of the malady of shov-deficiency, is invariably declared: “Pure! Pure!”

Based on an address by the Rebbe, Shabbat Tazria 5725 (April 3, 1965) and Shabbat Metzora 5730 (April 18, 1970)[2].

Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber.

Tags: kabbalah, ratzo shov
Posted in Weekly Parsha, Soul & Mystical, Vayikra, Tazria, Metzora, Spiritual, Torah | No Comments »

A Visitor From Tohu

January 8th, 2015

“Love your fellow as yourself.” Said Rabbi Akiva: This is a cardinal principle in the Torah.

Sifra on Leviticus 19:18

A gentile once came before Shammai and said: “Convert me to Judaism, on the stipulation that you teach me the entire Torah as I stand on one leg.” Shammai drove him off with the builder’s measuring stick in his hand.[1]He then came before Hillel, who converted him. Said Hillel to him: “What is hateful to you, do not do to your fellow. This is the entire Torah. The rest is commentary—go and learn.”

Talmud, Shabbat 31a

The Human Universe

Before the world we know was created, before time and the very concept “before” were created,[2] G-d created another world—a world which collapsed under its own weight. A world of such single-minded intensity that its own parameters could not contain it. The Kabbalists call this world the world of Tohu (“chaos”).

The Tohu reality was comprised of the same elements that make up our present reality—only their configuration was different. Our sages[3] speak of ten “divine attributes” (sefirot) that G-d emanated from Himself to serve as the ten basic spiritual building blocks of creation, from which every object, force and phenomenon in existence is derived. The universe can thus be compared to a human being, whose basic intellectual faculties and character traits are the essence of countless millions of ideas, feelings, motives and deeds. Indeed, the Talmud makes this comparison, stating that “as the soul fills the body, so G-d fills the world.”[4] Man, elaborate the kabbalists, who was “created in the image of G-d,”[5] also possesses ten basic attributes (conception, comprehension, perception, attraction, rejection, synthesis, competitivity, devotion, comunicativity and receptiveness[6]), from which all elements of his “miniature universe” are derived. These mirror the ten supernal sefirot—the “character” that G-d projected from Himself to form, sustain and relate to His creation.[7]

Tohu, too, was a world comprised of the ten supernal sefirot. However, there they existed as ten distinct elements, devoid of all relationship with or even tolerance for each other. In the terminology of kabbalah, they existed “one below the other” in a single column, each on a plane of its own, without any common ground or interaction between them. If we were to draw a diagram of Tohu’s “character,” it would look like this:

conception
comprehension
perception
attraction
rejection
synthesis
competitivity
devotion
comunicativity
receptiveness

Imagine a person in whom the attribute of “attraction”–his capacity for attachment, love, desire, giving, etc.–excludes any involvement of his “rejective” faculty—his capacity for restraint, apprehension, reverence, etc. Or one whose competitive faculty does not possess any of the consistency and staying power of his faculty of “devotion.” Or whose mind conceives of ideas it cannot retain since his faculty of “conception” is utterly devoid of the grasping power of “comprehension.” As these examples demonstrate, the integration of our various faculties is not only necessary for a well-balanced personality, but is also crucial to the function of each individual faculty. Unless each faculty “borrows” of the characteristics of its fellows, its own excesses and one-dimensionality will destroy it.

That is what happened to the collapsed world of Tohu. The lack of interaction between the sefirot meant that, ultimately, they each proved too intense not only for each other but even for their own “vessels”—their own defining parameters. Tohu’s “vessels” shattered from the untempered potency of the forces they were meant to form and embody. Then, on the debris of Tohu, G-d created our reality, the world of Tikkun (correction).

In Tikkun the sefirot form a partzuf, a “face” or configuration:

Conception                  Comprehension

Perception

Attraction                        Rejection

Synthesis

Competitivity                      Devotion

Comunicativity

Receptiveness

Here, the various forces to comprise a world relate and interact with each other. Each force thus includes in itself elements of all others, allowing it to mitigate and constructively focus its powers. Love is tinged with restraint, so that a father can hug his child without crushing him to death. Desire is touched with enough inhibition, justice with enough compassion, drive with enough commitment, not to self-destruct.

Scattered Sparks

But something is undoubtedly lost in the process. The integrated world of Tikkun has the capacity for stability and constructive development its chaotic predecessor could not sustain, but it lacks Tohu’s passion and intensity. This is why G-d began His creation with the “false start” of Tohu: He desired to plant “sparks” of an infinite, uninhibited essence in the foundations of the “correct” world of Tikkun. Our mission in life is to unearth these potent potentials and unleash them within the Tikkun framework, combining the best of both worlds—the power of Tohu with the focus of Tikkun.

Therein lies the deeper significance of the talmudic statement: “The people of Israel were exiled among the nations only in order that they gain converts.”[8] A “convert” is a reclaimed remnant of the world of Tohu, a fallen spark of great potential that is unearthed and “corrected.” Our dispersion to the ends of earth has brought us in contact with souls that stem from this volatile period of spiritual prehistory and have been scattered by Tohu’s collapse among the many peoples of the world; the conversion of these souls to the covenant of the Torah–G-d’s blueprint for a life of Tikkun–results in the constructive realization of their tremendous power and intensity.

The Talmud, however, is not only speaking of human converts. Sparks of Tohu are buried in all creatures and elements of our world, and our contact with these elements (also facilitated by our dispersion to all corners of the globe) affords us the opportunity of “converting” these sparks. Every time we involve a part of the material reality–a physical object, a scientific discovery, a cultural phenomenon, etc.–in our implementation of the divine commandments (mitzvot) of the Torah, we achieve the correction and integration of the Tohu spark it contains.

A Doctrine of Relationship

A soul from the columnar world of Tohu, attracted by the promise of realization that Torah holds, came to the great sage, Shammai. “Teach me the Torah,” he requested. “But I want it on one leg.”

Shammai was incredulous. “On one leg?! This, my friend, is the three-tiered world of Tikkun. Here, we do things measuredly and constructively. Go back to where you came from.”

The soul then sought out Hillel, who patiently explained: “You are searching for focus, because you sense yourself filled with intense potentials that threaten to self-destruct at your unilateral attempts to realize them. So you must learn to love your fellow as yourself: to recognize that there is something of him in you and something of you in him. This is what Torah and Tikkun are all about: relationship and integration. The rest is commentary…”[9]

Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber.

Posted in Weekly Parsha, Soul & Mystical, Vayikra, Acharei, Spiritual, Torah | 2 Comments »

A Pool of Fire: The Kohen Gadol

January 7th, 2015

And G-d said to Moses: … [a kohen] shall not contaminate himself [through contact with] the dead of his people. Except for his closest kin–his mother, father, son, daughter or brother. Or for his virgin sister… who has not married a man—for her, he should contaminate himself…

But the Kohen Gadol, the greater of his brethren… may not come in contact with any dead; [even] for his father or mother, he may not contaminate himself.

Leviticus 21:1-11

A heretic once asked Rabbi Avahu: “Your G-d is a kohen; so in what did He immerse Himself after He buried Moses?” Replied Rabbi Avahu: “He immersed in fire.”

Talmud, Sanhedrin 39a

G-d is the essence of life, and the ultimate definition of “life” is contact with the divine. Our sages have therefore stated that the righteous, even after their physical deaths, are, in truth, alive, while the wicked are dead even in their lifetimes.[1]

Death is thus an aberration, unnatural to a world intrinsically one with its Creator. Indeed, death became part of our reality only after man distanced himself from G-d with his transgression of the divine will. By the same token, the annihilation of evil and the restoration of perfect harmony between G-d and His creation in the era of Moshiach will bring the cessation of death from our experience.[2]

Until that day, contact with the dead (handling a corpse, visiting a grave, etc.) renders a person tameh–ritually impure–until he undergoes a process of purification that includes immersion in a mikvah.[3] A kohen (“priest”—one of Aaron’s descendants, who were chosen by G-d to serve Him in theBeit Hamikdash) is forbidden to become tameh in the first place, unless it is to bury a close relative, as detailed in the verses quoted above. TheKohen Gadol (“High Priest”), who is commanded to maintain an even higher standard of ritual purity, may not contaminate himself even for his closest kin.

Our sages tell us that Torah law (halachah) is more than a divinely ordained behavior pattern for life on earth: it also describes G-d’s own “behavior pattern,” the manner in which He chooses to relate to His creation. In the words of the Midrash, “G-d’s way is not like the way of flesh and blood. The way of flesh and blood is that he instructs others to do, but does not do himself; G-d, however, what He Himself does, that is what He tells Israel to do and observe.”[4]

It would therefore follow that G-d, who ascribes to Himself the halachicstatus of a kohen,[5] is precluded by Torah law from “contaminating” Himself through contact with the impurities of mortality. Yet the Torah tells us that G-d Himself buried Moses, and the Talmud discusses how He subsequently purified Himself in a “pool of fire.”[6] Our sages explain: the people of Israel are “G-d’s children”;[7] Moses is thus one of G-d’s “closest kin,” for whom a kohen is permitted–indeed obligated–to become tameh.[8]

In the same vein, the prophet Isaiah describes G-d’s descent into the impurities of galut to redeem His people: “Who is this, coming from Edom? Of soured and reddened clothes, from Bozrah? … I (replies G-d), who speaks in righteousness, mighty to save… all My garments, I have soiled.”[9] What about the law that forbids a kohen to contaminate himself? The Zohar explains: Israel is G-d’s “virgin sister, who has not married a man”—who has resisted all the alien masters and influences she has been subject to throughout her exile. For her, G-d “contaminates” Himself, entering the morgue of galut to raise her from the dust.[10]

But one thing remains unresolved: surely G-d is no ordinary kohen, but akohen gadol,[11] whose greater holiness proscribes any exposure to impurity, even for the sake of his closest relatives. How, then, could G-d “contaminate” Himself, even for His “children” or His “sister”?

Put another way: if, in His relationship with us, G-d assumes the role of an ordinary kohen, whose lesser holiness allows him contact with impurity for the sake of “Israel, His kin,”[12] G-d certainly transcends this role, possessing also the inviolable sanctity of the kohen gadol. Does this mean that only the kohen in G-d buried Moses? Or that G-d’s involvement in our redemption is limited to a lesser expression of His holiness, while the height of His “priesthood” remains aloof from the mortality of our galut-state?

An Analogous Universe

To address this question, we must first reexamine the very notion of attributing humanly-defined traits and roles to the Almighty. On what basis do we refer to G-d as a kohen or a kohen gadol, as a father or a brother, or, even, as a “being” and “existence”? These are all terms borrowed from the world of human experience and perception—what can they possibly tell us about He who invented this world and created it from naught?

Indeed, as the kabbalists repeatedly caution, none of this refers to G-d Himself, only to His manner of relating to our reality. G-d chooses to continually involve Himself with our existence, assuming the roles of creator, provider, ruler, judge, etc.; it is solely in regard to this dimension of His being that these anthropomorphisms are applicable. Still, the question remains: why should we assume that G-d’s relationship with us can be described in the same (or similar) terms that we perceive ourselves and our relationships? Perhaps G-d relates to us in a manner that has no model or parallel in our experience?

True, say the chassidic masters. We have no reason to assume that the divine reality parallels ours in any way. Yet we know that it does, for the simple reason that G-d told us so. In His Torah, G-d describes Himself as “merciful,” “benevolent” or “angry”; He states that He “spoke” to Moses, “heard,” the prayers of His people, and took them out of Egypt with a “mighty hand and an outstretched arm”; He tells us that we are His “children,” “servants,” “flock,” and “bride.” For G-d desired that His involvement in our existence should be comprehensible to us[13]—and the human mind comprehends only what it perceives or what it can abstract from what it perceives. So G-d created man “in His image, in His likeness,”[14] modeling us after the traits He assumes to create us and relate to us. He fashioned us, and everything in our world, as metaphors of the divine so that we could refer to our own existence for insight into the nature His presence in our lives.

Chassidic teaching takes this a step further. It’s not just that G-d “planted” analogs of His reality in ours, but that our reality is an offshoot of His, so that everything about it reflects the nature of its source as the grooves in a phonograph record mirror the structure of the sound waves that forged it. So when Job says, “From My own flesh I perceive the divine,”[15] he is not only saying, “G-d created me in such a way that my life should contain models that can be employed as metaphors for the divine reality,” but also that “I, and everything about me, evolved from the ‘self’ that G-d projected to create and relate to our reality. So the nature of this divine projection is imprinted in every detail of my nature and experience.”

The Dross of Translation

The story is told of a first-grade teacher who was experiencing some difficulty in his chumash class. He was attempting to teach a relatively simple verse–“And Noah fathered three sons: Shem, Ham and Japeth”– but one five-year-old mind found the concept too complex to comprehend. Finally, the teacher says: “Berel, you know your next-door neighbors, the Smiths? What’s the father’s name?”
“John,” replies the child.
“And how many sons does John have?”
“Three: Tom, Dick and Harry.”
“Great,” says the teacher. “You see, it’s not that difficult to understand. John Smith has three sons—Tom, Dick and Harry. Now, long ago, there lived a man called Noah, and he, too, had three sons. Their names were: Shem, Ham and Japeth.”
That afternoon, little Berel comes home from cheder. “Mama!” he proudly announces. “Today we learned about the three sons of Noah!”
“That’s wonderful, dear,” says his mother. “And who were the three sons of Noah?”
“Tom, Dick and Harry.”

The metaphor is a powerful and effective teaching tool. A skilled metaphorist can take an idea whose natural language is utterly intelligible to his student and translate it into terms the student can relate to and comprehend. However, unless the student understands how metaphors work–unless he learns knows to distinguish the garments of simile from the concept they enclothe–the metaphor will convey a diminished, or even distorted, version of the concept.

This is manifoldly so in regard to the endeavor to comprehend the Creator via the metaphor of His creation. Imagine a poem, written in a rich, graceful and versatile language, that is translated into a coarse, primitive language. The power of the poem (and of the translator) is such that this grossly inadequate vessel nevertheless conveys something of its beauty and profundity. In reading this poem, one must be ever mindful of the limitations and deficiencies of its adopted language, so as not to attribute them to the flawless original. In the same way, even as we are told that G-d created us in His image, enabling us to perceive His reality from our flesh, we are warned against attributing “a body, or any semblance of the bodily” to Him.[16] Our reality is finite, subjective and deficient, while G-d, and everything about Him (including His projected creator-self) is infinite, utterly free of qualification, and perfect. So the words and models we use when we think and speak of G-d must first be stripped of all the connotations of finiteness and deficiency that their human context imparts to them before we can enlist them to aid our comprehension of the divine.

The Essence of a Prohibition

The same applies to our references to G-d as kohen and kohen gadol.

The human kohen is one who has been imparted a greater measure of holiness than his more mundane fellows. His is a spiritual life, devoid of material endeavor and devoted to the service of the Creator.[17] Thus he is forbidden contact with death, the arch-symptom of the physical world’s distance from its divine source. Nevertheless, his station recognizes that, at times, exceptions must be made and his sanctity violated for the sake of his close kin. The kohen gadol embodies yet a higher level of holiness—a level on which these exceptions are not tenable, on which the kohen’s aloofness from mortality cannot be compromised.

If every physical reality mirrors something of the divine, this is certainly the case with the realities defined by the Torah, G-d’s blueprint for creation. Indeed, the Torah refers to itself as mashal hakadmoni–the “primordial metaphor” or the “metaphor of the Primordial One”[18]–and our sages have stated that every word of Torah is a “name” of G-d,[19] a description of His projected self. Thus, the earthly kohen and kohen gadolare the human analogs of two corresponding truths in the divine reality—the “kohen” and “kohen gadol” in G-d’s relationship with us.

The kohen in G-d is G-d’s “holiness”—His transcendence of the earthly, the finite, the mundane. And yet, as with the ephemeral model of His priesthood, there are “exceptions”: times that He permits Himself to “soil His garments” for the sake of His close kin, times of which G-d says, “I Am with him in his affliction, [to] redeem him.”[20]

Yet G-d is also a kohen gadol, possessing a holiness that cannot be compromised. However, this is not to say that the kohen gadol in G-d is “forbidden” contact with the material reality. As emphasized above, we must always divest our earthly metaphors for the divine of all shortcomings of the physical state before applying their quintessential significance to our understanding of their supernal source. Terms such as “permissible” and “forbidden” are part of a creature’s lexicon, not of an omnipotent Creator’s. We must therefore distinguish between the uncontaminatability of the divine kohen gadol and its not-to-be-contaminated earthly metaphor.

In other words, a kohen gadol is one who cannot be contaminated. Applied to a human being, the holiest of whom is still mortal and vulnerable to mortality’s tumah, this translates as a prohibition to come in contact with those elements that would contaminate him. But in its original, quintessential sense, G-d’s kohen–gadol-ness connotes His immunity from contamination, His utter transcendence of the material even as He pervades the most corporeal corner of His creation. It is only with its evolvement into a human state that the “cannot be contaminated” of the divine kohen gadol becomes the “may not contaminate himself” of a contaminatable son of Aaron.

Double Identity

Yet G-d chooses to relate to us not only as a kohen gadol but also as a “regular” kohen. If G-d had assumed His kohen gadol “self” to bury Moses, there would have been no need for Him to immerse in a mikvah of fire to purify Himself. If it were only the kohen gadol in G-d who “dwells amongst [Israel], in the midst of their impurities,” there would be no need to “atone for the divine holiness” over this.[21] If it were only the divine kohen gadolwho empowered Moses to effect the redemption of Israel from Egyptian slavery, He would not have appeared in a thornbush in participation in His children’s suffering.[22] Had Isaiah beheld the divine kohen gadol coming from Edom, he would not have seen a figure in blood-stained garments. Askohen gadol, G-d effects all without being affected, pervading the lowliest tiers of His creation without being tainted by their deficiencies. Yet G-d chooses to also assume the more vulnerable holiness of the divine “ordinary kohen” (which translates, on the human level, into the ordinarykohen’s permission to contaminate himself in certain circumstances): to contaminate Himself by His burial of Moses, to suffer along with His people, to bloody Himself in the process of extricating them from exile. He wants us to know that He is not only there with us wherever we are, but that He also subjects Himself to everything that we are subject to.

At the same time, He is also there with us as a kohen gadol: transcending it all, and empowering us to also attain something of His inviolable sanctity.

Based on an address by the Rebbe, Shabbat Parshat Emor, 5724 (May 2, 1964)[23].
Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber.

Tags: kohanim, garments, ritual purity, Holy Temple, death, Jewish law, life, reality
Posted in Weekly Parsha, Vayikra, Torah, Emor | 1 Comment »

Field of Expertise: The Value of Jewish Education

January 7th, 2015

A West Coast lumber merchant once came to the previous Lubavitcher Rebbe, Rabbi Yosef Yitzchak Schneersohn, to seek his counsel and blessing. After addressing the businessman’s concerns, the Rebbe asked him:

“How are your children?”

“They’re doing great!” replied the proud father. “They get high marks in school—two regular geniuses! They’re sure to be accepted in the top universities…”

“And what about their Jewish education? Why don’t you sent them to a yeshivah, so that they should grow to be knowledgeable and pious Jews?”

“Rebbe… it’s a different world here, in America. The neighborhood I live in… their friends… it just won’t be right…”

“The Torah applies to all times and places,” insisted the Rebbe. “America is no different. You can, and ought to give your children a Jewish education.”

But the businessman would not relent. The Rebbe argued, cajoled and berated; still the visitor remained adamant in his refusal to do his bidding.

“I don’t understand,” the Rebbe finally said. “Neither I, nor my father, ever engaged in business. Yet you came all the way from California to seek my advise on your most important business decisions. On the other hand, regarding the education of your children–the field to which I, and my ancestors, have devoted our entire lives–you won’t do as I say!”

Told by the Rebbe, Shabbat Behar-Bechukotai 5710 (May 13, 1950)[7]

Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber.

Tags: parenting, chinuch
Posted in Weekly Parsha, Vayikra, Torah Personalities, Modern, Social, Acharei, Torah, Rebbe Rayatz, Education | No Comments »

Woman’s Work

January 6th, 2015

In the forty-four years of his leadership, the Rebbe delivered thousands of talks, totaling tens of thousands of hours. One might therefore think that much of his teachings still awaits publication. In actuality, the very opposite is true: over the years, virtually every word that passed his lips has been meticulously recorded by his disciples. In addition, hundreds of talks have been edited, annotated, translated and adapted in a great variety of publications and other media. In all, more than two hundred volumes of his talks have been published to date. Thus, a hitherto unpublished talk of the Rebbe’s is a rare find. One such treasure was recently discovered in the Rebbe’s library.

In the summer of 1953, a group of six Worcester women made the seven-hour (in those pre-interstate days) trip to New York to meet with the Rebbe. The Rebbe received them in his study, and addressed them briefly. One of the participants was a nurse, and this most likely prompted the Rebbe’s use of her profession as an analogy and demonstration of the idea he conveyed to them in his talk.

The Rebbe spoke in Yiddish, but he asked Mrs. Rochele Fogelman, who headed the group, to make an English transcript of his remarks. Mrs. Fogelman did so, and sent her only copy of the transcript to the Rebbe. Nearly forty-three years later, the transcript was discovered in the Rebbe’s library. The Rebbe had added the month and year “Tammuz 5713” (June-July 1953) at the top of the page, and the words “transcript of talk to the women from Worcester,” but had otherwise made no notes or corrections. What follows is a lightly-edited version of this transcript.

The Torah places much emphasis on the responsibility of one Jew for the spiritual welfare of his or her fellows. A Jew is charged to foster in his fellow Jews a closeness to Torah, and to impart to them a love for yiddishkeit so that they should eagerly and cheerfully abide by its precepts and practices.

While this task is incumbent upon both men and women, it is the woman who possesses the greater capacity—and thus carries the greater share of the responsibility—to achieve it. Generally speaking, there are two methods that might be employed when seeking to influence human behavior: stern rebuke, or gentle, kindly words. The way of Torah is the way of shalom, peace, and kiruv, drawing close; G-d is good, and it is His desire that those who do His work apply themselves with kindness and love. Because the woman has been blessed with an innately tender and sympathetic nature, her character is akin to and expressive of the Torah ideal of compassionatekiruv; thus, she possesses a greater capacity to influence her fellow Jews to perfect their behavior in accordance with the way of Torah.

The human being possesses both a body and a soul. The Jew sees the body and the soul as interrelated, indeed bound together. Thus, by examining the way things are regarding a physical phenomenon, we gain insight into its spiritual counterpart.

When a person is ill, he consults a doctor. The doctor, who understands the physical workings of the body, diagnoses the nature of the illness and prescribes treatment. If the case warrants, hospital care is recommended. But the organization of the hospital is such that, whereas the doctor prescribes the treatment, the nurse is the one who usually administers it. Regarding this, it may be noted that nursing is predominantly a woman’s profession—a fact readily discernible in hospitals, where, with only rare exceptions, the nurses are women. This reflects the fact that women are inherently suited to nursing. With their natural tenderness and patience, they can sweeten a bitter-tasting medicine and make a most difficult medical procedure more tolerable.

The same is true regarding the care of the soul. If a Jew suffers from a deficiency in his spiritual health, it becomes necessary to treat him so that he may be cured.  To procure a remedy for his spiritual ills, one must consult the authority that, like the doctor who is the expert for the body’s needs, knows and understands the needs of the soul. For the Jew, these needs are embodied by the Torah and its mitzvot. But the expert who diagnoses and prescribes the treatment is not necessarily the one who is best suited to administer it. Thus we come to the role of the spiritual “nurse”—an individual with the compassion, sensitivity and patience that the task requires.

As is the case regarding physical medicine, the woman has been blessed with a character that makes her optimally suited to serve as a spiritual “nurse”—one who draws one’s fellow Jews closer to Torah with kindness, benevolence, gentleness and love. A woman’s strength is such that she can prevail upon others to fulfill the mitzvot—including those mitzvot that might, on the surface, seem difficult or “bitter-tasting”— with willing acceptance and joy.

A woman’s first responsibility is to the spiritual care of her family. But, as the Baal Shem Tov would say, all Jews are brothers and sisters. Thus, her “nursing” efforts should extend beyond the confines of her immediate family to encompass any and all of her fellow Jews.

May you and your families have a healthy, happy summer. May you have happy Jewish, Chassidic homes, such that they may stand out as an example thereof.  Turn Worcester into a Chassidic city, so that from Chicago to Philadelphia to Pittsburgh all will have heard of, and point to, Worcester as an example of a Chassidic city. May you realize much nachasfrom your children: Jewish nachas, nachas that you readily perceive and enjoy.

Please extend my regards to your husbands.

Tags: body and soul, psycho-spiritual journey, Worcester, matter and spirit, medicine, women
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A Private World: The Eiruv

January 6th, 2015

Turnus Rufus asked Rabbi Akiva: “If G-d honors the Shabbat, then He should not blow winds on it, He should not cause rain to fall on it, He should not cause the grass to grow on it!” Replied Rabbi Akiva: “If two people live in one courtyard, unless they both contribute to an eiruv, would they be permitted to carry in the yard? But if one person lives in a courtyard, he has free reign in the entire yard. The same is true of G-d: since there is no other authority besides Him, since the entire world is His, He has free reign in the entire world.”

Midrash Rabbah, Bereishit 11:6

On the face of it, Rabbi Akiva’s reply does not seem to truly answer the Roman emperor’s question. While it is true that a person is permitted to move things from place to place within a “private domain” on Shabbat, regarding all the other forms of forbidden labor, there is no difference between such a domain or some other place. For example, it is no less a violation of the Shabbat to water a garden than it is to water an open field. So if G-d’s “causing rain to fall” might be regarded as a violation of Shabbat, why would the fact that the entire world is His exclusive domain make this activity any more “permissible” for Him?

The Eiruv

On Shabbat, it is forbidden to transfer an object from a “private domain” to a “public domain” or vice versa. A “private domain” is an enclosed area, such as a home, a fenced yard, etc.; a “public domain” is an open public thoroughfare, such as a street or plaza.

The laws of Shabbat also define another category: areas that are technically a “private domain” but whose function resembles that of a “public domain.” For example, an enclosed courtyard shared by several homes, or the lobby and hallways of an apartment building. Here, too, it is forbidden (by rabbinical ordinance) to transfer articles between “domains.” It is such a domain that Rabbi Akiva is referring to when he speaks of “two people living in one courtyard.”

There is, however, a procedure which makes it permissible to borrow a cup of sugar from the neighbor down the hall on Shabbat, or to take along a house key or baby carriage on a stroll to the park. This procedure, whose detailed laws take up an entire tractate in the Talmud, is called the eiruv.

How is an eiruv made? First of all, if the area is not already enclosed, it must be physically defined as a singular entity; a thin wire running along the tops of poles will transform a street, a neighborhood, even an entire city, into a halachically “private domain.” Then, something must be done to deal with its resemblance to a “public domain.” This is achieved by taking a loaf of bread, designating it as the common property of all the residents of the enclosed area, and keeping it in one of the homes or apartments. Because they all have a (potential) meal awaiting them in one place, the residents of this “domain” are now legally considered a single household. Hence the halachic term eiruv, which means “combining” or “intermixing”: the various sub-domains in this physically enclosed area have been integrated into a single “private” province.

What exactly is an eiruv? Is it a legal gimmick formulated by some ingenious Talmudic lawyer? Are we “outsmarting” G-d? If the divine  law intended that we should not carry from domain to domain, why are we devising ways of “getting off on a technicality”?

But the eiruv is no mere loophole. Not only does Torah law sanction its use, but it declares that “It is a mitzvah to pursue [the arrangement of] both a courtyard eiruv and one for the street.”[1] Indeed, on a deeper level, the effecting of an eiruv relates to the very essence and function of Shabbat.

Work Defined

“For six days shall work be done,” commands the Torah, “but the seventh day shall be to you a holy day, a sabbath of rest to G-d.”[2] But what, exactly, constitutes “work”? The Hebrew word employed by the Torah,melachah, actually means “creative work.” Thus, writing a single word is amelachah, while dragging a heavy sofa from one end of the room to the other is not. Specifically, the Talmud[3] enumerates 39 categories of “creative work” that are forbidden on Shabbat, such as “sowing,” “baking,” “tanning hides,” “weaving,” “writing,” “building,” “igniting a fire,” and the like.[4]

This is in keeping with the function that the Torah attributes to Shabbat: “It is an eternal sign between Me and the children of Israel, that in six days G-d made the heavens and the earth, and on the seventh day He rested and He was refreshed.”[5] Obviously, G-d did not sweat and toil to create the world, and the “rest” and “refreshment” He experienced on the seventh day were not relief from exertion. Rather, for six days G-d created, and on the seventh day He ceased to create. So when we attest to G-d’s creation of the universe by emulating His work/rest cycle in our own lives, the “work” we cease from on the seventh day of the week is defined not by the degree of physical effort it extracts from us, but by its creativity: for six days we engage in creative involvement with the world, laboring to transform it into “a home for G-d,”[6] while Shabbat is a day of disengagement from the material and cessation of all physically transformative activity.

This difference between Shabbat and the other days of the week is expressed not only in what we do or do not do on Shabbat, but also in the way we do the things that we do.

A prime example is the manner in which we regard physical pleasure on Shabbat. During the week, we seek to remake our physical drives and resources into a “Sanctuary” that serves and expresses the divine. For example, when we eat, we do so with the intention of utilizing the energy we derive from the food to serve G-d. In this way, the material substance of the food and the physical act of eating are transformed into the energy expended in helping the needy, into the fervor of prayer, into the acumen of the mind studying the divine  wisdom in Torah. Transformed, that is, into an instrument of the divine will. Eating for no  purpose other than for the sake of physical pleasure is not a constructive—much less a holy—act. Instead of sublimating the material, it has the very opposite effect: it sinks the person deeper into the morass of self, even further distancing him, and the material environment he occupies, from their divine purpose and function.

Such is our approach to material life for the first six days of the week. On Shabbat, however, pleasure for the sake of pleasure is a mitzvah, a fulfillment of G-d’s will. There is no need for the physical to be developed and transformed into something that serves a “higher” purpose. Deriving pleasure from the material world is itself an act of holiness, a way of experiencing and bringing to light the divine nature of G-d’s creation.

In other words, during the week, we struggle to change the world: to divest it of its corporeality and direct it toward a higher goal. But on Shabbat we cease from the effort to transform the material reality; instead, we relate to the world as it is, to the divine essence implicit in our existence.

What happens on Shabbat to effect this drastic change in how we relate to the world? To understand this, we must again look at the nature of G-d’s “work” and “rest” in the seven days of creation.

Projection and Withdrawal

Chassidic teaching[7] likens G-d’s “rest” on Shabbat to what an artist experiences upon the completion of a work of art. While he labors, the artist’s prowess and vitality are invested in his work; he may actually feel drained of the energy that is flowing from his own soul into  his creation. But when he completes his work, this tremendous projection of mind and talent ceases; he now experiences the “return” of his creative powers and their re-inclusion into his own being.

The same may be applied to G-d: for six days of the week (every week, for creation is an ongoing cycle of divine involvement with our existence to grant it being and life) G-d projects His creative powers into our existence. On Shabbat, G-d ceases this outward flow, withdrawing back into Himself. This concept is alluded to by the Hebrew word vayinafash (“and He was refreshed”) in the verse quoted above (“in six days G-d made the heavens and the earth, and the seventh day He rested and He was refreshed”).Vayinafash literally means “and His soul returned to him.”[8]

There is, however, an important difference between G-d’s withdrawal and that of our hypothetical artist. When the artist pulls back his creative powers, he leaves the completed work behind—his creation is now an entity wholly separate from himself, no longer dependent upon his involvement. When G-d withdraws, He takes His work back with Him. For while the artist’s work is the result of his projection, G-d’s work is the projection itself. G-d does not take pre-existing paints and canvas, and work His creative energy upon them; what we experience as reality is G-d’s creative energy.

In other words, when the Torah tells us that “G-d said, ‘Let there be light,’ and there was light,” this does not mean that G-d’s words caused something else—the thing we call light—to come into being. It means that what we experience as light is actually the divine words “Let there be light.” By describing creation as G-d’s “speech,” the Torah is giving us its definition of reality. Speech is the projection of one’s ideas outside of oneself (as opposed to thought, which is a wholly internal articulation). What is the world? The world is G-d speaking—G-d’s continuous outward projection of His creative powers.

At least, that’s what the world is for six days a week. On Shabbat, G-d withdraws this projection back into an uncommunicating self. The world is no longer divine speech but divine thought. It is no longer an existence “outside” of G-d.

This is why the world is “holier” on Shabbat. Were G-d’s work to be “left behind” when He withdraws His creative energies, then the very opposite would be true—the world would now be further removed from G-d. But Shabbat is not G-d’s withdrawal from creation, but G-d’s withdrawal ofcreation. Shabbat is a “holy” day because, on Shabbat, the created existence is re-absorbed in its divine source.

Hence the different ways in which we relate to reality in the course of the week. For the first six days of the week, we labor to change the world into a “home for G-d.” True, the world is not an existence separate from G-d, and it is certainly not independent of Him—all it is is His “spoken words.”[9] Nevertheless, G-d relates to the created existence as anoutward projection of His creative powers, and this is what allows it to perceive itself as something “outside” of the divine reality. So for six days we struggle to divest the world of the illusion and delusion of selfhood. We seek to demonstrate how things do not exist for their own sake, but to serve a higher truth.

On Shabbat, however, G-d ceases to speak the world. He now “thinks” it, relating to it as something that is wholly absorbed within His reality. In our own lives, our focus shifts accordingly: instead of seeking to change the world, we seek to reveal how the world, as it is, is one with its Creator.

Transfer and Transformation

In light of the above, we can understand the deeper significance of themelachah of transferring things between “private” and “public” domains.

At first glance, the melachah of “transferring from domain to domain” on Shabbat—the last on the Talmud’s list—hardly seems to qualify as amelachah. The other 38 categories of work are all tangibly creativeendeavors: activities which visibly change something in a constructive manner. But the change effected by transferring an object from domain to domain is far more subtle—all that one has changed is the thing’s place. Or, to put it another way, there has been no actual change in the thing, only a change in the thing’s potential—its potential use, originally private, has now been made public (or vice versa).

For this reason, our sages refer to “transferring” as a “weakmelachah.”[10] Nevertheless, the very first laws to be discussed in the Talmudic tractate Shabbat are the laws which define the various “domains” and the prohibition of transferring objects between them. For in truth, the prohibition to transfer from domain to domain lies at the very heart of what Shabbat is all about.

When we look at the world during the first six days of the week, we see two distinct “domains.” On the one hand, there are the objects and resources which we have enlisted to serve G-d, thereby transforming them into a “home” for Him—His own “private domain” where everything submits to His singular reality. On the other hand, we have the “street,” the world “out there”—a “public,” diverse and pluralistic domain which regards itself as separate, or even independent, from its divine source.

Six days a week, it is indeed our duty to “transfer from domain to domain.” We strive to bring things from the “public domain” into that sacred corner of our lives that is consecrated as G-d’s private realm (e.g., a coin given to charity, a piece of animal hide made into a pair of tefillin). We also seek to take from this “private domain” out into the “street,” to instill its holiness into the still “public” areas of the material existence (e.g., running a business in accordance with the ethics of Torah).

On Shabbat, however, there is only one reality: creation as the private domain of G-d. And the entire point of Shabbat is to express this truth in our daily lives. Any attempt to transform reality—even for the sake of serving G-d—is a violation of Shabbat, for it means that one is dealing with the world as if it were something outside of G-d.

In other words, all of the 39 melachot are, in essence, a form of the prohibition to “transfer from domain to domain” on Shabbat. By doing creative work on Shabbat, a person perpetuates the lie of a “public” world on this divinely private day.[11]

On a deeper level, it is the law of the eiruv, rather than the laws pertaining to truly public domains, which expresses the essence of Shabbat. For even during the six workdays of the week, there is no such thing as a truly “public domain”—only a “private domain” which presents a public face and appearance. Ultimately, there is no corner of the universe that is outside of the exclusive province of G-d—only areas in which the surface reality obscures this truth. Thus it can be said that our world is comparable to the essentially-private-but-seemingly-public “courtyard” in which it is forbidden to carry things about on Shabbat without an eiruv.

This explains Rabbi Akiva’s reply to Turnus Rufus. Of course G-d observes the weekly day of rest: on Shabbat He ceases to speak the world, thereby altering the very nature of reality. But while we inhabit a “multi-occupant courtyard” which has the appearance of a “public domain,” and in which it is therefore forbidden to “transfer” on Shabbat, G-d is the exclusive occupant of His courtyard. From His perspective, there is no such thing as a “public domain,” or even a “public-seeming domain.” So for Him, effecting changes within our world does not violate the Shabbat. Everything He “moves about” in our world is a movement within His exclusive domain; any “change” wrought by Him in our world on Shabbat is neither a “transformation” nor a “transfer,” since the entirety of existence is now wholly absorbed within His all-inclusive reality.

Effecting the Eiruv

The ultimate function of Shabbat is to establish an eiruv in our “multi-occupant courtyard”: to integrate the diverse forces and realities of our world as a singular, harmonious expression of the divine truth; to make the exclusivity of G-d’s “ownership” as real in our lives as it is from G-d’s own perspective.

Our present-day experience of Shabbat is only a “taste” of the era of Moshiach—“the day that is wholly Shabbat and rest for life everlasting.”[12]Each Shabbat, we assume a mode of being that reveals the innate “privacy” of G-d’s world. But this is mostly a reality manifest only in our individual lives and communities; the world without still shows a face of plurality and disconnection from its source. For while it is Shabbat in the weekly cycle, we are still in the six “workday” millennia of history.

With the advent of the seventh millennium, “The world will be filled with the knowledge of G-d as the waters cover the sea,”[13] readily perceiving itself as wholly submerged within the divine reality.

Based on the Rebbe’s talks on Av 20, 5722 (August 20, 1962)[14] and on other occasions.

Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber.

Tags: Rabbi Akiva, Shabbat, private vs. public, eiruv
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The Colors of Blood Cells

January 6th, 2015

Within every man a great river flows. More than a river—a great river system, with dozens of major arteries, hundreds of tributaries, thousands of rivulets and tens of billions of minute channels. Fourteen hundred times every day, this great river system—laid end to end it would extend some 60,000 miles—carries its life-sustaining fluid to every cell of the human body, supplying them with oxygen and nourishment, carrying off wastes, and combating adversarial cells that seek to harm it.

Man is a metaphor. Indeed, one of several meanings of the Hebrew wordadam (“man”) is “I resemble.” For man is a microcosm of creation—in the words of the Talmud, “As the soul fills the body, so G-d fills the universe.”[1] Thus Job declares, “From my flesh, I perceive G-d”[2]—by contemplating the workings of our body and the manner in which it relates to and is animated by our soul, we gain insight into the workings of creation and the manner in which it relates to and is sustained by its supernal source.

The Torah is the “blood” of the cosmic body. Torah is the flow of divine influence that extends to every “cell” of creation, imbuing it with the breath of life, nourishing and developing it, and combating the negative forces that threaten to corrupt it.

The Red Priority

The two primary active ingredients of human blood are the erythrocytes, or red blood cells, and the leukocytes, or white blood cells. The red blood cells carry oxygen to the body’s cells. The white blood cells combat infection and resist the invasion of bacteria and other foreign bodies.

The Torah also has its “red blood cells” and “white blood cells,” its nutritive and combative elements. By instructing and enlightening our lives, the Torah sustains and matures our spiritual essence, developing in us, and in the environment we inhabit and interact with, the potential for goodness and perfection that G-d imparted to His creation. The Torah also combats evil with a series of prohibitions and sanctions against practices that compromise the spiritual integrity of the body-universe. But the greater emphasis is on the positive, nurturing role. The Torah’s “ways are pleasant, and all its paths are peace.”[3] Combating evil is still an unfortunate necessity —until the day that “the spirit of impurity shall cease from the earth”[4]—but it is not what Torah is about; the gist of Torah’s role is to imbue our lives with spiritual sustenance. This priority is also reflected in the human metaphor of the cosmic bloodstream: the 25 trillion red blood cells in the human body outnumber its white blood cells by a ratio of 700 to 1.

Trading Places

In discussing the flow of divine influence into our world, kabbalistic teaching speaks of a phenomenon it calls “the reversal of mediums” (achlifu duchtaihu). For example, at times it is deemed necessary for “benevolence to come in a vessel of severity, and severity in a vessel of benevolence.”[5]

The best way to understand this principle is to examine how this applies, on the human level, to our relationships with others. Love is the drive to give and come close to another; an overdose of love, however, may distance rather than bring close and harm rather than assist. If a father were to hug his child with the full intensity of his love for him, he would cause him grievous hurt; indiscriminate charity may foster dependence and low self-esteem on the part of the recipient, to his own ultimate detriment. Thus, love must often be packaged in a “vessel of severity” and restraint. The same applies in the reverse: when it is necessary to discipline and restrain, one must channel severity via a “vessel” of benevolence. Justice that is not administered with compassion may cause the very opposite of what it comes to achieve, breaking the transgressor it comes to rehabilitate and destroying the society it comes to preserve.

The same applies, on the physical level, to the “benevolent” and “severe” cells in our bloodstream. The red blood cells have an extremely complex structure, designed to regulate the quantity and manner of its nourishment of the body’s cells; otherwise, they would oxidize rather than oxygenate them. In other words, the “vessel” that carries this giving influence must be designed to regulate and withhold, lest the benevolence it dispenses cause the very opposite of what it is meant to achieve. The reverse is true of the combative white blood cells: their “severity” is tempered and contained by a vessel of “benevolence,” lest they destroy good cells along with the bad and poison the body with their toxicity.

Therein lies the deeper significance of the colors of the various blood cells. The nourishing cells are colored red, the color associated in kabbalah with the divine attribute of judgment and severity (gevurah), reflecting the fact that their benevolent function must be “colored” by restraint. On the other hand, the combative cells are colored white—the supernal hue of chessed, the divine attribute of benevolence and love—indicating that this potent force must by administered via a gentling “vessel.”

Thus it is with Torah, the lifeblood of the universe. Torah brings the divine into our lives, yet imparts it as ideas, experiences and deeds that are incorporable into our human, finite selves. Were it not for this “packaging,” our humanity and individuality would be utterly nullified before the all-transcending, all-pervading, divine essence invested in the Torah; but in the form of Torah’s “red blood cells” we can ingest and internalize the divine nourishment, fusing the cosmic body to its supernal soul.

In its combative role, Torah is utterly intolerant of evil. But it is tolerant of human frailty, repelling corruption without destroying the corrupted.[6] It implements its exacting standards of virtue and truth in the form of “white blood cells”—via a vessel of benevolence and compassion.

Based on an address by the Rebbe, Shevat 1, 5722 (January 6, 1962).

Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber.

Tags: anatomy, chesed, gevurah, blood
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My Encounter With The Rebbe: The Baseball Game

January 6th, 2015

Editor’s note: One of the most phenomenal aspects of the Rebbe’s personality was his effectiveness as a communicator and motivator. The untold thousands who were privileged to meet and correspond with him personally, all felt the Rebbe’s ability to relate to them in a most personal and individual manner. No matter that he or she was but one of the many hundreds to meet with the Rebbe for a brief minute or two that night; no matter that his or her letter was all but lost in the three mail sacks that daily arrived at the Rebbe’s office—the Rebbe would immediately focus upon their individual situation, address their needs and abilities, and proceed to enlist them in his relentless efforts on behalf of the Jewish people and of all humanity.

The following account (translated from the Hebrew weekly Kfar Chabad) is told by a young man who met the Rebbe on three occasions. Below is the first of these encounters (the other two are printed in WIR Vol 12 No 11 and Vol 6 No 13).

The first time I met the Rebbe we discussed baseball. It was a month before my bar-mitzvah, and my grandfather, a devout Jew and second-generation American, wanted me to meet the Rebbe and receive his blessing in preparation for my attainment of Jewish adulthood. My parents had all but abandoned religious practice of their faith, so it was Grand-father who assumed the primary role in my Jewish education, giving me lessons in the rudiments of Yiddishkeit several times a week and taking me to the synagogue on Shabbat.

My first surprise was the Rebbe’s youthful appearance. I had expected a chassidic sage with a long white beard, but the Rebbe, who was in his early fifties at the time, had the appearance and manner of a man 15 years younger. My second surprise was the Rebbe’s first question to me: “Which is your favorite sport?”

“Baseball,” I replied.

“How do you most enjoy the game,” asked the Rebbe, “when one team plays or when two teams play against each other?”

“Rabbi,” I said, “you can’t play baseball with only one team.”

“Why?” asked the Rebbe

“Rabbi,” I patiently explained, “the entire point of the game is which side is going to score more runs than the other. You must have two teams.” I was relieved to see that the Rebbe understood.

“So who usually wins?” the Rebbe pressed on.

“Whoever plays best,” I said, proud of my inspired reply.

I don’t know what Grandfather thought of our conversation, but the Rebbe continued to direct all his attention to me. “Tell me,” he now asked me, “do you and your friends play much baseball?”

“Sure. We play a lot.”

“Do you also go to watch the baseball games at the stadium?”

“Sure.”

“But why do you have to go watch others play, if you know how to play the game yourselves?”

Again I felt the frustration of needing to explain the obvious. “Rabbi,” I said, politely suppressing my smile, “when we play, it’s just a bunch of kids playing. With the Major League teams, its the real thing.”

“Joseph,” said the Rebbe, a warm smile illuminating his face, “your heart is a baseball field. There are two teams competing there: the ‘good inclination,’ the yetzer tov, and the ‘evil inclination,’ the yetzer horah. But up until now, it was a kids’ game. Now, with your bar-mitzvah, the real game begins. G-d is giving you a special gift—a major league yetzer tov, with the skills and talents to beat the yetzer horah and guide you through a righteous and constructive life. Remember, Joseph, just like in baseball: whoever plays best, wins…”

***

Grandfather repeated the Rebbe’s baseball analogy at my bar-mitzvah and I fondly remembered my visit with the young personable rabbi. Beyond that, I do not recall the Rebbe’s words making much of an impression on my 13-year-old self. But as two events in my young adult years were to testify, the Rebbe’s words affected me far more deeply than I was aware at the time.

The first event took place three years later, the 16th year of my life and my second in High School. My class had won a school-wide competition and was awarded a weekend trip to a luxurious resort in New Orleans. I came home that evening bursting with excitement and joy; my parents, however, received the news in uncomfortable silence. Finally, mother said to me: “Joe, there’s a problem. Yom Kippur is that weekend. As you know, we’ve always observed Yom Kippur. We fast and we attend services at the synagogue. We have never desecrated the holiness of the day, and we expect the same of you.”
“Mom,” I protested, “you don’t understand. This is an opportunity of a lifetime! All year we’ve been dreaming of winning this prize. I’ll never forgive myself if I miss it!”

The arguments at home continued all week. My parents said they understood how important the trip is for me; nevertheless, they maintained, there are certain hallowed values which one must set above all else. I countered that I’ve always kept Yom Kippur and I shall continue to do so all my life, but nothing will happen if I made this one exception for a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

In the end, my parents, who prided themselves with their liberal approach to child-rearing, said to me: “Joe, you know that we never forced our convictions on you. We’ve told you how we feel about the matter. Now, the decision is yours.” The “decision” was easily made: New Orleans, here I come!

The night before the trip I was watching a baseball game at a friend’s home. The game ended with a breathtaking comeback in the last inning by the team that had been trailing by several runs throughout the game. Over the cheering of the crowd we heard the broadcaster say: “Well, after all is said and done, there are no two ways about it in baseball: the team that plays best, wins!” Suddenly, I remembered my conversation with the Rebbe. I stayed home that Yom Kippur.

***

The second event took place five year later, during my college years. The year was 1962 and everyone on campus was searching for “meaning to life.” Two friends, who had fallen in with a group of Mormon missionaries operating on campus, invited me to a lecture and discussion. Soon I was attending regularly. My meager Jewish education was no match for their sophisticated presentation; soon I began to see my own faith as shallow, bourgeois and devoid of spiritual content, and theirs as inspiring and rejuvenating. The more involved I became, the more I felt that, for the first time, my life had meaning and direction.

My only problem was how to break the news to my parents. I knew that, liberal views notwithstanding, they would be extremely upset by my conversion. I decided to say nothing as of yet and wait for an opportune time to tell them of my new life. I even harbored hopes of eventually bringing them to see the light themselves.

Shortly before I was to be baptized as a Christian and Mormon, I played shortstop in our weekly baseball game on campus. We played atrociously and lost badly. As we left the field, I found myself walking alongside the captain of the winning team, slapping him on the back, and saying: “Well, there are no two ways about it in baseball: the team who plays best, wins!”

I was barely able to finish the sentence. I’m sure my friend wondered why I suddenly turned white. As did my Mormon teachers as to why I suddenly severed all contact with them.

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A Change of Heart: A Chassidic Story About Teshuvah

January 6th, 2015

The first step in teshuvah (repentance) is regret. One must regret one’s transgression of the divine will and the distance this has placed between himself and G-d.

Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi once said: “True regret is the regret of the peasant from Shklov.”

He then explained: On a stormy day, a peasant from the vicinity of Shklov arrived at the Dnieper River and made to cross its waters in a small boat. Those who stood at the riverbank warned him against his folly. “Look at the winds, look at the waves,” they said, “you’ll never make it across.” But he paid no heed to their words. Halfway across the river, his boat capsized. Before he disappeared under the waves, he was heard to cry out: “What a fool I was! I should have listened to them! I shouldn’t have gone out!”

“To truly experience teshuvah,” concluded Rabbi Schneur Zalman, “is to experience the same degree of regret over one’s past actions as was experienced by the peasant from Shklov as the raging river swept him away.”

Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber.

Tags: teshuvah, Alter Rebbe, Chassidic stories, baal teshuvah
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G-d on the Moon

January 6th, 2015

And G-d said: “Let there be luminaries in the heavens to distinguish between day and night; and they shall be for signs, and for times, and for days, and for years. And they shall be luminaries in the heavens to give light upon earth.” And it was so.

And G-d made the two great luminaries: the great luminary to rule the day, and the small luminary to rule the night….Genesis 1:14-16

The Talmud, examining the Torah’s account of G-d’s creation of the sun and the moon, dwells on the apparent contradiction in the above verses. Are there, in fact, “two great luminaries,” or a “great luminary” and a “small luminary”?

The Talmud explains: indeed, initially the sun and the moon were equal in greatness and luminance. But then,

The moon said to G-d: “Master of the Universe! Can two kings wear the same crown?”

Said G-d to her: “Go diminish yourself.”

Said she to Him: “Master of the Universe! Because I have said a proper thing, I must diminish myself?”

Said He to her: “You may rule both during the day and at night.”

Said she to Him: “What advantage is there in that? What does a lamp accomplish at high noon?”

Said He to her: “The people of Israel shall calculate their dates and years by you.”

Said she to Him: “But the sun, too, shall have a part in that, for they shall calculate the seasons by him.”

Said G-d: “The righteous shall be called by your name—‘Jacob the Small,’[4]

 ‘Samuel the Small,’[5]

 ‘David the Small.’[6]

Still G-d saw that the moon was not appeased. So G-d said: “Offer an atonement for My sake, for My having diminished the moon.” This is the significance of what Reish Lakish said: “Why does the he-goat offered on the first of the month differ from the others in that it is specified as ‘for G-d’?[7]  G-d is saying: “This he-goat shall atone for My diminishing of the moon.” [8]

Reading this celestial dialogue, several questions come to mind:

a) How did G-d intend for the “two great luminaries” to “distinguish between day and night” if He made them identical to each other?

b) G-d diminishes the moon to a fraction of her original size and deprives her of the ability to generate her own light, reducing her to a pale reflector of sunlight—apparently as a punishment for her having insisted that she and the sun cannot be equals. But then He appeases the moon for her loss. And when the moon is not so readily placated, He offers her one reparation after another. At the end, G-d still feels guilty (!) about the whole affair and commands that every month, as the moon enters a new cycle of rebirth, growth and diminution, a sacrifice be offered in the Holy Temple in atonement (!) for His deed. On the other hand, He does not restore the moon to her original “greatness,” so obviously He still feels that her “reduction” is warranted. So we still don’t know who is in the right in this argument. Did or did not the moon “say a proper thing”?

c) Rereading the verse, “And G-d made the two great luminaries: the great luminary to rule the day, and the small luminary to rule the night,” we now realize that the Torah is telling us that this, indeed, was G-d’s intention: that there should originally be “two great luminaries,” one of which should, at some later point, emerge as the “small luminary.” But the prophet Isaiah describes the future perfect world of Moshiach as a time when “the light of the moon shall be as the light of the sun”[9] implying that, on the contrary, the moon’s original size and nature is the ideal. Or was this all some grand plot on the part of G-d—to create an impossible situation, have the moon complain, diminish her, and then decree that at the culmination of history, the original state of affairs (now somehow possible and desirable) should be restored?

Give and Take

No man is an island, goes the old cliche. But then again, neither is anything else in G-d’s world. Every being is inexorably married to its fellows in a series of reciprocal relationships: spirit and matter, male and female, parent and offspring, prey and predator, teacher and student, manufacturer and consumer, employer and employee, philanthropist and pauper, and so on.

And, of course, sun and moon. In their celestial dance of give and take, sun and moon are both metaphor and prototype for the innumerable give-and-take relationships which form the foundation of life—indeed of existence as we know it. When the sun gives its light to the moon and the moon receives and reflects the sun’s light, it is man planting life in the womb of woman and woman conceiving and nurturing it; it is the farmer’s investment in the soil, and the earth’s absorption of seed and rain to sprout forth vegetation; it is the rich giving to the poor, the pupil learning from his teacher, the rivers feeding the seas.

Indeed, “two kings cannot wear the same crown.” For it is only out of the interplay between giver and recipient that new realities are born. Without this give-and-take dynamic, our world would be as static as a museum display; with it, the world becomes vibrant and creative.

One can say that the giver is the “great” element in the relationship and the recipient the “small.” The “suns” of the world are givers by virtue of their superior resources and prowess; its “moons” are recipients due to their lack of whatever it is that they receive. This, however, represents but one perspective on the relationship—that of the giver and the recipient themselves. But what about the designer and creator of their reality? How does the ultimately objective viewer see it?

Seen from G-d’s perspective, is there any real difference between the fact that He provides the rich with wealth-generating talents and opportunities, and that He provides the poor with rich men with generous hearts? Both are thereby enabled to sustain themselves and contribute to the overall development of the world’s resources, each in his own way. Is there any qualitative difference between His making the sun a cauldron of energy and His making the moon a “passive” ball of matter positioned so that it reflects the sun in a certain fashion? Both are thereby enabled to illuminate the earth and generate the rhythmic cycles of life, again each in its own way. From G-d’s perspective, they are all recipients in that He gives them everything they have, including the capacity to give and/or receive; and they are all givers in the sense that through their partnership with each other, they create.

So every “sun” and every “moon” in G-d’s world is a “great luminary.” It is only that the way in which they are “great luminaries” is by forming partnerships in which some of them are great and abundant and others are small and wanting. As far as G-d is concerned, darkness is just another form of light, poverty another form of wealth, imperfection another form of perfection. Yes, He created the sun and the moon to differentiate between night and day—to polarize His creation between the givers and the receivers, between illuminators and the reflectors. This, however, is not a differentiation between great and small but between great and great—or rather, between great as great and small as great.

Inferiority Complex

Therein lies the significance of the dialogue between G-d and the moon. The moon’s greatness—her capacity to receive—is born of a sense of diminution and insufficiency. So when G-d created two great luminaries, it is the moon who cried—her very nature demanded it—“Wait a minute! We cannot be equals! If we are, where is the differentiation? Where is the creative relationship? Only one of us can give—the other must receive. Only one of us can shine—the other must be dark.”

“You are absolutely right,” says G-d. “Go diminish yourself.”
“But why me?” asks the moon. “Just because I’m the one who spoke up?”
“Yes. That’s precisely why you spoke up—because you are the recipient. The sun feels perfectly comfortable with his greatness; that’s his role—to be great through giving. But you are different. It is you who cannot reconcile herself to a world that consists only of givers; it is you who senses the necessity for a receptive element in My creation.”

“But why should I be the lesser one in the relationship?”
“You are ‘lesser’ only in the reality of your perception. But in essence, you are equals. In fact, you’re even superior in certain ways.”
“How?”

“When the day ends, the sun drops out of the sky. The night is inaccessible to him. But you are present not only at night when you illuminate the world, but also during the day, when your light is not seen.”

“But I’m a luminary. If I’m not illuminating, I’m nothing.”

“Exactly. That’s the difference between you and the sun. He illuminates by illuminating, but you illuminate by virtue of your nothingness, through your passive reception of his light. So when he isn’t seen, he isn’t there. But you—even when you’re nothing, you are present.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t. If you did—if you sensed your own greatness—you wouldn’t be a recipient.”
And so it goes. G-d tells the moon about the unique qualities of lunar time, where, unlike the steady, unfaltering solar cycles, diminution and extinction give rise to rebirth and renewal.[10]

He tells her of the great men of history who achieve true greatness by virtue of their humility and perpetual sense of inadequacy.

But the moon persists: “I still feel inferior!”

“Of course you do,” says G-d. “Your smallness is the essence of your greatness. If you did not feel inferior, you wouldn’t be driven to receive, and would not actualize your greatness. I see your greatness, but you cannot—at least not until the ultimate realization of your role. Then, on the day that all the givers and takers in my creation have produced the perfect world I have charged them to create, the true worth of the recipient will come to light.

“But I’ll tell you what,” G-d continues. “I know that all of this is My fault. After all, the concept of a world in which giver and recipient join to create new realities was My idea in the first place. I could have created a perfect world, or no world at all. It is because of My desire for an imperfect, self-perfecting world that the “moons” I created must initially experience darkness, weakness and poverty. So I will join you in your plight. From My perspective, you are already great—your potential as good as realized, your future perfection already recognized. Still, I shall enter your world and perspective, and together with you strive for and await redemption. Until that day when ‘the light of the moon shall be as the light of the sun,’ I, too, will subject myself to the ups and downs of lunar life.”

Based on an address by the Rebbe, Shavuot 5747 (1987)[11].

Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber.

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