November 19th, 2014
If we look closely at the details of Chanukah – the Menorah, the history, the number of flames – they can reveal the nature of our soul.
As the sun sets and the shadows of night descend, we kindle the Menorah creating light in the darkness. Listen carefully to the flames and they will tell you a story, a story that will empower you to live a more profound meaningful life, enabling you to rise up toward challenge and overcome difficulty. Sit near the flames and study them quietly.
“The flame of God is the soul of a human being,” says the Torah. As flames warm and illuminate their environment, so too you can use your soul to infuse life with warmth and light. Unlike all other physical entities that are drawn earthward, the dancing flames flicker upward defying gravity. Likewise your soul, not satisfied with mere physical comforts, aspires up toward something beyond.
Chanukah is not just about lighting up our own lives. By placing the Menorah in the window of your home or at your doorpost, you allow the light to radiate into the dark street, illuminating your surroundings. Chanukah reminds us of our ability and responsibility to effect the world around us and prompts us to shine light into the lives of others with daily acts of goodness and kindness. Just as a flame lights another without diminishing itself, so too by sharing yourself you become enhanced rather than diminished. Every day we must increase illumination of ourselves and our environment – each day adding another good deed, lighting an additional flame.
Chanukah tells yet a deeper story, a story that penetrates the darker shadows of our lives. The Menorah shines a tunnel back through time to the aftermath of a great victory in which a small band of Jews defeated the might of the Greek Empire. In amongst the debris of the desecrated Temple the Maccabees searched ceaselessly until they found a single sealed cruse of oil that miraculously burnt for eight days. When you are defiled, when your inner Temple has been desecrated and there is no oil to be found, you have the power to reach deeper inside and discover light. The soul always remains intact like a “pilot light.” When you light your Menorah under such difficult circumstances, creating light in the darkest moment, that light can never be extinguished. The light that has dealt with challenge, that has transformed pain into growth, is a light that transcends nature and transforms darkness into light.
This power to transform darkness must come from a place beyond the conventional. We therefore light eight candles, the mystical number of transcendence and infinity, one beyond the number seven that represents the natural cycle. In order to pierce darkness with light, you can’t just rely on the natural, you need to reach a deeper resource which is the eighth dimension.
These elements of Chanukah – the eight flickering flames, the miracle of the oil, the light shining into the dark street – beckon us to connect to the power of our soul. Our soul rises like a flame toward that which transcends itself, not only repelling darkness as is the nature of all light, but transforming the darkness into light.
Tags: light and darkness, menorah
Posted in Soul & Mystical, Months & Holidays, Chanukah, Kislev, Spiritual, Torah | No Comments »
November 19th, 2014
For the miracles, for the redemption… for the wonders You have wrought for our ancestors, in those days, in this time. In the days of Matityahu… the Hashmonean and his sons, when the wicked Hellenic regime rose up against Your people Israel to make them forget Your Torah and violate the decrees of Your will…
from the Chanukah prayers
The story is told of a group of coachmen in a small town in the backwoods of Russia who heard some disturbing news from the big city. Frightening things were happening in the world: bands of iron were being laid across the plains and forests of Russia, upon which an iron monster, who ate coal and spewed fire and smoke, would move three times faster than the fleetest team of horses. It was said that this demon could pull 100 iron coaches and thousands of passengers. No longer would anyone need to hire a coach and coachman to go from town to town. No longer will merchants negotiate the price of a wagon to take their wares to the market in Leipzig. People were already traveling from Moscow to Petersburg in this manner, and soon these roads of iron will connect every town and townlet in Russia.
“And how many horses does this machine use?” asked Misha, the oldest and ablest of the coachmen. “None whatsoever,” said Grisha, who was the source of the news. “That’s the whole point: no horses, and no coachmen.” “Impossible,” said Misha with authority. “A hundred iron coaches, no horses, impossible!”
“But here’s the letter from my cousin from Smolensk. He writes: ‘The iron rails have already reached the city, and next month the first of these machines will arrive from Moscow.’ After much debate, the coachmen decided to travel to the city and see for themselves.
At the appointed time, they stood at the edge of the crowd that had gathered on the platform at the newly erected station. They heard it before they saw it, an unearthly sound of crashing metal and a thousand charging bulls. And then, in a huge cloud of black smoke, it appeared: a line of iron coaches, stretching as far as the eye could see, traveling faster than the mightiest horse, a shrieking iron monster at their head. It pulled up alongside the cheering crowd, let go a final ear-piercing wail, and died.
As the crowd surged towards the train the coachmen remained rooted to the ground, mouths agape, stunned to the very core of their souls. Misha was the first to recover. Ignoring the train of carriages and their disembarking passengers, he boldly approached the engine. Carefully he circled the still shuttering monster, running his eyes over every inch of its surface. He peered into the engineer’s cabin and crouched between the wheels to examine the undercarriage. Muttering to himself, he rejoined his fellow coachmen on the platform.
“Amazing!” he kept saying to himself. “What a horse! What a horse!”
“A horse?!” asked his colleagues.
“Of course,” said the veteran coachman. “There’s got to be a horse hidden somewhere in there. Think of it—a horse, probably no bigger than a kitten, who can pull one hundred iron coaches. What a horse!”
Why did the Maccabees revolt? It was not political independence they sought, nor was taxation–with or without representation–the issue. Matityahu and his sons took up arms because the Syrian-Greeks, who ruled the Holy Land, wished to “make them forget Your Torah and violate the decrees of Your will.”
It was not the Torah per se that Hellenic regime wished to uproot from the people of Israel, but Your Torah. Nor was the Greek against the Jews’ practice of the Torah’s precepts, the mitzvos, as a moral and ethical code; it was specifically the decrees of Your will that he wished to outlaw.
The Decrees
The Torah’s 613 mitzvos fall into three general categories: laws (mishpatim), testimonials (eidot) and decrees (chukim).
“Laws” are the most “rational” of the mitzvos. Indeed, we can envision the human mind deducing that the rich should give to the poor, that a child should respect his parents, that murder, theft, and slander ought to be forbidden—also if these were not Divinely legislated laws.
“Testimonials” are the mitzvos which signify and commemorate. Shabbos attests to G-d’s creation of the world and establishes our lives as the ongoing commitment to develop it as “partners in creation”; the Passover observances evoke the experience of freedom and the contemplation of its significance; teffilin reiterate the sovereignty of mind over heart and deed and the “binding” of all three to serve a higher end. While the mind may not necessarily have conceived these precise forms of attesting and experiencing, it certainly accepts them as “rational”. We understand the need for concrete symbols for the truths and ideals we care for, and recognize the manner in which these mitzvos instill them in our hearts and lives.
Then there are the “decrees”. These are the wholly supra-rational mitzvos, such as the prohibition against mixing meat and milk or the laws of niddah. It of these mitzvos that G-d says: “I have instituted a statute, decreed a decree: you have no license to reason it.”[1] Here the mind must acknowledge its limitations, conceding that there are truths which lie beyond its finite scope.
Humanly Divined
To the Greek, the human being was supreme. The body of the athlete, the mind of the philosopher—if perfect, man was god. To have suggested that there might be anything more transcendent than man’s crowning glory, the intellect, was heresy.
Torah? By all means. The Hellenist respected the Jews’ philosophy as part of the great human quest for knowledge. He also recognized the philosophical, psychological and social value of their “lifestyle.” Laws? The backbone of any civilized society. Testimonials? Also important. Decrees? Interesting—let’s examine them. There has to be some reason why such a highly intelligent people are doing these things. No reason? You mean no known reason. You say no reason whatsoever? Listen, I don’t understand everything—not yet, anyway. Maybe I’ll never understand everything. Maybe there is no man alive today who can understand everything. Maybe no man who has ever lived who could understand everything. But everything true has a rational reason.
Listen, let’s get together. We certainly have a lot to learn from each other. We’ll visit your Temple, you’ll visit our stadiums. We’ll open a comparative religions department in Jerusalem’s new Hellenist University. You know, if we apply some Aristotelian methodology to your Biblical myths, there might be some interesting results. Maybe we’ll even crack some of those enigmatic “decrees”…
In Those Days, In This Time
On Chanukah, the historical Hellenist threat was overcome by a handful of Jews who insisted the Torah’s decrees are “the decrees of Your will” and Your will only. They further believed that all of Torah is Your Torah: that also the most rudimentary “law” is intrinsically supra-rational, its “rational” husk external to its Divine essence.
The Chanukah lights remind us that there is the Hellenist within that must also be vanquished, a Hellenist coachman who insists that nothing exists beyond his narrow perception of reality. Torah? By all means. Laws and ceremonies? Beautiful. Decrees? Hard to accept but, hey, nobody’s perfect. I’ll take it on faith that there’s a good reason for it. Beyond reason? Be real! There’s got to be a horse in there, somewhere…
Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber.
[1] Midrash Rabba, Bamidbar 19:1
Tags: Greeks
Posted in Months & Holidays, Chanukah, Faith, Religion, Beliefs & Concepts, Kislev, Miracles, Spiritual, Torah | No Comments »
November 19th, 2014
Rabbi Asher Sossonkin, a soldier in the Lubavitcher Rebbe’s army of teachers and activists who kept Judaism alive in Communist Russia in the darkest years of repression, spent many years in Soviet labor camps for his “counter-revolutionary” activities. In one of these camps he made the acquaintance of a Jew by the name of Nachman Rozman. In his youth, Nachman had abandoned the traditional Jewish life in which he was raised to join the communist party; he served in the Red Army, where he rose to a high rank; but then he was arrested for engaging in some illegal business and sentenced to a long term of hard labor in Siberia.
Rozman was drawn to the chassid who awakened in him memories of the home and life he had forsaken. With Reb Asher’s aid and encouragement, he began a return to Jewish observance under conditions where keeping kosher, avoiding work on Shabbat, or grabbing a few moments for prayer meant subjecting oneself to near-starvation, repeated penalties and a daily jeopardy of life and limb.
One winter, as Chanukah approached, Reb Asher revealed his plan to his friend. “I’ll get hold of a small, empty food can—the smaller the better, so it’ll be easy to hide and escape notice. We’ll save half of our daily ration of margarine over the next two weeks, for oil. We can make wicks from the loose threads at the edges of our coats. When everyone’s asleep, we’ll light our ‘menorah’ under my bunk….”
“Certainly not!” cried Nachman Rozman. “It’s Chanukah, Reb Asher, the festival of miracles. We’ll do the mitzvah the way it should be done. Not in some rusty can fished out from the garbage, but with a proper menorah, real oil, at the proper time and place. I have a few rubles hidden away that I can pay Igor at the metal-working shed; I also have a few ‘debts’ I can call in at the kitchen….”
A few days before Chanukah, Nachman triumphantly showed Reb Asher the menorah he had procured—a somewhat crude vessel but unmistakably a “real” menorah, with eight oil-cups in a row and a raised cup for the shammash. On the first evening of Chanukah, he set the menorah on a stool in the doorway between the main room of their barracks and the small storage area at its rear, and filled the right-hand cup; together, the two Jews recited the blessings and kindled the first light, as millions of their fellows did that night in their homes around the world.
On that first night the lighting went off without a hitch, as it did on the second, third and fourth nights of the festival. As a rule, the prisoners in the camp did not inform on each other, and their barrack-mates had already grown accustomed to the religious practices of the two Jews.
On the fifth night of Chanukah, just as Reb Asher and Nachman had lit five flames in their menorah, a sudden hush spread through the barracks. The prisoners all froze in their places and turned their eyes to the doorway, in which stood an officer from the camp’s high command.
Though surprise inspections such as these were quite routine occurrences, they always struck terror in the hearts of the prisoners. The officer would advance through the barracks meting out severe penalties for offenses such as a hidden cigarette or a hoarded crust of bread. “Quick, throw it out into the snow,” whispered the prisoners, but the officer was already striding toward the back doorway, where the two Jews stood huddled over the still-burning flames of their candelabra.
For a very long minute the officer gazed at the menorah. Then he turned to Reb Asher. “P’yat? (Five?)” he asked.
“P’yat,” replied the chassid.
The officer turned and exited without a word.
Tags: Chassidic history, Communist Russia
Posted in Months & Holidays, Chanukah, Beliefs & Concepts, Kislev, Miracles, Torah | 1 Comment »
November 19th, 2014
A Journey by Candlelight
By Srolic Barber
the light of the first night.
I am a boy – too young to be a manyet mine eyes bear witness to more,than a boy should ever understand…
* * *
As the battle rages with untold ferocity
I turn to my feather and quill,
’tis where I can express myself; ’tis where I can be me
For now the enemy hath been kept at bay
but Alas! A stray arrow,
and now doubt shrouds tomorrow’s day
Live I shall live – mine heart yet beats as it bleeds,
it’s the darkness that I fear;
the arrow hath sown the seeds.
That perhaps one morning the sun might awake
to find the moon in distress,
and a frozen darkness in its wake.
That in the bleakest twilight we might forget who we are
our candles be dimmed,
the light now a bridge too far.
by the light of the second night.
I walked by the shore today,
my toes crawling through the sand,
and saw the waves wash my footprints away.
I stood a while and fought the tears;
the waves yet surging forward,
smiling as they confirmed my fears.
If all deeds the wind is bound to scatter,
and with time a legacy shan’t matter,
why then do we roam this land ‘neath our feet
when our footprints will tomorrow be obsolete?
by the light of the third night.
Doth the strain of war breed only mindless legions
or do we yet dream of our aspirations?
Might we a wife, a brother, a life on the outside
or hath our deepest hopes already died?
Are my questions even real or simply born of frustration?
Might they stir a man’s soul
or just his imagination?
I hold to my faith for warmth tonight
but how many dark winters
will faith stand to fight?
by the light of the fourth night.
See the candle and how she doth dance
shy first steps before she takes the chance.
Holding no secret, dispelling all doubt
lighting the world to see what she is all about.
Up and up, she reaches for the sky
so she could be there too; where the sun never says goodbye.
* * *
Tonight is the first night I noticed the lights
there is a brighter glow than the other nights.
I heard them whisper a message from within,
there is more to life; there’s blood ‘neath our skin.
It was down by the campfire where the troops come to chatter
and one wearied warrior spoke how our lives might matter;
that more than just feed to the sword,
we are the children of the Lord.
He told of a purpose to creation,
how we must partner in its preservation;
our deeds carry weight in the bigger picture,
and every step is already the future.
Then silence befell us men
and slowly aware of our Father in heaven,
each avoided the other’s gaze
as we picked through an emotional maze.
[Myself, I looked where the flames leapt from the fire
and watched the shooting sparks slowly expire.
And as they disappeared beyond return
I wondered if they were ever of concern…]
by the light of the fifth night.
On Monday the moon was but a sliver, a slight glint way up in the sky.
On Tuesday she wore a fuller gown, yet still looking rather shy.
On Wednesday I saw clearly as the moon smiled a secret.
On Thursday she waved, and invited me to visit.
Each day we must grow if we will to defeat the night,
it’s what the moon teaches me as I sit up by her light.
by the light of the sixth night.
The candles flicker, trying to escape their wicks.
And though I cannot see from my distance, I know there are six.
For yesterday there were five, but that won’t carry for today;
each night we add a candle, to scurry the darkness away.
* * *
Down by the campfire tonight,
the man spoke this time of our people’s plight.
He reminded us of our duty;
that our sword shall bring security.
His words spoke of conviction and a heart that sees,
beyond the blight of days like these.
He told of better days that were coming;
the final redemption from all our suffering.
And though the waters cometh unto this neck of mine,
I shall walk as King David of once upon a time;
raise my voice in prayer and stave my heart from worry,
be it the deepest ocean,
Still I wait for thee.
And even through the darkest night
where Alas! Nary a man doth search for the light,
my spirit shall not falter as I wait for the sun to break free,
the darkness may be blinding,
Still I wait for thee.
And while the tempest rages about
its blustering winds carving a sliver of doubt.
My mind shall refrain from these thoughts of folly,
though the skies are only grey,
Still I wait for thee.
And in a desert that stretches beyond the horizon
where the sandy floor is my only companion,
and whilst the dry, squalid air gives rise to despondency,
my faith remains unshaken,
Still I wait for thee.
Yet waiting for thee I have been
for a day that I have ne’er known nor seen,
and though skeptics say it is but a story,
by my life I shall swear,
Still I wait for thee.
by the light of the seventh night.
Oh darkness! Hearken ye,
this candle of mine save’th from thee.
By its light I might live,
to see life for what it really is.
I shall learn from its flame
and keep compass in a world insane
Oh darkness! The candle burns bright
Doth thee not tremble by its sight?
With every candle that I light
I chase thee from this winter’s night.
And with every good deed that is done
we leave an imprint ‘neath the sun
Oh darkness! You fool,
for a mere moment shall thee rule.
Though our footprints may yet wash away,
our fingerprints forever stay.
And as each wind help’th the boat set sail,
every good deed doth tip the scale.
by the light of the eighth night.
It’s midnight and the moon hangs stoic in the sky,
the stars glitter beside her
as though painted and left to dry.
If I light a candle it’s light will spread a thousand mile,
one little candle, but it’s message will burn a while.
______
Srolic Barber, of Sydney, Australia, has studied Rabbinics in Melbourne, Australia; New York; and Caracas, Venezuela. He has engaged in community activism throughout the world and is a freelance writer for Jewish outreach websites. Email: srolicbarber@gmail.com
Tags: poetry
Posted in Months & Holidays, Chanukah, Kislev, Torah | 2 Comments »
November 19th, 2014
Lyrics by Phillip Namanworth.
Music by Elliot Finkel.
Every year in Kislev
special energies return
for eight nights, we light the lights
and celebrate as they burn
Listen to the candles
hear them weave their spell
Listen to the candles
each flame has a story to tell
The flame of trust
in our holy connection
giving us courage to fight
The flame of hope
in our Heavenly Father
showing the way through the night
The flame of trust——–
trust
giving us courage to fight
The flame of hope——
hope
showing the way through the night
Listen to the candles
hear them weave their spell
Listen to the candles
each flame has a story to tell
The flame of love
binds us together
united throughout history
The flame of awe
keeping us humble
and teaching how great we can be
The flame of love——–
Love
united throughout history
The flame of awe——
awe
silently teaching
how little we are and how great we can be
Flames are drawn to each other
adding to the glow
one flame lights another
spreading joy wherever they go
The flame of freedom
illuminating
sparks in the darkest place
The flame of peace
inside and outside
transcending time and space
The flame of freedom—–
freedom
burns in the darkest place
The flame of peace——
the oneness of G-d
transcending time and space
Listen to the candles
hear them weave their spell
Listen to the candles
each flame has a story to tell
The flame of faith
whatever might happen
believing eternally
The flame of Soul
the menorah keeps burning
for you and for me
The flame of faith—–
Faith
believing eternally
The flame of soul——-
soul
the menorah keeps burning
the menorah keeps burning
for you and me
Miracles and wonders
light and salvation
heavens help and victory
Listen to the candles
hear them weave their spell
Listen to the candles
each flame has a story to tell
Listen to the candles
flaming in design
listen to the Chanukah candles
the story is yours and mine
Tags: poetry
Posted in Months & Holidays, Chanukah, Kislev, Torah | No Comments »
November 19th, 2014
The Shulchan Aruch (Code of Jewish Law) writes that it is best to use olive oil for the kindling of the Chanukah lights because of the clean, pure flame it produces.[9] Chassidic master Rabbi Shlomo of Karlin would use the recommended oil, but expressed regret over not using candles. “With candles,” he would say, “the dripping wax leaves a mark of Chanukah all year. Oil, however, burns so cleanly, that a day after Chanukah, nothing of the festival adheres to the home!”
One year, a mishap occurred and the flames from the Karliner Rebbe’s menorah started a small fire which left burn-marks on one of the walls of his home. Rabbi Shlomo was overjoyed: a residue of Chanukah would now linger on until its lights would be again kindled next year!
Adapted from the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe by Yanki Tauber.
[9]. Shulchan Aruch, Orach Chaim, 673:1.
Tags: Jewish law, Chassidic stories, Karliner Rebbe
Posted in Months & Holidays, Chanukah, Kislev, Torah | No Comments »
November 19th, 2014
Unlike most other mitzvot, which can be (and usually are) performed indoors, the laws governing the kindling of the Chanukah lights stipulate that they be placed within the doorway or window of the home, so that their luminance should radiate outward to the street. The night may be dark, the street may be teeming with alien and commonplace elements, but if there is a Jewish home in the vicinity, the street will know that it is Chanukah.
It will also know which night of Chanukah it is. On each of the eight nights of Chanukah, a different number of flames are kindled, expressing that night’s particular place in the festival. On the first night of Chanukah, there will be one flame illuminating the street; on the second night, two flames; and so on.
Actually, the Talmud records two opinions on how each Chanukah night should identify itself and cast its unique light upon the world. This was one of the halachic issues debated by the two great academies of Torah law, the House of Shammai and the House of Hillel: the sages of Hillel held that the Chanukah lights should increase in number each night, in the familiar ascending order; the sages of Shammai were of the opinion that eight flames should be lit on the first night, seven on the second, and so on in descending number, until the eighth night of Chanukah, when a single flame should be lit.[1]
The Talmud explains that the sages of Shammai saw the Chanukah lights as representing the “upcoming days” of the festival—the number of days still awaiting realization; thus, the number of lights decrease with each passing night, as another of Chanukah’s days is “expended.” The Hillelian view, on the other hand, sees the lights as representing Chanukah’s “outgoing days,” so that the ascending number of flames reflect the accumulation of actualized milestones in the eight-day quest for light.
In practice, we follow the opinion of the school of Hillel, and an ascending number of lights chronicle the progress of the festival. This is even alluded to in the very name of the festival: the Hebrew word “Chanukah” forms an acronym of the sentence Chet Neirot V’halachah K’veit Hillel—”Eight lights, and the law follows the House of Hillel.”[2]
Our acceptance of Hillel’s perspective on Chanukah is also expressed by the name traditionally given to the eighth day of Chanukah—the only day of the festival to be distinguished by a name of its own—“Zot Chanukah.”
The name “Zot Chanukah” is based on a phrase from that day’s Torah reading, and literally means “This is Chanukah.” This is in keeping with the Hillelian vision of Chanukah, in which the final day of Chanukah—the day on which all eight days of light have been actualized—marks the climax of the festival; only on the eighth day can we say: “This is Chanukah; now we ‘have’ the entire Chanukah.” (From the Shammaian perspective, the first day of Chanukah would be “Zot Chanukah.”)
What is the basis for these two visions of Chanukah? And why is the view of the House of Hillel so overwhelmingly embraced, to the extent that it is implicit in the very name “Chanukah” and in the name given to its culminating day?
The Debate
There are two basic ways in which one might view something: in light of its potential, or its actual state. We might say of a certain person: “He has tremendous potential, but his actual performance is poor.” The same can be said of a corporation, a relationship, an experience, or anything else. Or we might say: “There’s potential for disaster here, but it might be contained and prevented from actualizing.”
Some of us are potential-oriented, which means that we would admire the person, invest in the company, stick it out with the relationship and treasure the experience—depending upon its potential. Some of us are more actual-oriented, viewing things in terms of their “bottom line”—their actual tactual impact upon our reality.
This is a recurring theme in many of the disputes between the schools of Shammai and Hillel. For example, the sages of Shammai consider the moment of the Exodus to be the eve of Nissan 15, when the people of Israel were free to leave Egypt; the sages of Hillel place the moment at midday of the following day, when the Jews actually exited Egypt’s physical borders.[3] In another debate, the sages of Shammai consider a fish susceptible to ritual impurity from the moment the fisherman pulls his catch out of the water, since at this point the fish has been removed from the environment in which it might possibly live; the sages of Hillel disagree, contending that as long as the fish is actually alive (though its potential for continued life has been destroyed), it is immune to contamination, as are all other living plants and animals.[4]
This is also the basis of their differing perspectives on Chanukah. The House of Shammai, which views things in terms of their potential, sees the first day of Chanukah, with its potential for eight days of light, as the point in which all eight days are “there”; but after one day has “gone by” and passed from potential into actuality, we “have” only seven days in their most meaningful form—the potential form. The sages of Hillel, on the other hand, see the actual state as the more significant; to them, the eighth day of Chanukah, when all eight dimensions of the festival have been actualized, is when the festival is at its fullest and most “real.”
G-d’s Reality
We are creatures of the actual. We cannot live on potential nourishment, or be emotionally satisfied by potential relationships; on the whole, we judge people by their actual conduct, as opposed to their potential to behave a certain way. Reality, to us, is what is, not what might be.
This is largely due to the fact that we are physical beings. It is a most telling idiom of our language that “immaterial” means “insignificant”: if we cannot touch it or see it, it’s not real to us. Also, because of our finite and limited nature, we possess potentials that we will never actualize because we haven’t enough energy, resources or willpower to carry them out, or simply because we won’t live long enough to do so. So the existence of a potential or possibility for something is not enough, for how do we know that it will amount to anything? Indeed, we often tend to view the actual as the measure of potential: if this much has been actualized, this “proves” that there is potential worthy of regard.
Envision, however, a being who is neither physical nor finite; a being not limited by space, time or any other framework. In such a being, potential does not lack actualization, for everything is “as good as done.” On the contrary: potential is the purest and most perfect form of every reality—the essence of the thing, as it transcends the limitations and imperfections imposed upon it when it translates into physical actuality.
For G-d, then, the potential is a higher form of being than the actual. This is why we say that, for G-d, the creation of the world did not constitute an “achievement” or even a “change” in His reality. The potential for creation existed in Him all along, and nothing was “added” by its translation into actuality. It is only we, the created, who gained anything from the actual creation of the world.
So when the sages of Shammai and Hillel debate the question of which is more significant from the perspective of Torah law, the actual or the potential, they are addressing the more basic question: Whose Torah is it—ours or G-d’s? When the Torah enjoins us to commemorate the Exodus, when it legislates the laws of ritual impurity or commands us to kindle the Chanukah lights, does it regard these phenomena from the perspective of its divine author, in which the potential is the ideal state, or from the perspective of its human constituency, which equates actual with real?
The Torah
Whose Torah is it, ours or G-d’s? Both Shammai and Hillel would agree that it is both.
The Torah is the wisdom and will of G-d. But as we proclaim in the berachah (benediction) recited each morning over the Torah, G-d has given us His Torah, for He has delegated to mortal man the authority to interpret it and apply it. Thus, He did not communicate His will to us in the form of a detailed manifesto and a codified list of instructions. Instead, He dictated a relatively short (79,976-word) “Written Torah” (the Five Books of Moses), together with the “Oral Torah”—a set of guidelines by which the Written Torah is to be interpreted, decoded, extrapolated, and applied to the myriads of possibilities conjured up by the human experience.
So while the entire body of legal, homiletic, philosophical and mystical teaching we know as “Torah” is implicit within the Written Torah, G-d designated the human mind and life as the tools that unlock the many layers of meaning and instruction contained within its every word.
Torah is thus a partnership of the human and the divine, where a kernel of divine wisdom germinates in the human mind, gaining depth, breadth and definition, and is actualized in the physicality of human life. In this partnership, our human finiteness and subjectivity become an instrument of the divine truth, joining with it to create the ultimate expression of divine immanence in our world—the Torah.
Which is the more dominant element of Torah—divine revelation or human cognition? Which defines its essence? What is Torah—G-d’s vision of reality, or man’s endeavor to make his world a home for G-d? At times the Torah indicates the one; at times, the other. Thus we have the rule that “The words of Torah are not susceptible to contamination.”[5] A person who is in a state of ritual impurity (tum’ah) is forbidden to enter the Beit HaMikdash (Holy Temple); but there is no prohibition for him to study Torah. Why is he forbidden to enter a holy place but permitted to think and speak holy words? Because the Torah is not only “holy” (i.e., an object subservient to G-d and receptive to His presence)—it is divine. It is G-d’s word, and the divine cannot be compromised by any impurity.
On the other hand, another law states that “A teacher of Torah who wishes to forgive an insult to his honor, can forgive it.”[6] This is in contrast to a king, who if insulted, has no right to forgive the insult, and no recourse but to punish the one who insulted him. For a king’s honor is not his personal possession, but something that derives from his role as the sovereign of his people; one who insults the king insults the nation, and this is an insult that the king has not the authority to forgive. Yet does not one who insults a Torah scholar insult the Torah? How does the scholar have the right to forgive the Torah’s insult? The explanation given is that “the Torah is his.”[7] He who studies Torah acquires it as his own; G-d’s wisdom becomes his wisdom.
Whose Torah is it—ours or G-d’s? Both descriptions are valid; both are part of the Torah’s own self-perception. In certain laws and circumstances, we find the divinity of Torah emphasized; in others, its human proprietorship.
Thus, in a number of laws, the schools of Shammai and Hillel debate which definition of Torah is the predominant one. The sages of Shammai believe that in these particular applications of Torah law, the divinity of Torah predominates: the Torah’s perspective is synonymous with G-d’s perspective, meaning that the potential of a thing is its primary truth. The Sages of Hillel see these laws as belonging to the “human” element in Torah, so that Torah’s vision of reality is the human, actual-based perspective.
The Human Festival
In the great majority of the disputations between the schools of Shammai and Hillel, the final halachic ruling follows the opinion of the House of Hillel. Halachah is the application of Torah to day-to-day life. In this area of Torah, it is the human element which predominates; here, reality is defined in terms of the actual and tactual, rather than the potential.
But nowhere is the supremacy of the Hillelian view more emphasized than in the debate on Chanukah, where the very name of the festival, and the name given to its final day, proclaim that “the law follows the House of Hillel.” For Chanukah is the festival that, more than any other, underscores the human dynamic in Torah.
As noted above, the Torah consists of two parts: the divinely dictated words of the Written Torah, and the Oral Torah, also communicated by G-d, but delegated to man. In the Oral Torah, G-d provides the guidelines and principles, while man follows theses guidelines and applies these principles to derive and express the divine will.
The Oral Torah has two basic functions: to interpret the Written Torah, and to legislate the necessary laws, ordinances and customs required to preserve the Torah and Jewish life through the generations.
Most of the festivals are explicitly ordained in the Written Torah. This is not to say that there is no “human element” involved: the Oral Torah is still required to clarify each festival’s laws and observances. For example, the Written Torah commands us to dwell in a sukkah and take the Four Kinds on Sukkot, but the Oral Torah is needed to interpret the oblique biblical allusions that tell us how a sukkah is to be constructed and which plant species are to be taken. Yet the festivals themselves were instituted by direct divine revelation.
There are two festivals, however, that are rabbinical institutions: Purim and Chanukah. These belong to the second function of the Oral Torah: to institute laws and observances that derive not from a verse in the Written Torah, but which arise out of the historical experience of the people of Israel.
These, too, are Torah, for they were enacted in accordance with the principles revealed at Sinai. Before reading the megillah on Purim, or kindling the Chanukah lights, we say: “Blessed are You, G-d… Who has sanctified us with His commandments, and commanded us to read the megillah… to kindle the Chanukah lamp.” G-d is commanding us to observe these mitzvot, for it is He who granted the leaders of each generation the mandate to institute laws, ordinances and festivals. Yet in these festivals, it is the human element of Torah which predominates, while the divine element is more subdued.
Of the two rabbinical festivals, Chanukah is even more “human” than Purim. Purim was instituted during the Era of Prophecy, when G-d still communed directly with the greatest individuals of the generation. The story of Purim was written down and incorporated within the Holy Scriptures that are appended to the Written Torah. Thus, while Purim is technically an “Oral Torah” festival, it is closely related to the Written Torah.
Chanukah, however, occurred several hundred years later, when prophecy had ceased and the canon of the twenty-four books of the Tanach (Bible) had been closed. It thus belongs wholly to the Oral Torah—to the predominantly human element of the partnership. So Chanukah is the environment in which the Hillelian perspective on Torah—Torah as it relates to our tactual experience of the world we live in—reigns supreme.
Based on the Rebbe’s talks on Chanukah 5740 (1979) and Tevet 4, 5733 (December 9, 1972)[8].
Adapted from the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe by Yanki Tauber.
[1]. Talmud, Shabbat 21b.
[2]. Avudraham, Seder Hadlakat Ner Chanukah.
[3]. The question of the precise moment of the Exodus has certain halachic repercussions, such as the procedure for reciting hallel on the seder night. See Talmud, Pesachim 116b; Jerusalem Talmud, Pesachim 10:5; Rashi on Deuteronomy 16:1.
[4]. Talmud, Uktzin 3:8; Bartenura’s commentary, ibid. For more examples of Shammai-Hillel debates that hinge on the question of potential vs. actual, see Beit HaOtzar 1:27 and 2:2; Le’or HaHalachah, LeShitot Beit Shammai U’Veit Hillel; Sefer HaSichot 5748, vol. II, pp. 645-668.
[5]. Talmud, Berachot 22a.
[6]. Ibid., Kiddushin 32a.
[8]. Likkutei Sichot, vol. XXV, pp. 243-251 (see the essay “De
Tags: Jewish law
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November 18th, 2014
On the eight days of Chanukah we kindle an eight-candle menorah. But we don’t light all eight every night. On the first night we kindle one candle, on the second two, and so on until the eighth night–when all eight candles shine forth.
This clearly displays a very basic theme in Judaism: there must be consistent progress. I may have lit one candle yesterday, illuminating my life and my environment, but that’s not good enough for today; I’ve got to advance “from strength to strength,” making my life more meaningful. If G-d gives me a day of life, it’s got to be productive, substantive–we’ve got to progress beyond our own status-quo, our own norms. Chanukah teaches us not to be satisfied with what was good yesterday.
In the Code of Jewish Law, the laws of Tereifos address the specific physical abnormalities that would render a properly slaughtered (kosher) animal un-kosher. A kosher animal must be a healthy animal, and a mortal wound or life-threatening blemish will render it unfit for consumption. In chapter 58, paragraph 7, of those laws, the code paints the following scenario: You’re standing at the bank of a river and a kosher species of bird flies overhead. Suddenly, the bird does a nosedive into the water–striking the water with considerable force. Now it’s paddling slowly along the water’s surface. You’re hungry, and you’d like to reel it in, slaughter it and have it for lunch. Should you assume that it sustained massive internal trauma and damage upon impact? Or is there a reasonable hope that it’s alive and well, that if you slaughter it and inspect it, you’ll find its organs intact?
The Code gives the following litmus test: If it’s swimming upstream, against the current, then you can be confident that it’s okay. If it’s floating with the stream, then try to determine whether the bird is floating more quickly than the current, or together with the current. If it’s swimming more quickly than the current, you can be reasonably certain that it’s still healthy; if it’s just floating at the same pace as the current, don’t bother–it’s dying. In Judaism, living means consistent self-betterment. It means being perpetually pro-active.
I may have had an inadequate upbringing; I may have certain character flaws–that’s a natural part of the human condition. But we shouldn’t just resign ourselves to negative character traits or behavior. We have to swim upstream when necessary, to battle our own respective natures. I may see no reason to swim upstream. Maybe I’m basically satisfied with my character and with that of my community. Judaism tells me not to rest on my laurels, just following the positive stream of my life or the virtuous norms of my society. I’ve got to move more swiftly than the norm, more quickly than the stream of life’s current. Even if things are good, there’s always room for improvement.
If I satiate my desire for productivity with what I’ve already accomplished, I’ve basically ceased to live. The Jewish attitude to life is: If G-d gave you another day, there’s obviously more to do. Never be satisfied with what you did yesterday. We can’t be satisfied until we’ve perfected ourselves and our surroundings to an extent that we live in a tranquil, peaceful, perfected world–a world of Moshiach.
By Rabbi Mendy Herson.
Tags: Jewish law, personal growth
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November 14th, 2014
When Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi (founder of Chabad Chassidism), already an accomplished scholar and mentor to many disciples, neared his twentieth year, he decided to travel to a center of Torah learning and service of G-d.
At that time (circa 1764) Vilna and Mezeritch were the great Jewish capitals of Eastern Europe. Vilna was the seat of Rabbi Eliyahu, the famed Gaon of Vilna, and Mezeritch was the hometown of Rabbi DovBer (the ‘Maggid’), leader of the chassidic movement.
Years later, Rabbi Schneur Zalman told of the descision which ultimately led to his joining of the chassidic movement: “I debated as to where I should go. I knew that in Vilna one was taught how to study, and that in Mezeritch one could learn how to pray. To study I was somewhat able, but of prayer I knew very little. So I went to Mezeritch.”
Tags: Chassidic stories, Chassidic history
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November 14th, 2014
I have been diminished by all the kindness and by all the truth that You have done for Your servant.
Genesis 32:11
He was unlike most men. He was not one who relished victory, savoring the sweet taste of vindication. Nor was he one to condemn those who had conspired to ruin him, although no one would have blamed him had he done so. After all, these are the reactions one would expect from an innocent man who had been made to endure so much suffering. But Rabbi Shneur Zalman of Liadi, the Alter Rebbe, was unlike most others.
After he was cleared of treason charges and released from incarceration in the Fortress of Petropavlovsk in Petersburg, Russia, on the 19th day of Kislev 5559 (1798), the Alter Rebbe had one primary message for his followers. Using unusually forceful language, he wrote an open letter to all of his chassidim, exhorting them not to seek retribution against their fellow Jews: opponents of the Chassidic movement who had sought to destroy him by fabricating the charges. Furthermore, he cautioned them against harboring feelings of anger or even pride towards them.[1]
The letter reads:[2]
Do not open your mouth or whistle at them, G-d forbid.[3] A strict warning: nothing is to be mentioned [of my victory]; subdue [your] spirit and heart before every man… with humility and a kind reply that removes anger… and perhaps G-d will give it into the hearts of your brethren [to reciprocate your love, for] “as water reflects one’s face [so too does the heart of one man reflect the heart of another].”[4]
Though the time was ripe for the criticism of his opponents, the Alter Rebbe nonetheless wished for reconciliation. For these were not the words of an ordinary man—these were the words of a Rebbe.
Fear of the Unknown
The Alter Rebbe was not the first person to express such sentiments—his letter is based upon a statement made by our Patriarch Jacob, some 3,300 years earlier.
At the end of Parshat Vayeitzei the Torah relates how Jacob, after 22 years of devoted service to his father-in-law Laban in Charan, begins his journey back to Canaan, the land of his birth, together with his family. As the narrative of their journey continues in this week’s parsha, Vayishlach, Jacob is warned that his twin-brother Esau is approaching with four hundred men, ostensibly seeking revenge for the blessings Esau feels Jacob “stole” from him years before. Jacob, genuinely frightened, prepares for this showdown in three different ways: he readies his family for war by dividing them into two camps (“If Esau comes to the one camp and strikes it, then the remaining camp shall be a refuge”[5]); he sends lavish gifts to appease Esau; and he prays to G-d for divine intervention:
“G-d of my father Abraham and G-d of my father Isaac; G-d who said to me ‘Return to your land, your birthplace, and I will do good with you’: I have been diminished by all the kindness and by all the truth that You have done for Your servant; for with my staff I crossed this Jordan [River], and now I have amassed two camps. Please save me from the hand of my brother, the hand of Esau, for I fear lest he come and strike me down, mother and children.…”[6]
In explaining this unusual prayer, the commentaries note that Jacob feared that he was unworthy of G-d’s miraculous salvation. Since he had been the recipient of G-d’s munificence so many times before, perhaps his merits had diminished.[7] He had been saved from Esau 34 years earlier when the incident of the blessings first occurred; he had been blessed with a wonderful family and great wealth while in Charan; and most recently, he had prevailed over Laban’s repeated treachery. How long would G-d continue to save him? When would his pool of merits finally evaporate? Jacob therefore prayed to G-d to be saved not on account of his own worthiness, but purely through the Al-mighty’s benevolence.
But how is it possible that Jacob, “the chosen of the Patriarchs,”[8] could have had such doubts concerning his own righteousness, to the extent that he felt unworthy of divine protection? Despite his humility, certainly he was aware of his tremendous virtues! Even assuming that Jacob felt somewhat lacking in his devotion to G-d,[9] surely he was infinitely more righteous than the morally corrupt Esau!
To be or not to be…
The most fundamental axiom of reality is “There is none else besides Him.”[10] This is the axis upon which we base our definitions of spirituality and physicality. Anything, be it a creature or an ideal that embodies this truth—shunning self to instead touch the Divine—is “spiritual,” while anything that denies the presence of a higher reality by purporting self-reliance and independence, is “physical.” Thus, the realms of the physical and the spiritual are not just located on different planes—they are absolute contradictions of each other. Matter asserts its independence, while spirit recognizes the presence of something beyond itself.[11]
This definition of physicality—i.e., that which obscures G-dliness—is illustrated in the four dimensions in our physical world, namely the mineral, vegetable, animal and human kingdoms. Take a look at a rock. Does a rock in any way demonstrate its subservience to and dependence upon a higher power? Does it give any clues that allow us to perceive that there is a cause, a force beyond itself? Or does it just sit there, oblivious to the world around it, as if crying out: “I am, I always was, I will forever be”? Continuing our geo-scrutiny, vegetation, which, by virtue of its ability to grow and flourish, asserts its independence more convincingly than the stagnant, static mineral world. The animal kingdom is even bolder in its autonomy, possessing the ability to freely move about, unlike its “grounded” counterparts. And man is by far the most independent of all creatures, having not only the freedom of mobility, but also the power of expression afforded to him by speech, and the intellectual facility to make his own free choices—even the freedom to choose to deny the existence of his own creator, G-d forbid.
However, man is not a wholly physical being. He is hewn of matter and spirit, possessing a soul to temper and guide the body. And the soul, being “literally a part of G-d above,”[12] innately desires to be reunited with her divine home. Thus, the soul is likened to a flickering flame,[13] constantly battling the physical “wick” which tries to drag her earthbound, licking the air above, yearning to return to her heavenly source, though she—as she exists now as a perceptible “flame”—would cease to be.
Man’s challenge then is to transcend his physical nature, to strengthen spirit over matter, stripping away the coarse, selfish, materialistic shell that obscures the pure soul within him. This allows his soul to spring forth and summon the collective soul of creation, thereby revealing the innate synonymy of “Creator” and “creation.” But this seamless state of selflessness is extremely difficult to attain—indeed, it is reached only by the few perfectly righteous, who, despite the magnitude of their accomplishments, desire nothing more than to be consumed in the limitless light of G-d.
Jacob epitomized this form of divine service. The higher he climbed in his spiritual journey, the less he focused on himself and his personal achievements, concentrating rather on the infinity that is the divine. That is why he feared that he was unworthy of G-d’s salvation, for he had totally abolished any feelings of self, including those of his merits. This is what the Psalmist means when he sings, “The justice and kindness of Jacob, You have made”[14]—even when Jacob could have demanded divine intervention as a form of “justice,” fitting payback for his faithful service, he nonetheless asked G-d for His “kindness,” the same pure, irrational kindness normally reserved for one who truly does not deserve salvation.
…that is not the question
From this it would appear that the greatest attribute one can possess is selflessness. Yet King David writes, regarding Jacob’s virtues, “justice and kindness,” implying that “justice”—the awareness of one’s merits—is also a noble virtue that one should strive to attain.
This quality is also hinted at in Jacob’s prayer. On the words, “For with my staff I crossed this Jordan [River],” the Midrash explains that upon encountering the Jordan River on his way to Charan, Jacob “placed his staff on the Jordan and it split.”[15] Thus in his prayer Jacob alludes to a miracle that he performed, indicating that he indeed possessed a keen awareness of his greatness!
These insights into Jacob’s life illustrate that self-awareness and selflessness are not contradictory. For when we evaluate ourselves truthfully, we recognize that our every quality has a limit, a certain definable boundary that separates mortal achievement from that of the Divine; human compassion from its G-dly counterpart; earthy love from heavenly love; and indeed, renders the former utterly insignificant. Thus, it is the true awareness of oneself, understanding every shade and nuance of our character, which allows us to realize our shortcomings and experience the ultimate in selflessness and abnegation to the G-dly torch that shines beyond. Jacob personified a seamless integration of both approaches, possessing intimate knowledge of his own virtues together with the awareness of their limitations. In turn, G-d reciprocated Jacob’s self-transcendence by suspending the “natural order” in which the weak succumb to the mighty, showing instead His quintessential love of Jacob—though “Esau is a brother to Jacob, it is Jacob whom I love, while Esau I despise.”[16]
Truth
Two men. One perspective. The Alter Rebbe experienced a clearly divine miracle, the ultimate triumph of victory. A lesser man might have used it to fuel his ego, to gloat in vindication and chastise his opponents. But not Rabbi Shneur Zalman. He took the opportunity to reveal to us a larger, grander picture. A picture in which there is no divisiveness, no fragmentation, and no pain: only a single, perfect unity—between men, and with G-d.
Based on an address of the Rebbe given Yud Tes Kislev, 5726 (1966)[17]. By Ari. Sollish.
[1] For a detailed account of the episode, including important background information and the interesting aftermath, see “The Arrest and Liberation of Rabbi Shneur Zalman of Liadi,” Kehot, 1999.
[2] Tanya, Iggeret Hakodesh, epistle 2.
[3] The sixth Lubavitcher Rebbe, Rabbi Yosef Yitzchok Schneersohn (1880-1950), once mentioned an explanation that he heard from his father, Rabbi Sholom Dov Ber (the fifth Lubavitcher Rebbe, 1860-1920), regarding the words “or whistle at them G-d forbid”: “A whistle is an expression of inward ecstasy, stemming from holiness, yet in regard to that the [Alter] Rebbe says ‘G-d forbid.’” See Likkutei Dibburim, vol. I, p. 39.
[7] Rashi to verse 11; Cf. Talmud, Shabbos 32a; Berachos 4a; Bamidbar Rabbah 19:32.
[8] Bereishit Rabbah 76:1. Based on Psalms 135:4: “For G-d has chosen Jacob for Himself.”
[9] See Rashi, ibid: “I am fearful that perhaps from the time I was promised [G-d’s salvation], I stumbled in sin, thus causing me to be delivered into the hand of Esau.”
[11] This is in contrast with the typical definition of physicality and spirituality, namely, that “physical” describes that which is tangible and/or perceived by the five senses, while “spiritual” describes that which is sublime and imperceptible.
[12] Tanya, Likkutei Amarim, beginning of ch. 2.
[13] “The soul of man is the candle of G-d”—Proverbs 20:27.
[15] Rashi, ibid. Note Rashi’s first explanation—“I had with me neither silver nor gold nor cattle, just my staff alone”— emphasizing Jacob’s lack of self.
[17] Likkutei Sichot, vol. XV, pp. 274-280.
Tags: Chassidic history
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