Tag: divine sparks

  • A Lunch to Remember

    A Lunch to Remember

    Small Jars; Big Results

    When Joseph saw Benjamin with them, he said to the overseer of his household, ‘Bring these men to the palace. Slaughter an animal and prepare it. These men will be eating lunch with me’ – this week’s Torah portion (Genesis 43:16)

    Why does the Torah make such a fuss about the meal that Joseph served his brothers?

    It all goes back to Jacob’s dislocated hip.

    The Midrash explains that when Esau’s angel (the “stranger”) touched Jacob’s hip socket, he struck at all of Jacob’s descendants, referring to all the suffering and persecutions that the children of Jacob would endure at the hands of the children of Esau. But despite their horrible suffering, and deep wounds, they would prevail.

    One of the consequences of Jacob’s wound was the selling of Joseph into slavery by his own brothers. How was it possible that such great men, the tribes and children of Jacob, forbearers of the entire Jewish nation, should stoop to petty jealousy driving them to first want to kill their own brother and then settle on selling him as slave?

    Jacob’s eleven sons saw Joseph as a formidable threat to fulfilling the Divine purpose of life. Judah was designated to be the leader. His descendants – the House of David – were given kingship. When the brothers heard that Joseph dreamt that he would be their leader they saw this as mutiny against the Divinely ordained leadership of Judah. They foresaw the split that the children of Joseph would create in their mutiny against the house of David, the Kingdom of Israel that would break away from the Kingdom of Judah. To preempt this tragedy they felt that Joseph’s mutiny deserved death.

    Why is Judah the appropriate leader and not Joseph? Judah (from the word ‘hodaah,’ “acknowledgment”) embodies faith and humility: the single most important ingredient in a true leader. He does not see himself as great, only as transparent channel of a Higher Will completely dedicated to serving his people. His ego and personality do not stand in the way between the people and G-d. Without absolute faith, humility and selflessness, leadership and the power that it wields is just plain dangerous.

    Chassidic thought applies this to our personal lives: Judah is action and implementation (maaseh), Joseph is scholarship and knowledge (Talmud). Joseph’s great virtue, as his name implies, is the power of growth through wisdom and scholarship. But for all its strengths, scholarship without humility, knowledge without action, reason without faith, leads to arrogance and ultimately can become destructive. An absolute commitment to truth is built upon the unwavering foundation of faith.

    Thus, Jacob’s children saw Joseph’s dreams of grandeur as a threat to the Divine plan.

    However, they were mistaken. Joseph’s leadership was a necessary prerequisite to Judah’s kingship. Joseph, representing scholarship, is necessary before we can merit the humility of Judah. In a perfect world Judah is the leader (Moshiach son of David), but while we still live in an imperfect world, where there is a dichotomy between matter and spirit (Esau and Jacob), ignorant faith can be even more dangerous. The passion of absolute faith without knowledge, humility without the direction of wisdom, action without first studying, can become misguided and misdirected, to the point of harming others in the name of ignorant faith. Thus, the need for Joseph’s leadership, to temper and balance the passion of Judah: Wisdom to direct and guide one’s actions, knowledge to channel the power of faith. Joseph’s leadership (Moshiach son of Joseph) prepares and refines the world for the ultimate leadership of Judah (as related in the haftorah of the Vayigash portion). (see The Selling of Joseph)

    This dichotomy between knowledge (Joseph) and implementation (Judah), between scholarship and faith, is reflected in Esau’s guardian angel displacing Jacob’s hip socket. The hip connects the higher part of the body with the lower part. When the angel displaced Jacob’s hip he severed the connection between mind and action.

    The entire encounter of Joseph and his brothers is all about reconnecting the two forces of Joseph and Judah. So, when Joseph saw his brothers return with Benjamin he immediately ordered lunch to be served. Slaughter an animal and prepare it. These men will be eating lunch with me. The Talmud explains (Chulin 91a) that Joseph’s instruction “prepare it” meant to “remove the displaced (sciatic) nerve (gid hanasaha) in front of them [his brothers].” Joseph was making a point that his brothers see how the meat was being prepared for them in way that they could eat it, fulfilling the mitzvah of gid hanasha, not to eat “the displaced nerve on the hip joint to this very day because he [the angel] touched Jacob’s thigh on the displaced nerve” (Genesis 32:33).

    Joseph was reminding them about the schism caused by Esau’s angel, which was also the root of Joseph and his brother’s battle.

    When the brothers realized what was happening they became frightened. They began to understand their grave error (as they later acknowledge “G-d has uncovered our old sin” – 44:16) in selling Joseph; how it was another terrible expression of the split between faith and reason (Judah and Joseph).

    Yet another manifestation of the displaced hip is when the Greeks defiled the Holy temple and the pure olive oil used to kindle the menorah (as mentioned above: Esau’s angel affected Jacob’s descendants in all generations). The Arizal teaches that Chanukah came to repair the wound in Jacob’s hip caused by Esau’s angel (the level of hod) (Siddur HaArizal, Kol Yaakov. See Pri Etz Chaim, Shaar Chanukah ch. 4).

    The 16th century sage and mystic, the Shaloh (Drush Tzon Yosef), explains that this is alluded to in the words “kaf yereicho” (the upper joint of Jacob’s hip): The word “Yereicho” is also used to describe the base of the menorah (Exodus 25:31). “Kaf” (chof, peh) reversed is the word “pach” (cruse), referring to the cruse of pure oil discovered on Chanukah. Chanukah helps repair Jacob’s wound. The cruse of pure oil (“pach”), which represents the pure essence of the soul, transforms the dislocated hip (“kaf”); kindling the menorah with pure oil, reconnects the “base” of our beings – our actions (Judah) – with our branches and higher faculties (Joseph).

    The plot thickens: Jacob’s battle with Esau’s angel came after Jacob returned across the river (after crossing his family and all his belongings) and “remained alone” to retrieve some “small jars” that were left behind (Chulin ibid. Cited in Rashi).

    The Midrash explains the significance of these “small jars”: “From where did Jacob get this jar? When he picked up the stones from under his head and returned them in the morning, he found a stone that had a jar of oil in it, and he used it to pour on the top stone. When it refilled itself, Jacob knew it was set aside for G-d. He thus said, ‘It’s not right to leave this jar here’” (Yalkut Reuveni. See Sifsei Kohen al HaTorah. Birchat Shmuel Parshat Miketz 39d).

    Twenty years before Jacob returned to face Esau, on his way to Charan, Jacob fell asleep after sunset on Mount Moriah with a stone under his head. There he had his famous dream of a ladder reaching into heaven. G-d shows Jacob the rise and fall of nations to come, the persecutions and redemptions of his children. G-d blesses and promises him “I am with you. I will protect you wherever you go and bring you back to this soil. I will not turn aside from you until I have fully kept this promise to you.”

    Jacob awoke and realized that this must be the place of “G-d’s Temple,” the “gate to heaven.” In thanksgiving to G-d’s promise Jacob took the stone he had slept on and built a monument to commemorate his prophetic vision: “Jacob got up early in the morning and took the stone that he had placed under his head. He stood it up as a pillar and poured oil on top of it” (Genesis 28:11-18).

    Now, twenty years later, when Jacob realizes that “small jars” with miraculous oil remain on the other side of the river, he returns to retrieve them – “It’s not right to leave this jar here.”

    Another Midrash takes this a step further: G-d said to Jacob, “In the merit of endangering yourself for a small jar, I will repay your children with a small jar to the Hasmoneans [the miracle of Chanukah]” (Tzeidah LaDerech).

    Because Jacob returned for the “small jars” of pure oil , and in doing so battles Esau’s angel all night long, Jacob’s children are repaid 1431 hundred years later with finding pure oil in exactly the same holy place where Jacob found oil the morning following his dream!

    And though Jacob was wounded in the process – reflecting the fractured world in which we live – he prevailed over the angel, and ultimately was healed. So too, through the discovery of the “jar” (“pach”) of pure oil on Chanukah and kindling the flame after sunset, we conquer the darkness and repair the dislocated hip (“kaf”).

    Everything that happened to Jacob happened to [his son] Joseph. Joseph was “sent” to Egypt in order to redeem the “jars” – to begin the refinement process of the nations, including Esau (see Joseph’s Treasures). Joseph, as a good son of his father Jacob, recognized the wound that had ruptured his relationship with his brothers. He therefore prepared a meal with his brothers to remind them of the work that needs to be done to heal the injured hip, connecting the higher with the lower.

    Indeed, the Mordechai (cited in Matah Moshe sec. 996) says that the lunch meal Joseph shared with his brothers alludes to the Chanukah meal (see Shaar Yissachar, Chanukah). Perhaps it can also said that with this meal (which was initiated by Joseph when he first saw his brother Benjamin) Joseph imbued Benjamin (and his descendants, King Saul and later Mordechai) with the power to repair Jacob’s wound, as explained in the Zohar how the prophet Samuel (who anointed King Saul) repaired the wound (Zohar I 21b. II 111b-112b. Explained in the Ramak’s Pardes, Shaar Yerech Yaakov. Arizal – Likkutei Torah and Sefer HaLikkutim Samuel I 10. Kanfei Yonah 53. Kol Bochim Eicha 4:18, cited in Shaloh Mesechta Megilah). Benjamin was also the cataylst and bridge that reunited Joseph with Judah and his brothers.

    We thus see how seemingly unrelated events in the lives of Jacob, Joseph and his brothers, transpiring in different times and places, all come together in a fascinating mosaic telling us one story: How we can transcend our wounds and reintegrate our lives.

    Everything that happened to the patriarchs is an indication for their children. All the events come to teach us about the future…they were shown what would happen to their descendants.

    Jacob’s wrestling with Esau’s angel through the night represents the battles through all forms of darkness in our own lives, until the dawn of redemption. Throughout the night of exile – in all its shapes and forms, external and internal, physical and psychological – we have fought and continue to fight many battles against those that would try to extinguish spiritual light.

    Often, very often, we “remain alone” and have to fight a lonely battle. At times we may feel resigned and demoralized: Is anybody watching over us? Does anybody care? Or are we trapped in our own existential solitude, left to struggle all alone? And if so, why should we bother? Why make the effort to retrieve “small jars,” why search out a seemingly trivial detail?

    Our forefather Jacob battle teaches us that life’s challenges are often experienced “alone.” But that is precisely the ultimate purpose of our lives – to cross the river and redeem the pure oil of the soul that is concealed in the “small jars.”

    We may like to score great achievements; we may prefer to gravitate to major events and dramatic experiences. But often we will encounter “small jars” – nothing very substantial or glamorous. We may meet a lonely soul in need of help. Perhaps a little child who can use a smile, or an older person lying in a hospital bed.

    Always remember that the “small jars” contain potent energy, pure oil, perhaps the most potent energy of them all. And it may well be that the entire purpose of your existence is to uncover the “small jars” that will come your way.

    By returning for the “small jars” of undiminished oil, Jacob battled the angel all night long and prevailed. He thus imbued us with the power to fight and win our battles, until we reveal the ultimate light of personal and global redemption.

    So, next time a “small jars” situation comes your way that may not seem very significant, remember: The jar contains powerful fuel. Go redeem it. “It’s not right to leave this jar here.”

    * * *

    Question for the week: What suggestions do you have to deal with loneliness?

  • Recognizing and Seizing Opportunities

    Recognizing and Seizing Opportunities

    In order to seize an opportunity, you first have to recognize it. While some of the opportunities given to you in life are obvious, others are hidden. What does it mean that an opportunity is hidden, and how can you find it?

    Generate Sparks

    A physical analogy: Picture a matchbook. If the matchbook is in working order (i.e. it is not waterlogged or missing a critical component), every match contains the potential to generate sparks and light flames. Although you do not see sparks when you look at the matchbook, you recognize the potential for sparks because you know the matchbook’s function. You know that all it will take to extract a spark from a match is the act of striking the match on an appropriate surface or igniting it with another flame.

    Everything you encounter in life — every situation and every person — is like that matchbook, in the sense that they contain sparks, which are generated through your actions. Dismissing any experience as useless is like looking at a functional book of matches and deeming it devoid of sparks. There is a kernel of enormous value in everything, even stuff that is frustrating and unpleasant. It’s up to you to look for the hidden opportunity, for that hidden spark.

    Your life is driven by a hidden choreography, far richer than you can imagine, with sparks of opportunities concealed in every step of your journey. It’s your role to uncover and ignite these sparks, connecting the dots and the coordinates of your life trajectory.

    Places Where Opportunities Hide

    Challenges: Challenges can be difficult, but they are rife with opportunities. If it seems like your challenges have not offered you any opportunities, change your perspective. Ask yourself: What have my challenges taught me? What strengths and skills have you acquired to deal with your setbacks? What good came from your overcoming a challenge? Have your challenges taken you to new places or introduced you to new people? Have you, at the very least, gained self-knowledge through the difficulties you have faced? Have you put that self-knowledge to work?

    Meetings: You might be through with your formal education, but the school of life is always in session. When you meet others, even for no special reason, always keep your eyes, ears, and heart open to new opportunities. Maybe someone will mention a situation which can open up new doors for you. Maybe you will discover that someone needs help with something. In every interaction look for ways to be of service — that’s where the opportunities are hiding.

    “Random” encounters: Every one of your encounters, even seemingly random ones, has a purpose. Every single person whom you encounter, even someone unpleasant, is put in your path for a reason. Always be open to hidden, unexpected possibilities in every one of your experiences. Every encounter, even the ones that ostensibly seem superficial, will offer you an opportunity to be kind, or be helpful, or to refine your emotional attributes. When you travel, even if its for business or pleasure, always be open for the spontaneous encounter that can change your life and the life of another.

    Your work: Your job is more than an opportunity to earn a living. The people you work with, the place where you work, and the actual work that you do are suffused with opportunities. What can your work teach you about being a better person? Are there people at work who you don’t yet know but who you might reach out to? Can you use your work as a means to fulfill your purpose in life, even if the actual work seems like it is not at all connected to it?

    Exercise: Think about your life. List three surprising opportunities you have discovered in areas where you otherwise would not have thought there existed new possibilities. Journal your list in MyMLC.


    Go deeper into this subject: Are You Reactive or Proactive? | The Journey Begins | The Chase

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  • Shudders

    Shudders

    The Power of an Over 3600 Year-Old Tremble

    A human shudder is mentioned three times in the Torah (and several more times in Tanach):

    The first – in this week’s Torah portion: Isaac shuddered a great, very great, shudder when Esau approached Isaac to receive the blessing that Jacob had already “stolen” (Genesis 27:33).

    The tribes shuddered when they discovered the money planted in their sacks (Genesis 42:28). “What is this that G-d is doing to us?” they asked with sinking hearts as they realized that they were being held accountable for the blood of their brother Joseph whom they sold into slavery.

    At Sinai – the people in the camp shuddered (Exodus 19:16). Indeed, the entire mountain shuddered violently (19:18).

    The sages actually connect these three shudders: According to Rabbi Judah (Zohar I 144b) Jacob’s anguish over the loss of Joseph was a punishment for causing his father Isaac to shudder.

    The Midrash (Ohr Ha’afeilah in manuscript) says that due to Isaac’s shudder his children shuddered at Sinai.

    What connection is there between these three events?

    Every shudder reflects a serious disturbance. When we become aware that things are not aligned we shudder.

    Our universe in general and each person individually, is dichotomous in nature – comprised of matter and spirit, body and soul – two forces driven in opposite directions. The battle between matter and spirit creates serious turbulence, which lies at the root of all existential loneliness and despair – more than enough reason to shudder.

    However this dissonance is not always apparent.

    The story of Jacob and Esau reflects the struggle of life itself resulting from the tension between matter and spirit. The twin brothers Jacob and Esau embody two personalities and two nations that are odds with each other from their moment of conception (in Rebecca’s womb): “Two nations are in your womb. Two governments will separate from inside you. The upper hand will go from one nation to the other.”

    Esau and Jacob represent two forces in each of our lives and in the world as a whole: Esau, the “skilled hunter, a man of the field,” symbolizes the body, the material world, whose untamed elements need to be conquered. Jacob, the “wholesome man, who dwells in the tents,” embodies the soul, the spiritual world. Initially these two worlds do not co-exist. Matter and spirit are at war with each other. “When one rises the other falls.”

    In mystical terms the struggle between Jacob and Esau represents the process called Avodat habirurim: Everything in our material existence contains Divine “sparks,” i.e. spiritual energy, and we are charged with the mission to extricate, redeem and elevate these sparks, to uncover the spiritual opportunity embedded in every experience, and thereby refine the material universe and transform it into its true purpose: a vehicle for spiritual expression.

    Originally, Esau was to be Jacob’s partner in the endeavor to redeem the Divine “sparks.” Esau’s warrior was meant to tame the crass elements of materialism and shaping them into vehicles of the sublime. But the material Esau first needs the spiritual Jacob for direction and focus. To gain the material blessings that Isaac had designated for Esau, Jacob garbs himself in Esau’s clothes, to redeem the powerful energy within matter.

    After Jacob camouflaged as Esau receives Isaac’s blessings, Esau returns from his hunt in the field and presents himself before his father Isaac. As Esau enters Isaac’s presence, Isaac senses the profound dissonance between matter and spirit, between Esau and Jacob. And he shudders violently: Something is wrong, terribly wrong.

    What exactly caused Isaac to be seized with such a violent shudder?

    One opinion is that Isaac shuddered when he realized that Esau was not who Isaac thought he was: Isaac “saw Gehennom [hell] open beneath him” (Rashi – from Tanchuma Brocho 1. Zohar ibid). According to this opinion, Jacob was not punished for this shudder (see Ohr HaChama Zohar ibid). A second opinion is that Jacob was also the cause of his shudder. So though G-d agreed that Jacob should receive the blessings, but because he caused his father such pain (i.e. he made him aware of the deep discord), Jacob would later be affected in turn with the loss of Joseph.

    Joseph being sold by his brothers was another manifestation of the schism between matter and spirit.

    And finally, Isaac’s shudder caused the Jewish people to shudder as they stood at Sinai. The Psalmist writes: “From heaven You caused sentence to be heard, the earth feared and was still” (Psalms 76:9). Explains the Talmud (Shabbas 88a), that until Sinai “the earth feared” because the universe’s material existence was tenuous without its connection to its spiritual purpose. When this connection was established at Sinai the earth “was still.”

    It was therefore quite appropriate that standing before Sinai “the people in the camp – as well as the mountain – shuddered.” [Perhaps the mountain “shuddered violently” because the people were after all children of Jacob, and thus not quite distant from their spiritual calling. By contrast, the mountain was very much part of the material “earth” which stood in fear.]

    Yet, even after the stillness affected by Sinai the battle rages on, but now we are armed with the formal tools to bridge Esau’s matter with Jacob’s spirit.

    Over 3600 years ago our grandfather Isaac shuddered a violent shudder. He shuddered for the misalignment of the universe. He shuddered for every painful experience that would take place over the ages. He shuddered when he saw the terrible consequences of the battles between Esau and Jacob – the wars that would be waged between these two global powers, two forces in history – Rome and Jerusalem.

    He shuddered as he realized how difficult, how enormously painful the struggle would be throughout history between the forces of matter and the forces of spirit.

    His shudder continued to reverberate throughout the eons.

    But the shudder of a Tzaddik is not mere fear. It absorbs some of the shock and pain – making it easier for us to weave our way through the challenges.

    And weave we did. Through all the havoc, persecutions and expulsions, we stand today at the threshold of a new world: A world which will finally be “still” – at peace with itself, with its neighbors, and above all – with its Divine purpose.

    Some shudders have such power.

    * * *

    Question: Please share any examples of how a tremble, a shudder in life has yielded something powerful.

  • What Is A Baal Teshuvah?

    What Is A Baal Teshuvah?

    The Midrash recounts the following dialogue on the significance of sin:

    Wisdom was asked: What is the fate of the transgressor? Wisdom replied: “Evil pursues iniquity” (Proverbs 13:21).

    Prophecy was asked: What is the fate of the transgressor? Prophecy replied: “The soul that sins, it shall die” (Ezekiel 18:20).

    The Torah was asked: What is the fate of the transgressor? Torah replied: He shall bring a guilt-offering, and it shall atone for him (Leviticus, ch. 5).

    G-d was asked: What is the fate of the transgressor? G-d replied: He shall do teshuvah, and it shall atone for him. [1]

    The Philosophical Perspective

    The concept of “reward and punishment” is one of the fundamental principles of Jewish faith.[2] But punishment for wrongdoing, say our sages, is no more G-d’s “revenge” than falling to theIT sales banner ground is divine retribution for jumping out the window. Just as the Creator established certain laws of cause and effect that define the natural behavior of the physical universe, so, too, did He establish a spiritual-moral “nature,” by which doing good results in a good and fulfilling life and doing evil results in negative and strifeful experiences.[3]

    This is the philosophical perspective on sin and punishment, expressed by King Solomon in the above-quoted verse from Proverbs. “Evil pursues iniquity”—the adverse effects of sin are the natural consequences of acts that run contrary to the Creator’s design for life.

    The Prophet’s View

    Prophecy, which is G-d’s endowment of man with the capacity to cleave to and commune with Him,[4] has a deeper insight into the significance of sin.

    The essence of life is connection with G-d. “And you who cleave to G-d,” says Moses to the people of Israel, “are all alive today.”[5] “Love the L-rd your G-d,” he also enjoins them, “for He is your life.”[6]

    So a transgression is more than a spiritually “unhealthy” deed—it is an act of spiritual suicide. In the words of the prophet Ezekiel, “The soul that sins, it shall die,” for to transgress the divine will is to sabotage the lifeline of vitality that connects the soul to its source. Our sages echo the prophet’s perspective on sin when they state:

    “The wicked, even in their lifetimes, are considered dead…. The righteous, even in death, are considered alive.” [7]

    The Guilt-Offering

    The Torah has yet a more penetrating view on the nature of transgression. It, too, recognizes that the essence of a person’s life is his relationship with G-d. But the Torah also perceives the superficiality of evil—the fact that:

    “A person does not sin unless a spirit of insanity enters into him.” [8]

    The soul of man, which is “literally a part of G-d above,”[9]:

    “Neither desires, nor is able, to separate itself from G-d.” [10]

    It is only a person’s animal self—the material and selfish drives which overlay his G-dly soul—which might, at times, take control of his life and compel him to act in a manner that is completely at odds with his true self and will.[11]

    Because the Torah perceives the superficiality of sin, it can guide the transgressor through a process by which he can undo the negative effects of his transgression—a process by which the transgressor recognizes the folly and self-destructiveness of his deed and reinstates his true, G-dly self as the sovereign of his life. This process culminates with the transgressor’s bringing of a korban (animal sacrifice) as an offering to G-d, signifying his subjugation of his own animal self to the spark of G-dliness within him.[12]

    In this way, the “guilt-offering” achieves atonement for sin. Only the most external self was involved in the transgression in the first place; by renouncing the deed as “animal behavior” and subjugating the beast within to serve the soul’s G-dly aims, the transgressor restores the integrity of his relationship with G-d.

    The Fourth Perspective

    There is one thing, however, that the philosophical, prophetic and Torah perspectives on sin have in common: the transgression was, and remains, a negative occurrence.

    “Wisdom” sees it as the harbinger of misfortune in a person’s life. “Prophecy” sees it as antithetical to life itself. Torah delves deeper yet, revealing the root cause of sin and providing the key to the transgressor’s rehabilitation; but even after the atonement prescribed by the Torah, the transgression itself remains a negative event. Torah itself defines certain deeds as contrary to the divine will; so nothing in Torah can change the fact that a transgression constitutes a betrayal of the relationship between G-d and man.

    G-d, as the author of wisdom, the bestower of prophecy and the commander of Torah, is the source of all three perspectives. But He also harbors a fourth vision of sin, a vision that transcends the three venues of relationship with man which He established, a vision that is His alone: sin as the potential for teshuvah.

    The Forbidden Realm

    What is teshuvah? To understand the fourth, supra-Torah dimension of sin, we must first take a closer look at the significance of sin according to Torah.

    The commandments of the Torah categorize the universe into two domains: the permissible and the forbidden. Beef is permissible, pork is forbidden; the trait of compassion is to be cultivated, and that of haughtiness is to be eliminated; and so on.

    Chassidic teaching explains that this is more than a list of do’s and don’ts—it is also a catalog of realizable and unrealizable potentials.

    Every created entity possesses a “spark” of divine energy that constitutes its essence and soul. When a person utilizes something—be it a physical object or force, a trait or feeling, or a cultural phenomenon—toward a G-dly end, he brings to light the divine spark at its core, manifesting and realizing the purpose for which it was created.

    While no existence is devoid of such a spark—indeed, nothing can exist without the pinpoint of divinity that imbues it with being and purpose—not every spark can be actualized through man’s constructive use of the thing in which it is invested. There are certain “impregnable” elements—elements with which the Torah has forbidden our involvement, so that the sparks they contain are inaccessible to us.

    For example: when a person eats a piece of kosher meat and then uses the energy gained from it to perform a mitzvah, he thereby “elevates” the spark of divinity that is the essence of the meat, freeing it of its mundane incarnation and raising it to a state of fulfilled spirituality. However, if he would do the same with a piece of non-kosher meat—meat that G-d has forbidden us to consume—no such elevation would take place. Even if he applied the energy to positive and G-dly ends, this would not constitute a realization of the divine purpose in the meat’s creation, since the consumption of the meat was an express violation of the divine will.

    This is the deeper significance of the Hebrew terms assur and mutar employed by Halachah (Torah law) for the forbidden and the permissible. Assur, commonly translated as “forbidden,” literally means “bound”; this is the halachic term for those elements whose sparks the Torah has deemed bound and imprisoned in a shell of negativity and proscription. Mutar (“permitted”), which literally means “unbound,” is the halachic term for those sparks which the Torah has empowered us to extricate from their mundane embodiment and actively involve in our positive endeavors.

    Obviously, the “bound” elements of creation also have a role in the realization of the divine purpose outlined by the Torah. But theirs is a “negative” role—they exist so that we should achieve a conquest of self by resisting them. There is no Torah-authorized way in which they can actively be involved in our development of creation—no way in which they may themselves become part of the “dwelling for G-d”[13] that we are charged to make of our world. Of these elements it is said:

    “Their breaking is their rectification.”[14]

    They exist to be rejected and defeated, and it is in their defeat and exclusion from our lives that their raison d’etre is realized.

    The Man in the Desert

    These are the rules that govern our existence and our service of G-d. One who lives by these rules, establishing them as the supreme authority over his behavior, attains the status of tzaddik (“perfectly righteous”). Yet our sages tell us that there is an even higher level of closeness to G-d—that:

    “In the place where baalei teshuvah (“returnees”; penitents) stand, utter tzaddikim cannot stand.” [15]

    The tzaddik is one who has made the divine will the very substance of his existence. Everything that becomes part of his life—the food he eats, the clothes he wears, the ideas and experiences he garners from his surroundings—are elevated, their “sparks” divested of their mundanity and raised to their divine function. And he confines himself to the permissible elements of creation, never digressing from the boundaries that Torah sets for our involvement with and development of G-d’s world.

    The baal teshuvah, on the other hand, is one who has digressed; one who has ventured beyond the realm of the permissible and has absorbed the irredeemppable elements of creation into his life. His digression was a wholly negative thing;[16] but having occurred, it holds a unique potential: the potential for teshuvah, “return.”

    Teshuvah is fueled by the utter dejection experienced by one who wakes to the realization that he has destroyed all that is beautiful and sacred in his life; by the pain of one who has cut himself off from his source of life and well-being; by the alienation felt by one who finds himself without cause or reason to live. Teshuvah is man’s amazing ability to translate these feelings of worthlessness, alienation and pain into the drive for rediscovery and renewal.

    The baal teshuvah is a person lost in the desert whose thirst, amplified a thousandfold by the barrenness and aridity of his surroundings, drives him to seek water with an intensity that could never have been called forth by the most proficient welldigger; a person whose very abandonment of G-d drives him to seek Him with a passion the most saintly tzaddik cannot know. A soul who, having stretched the cord that binds it to its source to excruciating tautness, rebounds with a force that exceeds anything experienced by those who never leave the divine orbit.

    In this way, the baal teshuvah accomplishes what the most perfect tzaddik cannot: he liberates those sparks of divinity imprisoned in the realm of the forbidden. In his soul, the very negativity of these elements, their very contrariness to the divine will, becomes a positive force, an intensifier of his bond with G-d and his drive to do good.[17]

    This is teshuvah, “return,” in its ultimate sense: the reclaiming of the “lost” moments (or days, or years) and energies of a negative past; the restoration of sparks imprisoned in the lowliest realms of creation; the magnified force of a rebounding soul.

    Good and Evil

    But what of the “bindings” that imprison these sparks? If the tzaddik were to employ a forbidden thing toward a positive end, he would fail to elevate it; indeed, the deed would drag him down, distancing him from, rather than bringing him closer to, the G-d he is presuming to serve. From where derives the baal teshuvah’s power to redeem what the Torah has decreed “bound” and irredeemable?

    In its commentary on the opening verses of Genesis, the Midrash states:

    At the onset of the world’s creation, G-d beheld the deeds of the righteous and the deeds of the wicked…. But I still do not know which of them He desires…. Then, when it says, “And G-d saw the light, that it is good,”[18] I know that He desires the deeds of the righteous, and does not desire the deeds of the wicked. [19]

    In other words, the only true definition of “good” or “evil” is that “good” is what G-d desires and “evil” is what is contrary to His will. The fact that we instinctively sense certain deeds to be good and others to be evil—the fact that certain deeds are good and certain deeds are evil—is the result of G-d having chosen to desire certain deeds from man and to not desire other deeds from man. We cannot, however, speak of good and evil “before” G-d expressly chose the “deeds of the righteous.” On this level, where there is nothing to distinguish right from wrong, we cannot presume to know what G-d will desire.

    Therein lies the difference between the tzaddik and the baal teshuvah.

    The tzaddik relates to G-d through his fulfillment of the divine will expressed in the Torah. Thus, his achievements are defined and regulated by the divine will. When he does what G-d has commanded to be done, he elevates those elements of creation touched by his deeds. But those elements with which the divine will forbids his involvement are closed to him.

    The baal teshuvah, however, relates to G-d Himself, the formulator and professor of this will. Thus, he accesses a divine potential that, by Torah’s standards, is inaccessible. Because his relationship with G-d is on a level that precedes and supersedes the divine will—a level on which one “still does not know which of them He desires”—there are no “bound” elements, nothing to inhibit the actualization of the divine potential in any of G-d’s creations. So when the baal teshuvah sublimates his negative deeds and experiences to fuel his yearning and passion for good, he brings to light the sparks of G-dliness they hold.

    To Be and To Be Not

    What enables the baal teshuvah to connect to G-d in such a way? The tzaddik’s ability to relate to G-d through the fulfillment of His will was granted to each and every one of us when G-d gave us the Torah at Mount Sinai. But what empowers the baal teshuvah to reach the “place where utter tzaddikim cannot stand” and tap the “pre-will” essence of G-d?

    The thrust of the baal teshuvah’s life is the very opposite of the tzaddik’s. The tzaddik is good, and the gist of everything he does is to amplify that goodness. The baal teshuvah has departed from the path of good, and the gist of everything he does is to deconstruct and transform what he was. In other words, the tzaddik is occupied with the development of self, and the baal teshuvah, with the negation of self.

    Thus the tzaddik’s virtue is also what limits him. True, his development of self is a wholly positive and G-dly endeavor—he is developing the self that G-d wants him to develop, and by developing this self he becomes one with the will of G-d. But a sense of self is also the greatest handicap to relating to the essence of G-d, which tolerates no camouflaging or equivocation of the truth that “there is none else besides Him.”[20]

    The baal teshuvah, on the other hand, is one whose every thought and endeavor is driven by the recognition that he must depart from what he is in order to come close to G-d. This perpetual abnegation of self allows him to relate to G-d as G-d is, on a level that transcends G-d’s specific projection of Himself formulated in His Torah.

    This is G-d’s perspective on sin: sin as the facilitator of teshuvah. “Wisdom,” “prophecy” and “Torah” are all part of a reality polarized by good and evil; they can perceive only the damage inflicted by sin, or, at most (as in the case of Torah), the manner by which this damage might be undone. G-d’s reality, however, is wholly and exclusively good. “No evil resides with You,” sings the Psalmist.[21] In the words of Jeremiah:

    “From the Supernal do not stem both evil and good.”[22]

    From G-d’s perspective, there is only the positive essence of transgression—the positive purpose for which He created man’s susceptibility to evil and his capacity for sin in the first place. As viewed by its Creator, transgression is the potential for a deeper bond between Himself and man—a bond borne out of the transformation of evil into good and failure into achievement.

    Based on the Rebbe’s writings and talks, including a letter dated 8 Tishrei, 5712 (October 8, 1951) and an address delivered on 9 Adar II, 5725 (March 13, 1965)[23]


    [1]. Yalkut Shimoni on Psalms 25.

    [2]. The 11th of Maimonides’ “Thirteen Principles.”

    [3]. Shaloh, Bayit Acharon 12a. See also Shaar HaTeshuvah, part I, 6c and 50b; Likkutei Biurim on Tanya, vol. II, p. 129.

    [4]. See ch. 7 of Maimonides’ “Eight Chapters” of introduction to his commentary on Ethics of the Fathers.

    [5]. Deuteronomy 4:4.

    [6]. Ibid. 30:20.

    [7]. Talmud, Berachot 18a-b.

    [8]. Ibid., Sotah 3a, based on Numbers 5:12.

    [9]. Tanya, ch. 2, after Job 31:2.

    [10]. Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi.

    [11]. See Crime and Punishment, WIR, vol. X, no. 47.

    [12]. See Talmud, Sotah 14a; Likkutei Torah, Vayikra 2b-d.

    [13]. Midrash Tanchuma, Nasso 16; Tanya, ch. 36.

    [14]. Paraphrase of Sifra, Shemini 7; see Sefer HaMaamarim 5654, p. 76.

    [15]. Talmud, Berachot 34b.

    [16]. Indeed, the Talmud (Yoma 85b) warns that one who says, “I shall sin and then repent” is “not given the opportunity to repent.”

    [17]. Tanya, ch. 7.

    [18]. Genesis 1:4.

    [19]. Midrash Rabbah, Bereishit 2:7.

    [20]. Deuteronomy 4:35.

    [21]. Psalms 5:5.

    [22]. Lamentations 3:38.

    [23]. Igrot Kodesh, vol. V, p. 3; Likkutei Sichot, vol. VII, pp. 22-23

    This article is an excerpt from Inside Time, a groundbreaking three-volume book set about the meaning and messages of the Hebrew calendar.

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  • Spiritual Auditing: A Letter from the Rebbe

    Spiritual Auditing: A Letter from the Rebbe

    The following is a freely translated excerpt from a public letter written by the Rebbe in the closing days of the Jewish year 5716 (September 1956)[1]

    As we approach the close of the old year and the onset of the new, every serious-thinking individual makes an audit of the past year, upon which to base his resolutions for the year to come.60 days ad email_Chaya

    In order that the audit should be accurate and the right resolutions be made, one must be careful not to overstate one’s virtues and achievements. It is no less important, however, not to exaggerate one’s deficiencies and failings. For feelings of despondency–not to mention despair, G-d forbid–are one of greatest hindrances in a person’s endeavor to better himself.

    Unfortunately, it is possible that, even if one does not exaggerate one’s faults, an honest accounting will show the negative side of one’s spiritual and moral balance scale as quite formidable—perhaps, even, outweighing one’s positive side. But also in such a case, a person has no cause for despair.

    For (in addition to the deep regret over the past and the firm resolve for future change which the audit should elicit) one must always remember that everything good and holy is eternal and indestructible–as these stem from the soul, the spark of G-dliness within man–while negative deeds are only temporary, and can be rectified and eradicated through true and proper teshuvah (repentance).

    The appreciation of the above truth should call forth in every individual, regardless of what his stocktaking of the previous year shows, a feeling of encouragement and hope for the future—knowing that only his good deeds are eternal, and have illuminated his own life, that of his family, and of all Israel (for “all Jews are accountable for each other,”[2] bound to each other as a single entity).

    From this it is also obvious that even if one sees signs of a general decline–that humanity, as a whole, is not getting any wiser or more virtuous–in truth, the good in the world grows greater and more powerful every year, every day, and every moment. For each moment’s good deeds are added to the accumulating good in the world.

    So even if the not-good seems to be prevailing, this can only be temporary. Ultimately, the good shall gain the upper hand and the negative shall be utterly nullified. For the Creator and Ruler of the universe has decreed that, ultimately, all will do teshuvah, and that He will accept their teshuvah, so that “none shall be forsaken.”[3]

    —–

    [1] Published in Likkutei Sichot, vol. IX, pp. 417-419.

    [2] Talmud, Shavuot 39a.

    [3] II Samuel 14:14. See Deuteronomy 4:29-31 and 30:1; Mishneh Torah, Laws of Repentance, 7:5.

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  • Cholent: The Purpose of Exile

    Cholent: The Purpose of Exile

    G-d, how long?!

    Psalms 90:13

    The story is told of a simple, unlettered Jew who kept a tavern on a distant crossroads many days’ journey from the nearest Jewish community. One year, he decided to make the trip to the Jewish town for Rosh HaShanah.

    When he entered the shul on Rosh HaShanah morning, it was already packed with worshippers and the service was well underway. Scarcely knowing which way to hold the prayer book, he draped his tallit over his head and took an inconspicuous place against the back wall.

    Hours passed. Hunger was beginning to gnaw at his insides, but impassioned sounds of prayer around him showed no signs of abating. Visions of the sumptuous holiday meal awaiting him at his lodgings made his eyes water in pain. What was taking so long? Haven’t we prayed enough? Still the service stretched on.

    Suddenly, as the cantor reached a particularly stirring passage, the entire congregation burst into tears. “Why is everyone weeping?” wondered the tavernkeeper. Then it dawned on him. Of course! They, too, are hungry. They, too, are thinking of the elusive meal and endless service. With a new surge of self-pity he gave vent to his anguish; a new wail joined the others as he, too, bawled his heart out.

    But after a while the weeping let up, finally quieting to a sprinkling of exceptionally pious worshippers. Our hungry tavernkeeper’s hopes soared, but the prayers went on. And on. Why have they stopped crying? he wondered. Are they no longer hungry?

    Then he remembered the cholent. What a cholent he had waiting for him! Everything else his wife had prepared for the holiday meal paled in comparison to that cholent. He distinctly remembered the juicy chunk of meat she had put into the cholent pot when she set it on the fire the previous afternoon. And our tavernkeeper knew one thing about cholent: the longer it cooks, the more sumptuous it is. He’d glanced under the lid on his way to shul this morning, when the cholent had already been going for some eighteen hours: Good, he’d sniffed approvingly, but give it another few hours, and ahhhh… A few hours of aching feet and a hollow stomach are a small price to pay considering what was developing in that pot with each passing minute.

    Obviously, that’s what his fellow worshippers are thinking, as well. They, too, have cholents simmering on their stovetops. No wonder they’ve stopped crying. Let the service go on, he consoled himself, the longer the better.

    And on the service went. His stomach felt like raw leather, his knees grew weak with hunger, his head throbbed in pain, his throat burned with suppressed tears. But whenever he felt that he simply could not hold out a moment longer, he thought of his cholent, envisioning what was happening to that piece of meat at that very moment: the steady crisping on the outside, the softening on the inside, the blending of flavors with the potatoes, beans, kishkeh and spices in the pot. Every minute longer, he kept telling himself, is another minute on the fire for my cholent.

    An hour later, the cantor launched into another exceptionally moving piece. As his tremulous voice painted the awesome scene of divine judgment unfolding in the heavens, the entire shul broke down weeping once again. At this point, the dam burst in this simple Jew’s heart, for he well understood what was on his fellow worshippers’ minds. “Enough is enough!” he sobbed. “Never mind the cholent! It’s been cooking long enough! I’m hungry! I want to go home…!”

    The Dividends of Exile

    Galut is the state of physical exile and spiritual displacement in which we find ourselves since the destruction of the Holy Temple and the dispersion of the people of Israel more than nineteen centuries ago. On the most basic level, galut is the result of a series of national and individual failings – as we say in the mussaf prayer for the festivals, “Because of our sins, we were exiled from our land.” But Chassidic teaching explains that this is but the most external face of exile; on a deeper level, the purpose of galut is to galvanize the Jewish soul and unearth its greatest resources, and to redeem the “sparks of holiness” buried in the farthest reaches of the material world.

    In this sense, galut is a cholent – the longer it cooks, the better it gets. The more painful the galut, the more challenging its trials, the lowlier the elements it confronts us with – the greater its rewards. Every additional minute of galut represents deeper and vaster reserves of faith actualized, more “sparks of holiness” redeemed, and greater realization of the divine purpose in creation.

    But there comes a point at which every Jew must cry out from the very depths of his being: “Enough already! The cholent has been cooking long enough! We want to come home!”

  • The Materialistic Spiritualist

    The Materialistic Spiritualist

    by Dovi Sheiner

    The materialistic spiritualist — how’s that for an oxymoron? Yet that’s precisely what we are on Rosh Hashanah.

    Rosh Hashanah is the anniversary of the creation of man. On the first day of his life, Adam, the first man, encouraged his fellow creations to acknowledge the reality of a Higher Being: “Come! Let us prostrate ourselves and bow, let us kneel before G-d, our Maker.”[1] Each year on Rosh Hashanah, we relive this experience by acknowledging the supremacy of the Divine. We call upon G-d to involve Himself in our existence, enjoining Him to “reign with glory over the world in its entirety.” At the same time, being that Rosh Hashanah is the day on which G-d decides upon and assigns us our annual financial allotment, we pray also for our material needs.

    These dual realities are seemingly contradictory. In our desire to establish G-d as King over all creation, it is incumbent upon us to follow His will regardless of concern for our personal benefit. This self-negation before a Divine ruler would seem to leave little room for individualized pleas for the allocation of our material needs.

    Indeed, this awkward juxtaposition calls into question the essential compatibility of our material and spiritual spheres. When striving to carry out the will of his Creator, is man justified in requesting the fulfillment of his personal desires?

    Eli the Priest said “No!” In the Haftorah of Rosh Hashanah, a long-childless Hannah poured out her impassioned plea to G-d to “give Your maidservant male offspring.”[2] Eli the Priest, observing this scene at the Sanctuary in Shiloh, was filled with disapproval, deeming Hannah’s mention of her personal needs while standing before G-d a form of self-intoxication. “How long will you be drunk?” he censured Hannah. “Remove your wine from yourself!”[3]

    But for a Jew, the material is really a means to a spiritual end. Requests for prosperity and plenty are therefore consistent with the goal of establishing G-d’s supremacy throughout creation. By assuming ownership of a physical object and utilizing it in one’s service of G-d, the Jew succeeds in expanding the G-dly domain to include this article as well—his material possession newly spiritualized.

    Where on a conscious level, man’s pleas for material plenty might appear to be a desire to satisfy his self, in reality they are motivated by the workings of his soul. Commenting on the verse, “Hungry as well as thirsty, their soul fainted within them,”[4] the Baal Shem Tov explains[5] how the physical hunger and thirst of the body is rooted in a spiritual craving of the soul, a desire to release the G-dly sparks trapped within a given dish or drink.

    So went the retort of Hannah before Eli the Priest: “I have drunk neither wine nor strong drink, and I have poured out my soul before G-d.”[6] Hannah argued that her prayers were not rooted in her sense of self, but in her soul; not born of a selfish wish, but of her need to serve G-d selflessly. This truth was evidenced in Hannah’s pledge to dedicate her offspring to the service of G-d. She promised that if G-d fulfilled her request and gave her a son: “then I shall give him to G-d all the days of his life.”[7]

    Registering Hannah’s response, Eli adjusted his tone in support of her prayer: “Go in peace! The G-d of Israel will grant the request you have made of Him.”[8] With these words, Eli the Priest forever afforded credibility to the lifestyle of the materialistic spiritualist.

    Adapted from Likkutei Sichos vol. 19, Rosh Hashanah

    ———————

    [1] Psalms 95:6.

    [2] 1 Samuel 1:11.

    [3] Ibid. 1:14.

    [4] Psalms 107:5.

    [5] Kesser Shem Tov, Siman 194 (25,3).

    [6] 1 Samuel 1:15.

    [7] Ibid. 1:11.

    [8] Ibid. 1:17.

  • The Hard Life

    The Hard Life

    “One should live with the times,” said Chassidic master Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi to his disciples, and explained his meaning: a person should derive guidance and inspiration from the weekly Torah reading.

    Every week, another parashah (“chapter” or “section”) of the Torah is publicly read in the synagogue[1] in an annual cycle which is completed on the festival of “Simchat Torah.” The weekly parashah, Rabbi Schneur Zalman was saying, is the soul of the week in which it is read, the spiritual warp and woof of its time-weave. By following the parashah’s dictates and directives, we attune our lives to the inner essence of the particular stretch of time in which we find ourselves.

    “Living with the times” assumes an added dimension when two parashiyot are joined to form a single reading. Because the number of Shabbat readings varies from year to year,[2] there are eight such potential “pairs” among the Torah’s 54 parashiyot. This creates a situation in which the different – and at times, even conflicting-lessons of two parashiyot combine into a unified “directive of the week” for their joint week.[3]

    In addition, the weekly parashah bears an integral relationship with the other time-landmarks with which it intersects. The fact that a parashah is read in a certain month, or in proximity to a certain festival, imparts a distinct context and an additional facet to the lessons with which it instructs our “living with the times.”[4]

    By way of example, we might look at two contiguous parshiot – Mattot (Numbers 30-32) and Massei (Numbers 33-36). Let us examine their individual lessons, but also note that, in certain years, they combine to form a single reading and jointly instruct a single week. Let us also note that these two parashiyot are always read during the “Three Weeks” – the 21-day period from Tammuz 17 to Av 9 when we mourn the destruction of the Holy Temple and the onset of the centuries-long galut (exile and spiritual displacement) from which we have yet to emerge.

    Two States of the Jew

    Hardness is one of those qualities which we are forever seeking to acquire and rid ourselves of at the same time. There is more than a hint of condemnation when we describe a particular individual as a “tough” person, but no small measure of admiration as well. We denounce, in ourselves and others, behavior that is “obstinate” and “unyielding,” but also agree on how important it is to have the “backbone” to stand one’s ground and not be swayed from one’s principles.

    Indeed, our journey through life requires firmness as well as flexibility, hardiness as well as pliancy. There are times and situations which necessitate, as our sages put it, to “be yielding as a reed, not hard as a cedar”;[5] yet there are also times and situations when we are called upon to employ every iota of obstinacy and “stiff-neckedness” we can muster to resist all that threatens our integrity and seeks to deter us from our mission in life. In the words of Chassidic master Rabbi Bunim of Pshis’cha:

    “A person should have two pockets in his coat. In one pocket he should keep the verse, ‘I am but dust and ashes.’[6] His second pocket should contain the Talmudic saying, ‘A person is commanded to say: For my sake was the world created.’[7]

    This dual approach to life is implied in the Torah’s two names for the tribes of Israel. While the people of Israel constitute one entity as G-d’s “singular nation,”[8] they are comprised of twelve distinct tribes, each of which contributes its unique character and capabilities to our national mission.[9] Thus, the Torah refers to Israel’s tribes as shevatim, “branches,” or mattot, “rods,” expressing the concept that they are offshoots from a common stem, distinct from each other yet parts of a greater whole.

    While shevet and matteh are both synonyms for “branch,” the shevet is a pliant, flexible bough, while matteh connotes a stiff stick or rod. Therein lies the deeper significance of these two names for the tribes of Israel: on certain occasions the Torah refers to us as “branches,” stressing the need for flexibility and tractability in life. In other contexts we are called “rods,” underscoring the need for firmness and determination in carrying out our mission as “a holy people”[10] and “a light unto the nations.”[11]

    The latter point is the lesson of the parashah of Mattot, which opens with the verse, “And Moses spoke to the heads of the tribes….” Here, the tribes are called by the name “mattot” – a designation which becomes the name of the parashah and the crux[12] of its message: that there are times in the history of a people when they must employ the fortitude and fixity of the rod, when they must find the inner resolve to “stick it out” in a hostile and capricious world.

    The Staff of Exile

    “Hardness” is an acquired, rather than an intrinsic, state. While the potential for hardness always exists, it is actualized when a substance is subjected to galvanizing conditions and influences.

    This can be seen in the shevet/matteh model. As a branch, the shevet is supple and yielding, bending to the wind and to every pressing hand. But when it is disconnected from the tree to face the elements as a lone, rootless rod, it stiffens into a matteh.

    In other words, a matteh is a shevet hardened by the experience of galut. Deprived of tenderizing moisture from its nurturing roots, the latent hardness of the wood asserts itself, transforming the pliant branch into a rigid staff.

    Therein lies the connection between the parashah of Mattot and the time of year in which it is read. During the Three Weeks, we mourn our exile from our homeland and the removal of G-d’s open presence in our lives as it was revealed in the Holy Temple in Jerusalem. We remember how the shevatim of Israel – a people anchored to their roots, vitalized by an undisrupted flow of spiritual nurture through their limbs – were torn from their tree to become a nation of homeless mattot.

    But even as the Torah commands us to mourn the events of the Three Weeks, it insists that our mourning be a constructive endeavor, an opportunity to focus on how our state of exile might be exploited to a positive end. Even as we agonize over the rootlessness of galut, we must take advantage of the manner in which our disconnection from our natural environment strengthens us and galvanizes us. Even as we weep over the destruction of G-d’s home and the absence of His revealed presence in our lives, we must tap the tremendous reserves of faith and fortitude evoked by the challenges of an alien society and environment – reserves which would not been actualized were we to have remained a nation of shevatim undisturbed from their stem.

    Forty-Two Journeys

    But there is more to galut than the toughening of the Jewish soul. Galut is also a journey. A journey is not just a departure from home – it is an advance toward a destination. Therein lies the difference between a wanderer and a journeyer. The wanderer is escaping or being driven away from some place, while the journeyer is going to someplace. The wanderer is defined by where he is not, by the state and experience of homelessness and what this does to his inner self; the journeyer is defined by the place or places to which he goes and what he achieves there. When the wanderer and the journeyer return home, the wanderer brings back his “hardened” and matured self, while the journeyer brings the treasures procured at the various points of his itinerary.

    What are we seeking in our places of exile? What do we bring home with us when we return from our journey to the ends of earth? The Talmud defines the purpose of galut as the acquisition of “converts.” “The people of Israel were exiled amongst the nations,” it declares, “only so that converts might be added to them.”[13]

    These “converts” assume many forms. There are the literal converts – non-Jews who were included in the community of Israel as the result of our contact with the peoples of the world. More significantly (since the Torah neither instructs nor encourages us to seek converts to Judaism), there is the more subtle conversion of a pagan world to the monotheistic ethos and ideals of Torah, achieved by our 2000-year sojourn amongst the nations of the world.[14] The Kabbalists explain that the “converts” gained in the course of our galut are not only of the human sort, but also include the souls of all creatures and creations with which we have come in contact in the course of our dispersion to all corners of the globe. For every created entity has at its core a “spark of holiness,” a pinpoint of divinity that constitutes its “soul” – its function within G-d’s overall purpose for creation. Every time we utilize something – a physical object or force, an idea, a cultural phenomenon – to serve the Creator, we penetrate its shell of mundanity and realize its divine essence. This, the Talmud is saying, is the purpose of our galut: to redeem the sparks of holiness which lie buried in the most far-flung places and circumstances.

    This concept of galut is expressed by the second parashah of our pair, the section of Massei (“journeys”), which chronicles the travels and encampments of the people of Israel in the Sinai desert. The parashah’s name derives from its opening verses: “These are the journeys of the children of Israel, who went out from the land of Egypt…. And they journeyed from Raamses … and they camped at Sukkot. They journeyed from Sukkot, and camped at Eitam….” Massei goes on to list the 42 journeys which comprised Israel’s travels from Egypt to Mount Sinai to the Holy Land.

    The commentaries explain that these “journeys” are the forerunners and prototypes for the historical saga of Israel, as we advance through “the desert of the nations”[15] (as the prophet Ezekiel refers to the galut) to our ultimate “entry into the Land” in the age of Moshiach.[16]

    It is significant that the Torah refers to our ancestors’ travels as “journeys” in the plural – a plurality that is preserved in the name of the parashah. If the purpose of galut were to lie solely in its rootlessness and what this brings out in the Jewish soul, then it should be defined as a “wandering” rather than a “journey”; and if its purpose were to lie exclusively in its ultimate “entry into the Holy Land” at galut’s end, then our sojourn in the “desert of the nations” should be regarded as a single journey, not a series of journeys. The fact that the Torah considers galut to be Massei, “journeys,” means that the purpose of galut is to be found also, and primarily, in the places to which it brings us, so that each of its travels is a journey and each of its “encampments” is a destination.

    Integration

    Both Mattot and Massei are parashiyot read during the Three Weeks – both are lessons on galut. On the face of it, however, they seem to be different, even conflicting, insights into the nature and purpose of our exile. Mattot instructs us on how the purpose of galut is to evoke in us the steadfastness and immobility of the branch-turned-rod. Massei, on the other hand, regards galut as a journey – as movement, change and transformation.

    Indeed, we know that virtually everything in our existence is multifaceted, and that “life” is the endeavor to navigate, rather than to eliminate, its paradoxes. If “sticking to your principles” and “changing the world” seem conflicting goals, so be it; we nevertheless pursue them both, exercising our judgment and sensitivity as to which of these objectives should be emphasized in a given circumstance. So one week we dwell on the Mattot aspect of galut, regarding the challenges of its alien environment as something to resist and repel – thereby strengthening our resistance and hardening our inner resolve; and the next week we focus on the Massei approach to exile, exploring the ways in which our interaction with our galut environment serves to elevate it and transform it into a holier and more G-dly place.

    But what happens when Mattot and Massei unite into a single Torah-reading? Then the “directive of the week” is to integrate them both into a single approach to galut. “Living with the times” in such a week means discovering how your interaction with a hostile environment is not a challenge to your values and convictions, but their strengthening and their affirmation. It means discovering how your “toughness” and intractability in your faith is not a hindrance to achievement and creativity, but actually an aid in your endeavor to transform the corner of the world to which you have been dispatched on the mission to build a home for G-d.

    Based on the Rebbe’s talks on Shabbat Matot-Massei in the years 5729 (1969), 5733 (1973), 5735 (1975) and 5746 (1986), and on other occasions[17]

    Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber


    [1] The weekly parashah is read in full on Shabbat morning, and in part on Mondays, Thursdays and (the previous) Shabbat afternoon. An old Chassidic custom, publicized and propagated by the previous Lubavitcher Rebbe, Rabbi Yosef Yitzchak Shneerson (1880-1950), is to study a part of the weekly parashah, together with Rashi’s commentary, each day, so that one completes the entire parashah in the course of the week.

    [2] The Jewish calendar year varies in length from as few as 353 to as many as 385 days (see Jewish Time, WIR, vol. X, no. 25). Furthermore, when Shabbat coincides with a festival, the festival reading, rather than the weekly parashah, is read. So depending on the length of the year and the arrangement of its festival days vis-a-vis the days of the week, a year may contain anywhere from 46 to 54 readings in its annual Torah-reading cycle.

    [3] Each parshah is divided into seven readings (aliyot), for the seven individuals who are called up to read from the Torah. On those weeks when a joint parshah is read, the fourth aliyah begins in the first parshah and ends in the second; emphasizing the fact that the two parshiot now constitute a single parshah.

    [4] See Shaloh, introduction to Parashat Vayeishev.

    [5] Talmud, Taanit 20b.

    [6] Genesis 18:17.

    [7] Talmud, Sanhedrin 37a.

    [8] Ibid., Berachot 6a.

    [9] See A Home for Twelve, WIR, vol. X, no. 26.

    [10] Exodus 19:6.

    [11] Isaiah 42:6.

    [12] The name of a thing being the sum of its essence – see The Gap (WIR, vol. X, no. 39) and sources cited there.

    [13] Talmud, Pesachim 87b.

    [14] “Moses bequeathed the Torah and the mitzvot only to the people of Israel … and to whoever desires to convert from the other nations … but one who does not desire to do so is not compelled to accept the Torah and mitzvot. In addition, Moses commanded, in the name of G-d, to compel all inhabitants of the world to accept the mitzvot commanded to the children of Noah” (Mishneh Torah, Laws of Kings 8:10). The universal Noachide mitzvot are: belief in G-d; prohibitions against murder, theft, adultery and incest, blasphemy, and cruelty to animals; and the establishment of a legal and social justice system.

    [15] Ezekiel 20:35.

    [16] Rabbeinu Bechayei and Ohr HaChaim on Numbers 33:1.

    [17] Likkutei Sichot, vol. XVIII, pp. 378ff; ibid., vol. XXVIII, pp. 279ff.; et al.

  • The Paradox of Pain

    The Paradox of Pain

    This is the land that shall fall to you as an inheritance, the land of Canaan according to its borders. Your southern side shall begin in the Zin Desert alongside Edom… the western boundary shall be the Mediterranean Sea… this shall be your northern boundary: from the Mediterranean Sea you shall turn to Mount Hor…  you shall draw for yourselves as the eastern border from Hazar-enan to Shefam… this shall be the Land for you, according to its borders all around

    Numbers 34:2-12

    Judah has gone into exile because of suffering and great servitude. She dwelled among the nations, but found no rest; all her pursuers overtook her in narrow straits [bein hameitzarim]

    Megillat Eichah [Lamentations] 1:3

    At one time or another we all come face to face with an event that appears so terrible that it threatens us emotionally and psychologically. A loved one passes away, G-d forbid. A job that was thought to be secure is lost. One’s health suddenly deteriorates. Even the staunchest optimist will admit that life can be a wild roller-coaster ride, one moment lifting us to the greatest heights, the next plunging us to the lowest depths. How are we to view the difficulties of our life, when everything appears bleak and we cannot see beyond the limits of our own pain.

    Contrary to our experience of challenging events, the Torah tells us that “Nothing bad descends from Above.”[1] This statement by our Sages implies that everything that happens is inherently good, for it stems from G-d, the “epitome of goodness.” But how are we to reconcile Torah’s truths with our perceived reality? The argument that we are finite and therefore unable to see the larger, infinite picture may be sufficient for some, but the persistent skeptic would still demand empirical proof of the puzzling notion that pain equals joy. Furthermore, even assuming that there is some good to be found within difficulty, if G-d truly desires to give us good, why must He send His “blessings” in such strange “containers”; why does He not just send us clear, open blessings without our having to experience pain and distress at all?

    Times of Pain

    This week’s parshah, Parshat Massei, is always read during the period known as “bein hameitzarim”,[2] the three weeks between the fasts of the 17th of Tammuz and the 9th of Av. These two dates are recognized as the saddest in the Jewish calendar. Indeed, the events that occurred on these days have dramatically altered the course of history, the most notable consequence being our present galut (exile).[3] The 17th of Tammuz is the day on which the service in the First Temple was disrupted, and on which the walls of the Second Temple were breached.[4] The 9th of Av is the day on which both Temples were destroyed.[5] The Three Weeks are thus a time of mourning: we are forbidden to make weddings, listen to music, purchase new clothing, and do anything that brings excessive joy.

    Torah does not deal in coincidences; therefore, the fact that Massei is always read during the “Three Weeks” indicates that they share a common theme.[6] At first glance, however, nothing seems to be further from the truth. Parshat Massei contains G-d’s final instructions to the Jewish people prior to their arrival in Eretz Yisroel (the Land of Israel), including a description of the land’s exact boundaries, while, in contrast, the events of the Three Weeks caused the nation to be exiled from that very land!

    In order to reconcile this apparent contradiction we must first examine the deeper dimension of the elements mentioned above, namely, the Land of Israel and exile.

    It is no accident that among all the lands of the world, only Eretz Yisroel has been given the title “the Holy Land.” In the words of the Scripture, it is “the land constantly under G-d’s scrutiny; the eyes of G-d are on it at all times, from the beginning of the year until the end of the year.”[7] When we are in a state of spiritual freedom, as was the case throughout the 810 years that the Temples stood, it is a land in which G-d’s blessings can be perceived as such, without the obscuring veil of nature, and our sustenance is recognized as emanating directly from the hand of G-d. Indeed, it is the only land in which divine revelation occurred on a regular basis, via the ten miracles that occurred daily in the Temple.[8] Thus, in spiritual terms, Eretz Yisroel represents G-dliness as it is clearly manifest in creation.

    In the other lands, however, G-d has chosen to hide His presence behind the cloak of nature. Consequently, we associate our sustenance with the toil of our own hands and not with divine blessing. In essence, this is the galut-state, when even in the “Holy Land” nature appears to be the force controlling our destiny, and we are unable to perceive the G-dly spirit that guides us. “We no longer see Your wonders,”[9] laments the exiled Jew. In reality, nothing has changed—the world is still controlled by the Divine Designer of mankind—it is only our perception that has altered.

    Although Eretz Yisroel and galut are polar-opposite states of being, it is precisely the Land of Israel—or more specifically, the borders thereof—that lends the possibility for exile to occur. Just as in the physical sense, the borders mentioned in the parshah delineate the extent of Eretz Yisroel and thereby facilitate the existence of “other lands,”[10] the same is true in the spiritual realm: the fact that G-dliness is revealed only in a limited “space” means that all other “space” remains devoid of this revelation.[11]Therefore, the borders of Eretz Yisroel, i.e., the limitations placed on divine revelation, actually create the “space” in which galut, a time when G-dliness is obscured, may exist. In other words, the masking of G-dliness stems from the fact that its manifestation is limited. Thus, the possibility of galut, the time when divinity is obscured, (the theme of the Three Weeks), is a direct result of the limitations placed on the “Land of Israel” (the theme of Massei).

    This explanation elucidates the connection between Parshat Massei and “bein hameitzarim” in a somewhat negative light—namely that the constraints placed on Eretz Yisroel enable such tragedies as those that occurred on the 17th of Tammuz and the 9th of Av. However, if we look a little deeper, a completely different view unfolds.

    Times of Growth

    Although on the surface galut appears to be purely a terrible punishment for our sins, on a more profound level the very opposite is true: the challenge of galut is what unleashes the greatest, most potent forces of our soul.

    For almost 2000 years, we have suffered at the hands of others. We have been tortured, enslaved and banished. Yet despite the countless regimes that have oppressed us at different times and in different places, one constant has remained: our unwavering faith in G-d, His Torah and in the ultimate Redemption. There is nothing that the Jewish people who lived during the “golden years” of Jerusalem could have done to express such deep soul-commitment. Only we, who live in the darkness of exile have been challenged to tap the deepest, most powerful resources of our soul, our quintessential self where “Israel and G-d are completely one.” As the Psalmist writes:[12] “Min hameitzar korosi ka”—from out of distress I called to G-d, “anani bamerchav ka”—with abundance, G-d answered me. Through distress we are able to access our true, limitless core—the spark of G-d that is the soul. This is the true purpose of exile, to allow us to access and express our infinite abilities.[13]

    The same applies to the boundaries of the Land of Israel. Although they represent the limitation of G-d’s manifestation in the world, it is precisely that concealment which awakens the soul’s true potential.

    This is the lesson we may derive from Parshat Maasei and the period of “bein hameitzarim.” We must view difficulty not as a wholly negative experience, but as the greatest facilitator of growth, for it compels us to reach deep inside ourselves and tap the wealth of resources that are buried within. And while these situations are often beyond our control, the attitude with which we meet them is within our control. We have the ability to accept the challenges as they were meant to be—opportunities for positive growth and development. Although we may never fully understand why certain things happen, ultimately, they can—and therefore must—make us better people.

    Based on an address of the Rebbe given Motzai Shabbat Parshat Mattot-Massei 5739 (1979).[14]

    Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Ari Sollish


    [1] Bereishis Rabbah 51:3; Midrash Tehillim: Psalm 149; Tanya, Iggeres Hakodesh 11.

    [2] Literally, “between the constraints,” or “in narrow straits.” This term comes from a verse in Megillat Eicha [Lamentations], which is read on the 9th of Av to recount the sorrow we experienced when we were exiled.

    [3] Some of the other tragic events that occurred on these dates: on the 17th of Tammuz in the year 2448 from creation (1313 bce), Moses descended from Mount Sinai to find the Jewish people worshiping the Golden Calf, prompting him to smash the Tablets; on the 9th of Av in the year 2449 (1312 bce), G-d decreed that the entire generation would perish in the desert, after the nation—swayed by the biased report of the spies—refused to enter the Land of Israel.

    [4] An opinion in Talmud Yerushalmi states that the walls of the first Temple were also breached on this day; but, due to the trauma they experienced, the exact date was forgotten.

    [5] The First Temple by the Babylonians in the year 3338 (423 bce) and the Second Temple by the Romans in 3829 (69 ce).

    [6] Shaloh, [acronym for Shnei Luchos Habris by R’ Yeshayah Hurwitz, 1560 – 1630] beginning of Parshat Vayeishev.

    [7] Deuteronomy 11:12.

    [8] Ethics of the Fathers 5:5.

    [9] Psalms 74:9.

    [10] Every physical entity occupies space. Therefore, in order for more than one entity to exist, there must be clearly defined measurements that delineate each entity. The same is true regarding land: in order for there to be more than one country, there must be clearly defined boundaries outlining where one land ends and the other begins.

    [11] The reason why the physical Land of Israel is finite, limited to the precise boundaries laid out by G-d, is because spiritually, G-d’s presence is not manifest throughout the world; it is only in certain, specifically defined “spaces” that we clearly perceive G-dliness. Therefore, in the Messianic Age, when G-d’s presence will be revealed throughout creation, “Eretz Yisroel will spread out and cover the entire earth”—Yalkut Shimoni 503. See also Likkutei Torah on Maasei, 89b.

    [12] 118:5.

    [13] This is the deeper explanation as to why we refer to “the three weeks”—the catalyst of exile—as “bein hameitzarim.” The term “meitzar” (distress) alludes to the positive potential latent in galut, as expressed in the aforementioned verse from Psalms.

    [14] Likkutei Sichot, vol. XXXVIII, pp.122-126.

  • Subjective Judge

    Subjective Judge

    Know… before whom you are destined to give a judgment and accounting.

    Ethics of the Fathers, 3:1

    Said Rabbi Israel Baal Shem Tov: When a person comes before the supernal court to account for his sojourn on earth, he is first asked to voice his opinion on another life. “What do you think,” he is asked, “about one who has done so and so?” After he offers his verdict, it is demonstrated to him how these deeds and circumstances parallel those of his own life. Ultimately, it is the person himself who passes judgment on his own failings and achievements.[16]

    This explains the peculiar wording of the above passage of the Ethics, “before whom you are destined to give a judgment and accounting.” Is not the verdict handed down after the cross-examination of the defendant? So should not the “judgment” follow the “accounting”? And why are you destined to “give judgment” as opposed to being judged? But no judgment is ever passed on a person from above. Only after he has himself ruled on any given deed does the heavenly court make him account for a matching episode in his own life.

    The same idea is also implicit in another passage in our chapter of the Ethics: “Retribution is extracted from a person, with his knowledge and without his knowledge.”[17] As a person knowingly expresses his opinion on a certain matter, he is unwittingly passing judgment on himself.

    What we have here is a most profound insight into the specialty of the human soul. In all of creation, nothing is loftier than the “spark of G-dliness”[18] that is the soul of man. This is reflected in the fact that man has been given the power of choice—a power he shares only with the Creator Himself.

    Free choice allows him to stumble and err, but it is also what makes his potential for good infinitely greater than G-d’s more spiritual creations. So even when a soul comes to stand in judgment, implying that there are perhaps faults and failings in its past performance, no judge, be it the loftiest and most spiritual of heavenly beings, has any jurisdiction over its fate. The only power on earth or heaven that can judge man is man himself.

    From an address by the Rebbe, Shevat 10, 5720 (February 8, 1960)

    Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber


    [16]  Cf. Nathan’s admonishment of King David, Samuel II 12.

    [17]  Ethics of the Fathers, 3:16

    [18]  See 2nd chapter of Tanya