The Meaningful Life Center

Tag: Yanki Tauber

  • His Daughter’s Son

    His Daughter’s Son

    The Chabad-Chassidic movement was founded in 1772 by Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi. Upon Rabbi Schneur Zalman’s passing in 1812, the leadership of Chabad was conferred upon his eldest son, Rabbi DovBer.

    When Rabbi DovBer passed away fourteen years later, another of Rabbi Schneur Zalman’s children, the venerable chassid Rabbi Chaim Avraham, was still among the living. Rabbi DovBer also left two sons. Nevertheless, the Chabad community instead chose Rabbi Menachem Mendel (the “Tzemach Tzedek”) as their third Rebbe. Rabbi Menachem Mendel was a grandson of Rabbi Schneur Zalman—the son of his daughter, Devorah Leah. He was also a son-in-law of Rabbi DovBer, having married his first cousin, the Rebbetzin Chayah Mushka.

    Many years later, the chassid Rabbi Peretz Chein related the events of that crucial time in Chabad history:

    “At a conference held by the elder chassidim of Rabbi DovBer, it was decided to place the crown of leadership upon the head of his son-in-law, Rabbi Menachem Mendel. The conference appointed a delegation of chassidim to notify Rabbi Menachem Mendel of its decision.
    “The delegation consisted of eighteen chassidim, including Rabbi Hillel of Paritch, Rabbi Yitzchak Aizik of Vitebsk, Rabbi Yitzchak Moshe of Jassy, and myself.
    “When we came to the Rebbe to tell him of our decision, he refused to accept the leadership. So passed many months of uncertainty. Finally, on Passover of 5590 (1830), it was decided that the elder chassidim would all converge on Lubavitch for the festival of Shavuot to press for the Rebbe’s acceptance.
    “When I arrived in Lubavitch some two weeks before Shavuot, I found many of the guests already there. Within a few days, Rabbi Yitzchak Aizik of Vitebsk, Rabbi Hillel of Paritch, Rabbi Yitzchak Aizik of Homel and the others had arrived, and the conferences and delegations began. Still, the Rebbe refused us, suggesting that we choose Rabbi Chaim Avraham or Rabbi Menachem Nachum, the son of Rabbi DovBer. The community of the chassidim was in great distress.

    “On Tuesday, the first of the ‘Three Days of Preparation’ before Shavuot, I was inspired by a spirit of G-d. Standing with Rabbi Hillel and Rabbi Yitzchak Aizik as we pleaded with the Rebbe in the name of thousands of chassidim that he accept the leadership, I said to the Rebbe that I had a clear proof from a saying of the Sages that he, as the grandson of Rabbi Schneur Zalman, was the one for whom the leadership is designated.

    “To this, the Rebbe said: ‘One does not play around with a saying of the Sages. Say what is in your mouth and I will hear you out.’
    “I then said: ‘It is written: “If a woman shall give seed, and give birth to a male…”[1] From this, the Sages derive: ‘If the woman gives seed first, she gives birth to a male; if the man gives seed first, she gives birth to a female.”[2] It therefore follows that your mother was born from the first seed of your grandfather, and you were born from the first seed of your mother. As his daughter’s son, you are the most fitting heir of our first Rebbe, Rabbi Schneur Zalman. As such, you must fulfill the will of the chassidim and accept the leadership.’
    “The Rebbe thought for a while, and then said: ‘Agreed, on the condition that I will not be bothered by those seeking advice on material matters.’ ‘Chassidim want to hear Chassidus,’ responded Rabbi Hillel.

    “A short while later, the Rebbe appeared dressed in white garments—inherited from his grandfather—sat down on the podium, and began delivering the discourse, The World Stands on Three Things.”[3]

    Based on the writings of the previous Lubavitcher Rebbe, Rabbi Yosef Yitzchak Schneersohn[4]

    Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

    [1]. Leviticus 12:2.

    [2]. Talmud, Niddah 31a.

    [3]. Traditionally, a Chabad Rebbe’s delivery of a discourse (maamar) of Chassidic teaching indicated the formal assumption of leadership.

    [4]. HaTamim, no. 3, pp. 22-23 [254-255].

  • Son In Law

    Son In Law

    Once there was a king who had an only daughter. A prince came and married her. The prince wished to go back to his land and take his wife with him. Said [the king] to him: “The daughter I gave you is my only one, and I cannot separate myself from her. I cannot tell you not to take her—she is your wife. But do me one favor: wherever you go, build me a small room so that I may live with you, for I cannot part from my daughter.” In the same way, G-d says to Israel: “I gave you the Torah. I cannot part from her. I cannot tell you not to take her. But wherever you go, make a home for Me in which I may dwell.”

    Midrash Rabbah, Shemot 33:1

    Our sages have said that “a son-in-law is like a son.”[1] Indeed, a son-in-law can be said to be more of a son than a biological child, since a person does not choose his children, while a son-in-law is often chosen by the father-in-law[2] and thus reflects his vision of the self he wishes to propagate more than does his natural child.

    The Torah refers to the people of Israel as “G-d’s children.”[3] But it also speaks of a father-in-law/son-in-law relationship between G-d and Israel, as in the Midrashic analogy quoted above.

    We are G-d’s children by virtue of who we are, regardless of whether we exhibit the qualities our Father in Heaven imbued in us, regardless of whether our behavior befits that of a child of G-d. But our status as divine sons-in-law is via our relationship with His daughter, the Torah. Through our commitment to and union with the Torah, we are not only His “natural” children but His children of choice as well.

    Based on a letter by the Rebbe dated Purim, 5704 (1944)[4]

    Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

    [1]. Rashi on Talmud, Shabbat 23b. See Yalkut Shimoni, I Samuel, 24; Shulchan Aruch, Yoreh De’ah, 240:24; Biurei HaGra, ibid.

    [2]. Cf. Deuteronomy 22:16: “I gave my daughter to this man.”

    [3]. Exodus 4:22; Deuteronomy 14:1; et al.

    [4]. Igrot Kodesh, vol. I, pp. 262-263.

  • The Rebirth of the Birthday

    The Rebirth of the Birthday

    The 18th of Elul marks the birthday of two great luminaries in the history of Chassidism. Both the founder of the Chassidic movement, Rabbi Israel Baal Shem Tov (1698-1760), and the founder of the Chabad branch of Chassidism, Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi (1745-1812), were born on this date.

    Interestingly, it is only in recent generations, and through the influence of Chabad Chassidism, that the birthday has come to be marked as a spiritually significant occasion in Jewish life. Although the Torah lends particular significance to a person’s date of birth,[1] Jews have not, in recent centuries, made much of their birthdays. While the anniversaries of the passing of the great sages and leaders of Israel have been marked as important dates in the Jewish calendar, their birthdays remain largely unknown. The Rebbes of Chabad, however, reemphasized the importance of the birthday, beginning with the establishment of the 18th of Elul as a Chassidic holiday. They stressed the specialty of a great person’s birthday as a day uniquely suited for us to emulate his example and further his life’s work. They also taught that our own birthdays are days of empowerment and opportunity—a time to examine our lives, set new goals, and embark on new achievements. The 18th of Elul can thus be regarded as the birthday (or the rebirthday) of the Jewish birthday.

    [aside]the Torah lends particular significance to a person’s date of birth[/aside].

    Why, indeed, should a person’s date of birth be regarded as more significant than any other date? True, society as a whole celebrates birthdays. But is there truly a basis for such celebration? The date of a person’s passing, especially one who has led a full and productive life, can be seen as the climactic moment of his or her impact upon the world. On this day, the accumulative effect of all that he has achieved reaches its lifetime culmination.[2] But what happens on the day of birth? Long before the fetus departs the womb it is a living organism, with a functioning brain, heart and limbs already encapsulating the potential for all subsequent development and attainment. And if one looks for more than potential, then the moment of birth is hardly a landmark of maturity and achievement; in fact, the day-old infant is, in many respects, even more vulnerable than when encased in the protective environment of the mother’s womb. It will be many years before the child will be in the position to actualize his potential on any meaningful level.

    So why should the occurrence of one’s birth be considered an event worthy of commemoration and celebration?

    Alive or a Life?

    To understand the significance of the birthday, we must examine the manner in which Halachah (Torah law) regards the event of birth. On the face of it, Halachah is a legal and behavioral code which deals primarily with the pragmatics of life; but a deeper look reveals a philosophy and perspective which provides the ideological and spiritual answers to the questions that confront the human soul.

    According to Torah law, an unborn child is regarded as “a limb of its mother.”[3] Hence the law that if the fetus endangers the mother’s life, the pregnancy is to be terminated, since “as long as it has not emerged into the world (outside the womb) it is not a soul.” But from the moment that its head emerges, it is considered a “soul,” and “we cannot destroy one soul to save another.”[4]

    In other words, a fetus is not an individual life, but an extension—albeit a living extension—of its mother’s being, animated by its mother’s soul. Unlike a body with its own soul, which assumes the quality of life as its intrinsic state of being, the fetus merely reacts to an outside source of vitality in much the same way that a machine reacts to the flow of energy channeled through it. A machine can be made to exhibit the characteristics of life: warmth, movement, growth; it might even be programmed to perform the functions of intelligence and emotions. But the machine is not warm—it is being warmed; it is not moving—it is being moved. Its body remains intrinsically inanimate—it resists the movement (and other lifelike qualities) being imposed on it. Similarly, the body of a fetus, having not yet cemented its fusion with its own soul, reacts to the life-energy generated by its mother’s soul, but is not, in itself, fully alive.[5]

    The moment of birth marks the point at which an animated but essentially lifeless body becomes a living being. A “limb” of the mother becomes an individual life, a “soul.”

    The Spiritual Fetus

    Human life, if it is to be distinguished from the merely animal, includes a spiritual dimension—a set of moral values and transcendent aspirations. Thus the Talmud states: “The wicked, even in their lifetimes, are as if dead.”[6] A soul is not truly alive unless it is connected with its source, attuned to its purpose, and faithful to its mission in life.

    But life, as we said, can be either an intrinsic state or merely a superimposed phenomenon. The same is true of spiritual life: a person may lead a moral and holy existence, yet remain a spiritual fetus—a being whose spiritual life is not integral to itself but imposed upon it by an outside source.

    A spiritual life, in the ultimate sense, is the life of one whose spirituality stems from his very identity and self-definition—from an appreciation that in his connection with G-d lie the essence and purpose of his existence. A person, however, may lead a righteous and spiritual life, yet do so only out of habit, peer pressure, fear of divine retribution or expectation of divine reward, or out of a sense of duty—his “contribution” as a good citizen of G-d’s world. The common denominator of all these scenarios is that the person and his spirituality are two distinct entities: the person’s own self is defined not by his spiritual aspirations but by his material needs and wants, in addition to which he also “has” a spiritual life, imposed upon the material self by realities and forces that lie beyond its ken.

    Such an individual does not have a birthday, for he possesses life only on the fetal level. He is spiritually alive—he serves the purpose for which he was created—but his spiritual life is “supplied” by an external source. He has never graduated to the intrinsic state of life achieved outside of the womb.

    A Taste of the Future

    Thus our sages compare our present galut (exile) to the state of pregnancy, and the coming of Moshiach to our time of “birth” and emergence into full-fledged life.[7]

    For galut is more than a people’s exile from their land. It is a state of spiritual displacement—an obfuscation of truth, a blurring of priorities, an estrangement from one’s essence and source. In galut, we cannot see G-d and are therefore strangers to our own true self.

    In galut we cannot experience true life—true identification with our deepest self and our quintessential purpose. We can only, at most, attain a fetal-like connection to a source of vitality, by submitting to a life that is greater than ourselves—a life we strive to actualize in our day-to-day behavior but cannot hope to fully internalize and integrate into our own existence.

    This is why the celebration of birthdays was not a prominent feature of Jewish life for many generations. Throughout the centuries of our galut, the spiritual significance of the birthday—the graduation from the externally imposed life of the unborn soul to the post-birth state of full-fledged, self-possessing life—was an elusive goal to all but the very select number of spiritual giants.

    Then, on the 18th of Elul, the birthday was reborn.

    The teachings of Chassidism, revealed in the closing hours of galut as a “foretaste” of the era of Moshiach, came to penetrate the veil of galut and reunite us with the essence of ourselves. They came to transform our spiritual lives from a “religion” (i.e., submission and reaction to something greater than and beyond the self) into something that is apprehended, experienced and internalized as the very essence of our selfhood.

    Our true and ultimate birth awaits the coming of Moshiach, when “the earth will be filled with the knowledge of G-d as the waters cover the sea”[8] and the “spark of G-dliness” that is the core of the human soul will assert itself as the seat of our identity and the essence of our lives. But the first stirrings of birth have already begun, prodded by two great leaders born on the 18th of Elul whose teachings have accorded us a glimpse of life beyond the womb.

    Based on the Rebbe’s talks on Elul 18, 5741 (1981) and 5742 (1982)[9]

    Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

    [1] . See Midrash Tanchuma, Pekudei, end; Talmud, Megillah 13b; Jerusalem Talmud, Rosh HaShanah 3:8.

    [2] . See Tanya, Iggeret HaKodesh, section 27.

    [3] . Talmud, Gittin 23b.

    [4] . Talmud, Ohalot 7:6; ibid., Sanhedrin 72b and Rashi’s commentary. See also Nachmanides on Shabbat 107b and Niddah 44b; Meiri on Shabbat 107b and Sanhedrin 72b.

    [5] . Editor’s note: The abortion issue is often misrepresented as hinging solely on the question of whether a fetus is a life, in which case its destruction is “murder,” or not, in which case it is merely a question of “a woman’s rights over her own body.” But there exist other moral wrongs aside from murder. According to Torah law, abortion is not murder in the ultimate sense of taking an individual human life, and is therefore justified (and obligatory) if the pregnancy poses a danger to the mother’s life. But it is the destruction of life, both of a living extension of the mother and of the potential for a full-fledged “soul.” The issue of “women’s rights” is a moot point: no human being, man or woman, has the right to destroy his own life and body or any part thereof, and society carries the responsibility of preventing such acts.

    [6] . Talmud, Berachot 18b.

    [7] . See Torah Ohr, Bereishit 55a ff.

    [8] . Isaiah 11:9.

    [9] . Likkutei Sichot, vol. XXIV, pp. 178-187.

  • Waking Moment

    Waking Moment

    I offer thanks to You, O living and everlasting king, for having restored my soul within me; great is Your faithfulness

    Our first conscious act of the day is to avow our indebtedness and gratitude to our Creator. As soon as we wake from sleep, before getting out of bed or even washing our hands,[1] we recite the above-quoted lines of the Modeh Ani prayer, acknowledging that it is He who grants us life and being every moment of our existence.

    The ideas contained in the ostensibly simple lines of Modeh Ani fill many a profound chapter in the legal, philosophical and mystical works of Torah. They touch upon the omnipresence and all-pervasiveness of G-d; on the principle of “perpetual creation” (G-d’s constant infusion of vitality and existence into the world, without which it would revert to utter nothingness); on the laws governing the return of a pikadon (an object entrusted to one’s care) and on the Kabbalistic concept of Sefirat HaMalchut (the divine attribute of Sovereignty).[2] So why is the Modeh Ani said immediately upon waking, with a mind still groggy from sleep? Would it not have been more appropriate to precede it with a period of study and contemplation of these concepts?

    Night and Day

    The physiology of our bodies and the rhythm of the astral clocks partition our lives into conscious and supra-conscious domains. During our waking hours, our mind assumes control of our thoughts and actions, screening, filtering and interpreting the stimuli that flow to it, and issuing commands and instructions to the body. But at night, when we sleep, the “command-center” shifts to a deeper, darker place within our psyche—a place where fantasy supersedes logic, sense supplants thought, and awareness is replaced by a more elemental form of knowing. Hard facts become pliant, absurdities become tenable, in this nocturnal world.

    There are certain truths, however, that are unaffected by these fluctuations of knowledge and awareness. Our faith in G-d, His centrality to our existence, the depth of our commitment to Him—we know these things utterly and absolutely, and we know them at all times and in all states of consciousness.[3]

    [aside] why is the Modeh Ani said immediately upon waking, with a mind still groggy from sleep?[/aide]

    Wakefulness and sleep affect only the external activity of the intellect; what we know with the very essence of our being, we know no less when plunged into the deepest recesses of slumber. On the contrary: when awake, we must wade through the presuppositions and polemics of an intellect shackled to the “realities” of the physical state in order to arrive at these truths; asleep, our mind loosened from its subjective moorings, we enjoy a closer and deeper (albeit less conscious) awareness of our innermost convictions.

    The Modeh Ani prayer exploits a most unique moment of our day—the moment that lies at the threshold of wakefulness, the moment that straddles the conscious and supra-conscious domains of our day. There are other moments, other prayers, in the course of our day which take full advantage of our powers of intellect and reasoning—prayers that follow lengthy and profound meditations upon their content and significance. But each morning, as we move from the liberating hours of sleep to a day of conscious thought, a most unique opportunity presents itself: the opportunity to express to ourselves a truth that inhabits our deepest selves, to declare what we already know to the awaiting day.

    First Fruits

    A similar phenomenon can be discerned in a halachic discussion that underlies the mitzvah of bikkurim (“first-ripened fruits”).

    Bikkurim, like the Modeh Ani prayer, is a declaration of indebtedness and gratitude to G-d. In the 26th chapter of Deuteronomy, the Torah instructs:

    And it shall be when you come into the land which the L-rd your G-d is giving you for an inheritance, and you will possess it and settle in it;

    You shall take from the first of the fruits of the land … and place them in a basket; and you shall go to the place that the L-rd your G-d will choose to rest His name there.

    And you shall come to the kohen that shall be in those days, and you shall say to him: “I proclaim today to the L-rd your G-d that I have come unto the land which G-d swore to our fathers to give to us….”[4]

    In his “proclamation,” the bikkurim-bearing farmer goes on to recount the story of our liberation from Egypt and G-d’s gift to us of “a land flowing with milk and honey,” concluding with the pronouncement: “And now, behold, I have brought the first fruit of the land that You, G-d, have given me.”[5]

    Jethro’s Estate

    When did our forefathers begin bringing the first fruits of their newly-gained homeland to “the place[6] where G-d chose to rest His name”? The first verse of the Torah’s chapter on bikkurim contains conflicting implications as to when the practice of this mitzvah is to commence, giving rise to a legal debate between the Talmud and the Sifri (a halachic Midrash).

    The Jewish people entered the land of Israel under the leadership of Joshua one month after the passing of Moses, in the year 2488 from creation (1273 bce). But fourteen years were to pass before the land would be conquered and each tribe and family allotted its share (the conquest of the land took seven years, and an additional seven years were required for its division into twelve tribal territories and more than 600,000 estates for the heads of households entitled to a share in the land). It is for this reason, says the Talmud, that the verse specifies to bring bikkurim “when you come into the land… and you will possess it and settle in it”—to teach us that the first fruits of the land should be presented to G-d only after the conquest and allocation of the land has been completed.[7]

    The Sifri, on the other hand, places the emphasis the same verse’s opening words—“And it shall be when you come into the land” to imply that the obligation to bring bikkurim applied immediately upon the Jews’ entry into the land. The Sifri bases its interpretation on the first word of the verse, vehayah (“And it shall be”), which throughout the Torah is indicative of an event that is to come to pass immediately.[8]

    However, notwithstanding their conflicting readings of the verse, there is not much practical difference between the Talmud and the Sifri with regard to the actual bringing of bikkurim. The Torah instructs that bikkurim should be brought from “the first-ripened fruits of your land”[9]; this, agree all the sages, teaches us that the mitzvah of bikkurim applies only to a person who owns the land outright.[10] So even if the obligation to bring bikkurim had applied, in principle, from the very first moment that the Jewish people entered the Land of Israel (as per the Sifri’s interpretation), the mitzvah could not have been performed until the land was conquered and each family was allotted its own estate.

    (Indeed, the Jerusalem Talmud expresses the view that no single family assumed possession of the land allotted to it until every last family had received its share.[11] Even if the Sifri were to disagree with this position, it would have taken at least seven years (until the conquest of the land was completed) for the first Jewish farmer to acquire a plot of land from which to bring bikkurim.)

    There was, however, one case in which the Sifri’s concept of an immediate obligation to bring bikkurim could have applied in actuality. As a reward for joining their fate to that of the people of Israel, the family of Jethro was granted an estate in the Holy Land, in the environs of Jericho; this they received immediately upon the Jewish people’s entry into the land, as Jericho was the very first city to be conquered by Joshua.[12] So there was at least one family estate from which bikkurim could have been brought immediately “when you come into the land.”

    Between Dream and Reality

    Despite the fact that there is little difference, in terms of actual practice, if we say that the time for bringing bikurim is when “you will possess it and settle in it” (as the Talmud holds) or immediately “when you enter the land” (as per the Sifri), the Talmud and the Sifri represent two very different conceptions of the mitzvah of bikkurim.

    The Talmud’s conception of bikkurim expresses the notion that true gratitude for something can only come after one has come to understand its significance and appreciate its impact on his life. Unless one has “taken possession” of something by studying and analyzing it, unless one has “settled in it” by experiencing it in an aware and informed manner, of what value are one’s pronouncements and proclamations?

    The Sifri, on the other hand, holds a Modeh Ani-like vision of the mitzvah of bikkurim, insisting that our very first moment in the land that G-d has granted us should be one of recognition and acknowledgment of the divine gift.

    For forty years, as the people of Israel wandered through the Sinai desert, they dreamed of the land designated by G-d as the environment in which to realize their mission in life. Then came the great moment of crossing from dream to reality—a reality that actualizes the dream, but which also coarsens its purity. This is the moment, says the Sifri, in which to give expression to all that we know and sense about the Holy Land. For though our knowledge may be primitive and unformed by the standards of daytime reality, it comes from a place in us that will no longer be accessible when we have ventured further into this realm of conscious knowledge and feeling. Only by expressing it now, on the threshold between supra-conscious awareness and conscious knowledge, can we carry over from the perfection and purity of our supra-conscious selves into the actual reality of our conscious lives.

    Regarding the debates between our sages on matters of Torah law, the Talmud states that “These and these are both the words of the living G-d.”[13] For although only one view can be implemented as Halachah (practical Torah law), both represent equally valid formulations of the divine wisdom, and both can, and should, be incorporated in our vision of and approach to life.

    As per the Talmud, we must take care that we fully comprehend and identify with the gifts we offer and the feelings we declaim. As per the Sifri, we must seek connection with the supra-rational, supra-conscious self that underlies our conscious and intellectual persona and strive to carry over its unsullied perfection into our “daytime” lives.[14]

    Based on the Rebbe’s talks on Shabbat Ki Tavo of 5743 and 5744 (1983 and 1984),[15] Adar I 25, 5752 (February 29, 1992), and on other occasion

    Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

    [1]. The Modeh Ani prayer does not contain any of the names of G-d, referring to Him instead as the “living and everlasting king.” It is for this reason that we may recite it before washing our hands in the morning, when it is forbidden to say any “words of holiness.” Chassidic teaching explains that this does not mean that Modeh Ani is less a communication with G-d than the other, “holier” prayers. On the contrary: it addresses the very essence of G-d, which transcends all divine “names” and descriptions—including the concept of, and the conditions required for, “holiness.”

    [2]. See the Rebbe’s essay, On The Essence of Chassidus (Kehot, 1978).

    [3]. Maimonides makes this the basis for a halachic ruling in the section on the Laws of Divorce of his codification of Torah law, the Mishneh Torah. At issue is the seemingly oxymoronic question of whether a person can be forced to perform a certain action “willingly.” According to Torah law, the marriage bond is created by an act of the husband; consequently, in the case of divorce it is he who dissolves the marriage by handing a writ of divorce (get) to his wife. If the woman petitions for divorce, the court is authorized to obligate the man to grant her a get. Should he refuse to comply, the court is empowered to coerce him to do so. But since a get is valid only when granted willingly, the court must also force him to say, “I am willing.” Yet what significance can his declaration possibly have? If the court is authorized to enforce the divorce, why demand the statement? And if his consent is truly needed, can words so obviously mouthed under duress be regarded as “consent” on his part?

    Maimonides explains: As a Jew, this person “wishes to be of Israel, wishes to observe all the commandments and avoid all of the transgressions of the Torah; only his evil inclination has overpowered him. So if he is beaten so that his evil inclination is weakened, and he says, ‘I am willing,’ he is considered to have divorced willingly” as his declaration is consistent with his true, inner will (Mishneh Torah, Laws of Divorce 2:20).

    [4]. Deuteronomy 26:1-3.

    [5]. Ibid., vv. 5-10.

    [6]. The Holy Temple in Jerusalem was built by King Solomon more than 400 years after the people of Israel conquered and settled the land of Israel. Until that time, the Sanctuary made in the desert, which was set up in various places in the Holy Land (at Gilgal, Shiloh, Nov, and Giveon), served as the abode of the divine presence.

    [7]. Talmud, Kiddushin 37b.

    [8]. Sifri on Deuteronomy 26:1.

    [9]. Exodus 23:19.

    [10]. Mishnah, Bikkurim 1:1-2.

    [11]. Jerusalem Talmud, Shevi’it 6:1, Challah 2:1, et al.

    [12]. Numbers 10:32; Sifri, ibid. Only “the generation of the Exodus”—the 603,550 heads of households who came out of Egypt—were entitled to a share in the Holy Land. Jethro, who converted to Judaism after the Exodus, had no such entitlement; nevertheless, he and his descendants were granted the Jericho estate for a period of 440 years, until the construction of the Holy Temple in Jerusalem, at which time it was given to the tribe which had relinquished the Temple site in order that it become the communal property of all Jews.

    The Midrash explicitly states that the children of Jethro were given possession of this piece of land for 440 years—a time-period that begins from the year of Israel’s crossing of the Jordan under Joshua.

    [13]. Talmud, Eruvin 13b.

    [14]. The Torah section of Ki Tavo (Deuteronomy 26-28), which includes the chapter on bikkurim, is always in proximity to the 18th of Elul, which is the birthday of Rabbi Israel Baal Shem Tov (1698-1760), the founder of Chassidism, and of Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi (1745-1812), founder of the Chabad branch of Chassidism.

    The lives and work of these two great leaders parallel the two “versions” of bikkurim put forth by the Sifri and the Talmud. Rabbi Israel Baal Shem Tov revitalized (and revolutionized) Jewish life with his emphasis on the depth and purity of the faith and commitment of the simple Jew. Rabbi Schneur Zalman taught the necessity of internalizing this faith and commitment through the structured intellectual and emotional processes he outlined in his “Chabad” philosophy and approach to life.

    [15]. Likkutei Sichot, vol. XXXIV, pp. 145-152.

  • Fire and Ice

    Fire and Ice

    At a farbrengen (Chassidic gathering) with his chassidim, Rabbi Menachem Mendel of Lubavitch (1789-1866), told the following story:

    “Rabbi Israel Baal Shem Tov[2] loved light, so his disciples made sure to light many candles whenever they expected their Rebbe. On one occasion, they had but a single candle and, despite their efforts, could not find any more. Knowing how much their master loved light, they were bitterly disappointed by their inability to provide the illumination he desired.

    “When the Baal Shem Tov entered the room, he told his disciples to go outside and collect the icicles that hung from the roof. He then instructed them to arrange the ice ‘candles’ about the room and light them. The ice burned like wax, flooding the room with light.”

    Rabbi Menachem Mendel fell silent. Then, with a note of yearning in his voice, he said: “For the Baal Shem Tov’s Chassidim, ice burned and yielded light. Today’s Chassidim sit in well-heated and well-lighted rooms, and yet it is cold and dark.”[3]

    Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

    [2]. 1698-1760, founder of the Chassidic movement.

    [3]. Sefer HaSichot Kayitz 5700, p. 174.

  • To Stand Before G-d

    To Stand Before G-d

    A chicken and a cow were walking down the street when they passed a billboard advertising the daily specials at a local restaurant. In bold type, the sign announced: two eggs any style only $1.99. Beneath this line, in different-colored letters, was the message: steak plus two side dishes—only $10.95.

    Said the chicken to the cow:

    “Look at that—isn’t that something? There, in two simple lines, is our contribution to civilization. I provide the breakfast, you provide the dinner—what would humanity do without us?”

    Replied the cow:

    “For you, it’s a contribution. For me, it’s a total commitment.”

    Paradoxical Stance

    The Torah reading of Nitzavim (Deuteronomy 29-30) is always read on the Shabbat before Rosh Hashanah, as we prepare to stand before G-d to be judged for our deeds of the bygone year. These closing days of the year are a time for self-examination, for a thorough assessment of our mission in life and the steps we have taken—and need yet to take—toward its realization.

    Nitzavim thus opens with Moses’ statement to the people of Israel: “You stand today, all of you, before G-d your G-d: your heads, your tribal leaders, your elders, your officers, and all men of Israel; your children, your wives, and the stranger in your camp; from the hewer of your wood to the drawer of your water.”

    But these verses seem to contain an inherent contradiction. On the one hand, Moses stresses the similitude of the people of Israel, their common denominator in that “You stand today, all of you, before G-d your G-d.” On the other hand, he individually identifies ten classes and types of Jew, from the leader to the water carrier, from the elder to the stranger.

    The Torah is demanding from us a seemingly impossible task: to unite as a singular community before G-d, and, at the same time, to emphasize the qualities and talents unique to each individual. But if we stress our commonality, does this not require us to downplay our distinctions? And if we focus on our individual strengths, does this not invariably lead to feelings of variance from, and superiority over, the different other?

    Back to the Source

    The resolution of this paradox lies in the words, “before G-d your G-d.”

    Indeed, when we view ourselves and our place in the community from our own, human perspective, we are compelled to choose between expressing our individuality or accentuating our commonality. A group of individuals might join in a financial endeavor, a scientific project or a humanitarian effort, each contributing of his individual knowledge, expertise and resources. In such a case, what unites them are their differences—the way in which their different talents and capabilities jointly enable the achievement of their goal. Or, a group of people might join to march for a cause, to vote a particular leader into office, to populate a land. In this case, it is not their differences that contribute to their unity, but their commonality as a mass of human beings, all equal in that each is no more and no less than one of the greater number.

    But these are all “contributions.” We are lending a part of ourselves to the common cause, whether it is a talent or resource (emphasizing our individuality) or our body and membership (emphasizing our commonality). A “total commitment”—a commitment that embraces every aspect of ourselves—can only come when we stand before G-d, when we transcend our self-perceptions to submit to Him. For G-d is the essence and source of everything we are—of our character as well as our being, of each particular trait we possess as well as the simple and profound fact of our existence.

    If we stand before G-d, totally and unequivocally committing ourselves to our Creator and the purpose for which He created us, we will find that our individuality and commonality are not at variance with each other. We will find, for example, that our leadership (for each and every one of us is a “head,” whether of our community, our department at the office, our family, or in some other sphere of influence in which others learn from us) need not be expressed only in “sophisticated,” elitist ways, but also in an attentiveness to the most commonplace areas of life; the rabbi delivering his Rosh Hashanah sermon might, for a change, speak not of global politics but of the “trivial” needs of his community. We will find that the reverse is also true: that when engaged in activities that belong to the “lowliest” of roles—in the wood-chopping and water-drawing chores of daily life—we actualize our loftiest and most sophisticated talents.

    But first we must transcend the finite, self-bound perception that distinguishes between our “higher” and “lower” faculties, between our “specialties” and our “commonalities.” First we must stop “contributing,” and make that total commitment.

    First, we must stand before G-d.

    Based on a public letter issued by the Rebbe in the week before Rosh Hashanah of 5732 (1971) [1]

    Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

    [1]. Likkutei Sichot, vol. IX, pp. 462-465.

  • The Longer Shorter Way

    The Longer Shorter Way

    [This book] is based on the verse, “For it is very close to you, in your mouth and in your heart, to do it”[1]—to explain, with the help of G-d, how it is indeed exceedingly close, in a long and short way

    From the title page of Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi’s Tanya

    Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi—whose 253rd birthday was celebrated this month[2] by the Chassidic community—was the founder of the Chabad branch of the Chassidic movement. Chabad (an acronym of the Hebrew words for “Wisdom, Understanding and Knowledge”) is a philosophy and approach to life in which the mind and intellect play a key role in man’s endeavor to serve his Creator.

    Rabbi Schneur Zalman summarized the fundamentals of his philosophy in a slim volume known as “Tanya,” on which he labored for twenty years. On the title page of Tanya, Rabbi Schneur Zalman states the aim of his book: to demonstrate how the fulfillment of the divine purpose in creation “is indeed exceedingly close, in a long and short way.”

    Why is the path along which Rabbi Schneur Zalman promises to take his disciples a “long and short way”? The meaning of this paradoxical phrase is illustrated by the following story, told in the Talmud by Rabbi Yehoshua ben Chananiah:

    Once a child got the better of me. I was traveling and I met with a child at a crossroads. I asked him, “Which way to the city?” and he replied: “This way is short and long, and that way is long and short.”

    I took the “short and long” way. I soon reached the city but found my approach obstructed by gardens and orchards. So I retraced my steps and said to the child: “My son, did you not tell me that this is the short way?” Answered the child: “Did I not tell you that it is also long?”[3]

    The Direct Approach

    There are two primary paths through life: the path of faith and the path of mind. The path of faith is a “short and long way,” and the path of mind is a “long and short way.”

    The Talmudic traveler in the above story, upon reaching a fork in the physical road on his physical journey to a physical destination, had to choose which of two paths to follow. Spiritual journeys are not that way: upon reaching a fork in our spiritual road, we can—and oft-times should— simultaneously follow both paths. But it is no less important to be aware of the respective advantages and shortcomings of each.

    The path of faith is predicated upon the deep-seated truths that are intrinsic to the human soul. There are beliefs that do not have to be learned or demonstrated to us, for we know them with every fiber of our being. There are loves, fears and desires that do not have to be developed or validated, for these are feelings inherent to the very essence of who and what we are. The path of faith is the process of uncovering these convictions and feelings and translating them into a code of behavior and way of life.

    The path of faith is a “short way” in the sense that it is the most direct and straightforward route to our destination. There are no tortuous curves in this road, no uphill climbs or downhill slides. What we know, we know absolutely; what we feel is likewise felt without equivocation. We innately know and sense what is the right thing to do; all that remains is to go ahead and do it.

    But like the first path taken in the Talmud’s story, the seemingly “short way” of faith often takes us to the very brink of our destination only to encounter an impregnable barrier. We know the truth, we desire to live it, but, somehow, we stop short of doing it. Chassidic teaching refers to this phenomenon as “the thief in the burrow syndrome.” Our sages speak of how a burglar, tunneling under the walls of a home, hears the sound of footsteps; “Please, G-d,” he silently prays, “Save me!” Here is a man who instinctively believes in G-d (he hasn’t called on the Queen of England to save him), and who undoubtedly knows that G-d commanded, “Do not steal.” Nevertheless, he is stealing and simultaneously beseeching G-d for help.[4]

    Faith, then, may hover in some neutral space above our everyday self. It may be the source of staunch conviction and fervent feelings that nevertheless fail to find actualization in our day-to-day behavior. For although—indeed, because—these convictions and feelings are integrally part of who we are, we have never grappled with them, never struggled to make sense of their content and significance. It is precisely the “shortness” of this path that ultimately makes it the “longer” route.

    The Second Path

    So, like the Talmud’s traveler, we must retrace our steps (even as we continue traveling down the road of faith) and take the other fork—the “long and short way.”

    The way of mind is winding, steep, tedious and long as life itself. It is rife with struggles, setbacks and frustrations. But it is a road that leads, steadily and surely, to the aspired destination.

    In the way of mind, knowledge is the product of study, analysis and in-depth contemplation. Feelings are born out of an intimate knowledge of and thorough identification with their subject. Deeds are motivated and guided by an understanding of their function, a desire for the attainment of their aim and an abhorrence of what they forestall.

    In the way of mind, convictions and feelings are created rather than revealed, developed rather than intuited, assimilated rather than accepted. And though—indeed, because—they derive from what we have achieved rather than who or what we are, we identify with them more than we do with the truths we hold by faith. It is precisely the “length” of this path that ultimately makes it the “shorter” way to our destination.

    Of course, the products of our finite intellectual and emotional faculties could never equal the absoluteness and potency of faith. Faith therefore remains the first and primary path of life. But if the convictions of faith are to find full expression in our daily lives, they must be augmented by the struggles and achievements of the mind.

    An Earlier Chabadian

    On the cover page of Tanya, Rabbi Schneur Zalman also declares that he is saying nothing that has not already been said by the “books and sages” whose words he is merely collecting and restating.[5] Indeed, more than six centuries before the Tanya, we find two great sages, Maimonides (Rabbi Moses ben Maimon, 1135-1204) and his contemporary and critic, the Raavad (Rabbi Abraham ben David, 1125-1198), debating the respective virtues of the path of faith and the path of mind.

    In his Mishneh Torah, Maimonides devotes two full chapters to discussing the principle of “freedom of choice,” which he regards as indispensable to the very foundations of the Jewish faith.

    “For were G‑d to decree that a person be righteous or wicked, or if there were to exist something in the essence of a person’s nature which would compel him toward a specific path, a specific conviction, a specific character trait or a specific deed … how could G‑d command us through the prophets, ‘Do this’ and ‘Do not do this,’ ‘Improve your ways’ and ‘Do not follow your wickedness’…? What place would the entire Torah have? And by what measure of justice would G‑d punish the wicked and reward the righteous…?”[6]

    Later in the chapter, Maimonides addresses an oft-posed question regarding the concept of free choice:

    One may ask:

    “G‑d, of course, knows all that will transpire. Now, before a particular deed was done, did G‑d know whether the person would be righteous or wicked, or did He not know? If He knew that the person would be righteous, then it was not possible for that person not to be so. And if you say that He [did not know absolutely]… then G‑d’s knowledge was not complete!”

    Know that the answer to this question, “longer than the land is its measure and broader than the sea,”[7] and that many great foundations and lofty mountains hang upon it. But understand well what I am going to say. We have already explained in the second chapter of “The Laws of the Torah’s Foundations” that G‑d does not know with a “mind” that is distinct from His being, as is the case with man whose being and mind are two distinct entities. Rather, He and His “mind” are one and the same—a concept that is impossible for the human mind to fully comprehend. Thus, just as man cannot discover and grasp the truth of the Creator, as it is written, “No man can perceive Me and live,”[8] so, too, man cannot discover and grasp the “mind” of the Creator. In the words of the prophet, “My thoughts are not as your thoughts, nor are your ways as My ways.”[9]

    Therefore, we lack the capacity to know the nature of G‑d’s knowledge of all creations and all events. But this we know without a doubt: that the deeds of man are in his own hands, and G‑d does not compel him to do anything. And we know this not only by virtue of our acceptance of the faith, but through clear proofs from the teachings of wisdom.[10]

    The Raavad takes issue with Maimonides’ approach.

    “The author,” he writes in a gloss on the above passage, “did not act in the manner of the wise: one ought not begin something that one is incapable of concluding. He begins by posing a difficult question, then remains with the difficulty and reverts to faith. It would have been better for him to have left it as a matter of faith for the innocent, instead of making them aware [of the contradiction] and leaving their minds in doubt.”

    Why, indeed, does Maimonides begin a logical discussion of an issue for which he does not have a logical resolution? But Maimonides had a different conception than the Raavad of the role of “logic” in man’s endeavor to know and relate to his Creator.

    As the Raavad saw it, there are certain things that can be understood, and certain things that lie beyond our capacity to relate to with our mind’s tools of logic. What can be understood should be pursued via the “path of mind”; what cannot be understood should be relegated exclusively to the “path of faith.”

    Maimonides agrees that there is many “a concept that is impossible for the human mind to fully comprehend.” But he maintains that these things, too, should be pursued along the “path of mind.” We should strive to understand what it is that we cannot understand about G-d; we should strive for a true appreciation of the depth and magnitude of the supra-rationality of the divine.

    [aside] The path of faith is the process of uncovering these convictions and feelings and translating them into a code of behavior and way of life [/aside].

    In other words, the mind is not only a tool with which to grasp things that are fully comprehensible to us—it is also a tool with which to relate to supra-rational truths. Indeed, only the mind can truly appreciate how beyond understanding a supra-rational truth is. And the greater the mind and the greater its comprehension, the greater its appreciation of the magnitude of that which lies beyond its comprehension.

    So it is not enough that we accept by faith the paradox of G-d’s absolute providence of our world and man’s freedom of choice; we should also fully understand this paradox. We cannot, as the Raavad suggests, “leave it as a matter of faith for the innocent, instead of making them aware of the contradiction.” For if this contradiction did not exist within our awareness, it would mean that there are areas of G-d’s relationship with our reality which we have not explored with our minds.[11]

    Maimonides insists on tackling even the most supra-rational aspects of our relationship with G-d with the finite implements of the human mind. For it is only when pursued along the “long and short way” of mind that these truths become ingrained within our personality and character and find expression in even the most mundane activities of everyday life.[12]

    Based on the Rebbe’s talks, Iyar 5742 (April-May, 1982)[13]

    Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

    [1]. Deuteronomy 30:14.

    [2]. On the 18th of Elul (this year, September 9). That date also marks the birthday, 47 years earlier, of the founder of Chassidism, Rabbi Israel Baal Shem Tov, whom Rabbi Schneur regarded as his “spiritual grandfather” (Rabbi Schneur Zalman was a disciple of Rabbi DovBer of Mezeritch, who was the disciple and successor of the Baal Shem Tov).

    [3]. Talmud, Eruvin 53b.

    [4]. Ibid., Berachot 63a.

    [5]. Rabbi Schneur Zalman called his book Likkutei Amarim, “Collected Sayings.”

    [6]. Mishneh Torah, Laws of Repentance 5:4.

    [7]. Job 11:9.

    [8]. Exodus 33:20.

    [9]. Isaiah 55:8.

    [10]. Mishneh Torah, ibid. 5:5.

    [11]. For a more detailed discussion of the paradox of divine knowledge and human choice, and of Maimonides’ and the Raavad’s positions on the matter, see Beyond the Letter of the Law (VHH, 1995), pp. 175-184.

    [12]. This difference between Maimonides and the Raavad is also reflected in a number of the Raavad’s other glosses on Maimonides’ Mishneh Torah. For example, in the first chapter of Laws of the Torah’s Foundations, Maimonides writes:

       What is it that Moses our Master desired to attain when he said, “Pray, show me Your countenance?” [Exodus 33:18] He desired to know the truth of G-d’s reality to the extent that it should be known in his mind like one’s knowledge of a person whose face one has seen, and its form is engraved in one’s mind, making that person distinct in one’s mind from all other people; in the same way, Moses desired that the reality of G-d should be distinct in his mind from all other existences, so that he knows the truth of His reality as it is. G-d’s answer to him was [“You cannot see My face, for no man can see Me and live”—] that a living human being, comprised of a body and a soul, has not the capacity to fully comprehend the truth [of G-d] in this manner.

    Upon which the Raavad remarks: “My mind is not agreeable [with Maimonides’ interpretation of these verses]. For Moses saw on Sinai, during the forty days [in which he received] the Tablets, what no prophet ever saw … so what more could he have needed?”

    What Moses saw on Mount Sinai was a prophetic vision—a supra-rational perception such as is attained through faith. From the Raavad’s perspective, why would Moses, having attained the truth of truths through prophecy, still desire the lesser “mind” knowledge that Maimonides describes? But from Maimonides’ perspective, there is a uniqueness to the mind’s grasp of its subject—even if it is a subject it could never fully apprehend—that the supra-rational tools of apprehension (such as faith and prophecy) cannot possess.

    Another example is Maimonides’ account of Abraham’s discovery of the One G-d, where he writes that “Abraham recognized his Creator at the age of forty years” (Mishneh Torah, Laws Regarding Idolatry 1:3), and the Raavad cites the Midrash which says that this occurred when Abraham was at the tender age of three years. The two sages are quoting two different Midrashic sources, which do not necessarily contradict each other: there are many milestones of “recognition” in a lifelong quest for truth. Maimonides emphasizes the recognition that ripened in Abraham at age forty, which is the “age of understanding” (see Ethics of the Fathers 4:22); the Raavad places the greater emphasis on the intrinsic faith in G-d that finds its purest expression in a young child.

    [13]. Likkutei Sichot, vol. XXXIV, pp. 173-179.

  • The Torah Says

    The Torah Says

    The Maggid of Trisk would begin the year by citing various sources from the Torah indicating that this would be the year in which Moshiach would come and the long-awaited Redemption would be achieved. Come next year, the Maggid would again find allusions and proofs that this year would be the year of the Redemption.

    When asked about his reasons for this annual exercise, he explained:

    [aside]this year would be the year of the Redemption [/aside].

    “When a person sees his father doing something wrong, a certain dilemma arises. On the one hand, one is commanded to “Honor your father”[14]; on the other hand, one is obligated to rebuke one who transgresses a commandment of the Torah.[15] The Shulchan Aruch (Code of Jewish Law), instructs that, in such a case, one should say to one’s father: ‘Father, doesn’t the Torah say such-and-such?’[16] This way, one makes him aware of his wrongdoing without directly criticizing him.

    “G-d has promised to redeem us, and the Talmud tells us that all the deadlines for the Redemption have come and gone.[17] But G-d is our Father,[18] who, even when He fails to do what He should, must be respected and revered. So each year I say to G-d: ‘Father, doesn’t the Torah say that the Redemption must come this year?!’”

    Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

     

    [14]. Exodus 20:12.

    [15]. Leviticus 19:17.

    [16]. Shulchan Aruch, Yoreh De’ah 240:11.

    [17]. Talmud, Sanhedrin 97a.

  • A Positive Conversation

    A Positive Conversation

    The following is a freely-translated excerpt from a letter by the Rebbe dated Purim, 5704 (1944):[17]

    …There are several approaches to the endeavor of influencing one’s fellow and bringing him closer to Torah and the observance of mitzvot. Generally speaking, there are two basic methods:

    a)      To describe to him the lowliness of man, the abhorrence and despicability of evil, the punishments of purgatory, etc. In other words, the emphasis is on what should be avoided. Basically, this is the approach of mussar (rebuke).

    b)      To explain and expound upon the greatness of the Creator, the immensity of His works, the immeasurable loftiness of Torah and mitzvot, and the like. In other words, the emphasis is on what it is that one should bring oneself closer to. Basically, this is the approach of Chassidism.

    One of the differences between these two approaches:

    When one’s efforts to influence one’s fellow concentrate on matters of the first category–how terrible and bitter is the lot of the sinner, how lowly is the person who lusts after the pleasures of the material world, and the like–the only positive aspect of the discussion is the hope that this might cause one’s fellow to resume the right path. Aside from this hope, the discussion of these matters is not, in and of itself, a mitzvah.

    On the other hand, the discussion of the concepts of the second category–understanding the processes of creation, “Know the G-d of your fathers,”[18] appreciating the unity of G-d–is itself a mitzvah, independently of its potential to influence one’s fellow…

     

    Adapted from the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

     

    [17]. Igrot Kodesh, vol. I, p. 259.

    [18]. I Chronicles 28:9.

  • The Soul of a Conflict

    The Soul of a Conflict

    And the earth opened its mouth and swallowed them and their homes; all Korach’s people and all their property…

    And a fire came forth from G-d and consumed the two hundred and fifty men who offered the ketoret.

    Numbers 16:32-35

    Every folly has its kernel of truth, every crime a virtuous objective at its heart. For the essence of man is unadulterated good; it is only that, at times, something might go awry in the process from motive to deed, so that a lofty ideal is corrupted to a lowly end.

    The same was true of the mutiny of Korach, to whom our sages refer as the father of all discord and strife.[1] Korach challenged the authority of Moses, the truth of the Torah, and the very structure of the community of Israel as ordained by G-d. But the principle behind his arguments was a positive one, and the ambition that fired his deeds was laudable.

    “The entire community is holy,” argued Korach to Moses and Aaron, “and G-d is within them. Why do you exalt yourselves above the community of G-d?”[2] Why does a Jew need Moses to teach him the word of G-d and Aaron to perform the service in the Holy Temple in his stead, when he himself possesses a soul that is a spark of the divine flame? Why can’t he realize his relationship with G-d on his own, without teachers, leaders and priests in his spiritual life? The essence of Korach’s arguments is, of course, true: the soul of man is “literally a part of G-d,”[3] and it requires no “intermediaries” in its connection with its source. Indeed, the prophet prophesies a future world in which:

    “No longer shall a man teach his fellow… for all shall know Me, from the least of them to the greatest.”[4]

    Korach erred in attempting to force this perfect state on a yet imperfect world—a world in which we do require guidance in the realization of our intellectual and spiritual potential, and in which the decree of refinement, spirituality and manifest connection to G-d varies from individual to individual.

    Korach was driven by his frustrated desire for the office of Kohen Gadol(High Priest), to which Moses had appointed his brother Aaron, as G-d had instructed. The Kohen Gadol was the one who, representing the people of Israel, officiated at the most sacred services in the Holy Temple. It was he who offered the ketoret (“incense”) in the Holy of Holies (the innermost chamber in the Temple) on Yom Kippur, marking the point at which the most sacred elements of the three dimensions of reality—time, space and soul—converged, the holiest human being entering the holiest place in the universe on the holiest day of the year. But to yearn for a greater closeness with G-d than one is capable of or even permitted is a most positive thing; indeed, the tension between what one is able and required to achieve and that which lies beyond one’s reach is the essence of a spiritually productive life. Korach’s ambition turned destructive when it crossed the fatal line from yearning to deed, from striving toward a holier state to acting as if one had already achieved it.

    Korach’s ideology and ambitions were positive, but the truth of a thing depends on its parameters as much as on its content. Given free rein to expand beyond the bounds of the permissible, they became a malignant cancer that consumed this wise and virtuous man,[5] ultimately leading him to open rebellion against those appointed by G-d to head the Jewish people and to denial of the divine communication to Moses.

    The Swallowed and the Consumed

    The dichotomy within Korach between his motives and his deeds was also reflected in the two distinct groups which made up his following. Joining Korach in his rebellion were :

    “two hundred and fifty men from the people of Israel: leaders of the community, of those called to the assembly, men of distinction.”[6]

    These individuals were driven by the aspiration to bekohanim gedolim; indeed, when Moses challenged them to offer ketoret as a test of whether they were worthy of such a high spiritual station, they eagerly did so, although they knew that Aaron’s two elder sons, Nadav and Avihu, had died in a similar attempt.[7] But Korach’s camp also included a mob of rabble-rousers, including the infamous Datan and Aviram,[8]jealous of Moses and discontent with the “burden” of the divine commandments he had introduced into their lives.[9]

    The difference between these two groups is illustrated by the manner in which they met their tragic end. The two hundred and fifty men who offered the ketoret were consumed by a heavenly fire, while Datan and Aviram and their ilk were swallowed up by the earth. As for Korach himself, the Midrash tells us that since he was responsible for both these groups, he received both penalties: his soul was consumed by fire, and his body was swallowed by the earth.[10]

    Korach’s mutiny also had both a soul and a body: the positive forces that agitated it and the negative form they assumed. At its climatic end came a separation of these two elements: its “soul” ascended on high in a holy conflagration (“fire” being the process in which the energy implicit in a substance is released and rises through the atmosphere), while its “body” fell away to be absorbed by the earthly abyss.[11] Released from its iniquitous embodiment, the spirit of Korach could now be reclaimed for its pure and holy applications.

    Based on an address by the Rebbe,  Shabbat Parshat Korach 5717 (June 22, 1957) and on other occasions[12]

    Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

     

    [1]. Talmud, Sanhedrin 110a; et al.

    [2]. Numbers 16:3.

    [3]. Tanya, part I, ch. 2.

    [4]. Jeremiah 31:33.

    [5]. Cf. Rashi, Numbers 16:7: “How did Korach, who was a wise man, come to such folly…?” (Indeed, since the Torah does not tell us anything about Korach’s life prior to his rebellion against Moses, how do we know that he was a wise man? Obviously, then, it is his very folly that reveals his wisdom. Examining his arguments and actions, we uncover the positive and desirable elements that gave rise to them.)

    [6]. Numbers 16:2.

    [7]. Ibid., verses 5-7 and 18; Leviticus ch. 10; see Shaloh, Parshat Korach (p. 358a). A similar phenomenon was found among the high priests of the Second Temple period, who bought the office from the Roman rulers of the Holy Land. As the Talmud (Yoma 9a; Jerusalem Talmud, ibid., 1:1) relates, because they were not worthy of entering the Holy of Holies, none of them survived even a single Yom Kippur. Nevertheless, there was no lack of bidders for the post each year! For these were people who so greatly desired to experience the ultimate manifestation of G-dliness on earth that they were ready to forfeit their lives for it.

    [8]. Datan and Aviram were the two Jews whom Moses witnessed quarreling in Egypt (Exodus 2:13) and who were at the heart of virtually every conflict with Moses in Egypt and the desert (see Midrash Rabbah, Shemot 1:34 and 25:14; Tanchuma, Shemot 10; et al).

    [9]. Numbers 16:1. See Yalkut Shimoni on verse.

    [10]. Midrash Tanchuma, Korach 9; et al.

    [11]. A similar process occurred with the “bursting of the vessels” in the primordial world of Tohu, in which the divine light was too intense for its defining parameters and ascended to its supernal source while its broken vessels fell to form the substance of the material universe (see Maamar Acharei Mot 5649).

    [12]. Likkutei Sichot, vol. XVIII, pp. 202-211; ibid., pp. 187-191; et al.

    His Guiding Vision