Of Snakes and Sticks

Moses and Aaron came before Pharaoh, and they did as G-d had commanded: Aaron threw his staff before Pharaoh and before his servants, and it turned into a serpent. Pharaoh summoned also [his] wise men and sorcerers... each cast his staff, and they turned into serpents; but Aaron’s staff swallowed up their staffs.

Exodus 7:10-12

The Torah emphasizes that it was Aaron’s staff that consumed the serpent-staffs of the Egyptian sorcerers. Our sages explain that since it is natural that a snake swallow another snake, G-d made that Aaron’s staff should swallow the others after it had reverted to its original, inanimate form, thereby demonstrating the impotence of Egypt’s idols in a manifestly miraculous way.[1]

But the miracle of the swallowing stick is more than a sign and warning to Pharaoh; there is also a lesson here, to each and every one of us, on how to confront the various “Pharaohs” we must deal with in the course of our lives. The Torah’s “ways are ways of pleasantness, and all its paths are peace”[2]—our mission is to create light, not to battle darkness. Nevertheless, there are times when we are forced to resort to battle, when we must vanquish those who seek to vanquish us. Thus Moses, the gentle shepherd of Israel,[3] and Aaron, the epitomic man of peace,[4] found themselves in the role of “judge and chastiser of Pharaoh”[5] and the Egyptians, crushing their might and obliterating, one after another, their icons and myths.

But even when he wages war, the Jew is not a warrior. Even when he consumes the serpents of the enemy, he is not a serpent himself, spewing poison and hate. His instrument of vengeance is as devoid of vengeful feeling as the stoic staff, as cold to the rage of war as a lifeless stick.

Based on an address by the Rebbe, Shabbat Va’era 5742 (January 23, 1982)[6]

The Infant Shepherd

We all know the story of how Moses’ mother, to save him from Pharaoh’s decree that all newborn Jewish males be drowned in the Nile, placed the three-month-old infant in a basket and concealed it in the rushes that grew along the riverbank; and how Pharaoh’s daughter discovered the weeping child when she went to bathe in the river, and raised him in the royal palace.

There is one detail in this story that is the subject of some confusion. Where, exactly, was Moses’ basket placed? In the Torah’s account, we read: “And she placed it in the rushes, on the bank of the river.”[1] According to this, Moses was not placed in the Nile itself, but on the Nile’s shore.[2] A few verses later, however, the Torah tells us that Pharaoh’s daughter named the child she found Moses (“the drawn one”), “because I have drawn him from the water.”[3]

The Torah is G-d’s blueprint for creation, whose every detail is of eternal relevance to our lives. If the Torah tells us that Moses’ mother placed him on the riverbank, this means that she could not have placed him in the Nile itself; if the Torah tells us that Pharaoh’s daughter subsequently took him from the Nile’s waters, this means that it was crucial that he be in the river at that time. And if the Torah troubles itself to tell us all this, this means that it is important to our understanding of the event and its application to our lives today.

The Purging of the Nile
The Gaon of Rogachov (Rabbi Joseph Rosen, 1858-1936) offers a halachic (Torah-legal) explanation for the basket’s change of location. Moses’ mother could not have initially placed him in the Nile itself because the Nile was worshipped by the Egyptians as a god, and it is forbidden to make use of an object of idol-worship even to save oneself.[4] However, Torah law also stipulates that if an idol-worshipper renounces his idol, it becomes “nullified” and permissible for use.[5] Our sages tell us that Pharaoh’s daughter “came down to the river to bathe”[6] not only in the physical sense, but also “to cleanse herself from her father’s idols.”[7] Her renunciation of the paganism of Egypt nullified the river’s idolatrous status, and its waters could now receive and shelter Moses. It was at this point that Moses’ basket entered the Nile.[8]

Why was it important that Moses should be in the Nile? The Midrash tells us that Pharaoh’s astrologers had told him that “the savior of Israel will meet his end by water,” which was why Pharaoh decreed that all male Jewish babies should be thrown into the Nile. When Moses was in the river, the astrologers told Pharaoh, “The savior of the Jews has already been cast into the water.” Thus Moses’ entry into the Nile brought the end of Pharaoh’s decree.[9]

The Cult of the River
Very little rain falls in Egypt. Agriculture is completely dependent on the Nile, whose overflow fills a network of irrigation canals. The ancient Egyptians therefore deified the Nile, regarding it as the ultimate source of sustenance and the ultimate endower of life.

This was the deeper significance of Pharaoh’s decree to drown Jewish children in the Nile. Pharaoh knew that if the next generation of Jews were submerged in the Nile-cult of Egypt—if they were raised to regard the natural purveyors of sustenance as gods—the Jewish faith would be obliterated. The message of a One G-d who is the creator and source of all, which so threatened his pagan oligarchy, would be silenced forever.

One can say that Nile-worship is as prevalent today as it was in the days of the Pharaohs. Today’s “Nile” may be a college degree, a career, social standing—anything that is venerated as a provider of sustenance and life. These are tools of sustenance, as the Nile is an instrument of G-d’s sustenance of those who dwell along its banks; but when the vehicle is confused with the source—when a person submerges his entire self in the “Nile,” investing his choicest energies in the perfection of the instrument rather than the cultivation of his relationship with its divine wielder—this is idolatry.

Faith Feeder
Moses is the raaya meheimna, the “faithful shepherd” of Israel.[10] The words raaya meheimna also mean “shepherd of faith”—i.e., one who feeds faith to his flock.[11] Moses’ primary role was to nurture the faith of his people, to broaden it, deepen it and develop it so that they became completely permeated with a knowledge of G-d and the understanding that “There is none else besides Him”[12]—that all the “Niles” of the world are not forces or realities in their own right, but merely vehicles of divine sustenance.

Moses was eighty years old when he took the people of Israel out of Egypt, led them to Mount Sinai, and fed them the ultimate infusion of divine knowledge, the Torah. But he was already a “shepherd of faith” at the age of three months, when he was instrumental in dethroning the arch-idol of Egypt and putting an end to the drowning of Israel’s children in its waters.

Based on the Rebbe’s talks on Shabbat Parshat Shemot of 5722 (1962) and 5723 (1963)[13]

Life, Death and Reality

Jacob concluded commanding his sons. He gathered his feet into the bed, and expired, and was gathered to his people.
Joseph fell on his father's face, and wept over him and kissed him. And Joseph commanded his servants the physicians to embalm his father...
They eulogized [Jacob] with a great and sore lamentation. And [Joseph] made a mourning for his father seven days...
And [Jacob's] sons carried him to the land of Canaan, and buried him in the cave of the Machpeilah Field
Genesis 49:33-50:13

In describing Jacob's “expiration,” the Torah pointedly avoids the use of the word vayamat, “and he died,” a word it employs with all the other deaths it relates, including Abraham's (Genesis 25:8) and Isaac's (35:29). Instead, it uses the euphemisms “he expired” and “he was gathered to his people.” Hence, concludes talmudic sage Rabbi Jochanan, “Our father Jacob did not die.”[1]
The Talmud records the following exchange between Rav Nachman and Rav Yitzchak:
Rav Nachman said to Rav Yitzchak: “So said Rabbi Jochanan: Our father Jacob did not die.”
Asked Rav Yitzchak: “Was it for no reason that the eulogizers eulogized, the embalmers embalmed and the buriers buried?”
Responded Rav Nachman: “I am only citing a verse. It is written, ‘And you, my servant Jacob, fear not, says the L-rd, and do not tremble, O Israel. For behold, I shall save you from afar, and your descendants from the land of their captivity.’[2] The verse equates Jacob with his descendants: just as his descendants are alive, he, too, is alive.”[3]

Spiritually or Literally
There are two ways in which this exchange can be understood. One approach, adapted by several of the talmudic commentaries,[4] is that the statement “Jacob did not die” is not meant in the literal-physical sense--after all, as Rav Yitzchak points out, Jacob was eulogized, embalmed and buried--but in the conceptual-spiritual sense: Jacob is alive because his influence lives on. This, then, is the meaning of Rav Nachman's deduction from the verse in Jeremiah that “just as his descendants are alive, he, too, is alive”: as long as his descendants disseminate his teachings and carry on his work, Jacob lives.
However, this interpretation fails to explain the uniqueness of Jacob's eternity: the same can be (and is) said of all righteous individuals whose children or disciples perpetuate their lives. In the words of the Zohar, “when a tzaddik (righteous person) departs, he is present in all worlds even more than he was in his lifetime.”[5] Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi explains: “The life of a tzaddik is not a fleshly life but a spiritual life, consisting wholly of faith, awe, and love of G-d... While the tzaddik was alive on earth, these three attributes were contained in their physical vessel and garment (i.e. the body) on the plane of physical space... His disciples received but a reflection of these attributes, a ray radiating beyond this vessel by means of his holy utterances and thoughts... But after his passing... whoever is close to him can receive a [far loftier dimension] of these three attributes, since they are no longer confined within a [material] vessel, nor bounded by physical space...”[6]
In other words, for a person to whom “life” means the pursuit and attainment of material gains, life indeed ceases when his soul departs from his body. But one for whom life is defined in terms of his positive influence upon others is no less alive after physical “death,” since his positive influence upon others continues for as long as his teachings are studied, his directives are followed and his deeds are emulated. Indeed, he is even more alive than before, as his soul now relates to his disciples free of the physical constraints of time and space.
But this is true of all who live “not a fleshly life but a spiritual life.” Yet it is only in the case of Jacob that the Torah refuses to say “he died.” It is only of Jacob[7] that the Talmud unequivocally states “Our father Jacob did not die.” Rabbi Jochanan and Rav Nachman seem to be implying more than the “conventional” truism that a tzaddik's life is eternal in the non-corporeal sense.
Indeed, Rashi understands the Talmud's meaning in the most literal sense. In his commentary on the above-quoted passage, he writes: “Our father Jacob did not die, but lives forever... the fact that the ‘embalmers embalmed’ was only because they thought he had died.” Rabbi Nachman's proof from the verse in Jeremiah that “just as his descendants are alive, he, too, is alive” is not to be understood in the sense that Jacob lives on in the lives of his descendants, but that “just as when [G-d] gathers the people of Israel from the land of their captivity, He is gathering the living, for it is they who are in captivity--the dead are not in captivity--so, too, he (Jacob) is alive, and G-d will bring him along to the exile and redeem his children before his eyes. The fact that the ‘embalmers embalmed’ was only because to them it seemed that be was dead, but in truth he was alive.”

Reality in Two Dimensions
We thus have two perspectives on reality: the reality defined by Torah, in which Jacob does not die, and the reality of the “eulogizers, embalmers and buriers,” who perceived a lifeless Jacob. According to the first interpretation of Rav Nachman's and Rav Yitzchak's words, the difference lies in whether we view reality in spiritual or physical terms: if “life” is a spiritual state, Jacob's life is unaffected by his bodily demise; if “life” is defined by physical criteria, Jacob is indeed not alive.
According to Rashi's interpretation, both perspectives relate to the physical reality: while to the “eulogizers, embalmers and buriers” Jacob's body was a body from which life had departed, the Torah attests that there exists a higher, truer plane of reality, a reality in which Jacob remains physically alive. For Jacob is the embodiment of the attribute of truth,[8] and truth--in the ultimate and absolute sense of the term--tolerates no equivocations. A life confined to the spiritual realm may be “true” enough for other righteous men and women of history, but in the truth of Jacob--the essence and epitome of truth--there are no partial or relative truths. To say that Jacob's life is spiritually eternal but not physically so, to say that his physical life extended for so many years and then ceased, is to detract from its truth[9]---and everything about Jacob is wholly and utterly true.
According to this, we can better understand Rav Yitzchak's question, “Was it for no reason that the eulogizers eulogized, the embalmers embalmed and the buriers buried?” Indeed, what does he mean by asking, Was it for no reason that these things were done? Ought not the question to have been, How could the eulogizers have eulogized etc.?
But Rav Yitzchak is not bothered by the fact that Jacob's body seemed dead to Joseph's Egyptian servants, or even to Jacob' sons. The fact that they failed to perceive him as physically alive in no way detracts from the Torah's attestation that Jacob did not die, neither spiritually nor physically. Torah is the foundation and essence of creation,[10] and the supreme arbiter of reality; if mortal eyes and minds fail to corroborate what Torah establishes as fact, this in no way diminishes the truth of Torah's description of reality. Rather, Rav Yitzchak's challenge to Rav Nachman is from the fact that the Torah itself reports the “expiration,” mourning and burial of Jacob. Was the “death” of Jacob an event of no significance? Were the burial arrangements unnecessary? Was he mourned for no reason? But the Torah describes these events as having occurred, and in a manner that implies that Joseph and his brothers acted as they ought to have acted when they perceived Jacob's soul as having departed his body.
Rav Nachman's response is that, all this notwithstanding, the Torah clearly regards Jacob as alive, and alive in the same sense that his descendants are alive---as souls residing in physical bodies. So while Jacob's children's response to his “death” was the correct response according to Torah--Torah law mandated that Jacob be mourned and buried[11]--this is only because Torah relates to and instructs reality on all levels, including the level on which Jacob's physical life is perceived to have ceased. At the same time, Torah attests to the existence of the higher reality in which the truth and eternity of Jacob is never compromised, neither in the spiritual level nor on the physical level.

Possibling the Impossible
What are we to make of all this? What implications are there here for those of us who inhabit a reality defined by our five senses and the laws of nature---a reality in which physical life inevitably yields to the eulogizer and the grave-digger?
The Talmud relates that when Moses ascended to heaven to receive the Torah, the angels objected. The Torah had best be left where it is, they argued, here in the spiritual realm. Moses responded:
“What is written in the Torah? ‘I am the L-rd Your G-d who has taken you out from the land of Egypt.’ Have you been descended to Egypt? Have you been enslaved to Pharaoh? What else does it say? ‘You shall have no alien gods.’ Do you dwell amongst idol-worshiping nations? ‘Remember the day of Shabbat.’ Do you work? ‘Do not swear falsely.’ Do you do business? ‘Honor your father and your mother.’ Do you have parents? ‘Do not kill,’ ‘Do not commit adultery,’ ‘Do not steal’---Is there jealousy between you? Do you have an evil inclination?”[12]
The Torah, we are repeatedly told, is not in heaven, nor was it given to angels; it is a document communicated to mortal man to guide and sanctify physical life.[13] Virtually all the Torah's commandments are physical activities: giving a coin to charity, binding tefillin on one's arm and head, eating matzo on Passover. Even the more “spiritual” mitzvot--Torah study, prayer, love and awe of G-d--are deeds performed by the physical brain, heart and lips. Intrinsic to the nature of the mitzvah is that it is to be performed by natural means, and in the most natural manner possible.[14]
But there are two ways of viewing the Torah's delegation to the natural realm:
(a) Since G-d intended that the Torah serve as a guide to physical life, He designed it to conform to its rules and norms. Thus, Torah is subject to the laws of nature and cannot, or may not, supersede them.[15]
(b) Torah, as the divine wisdom and will, precedes and transcends creation itself[16] and is not subservient to natural law. Nature is merely its modus operandi: Torah confines itself to the natural realm because its function is to develop the physical reality, not to escape it or overturn it.
The distinction between (a) and (b) may seem a semantic mind game---the bottom line, after all, is that Torah operates within the confines of nature. But when applied to the business of daily living, it translates into all the difference in the world. What happens when Torah demands the impossible? When it expects a tiny nation to live for four thousand years as a “lamb in the midst of seventy wolves”[17] and not only survive but defang and civilize the seventy wolves? When it tells us to rise above the pain and mortality of the physical state and imbue it with light, joy and eternity? ---And to achieve this all with our humanly finite faculties and resources?
One who sees nature's laws as the basis upon which the divine blueprint for life is predicated, can only reiterate that the impossible is impossible. If the constraints of our empirical reality do not allow it, he maintains, then Torah, which is bound by these constraints, certainly does not expect it of us. Perhaps these are hypothetical goals to strive towards as we do the best we can with the tools at our disposal. But this is the world we live in, and its laws are what define and govern our mission in life.
But one who knows that “our father Jacob did not die,” that the Torah truth that Jacob embodies is not subject to the mortalities of the physical condition, knows that no law or norm can restrict the full and unequivocal implementation of the Torah's vision of reality. True, the same Torah recounts, lends credence to and instructs the behavior of those who perceived Jacob to have died, for Torah operates within the physical reality, within, even, finite man's perception of the physical reality; but at the same time, Torah is utterly free of its limits and conventions.
Torah is neither subject to the natural reality nor divorced from it, confined to the supernatural realm of the spirit. It embraces both realities, transcending nature even as it pervades and defines it, making real the impossible even as it employs only the most naturally possible means to do so.

Based on an address by the Rebbe, Av 20, 5731 (August 11, 1971)[18]

The Prostration of the Shepherds

And Joseph was the ruler of the land; he was the supplier of food to all its people.

Joseph’s brothers came [to Egypt] and prostrated themselves to him ... and Joseph remembered the dreams he had dreamed about them...

Genesis 42:6-9

Twenty years earlier, Joseph had dreamed two dreams which foretold the events of that day. In the first dream, “we were binding sheaves in the field, when suddenly my sheaf arose and stood upright; and behold, your sheaves stood round it and bowed down to my sheaf.”[1] In the second, Joseph saw “the sun, the moon, and eleven stars bowing down to me.”[2]

Joseph’s brothers, who were already jealous of their father’s special affection for him, “hated him even more for his dreams and his words.”[3] Jacob, however, “kept the matter in mind”[4] and “awaited and anticipated its fulfillment.”[5]

For that to happen, Jacob had to mourn the loss of his beloved son for twenty years, Joseph had to experience slavery and incarceration, and his brothers, anguished remorse, for that same period. Twenty painful years so that the sons of Jacob might prostrate themselves before the viceroy of Egypt, who, unbeknownst to them, was the very dreamer they had sold into slavery. Why was it so important that this submission take place? Why did Jacob “await and anticipate the fulfillment” of Joseph’s dreams, despite his realization[6] of the terrible animosity they provoked among his children?

The New Jew
Abraham, Isaac and Jacob were shepherds, as were the sons of Jacob.[7] They chose this vocation because they found the life of the shepherd—a life of seclusion, communion with nature, and distance from the tumult and vanities of society—most conducive to their spiritual pursuits. Tending their sheep in the valleys and on the hills of Canaan, they could turn their backs on the mundane affairs of man, contemplate the majesty of the Creator, and serve Him with a clear mind and tranquil heart.[8]

Joseph was different. He was a man of the world, a “fortuitous achiever”[9] in commerce and politics. Sold into slavery, he was soon chief manager of his master’s affairs. Thrown into jail, he was soon a high-ranking member of the prison administration. He went on to become viceroy of Egypt, second only to Pharaoh in the most powerful nation on earth, and sole supplier of food for the entire region.

Yet none of this touched him. He remained the righteous Joseph who had studied Torah at the feet of his father.[10] Slave, prisoner, ruler of millions, controller of an empire’s wealth—it made no difference: the same Joseph who had meditated in the hills and valleys of Canaan walked the streets of a depraved Egypt. His spiritual and moral self derived utterly from within and was totally unaffected by his society, environment, or the occupation that claimed his involvement twenty-four hours a day.

The conflict between Joseph and his brothers ran deeper than a multi-colored coat or a favorite son’s share of his father’s affections. It was a conflict between a spiritual tradition and a new worldliness; between a community of shepherds and a politician. The brothers could not accept that a person could lead a worldly existence without becoming worldly, that a person could remain one with G-d while inhabiting the palaces and government halls of pagan Egypt.[11]

For two hundred years, the shepherd’s credo held sway. But Jacob knew that if his descendants were to survive the Egyptian galut (exile)—and the millennia of Babylonian, Greek, Roman, Eastern, Western, economic, religious and cultural galuyot that history held in store for them—this must be subordinated to the credo of Joseph. If the children of Israel are to pass through every social convulsion of the next four thousand years and persevere as G-d’s people, they must become subjects of Joseph.

Based on an address by the Rebbe, Kislev 20, 5727 (December 3, 1966)[12]

Twins

Twins
And it came to pass at the time that she gave birth, that, behold, there were twins in her womb.... And [the firstborn’s] name was called Peretz. Afterward came forth his brother ... and his name was called Zerach

Genesis 38:27-30

[Here it says,] “at the time that she gave birth”; in Rebecca’s case it says, “and her days to give birth were fulfilled.” For there it was a fulfilled term of pregnancy, while here it was unfulfilled.
[Here, the word] “twins” is written in its full spelling; there it is written in a deficient spelling. For [in Rebecca’s case] one of them was wicked, while here both were righteous

Rashi, ibid.

Among the numerous births recounted in the book of Genesis, two are of twins: the birth of Isaac’s and Rebecca’s twins, Jacob and Esau; and the birth of Peretz and Zerach, twin sons of Tamar and Judah.

While certain similarities mark the two births,[1] there are also some significant differences, both in the circumstances surrounding the two pregnancies as well as in the characters of the two sets of twins they produced.

Isaac and Rebecca were married for twenty childless years; they prayed for children, each evoking the righteousness of the other in their appeal to G-d.[2] Their sacred union produced two very different sons: Jacob grew to become a gentle scholar; Esau, a crass and conniving materialist.[3]

Tamar’s twins were conceived in far less exalted circumstances. Tamar was originally married to Judah’s eldest son, Er. Upon Er’s untimely death, she was given in levirate marriage[4] to his younger brother, Onan; but Onan, too, died childless. When Tamar realized that Judah had no intention of marrying her to his third son, Shelah, she disguised herself as a prostitute and seduced Judah himself. When her pregnancy became apparent, Tamar was almost put to death, on Judah’s orders, for harlotry; it was only when she produced certain personal effects which Judah had left with her as collateral against his payment to her that Judah realized that the “prostitute” with whom he had cohabited with was his former daughter-in-law and the twins in her womb were fathered by himself.[5]

Yet unlike the mixed progeny of Isaac and Rebecca’s marriage, the twin sons born out of this morally dubious union were both righteous men. Indeed, all kings of Israel, from David to Moshiach, are the issue of Tamar’s pregnancy.[6]

The inverse differences between these two pregnancies and births are alluded to in the verses that describe them. Regarding Rebecca’s pregnancy, the Torah says, “Her days to give birth were fulfilled; and, behold, there were twins in her womb”; with Tamar, the Torah writes: “At the time that she gave birth, behold, there were twins in her womb.” Our sages, noting the different phraseology, explain that Rebecca’s was a “fulfilled” pregnancy of nine full months, while Tamar gave birth after an “unfulfilled” pregnancy of only seven months.[7]

Our sages also note that the Hebrew word for “twins,” te’omim, is spelled differently in the two accounts. In the Holy Tongue, many words can be written in either a “full” spelling or a “deficient” spelling (i.e., lacking one or more letters). In the account of Peretz and Zerach’s birth, the word te’omim appears in its full spelling; but in the account of Jacob and Esau’s birth, it appears in deficient form, lacking the letters aleph and yud. This, explain the commentaries, alludes to the fact that Tamar’s twins “were both righteous, while in [Rebecca’s] case, one was righteous and the other wicked.”[8]

In other words, the “fulfilled” pregnancy of Rebecca produced a “deficient” set of twins, while Tamar’s “deficient” pregnancy produced a “full” and perfect progeny.

Seeds of Evil?
But was Rebecca’s indeed a perfect pregnancy? The Midrash seems to imply that the wicked half of her progeny was already asserting his evil nature while still in the womb.

The Torah relates that “The children struggled within her.”[9] The Midrash explains: “Whenever she would pass a house of prayer or house of study, Jacob would struggle to come out ... and when she passed a house of idolatry, Esau would struggle to come out.”[10] Rebecca, puzzled by the contrary strivings being exhibited by her offspring, “sought the counsel of G-d” and was told: “There are two nations in your womb; two peoples will separate from your innards.”[11]

There are, however, other Midrashic accounts that describe Esau and Jacob sharing a righteous childhood in the holy environment of their parents’ home and under the tutelage of their saintly grandfather, Abraham, and that “only later did Esau ruin himself with his deeds.”[12] This supports our initial conception of an impeccable conception, pregnancy and birth, followed by a “deficient” progeny that is attributable solely to the fact that Esau, by his own free will, chose to follow a path of evil.

But a similar contradiction is also to be found in our Sages’ remarks regarding G-d’s creation of the world. On the one hand, we have the Midrashic statement that “The world was created fulfilled”—i.e., fully matured and lacking nothing.[13] Yet the perfect world which G-d created contains the potential for imperfection, even evil. Indeed, this potential is an integral part of its perfection. The Midrash, citing the verse, “And G-d looked upon all that He made and, behold, it was very good,” comments: “‘Behold it was very good’—this is the good inclination; ‘and behold it was very good’—this is the inclination for evil ... ‘behold it was very good’—this is good fortune; ‘and behold it was very good’—this is suffering ... ‘behold it was very good’—this is paradise; ‘and behold it was very good’—this is hell ... ‘behold it was very good’—this is the angel of life; ‘and behold it was very good’—this is the angel of death....”[14]

The Two Delicacies
A fundamental principle of the Jewish faith is that, “Freedom of choice has been granted to every man: if he desires to turn himself to a path of good and be a righteous person, the option is in his hands; if he desires to turn himself to a path of evil and be a wicked person, the option is in his hands.”[15] Yet we observe that certain people are more susceptible to evil than others. The Talmud describes the prototypical victim of evil, Job, protesting to G-d: “Master of the universe! You have created righteous people, and you have created wicked people!”[16]

In his Tanya, Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi explains that G-d indeed created “righteous people” and “wicked people.” “Righteous people” (tzaddikim) are individuals who, by nature, abhor evil and desire only good, either because they have been born that way or because they have transformed their negative drives into positive ones. “Wicked people,” on the other hand, are those individuals who are destined “not to be wicked in actuality, G-d forbid, but that the doings of the wicked should approach them, in their minds and thoughts alone, so that they must constantly battle to avert their minds from them and suppress the evil; for they would not be able to annihilate it completely—as can only be achieved by the righteous.”[17]

For G-d desires both these types of human being in His world. “Just like in physical foods, for example, there exist two types of delicacies: sweet and luscious foods, and sharp or sour foods which have been spiced and garnished so that they are made into delicacies which gratify the soul,” so, too, “there are two kinds of gratification before G-d: one, from the complete annihilation of evil ... by the righteous; the second, when evil is subdued while it is still at its strongest and most powerful ... through the efforts of the intermediate man.”[18]

This is the deeper significance of the “two nations” which Rebecca was told dwelled in her womb. The gravitation to evil exhibited by one of her twins was not a deficiency—it was the potential for the “second delicacy” craved by G-d. It was only later, when Esau chose to surrender to his evil inclination rather than battle it, that the duality of forces she birthed became a “deficient” set of twins.

As they existed within Rebecca, however, Jacob and Esau constituted a “full” pregnancy, containing both of the two fundamental potentials that G-d implanted in His creation: the delight of utter goodness, and the distinct pleasure and sense of achievement that comes only from the struggle with adversity.[19]

Tamar’s pregnancy and delivery describe the reverse process: how negative circumstances and actions can be sublimated so that the original perfection, from which every potential in existence stems, is restored. Indeed, when the potential for evil, suffering, hell and death becomes actual, the opportunity exists for an even deeper perfection to be achieved, when these are vanquished and transformed into good.

The Ascent to Mount Zion
Hence the paradox of our existence: perfection begets imperfection (as in Rebecca’s pregnancy), for nothing can be said to be truly perfect unless it possesses the potential for struggle, which means that it must be vulnerable to imperfection. And imperfection gives birth to perfection (as in Tamar’s pregnancy) when that vulnerability is exploited to reap the rewards of struggle and to attain the perfect twinship of pristine goodness and vanquished evil.

The whole of history is the noble and painful progress toward the resolution of this paradox when, in the age of Moshiach, “the saviors (descendants of Tamar) shall ascend the mountain of Zion to judge the mountain of (Rebecca’s) Esau,”[20] uniting the vulnerabilities that are born out of the perfection of G-d’s creation with the perfection that is born out of the vulnerabilities of the human condition.[21]

Based on the Rebbe’s talks on Shabbat Toledot, 5744 (1983), and on other occasions[22]

The Three Lives of Jacob

“Everything that happened to the Patriarchs,” writes Nachmanides in his commentary on the Book of Genesis, “is a signpost for their children. This is why the Torah elaborates its account of their journeys, their well-digging and the other events [of their lives] ... these all come as an instruction for the future: for when something happens to one of the three Patriarchs, one understands from it what is decreed to occur to his descendants.”[1]

The Torah devotes more than twenty-five chapters (Genesis 25-50) to the life of Jacob, the third and “choicest of the Patriarchs”[2]—a life which spanned three lands:

a) The Holy Land, where he spent the first half of his life[3] secluded in “the tents of Torah.”[4]
b) The Mesopotamian city of Charan, where he spent 20 years in the employ of “Laban the Deceiver,” fathered 11 of his 12 sons, and amassed “much sheep, as well as maids, servants, camels and asses.”[5]
c) The land of Egypt, where he resided for the last 17 years of his life.[6]

Many events, triumphs and tribulations crowd each of these three epochs in the saga of Jacob. But each period also represents a particular state of affairs in Jacob’s life and in his relationship with his environment, providing us with three major “signposts” by which to negotiate our own lives’ reiteration of the lives of our ancestors.

Sovereignty, Struggle, and Subjugation
To what extent are we the master of our circumstances? Rare is the individual who could offer a single, consistent reply to this question. Rather, we recognize various states of dependency and control, various degrees of mastery over our lives. Generally speaking, we experience three such states: sovereignty, struggle, and subjugation.

We each harbor a vision of a transcendent self, of a soul, pure and inviolable, at the core of our being. This self, we are convinced, is not subject to the caprice of circumstance, remaining forever aloof from the shifting dictates of society and convention. And though this core self is not always accessible to us, there come moments in our lives—“moments of truth,” we call them—in which it asserts its will over every and any influence save its own internal truth.

But these moments, for most of us, are few and far between. More often, we are in a state of struggle—struggle with our environment, with our own habits and behavior patterns, with the passions of our divided hearts.

While a state of struggle indicates that we have not attained full mastery over our existence, it is also a sign of life: we have not succumbed. We are resisting the forces that seek to sway us from our internal truth; we are engaging them and battling them. Indeed, this is life at its fullest and most productive—even more so, in a certain sense, than those “moments of truth” of resolute perfection.

But we also know times of powerlessness and subordination. Times when we are faced with circumstances which we have neither the ability to control nor to even resist; times when it seems that life has been stopped dead in its tracks, arrested by an impregnable wall of helplessness and despair.

Jacob
Jacob was a tzaddik—a perfectly righteous person who never for a moment ceased to exercise a full and unequivocal mastery over his life.[7] But within the context of his perfect existence, he experienced the equivalents of all three states of life described above.

His years in the Holy Land were years of tranquil perfection—years in which nothing alien to his quintessential self intruded upon his life of Torah study, prayer and service of G-d.

His Charan years were characterized by challenge and struggle. There he locked horns with Laban the Deceiver and bested him at his own game;[8] there “heat consumed me by day, and frost at night; and sleep was banished from my eyes.”[9] In the words of Esau’s angel to Jacob upon Jacob’s return from Charan, “You have struggled with G-d and with men, and have prevailed.”[10]

For the last seventeen years of his life, Jacob lived in the land of Egypt. If Charan was “the object of G-d’s wrath in the world,”[11] Egypt was “the depravity of the earth”[12]—the most G-dless and debased society of all time. In Egypt, Jacob was forced to pay homage to Pharaoh,[13] the arch-idol and demigod of the land. Upon Jacob’s passing in Egypt, his body was in the possession of the Egyptian “physicians” for 40 days, who embalmed it after their custom.[14] Indeed, the reason why Jacob commanded Joseph to bury him in the Holy Land (a feat which required much maneuvering and manipulation to secure Pharaoh’s consent[15]) was that he feared that, in Egypt, his body and gravesite would become an object of idolatry.[16]

Jacob’s Egyptian years thus represent what, in the context of his perfectly sovereign life, were a time of subjugation to an alien power. Yet the Torah regards these as the best years of his life![17] For Jacob knew to exploit the very circumstances which, on the face of it, inhibit and arrest one’s vitality and achievement, as circumstances to foster the strivings of his soul and further its aims. Indeed, it was here in Egypt, under the rule and subsequent enslavement of the Pharaohs, that Jacob’s descendants were forged into the people of Israel.

The Signposts
“Everything that happened to the Patriarchs ... is decreed to occur to their descendants.” Not that they occur in exactly the same manner. Our own moments of transcendence seem fleeting and inconsequential in comparison with Jacob’s decades of tranquil perfection in the Holy Land; our own struggles seem wan and inept when measured against Jacob’s Charan years; our own lives under circumstances of subjugation and oppression seem black indeed when set against Jacob’s Egyptian period. Yet the three lives of Jacob are “signposts” that guide, inspire and enable our own.[18]

Jacob’s life in the Holy Land empowers us to experience moments of true freedom—moments in which we assert our true will over all forces, both external and internal, that seek to quell it.

Jacob’s Charan years inspire and enable us to not only persevere in our struggles but to revel in them, to experience them as vibrant and exhilarating periods in our lives.

And Jacob’s Egyptian period teaches us how to deal with those situations in which we feel overpowered by forces beyond our control. It teaches us that these times, too, are part and parcel of our lives; that these times, too, can be negotiated with wisdom, dignity and integrity. That these times, too, can be realized as vital and productive seasons of our lives.

Based on an address by the Rebbe, Shabbat Vayeitzei 5750 (1989)[19]

I am His sheep

This week’s Torah reading, Vayeitzei (Genesis 28:10–32:3), is veritably glutted with sheep: Laban’s sheep and Jacob’s sheep; white sheep, dark sheep, spotted sheep, speckled sheep, sheep with rings around their ankles. Jacob arrives in Charan, and the first sight to greet him is that of several flocks of sheep congregated around a sealed well; the second is his future wife, Rachel (the name is Hebrew for “sheep”), shepherding her father’s sheep. Soon Jacob is a shepherd himself, caring for sheep, receiving his wages in sheep, breeding sheep with special markings, dreaming of sheep, amassing a fortune in sheep, and finally leading his flocks back to the Holy Land where he will present his brother Esau with a huge gift comprised largely of... sheep.

Between flocks, we also read of Jacob’s marriages to Leah and Rachel and the birth of eleven of his twelve sons, progenitors of the twelve tribes of Israel. What are we to learn from the fact that the nation of Israel was founded in such sheepish surroundings?

The First Metaphor
“I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine, he who shepherds [me] among the roses.”[1] The voice of this verse, explains the Midrash,[2] is that of the community of Israel, speaking of her relationship with G-d. “He is my shepherd, [as it is written,] ‘Shepherd of Israel, listen’[3]; and I am His sheep, [as it is written,] ‘And[4] you, My sheep, the sheep of My pasture.’”

The same Midrashic passage also describes our relationship with G-d as that of a child to his father, a sister to her brother, a bride to her groom, a vineyard to its watchman, among others. Each of these metaphors expresses another facet of the relationship: the inherent bond between G-d and Israel, the love and affection, G-d’s guardianship over us, our being a source of joy to Him, etc. What does the sheep/shepherd metaphor represent? If the point is that G-d provides for us and protects us, or that we are subservient and devoted to Him, these elements also exist in the father/child relationship. What unique aspect of our relationship with G-d can be expressed only by describing us as His sheep?

The sheep’s dominant trait is its docility and obedience. The child obeys his father, but does so out of an appreciation of his father’s greatness; the sheep does not obey for any reason—it is simply obedient by nature. It is this element of our relationship with G-d that the sheep represents: an unquestioning subservience which derives not from our understanding of His greatness and our feelings toward Him (in which case it would be defined by the limits of our understanding and feelings), but from the recognition that “I am His sheep.”

The Jewish nation was founded amidst sheep because our self-negation and unquestioning obedience to G-d is the foundation of our Jewishness. Of course, we are not only G-d’s sheep—we are also His children, His bride, His sister and His vineyard. By the same token, the Torah tells us that when Jacob left Charan after twenty years of shepherding, his wealth consisted not only of sheep: “He had much sheep, maids and servants, camels and donkeys.”[5] We have just read that Laban paid him his wages in sheep, and that his flocks multiplied exceedingly; but where did his other possessions come from? Rashi explains that “he sold his sheep for high prices and bought all these.”[6] Spiritually, too, Jacob’s “wealth” did not consist solely of docility and self-negation, but also included feeling and understanding, fortitude and vigor.[7] But the source and basis of it all were his “sheep.”

Being a Jew means studying the divine wisdom (revealed to us in His Torah), developing a passionate love and reverent awe for G-d, and teaching His wisdom and implementing His will in an oft-times hostile world—all of which require the optimal application of our mental, emotional and assertive powers. But the foundation of it all—the base from which all these derive and upon which they are all predicated—is our simple commitment to G-d, a commitment that transcends reason and emotion.

Based on an address by the Rebbe, Kislev 10, 5737 (December 2, 1976)[8]

Redigging the Wells of Love

Redigging the Wells of Love

“And all the wells that were ... dug in the days of Abraham his father were stopped by the Philistines and filled with earth...”

“And Isaac redug the wells of water dug in the days of Abraham his father... And he called them by the same names that his father had called them.”

Genesis 26:15-18

Abraham, Isaac and Jacob are more than the forebears of the Jewish nation: they are the founding fathers of the Jewish soul. So we study their lives and analyze their every word and deed, for these are the foundations of our identity and the building blocks of our psyche and character.

In Abraham we see a fountainhead of Jewish generosity and social commitment. “I know him,” says G-d of the first Jew, “that he will command his children and his household after him, that they shall keep the way of G-d, to do charity and justice.”[1] Abraham, whose home and heart were open to every wayfarer, regardless of who he was and where he was coming from, offering food, drink, companionship and guidance.[2] Abraham, who challenged G-d's decree of destruction on the evil city of Sodom.[3] Abraham, who traversed the land bearing light and enlightenment to a dark and befuddled world.[4]

In Jacob we see a prototype of the Jew's devotion to learning. “The voice is the voice of Jacob, and the hands are the hands of Esau”—Esau lives by the sword, while Jacob lives by the word.[5] For the first 77 years of his life, Jacob was “a dweller in the tents of study”[6]; his first act upon his arrival in Egypt-where he would live his final seventeen-was to establish a house of learning.[7] In Jacob we also find an archetype for the Jew's epochal perseverance under conditions of exile and adversity: in a foreign Charan, in the employ of the deceitful Laban, he built his family and fortune; in an alien Egypt, he imparted a lasting legacy to the fledgling nation of Israel. If Abraham exemplifies love, Jacob epitomizes truth-the quest for truth, and the consistency and persistency of truth.

But who was Isaac? The longest lived of the Patriarchs, we are told the least about him. The Torah recounts the story of the Akeidah, the “Binding of Isaac,” but tells it as Abraham's story, Abraham's test. Then comes the long chapter describing the process of finding of a bride for Isaac; but it is Eliezer, Abraham's servant, who is dispatched to Charan and who is the key figure in the drama of the choosing of Rebbeca, while Isaac's whereabouts and activities at the time remain unknown.

What does Isaac do? Basically, he stays put. By divine command, he is the only one of the three Patriarchs never to set foot outside of the Holy Land.[8] And he digs wells.

The Torah devotes an entire chapter to Isaac's well-digging activities. We are told that he reopened the wells that had been dug by Abraham and stopped by the Philistines after Abraham's death, and of a series of new wells he dug himself. Then, although he has at least another 80 years to live, we are told nothing more of Isaac's life other than his blessings to his children before his death.[9]

Awe
At his confrontation with Laban at Mt. Gilad, Jacob attributes his perseverance and success in Charan to “the G-d of Abraham and the awe of Isaac.”[10]

Therein lies the key to the enigma of Isaac: Isaac was awe to Abraham's love, restraint to Abraham's expansiveness, self-effacement to Abraham's self-assertion. Abraham's love of G-d and humanity took him on a journey from self outward, a journey etched in the roads of Mesopotamia, Egypt and Canaan. Isaac's was an inward journey, a journey into the depths of self to the essence within.

Isaac is the fear of Heaven in the Jewish heart: the Jew’s self-censoring discipline, his silent sacrifice, his humble awe before the majesty of its Creator. Isaac was a digger of wells, boring through the stratum of emotion and experience in search of the quintessential waters of the soul. Boring deeper than feeling, deeper than desire, deeper than achievement, to the selflessness at the core of self.

Alien Love
Abraham, too, dug wells, but his were stopped by the Philistines.

“One opposite the other, G-d made,”[11] is a cardinal law of creation. Every virtue has its corresponding evil, every positive force its negative counterpart.

Love, too, has its rival evil. Love, after all, is an assertion of self-the extension of self to give and relate to another. Corrupted love is when the self asserts itself not to give but to take; not in Abrahamic love but in Philistine lust; not in caring compassion but in egotistic self-gratification.

As long as Abraham was alive, only pure love flowed from his righteous wells. But after his death, the Philistines commandeered the fountainheads of love he had established in the land. The Hebrew word plishtim means “open-ended ones”[12]; a plishtim love is an uninhibited, undisciplined love, a profane love bereft of the focus and commitment of Abraham's holy love.[13]

It was Isaac who redeemed Abraham's legacy of love. As redug by Isaac, Abraham's wells became immune to Philistine corruption. For love that flows from a well of selflessness and fear of Heaven flows faithful to its source and true to its objective.

The Jewish Soul
Every Jew is the child of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. Every Jew has their love, awe and truth encoded in the spiritual DNA of his soul.

The Abraham in the Jew rushes to embrace the world, to champion its downtrodden, to extend himself heart, soul and checkbook to his fellow man. But love, to be true, must be restrained: the father who embraces his child with the full intensity of his love will hurt rather than comfort him. And love, unchecked, eventually disintegrates to the destructive, everything-goes “love” of the Philistine. Isaac is the Jew’s source of discipline, humility and reverence; of his appreciation of the nullity of finite man before the infinity of G-d.

The issue of this marriage of love and awe is truth; truth that focuses the Jew's outpourings of love in giving, holy expressions; truth that cultivates his inward retreat to selflessness toward creative and constructive ends. This is the legacy of Jacob, in whom the love of Abraham and the awe of Isaac alloyed into invincible truth.

Based on an address by the Rebbe, Tishrei 5, 5735 (September 21, 1974)

The Oven Stokers of Mezerich

The Oven Stokers of Mezerich

Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi told:

In Mezeritch, it was extremely difficult to be accepted as a disciple of our master, Rabbi DovBer.[7] There were a group of chassidim who, having failed to merit to learn directly from our master, wanted at least to serve his pupils: to bring them water to wash their hands upon waking, to sweep the floors of the study hall, to heat the ovens during the winter months, etc. These were known as “the oven stokers.”

One winter night, as I lay on a bench in the study hall, I overheard a conversation between three of the “oven stokers.”
“What was the specialty of the test of the Akeidah?” [8] the first one asked. “If G-d revealed Himself to me and commanded me to sacrifice my only son, would I not obey?”

Answering his own question, he said: “If G-d told me to sacrifice my only son, I would delay my doing so for a while, to keep him with me for a few days. Abraham's greatness lay in that ‘he arose early in the morning’[9] to immediately fulfill the divine command.”

Said the second one: “If G-d told me to sacrifice my only son, I, like Abraham, would waste not a moment to carry out His command. But I would do so with a heavy heart. Abraham's greatness lay in that he went to the Akeidah with a heart full of joy over the opportunity to fulfill G-d's will.”[10]

Said the third: “I, too, would carry out G-d's will with joy. I think that Abraham's uniqueness lay in his reaction upon finding out that it was all a test. When G-d commanded him ‘Do not touch the child and do nothing to him,’[11] Abraham was overjoyed-not because his only child would not die, but over being given the opportunity to carry out another command of G-d: not to slaughter his son.”

Rabbi Schneur Zalman concluded: “Do you think this was mere talk? Each of them was describing the degree of self-sacrifice he had attained in his service of the Almighty.”

Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

Planet of the Apes

By Dr. Yaakov Brawer

"Dr. Teitelbaum! Excuse me Dr. Teitelbaum but you must help me! I'm supposed to graduate in November and I've just been notified that McGill won't credit me with Marketing Management II that I took last summer at U.B.C. and I won't have enough credits with out it and ..." I looked at the teary-eyed, agitated undergraduate and said nothing. Long experience has taught me that there is no point in explaining that I am not Dr. Teitelbaum until they calm down.

Although Avraham Dovid Teitlebaum (a fellow chassid) and I resemble each other only slightly, McGill students seem incapable of seeing beyond the beard, yarmulke and tzitzit, and I am forever being mistaken for the former Associate Dean of the Faculty of Management. Presently, the student stopped for a breath and I pointed out her error. However, it didn't register. Rejuvenated by a lung full of fresh air, she pressed her suit with renewed vigor. I identified myself again. She ignored me and continued pleading. I interrupted her and once more indicated that she had the wrong person. She frowned impatiently, clearly annoyed that I wasn't giving her proper attention, and without breaking stride, continued her presentation. As she paused to marshal her thoughts for the final assault, I took advantage of the lull and insisted slowly, distinctly, and emphatically that I was not Dr. Teitlebaum. She scrutinized me for a few moments and suddenly her face lit up with the wonder of discovery. Her eyes grew wide and she exclaimed, "Oh my gosh! there are two of you!"

There are indeed two of me. What my flustered friend probably doesn't realize, however, is that there are also two of her. There is she1 who operates on the instinctive level and who equates appearance with reality, and there is she2 who is capable of recording, analyzing and weighing information and arriving at a reasoned conclusion, appearances notwithstanding. As far as she1 was concerned, I had to be Dr. Teitlebaum simply because it was counter-intuitive that there could be two people on a university faculty with the exotic appearance of Dr. Teitlebaum. She2, who emerged only after she1 had been repeatedly challenged, correctly interpreted the available evidence and surmised that there were, in truth, two faculty members at McGill who shared the same unconventional features.

The fact that there are two of everyone is unsettling. The idea that our consciousness is not the unitary expression of a single self but rather a composite of independent components seems absurd for the simple reason that no one feels like more than one person. Nonetheless, such is the case and it can be convincingly demonstrated using the diagram depicted below (taken from The Self and Its Brain by Karl Popper and John Eccles, 1977, Springer International. p.63)

The diagonal line in the center of the picture is divided into two segments A-B and B-C by the middle vertical line. If you had to determine which of these segments is longer, without measuring them, your inclination would be to select segment A-B because it looks longer than B-C. If you were then told that the three vertical lines are parallel and equidistant, you would have to conclude, on the basis of basic high school geometry, that segments A-B and B-C must be of equal length, regardless of appearance. You thus have 2 different answers produced by your two different "selves". The instinctive, unreflective, and uncritical self simply takes appearances at face value. The other self, who is intellective and analytical, assesses the data and arrives at conclusions based on abstract reasoning and logic.

How is it that most of us spend our lives blithely unaware that two such incompatible individuals room together in our heads ? The answer is that usually only one self is active at any particular time, and it is most often the intuitive, non-intellective self. Intellectual processes, whether creative or analytical, require effort. It is much easier and far more natural to simply accept things the way they appear to be. Thus, the instinctive self represents the default mode, and we, therefore, sail through life, oblivious to the appalling fact that our navigator is, distressingly often, a shallow simpleton. Worse, since we regard ourselves as intelligent beings, and since the "ourselves" that most often runs our brains is the shallow simpleton, we celebrate its fallacious, foolish, insubstantial fancies as wisdom.

In Chassidic terminology, the two disparate cognitive dimensions described above are defined as hergesh (instinct) and sechel (intelligence). Whereas hergesh is a trait common to all mammals, sechel, embodying abstract creative or analytical intelligence, is uniquely human. Consequently the description of man, by anthropologists, as an "intelligent ape" is singularly appropriate (albeit for reasons very different from those that led to the creation of the expression). Although hergesh is an attribute that we do indeed share with apes, we are also endowed with sechel, which would elevate us above all other members of the animal kingdom were we to make use of it. Since, however, this sublime quality is only sporadically engaged, the ape is alive and well, and very much in charge.

It is hergesh, not sechel, that generates the materialistic/naturalistic assumptions underlying modern secular man's view of the world and of himself. A mere glance out the window is sufficient to create a powerful impression of a multifarious world made out of variety of independent and self-sufficient things, held together by a few simple laws of nature. A brief perusal of the morning paper is all that one needs to conclude that earthly life is governed by random, chaotic, impersonal forces; natural, social, and economic. It is intuitively obvious that all forms of life evolved from simpler antecedent forms because, in our experience, everything comes from a prior something, and all animals do share common biological features. A glimpse at a corpse is proof enough that nothing survives bodily death. G-d and G-dliness are nowhere to be seen, and since, as far as hergesh is concerned, seeing is believing, they do not exist.

The common feature of all of these intuitive inferences (hergeshim) is that they are drawn from the perception of "things". Hergesh is not a function of the mind, but rather of the senses and as such, it does not deal in ideas or abstractions. Since hergesh can identify only "things" as real, it comes as no surprise that the values and goals of a hergesh-based society are centered on acquisition and power. Success in life is measured by the number of things that one is able to amass and the number of people (living things) over whom one has control.

One may well ask how it is possible that such a highly educated society should entertain an ape's-eye view of existence, and pursue such crass, shallow aspirations? The answer is that much of what the educational institutions impart is not sechel but rather hergesh disguised as sechel. The University is, after all, an instrument of society, and society runs on hergesh. The language, conventions, and styles are those of sechel, but the ideological content of a university education is based on hergesh. The curricula are contaminated with the germs of amoral, relativistic, materialistic, and secular bias and it is the rare student who emerges from the educational experience un-infected.

There is no joy on the planet of the apes. There are no lofty goals. There is no transcendent purpose, no meaning, no ultimate truth. There is prozac. There is also a burgeoning entertainment industry that keeps us anesthetized and oblivious to the painful realization that a hergesh-based life leads nowhere. There is also a way out. We can choose to stop being apes. We can think. We can break our addiction to hergesh and actively engage sechel, and if we do so, we will discover that the world is a very different place then it appears at first glance.


Revolutionary observations in physics, beginning in the early twentieth century, indicate that the "things" that constitute our world are shockingly ethereal. The discovery that mass is not a unique definitive physical property but rather a variant form of energy, that the electron described in high school physics as a little negatively charged BB can also be accurately characterized as an immaterial wave, and that subatomic particles/processes understand and obey abstract rules indicate that "being" is not a static, inanimate state but rather a dynamic, active process. The upshot of this is that a palpable, inert, "thing" such as a rock is, at its core, an incorporeal spiritual entity, pulsating with life, purpose and intelligence. Indeed, on the subatomic level, the rock has more in common with thoughts than with things. Moreover, the appearance of physical autonomy is an illusion. The recent experimental verifications of Bell's Theorem demonstrate a non-locality or "connectedness" underlying physical processes. In other words, at the subatomic level, the "things" that constitute our universe "know" each other and behave as different manifestations of a single, unified reality.

On another front, recent developments in the relatively new field of Cosmology show the universe to be far more improbable than any one ever imagined. In fact, a universe such as ours, designed to sustain intelligent life, is so improbable as to be virtually impossible. There are simply too many meaningful coincidences for it to have happened by chance. Intelligence and purpose permeate the cosmos. Remarkably, the only explanation as to why the myriad of diverse and seemingly unrelated physical constants and other parameters should converge to produce the universe in which we live is our presence. If any of these values were other than what they are, we could not exist. This realization has given rise to the Anthropic Cosmological Principle, the strong formulation of which concludes that man is the cornerstone of the universe, i.e. it was designed and implemented specifically with us in mind.

Similar advances in molecular and cell biology have inspired a biological version of the Anthropic Principle. It has become increasingly evident that the biochemical and molecular processes essential to the life of cells are far too complex and interdependent to have developed in response to natural forces and chance events. The irreducible complexity in fundamental biological systems and the expanding evidence of intelligent, purposeful design have rendered evolutionary explanations for the origin of life untenable.

Near death experiences have recently become a major focus of scientific exploration. Because of the subjective nature of these phenomena, they are very difficult to interpret, much less to explain. Research in this area has, nevertheless, produced powerful objective (corroborateable) evidence that awareness can exist independent of the brain and that the essence of human consciousness is spiritual.

A critical, impartial examination of a large body of hard evidence, readily available to anyone, does not support the materialist/reductionist view of reality with which we are so innately comfortable. One of the most delicious ironies in the history of science is that the very technology that was supposed to deliver mankind from the "higher superstition" (religion), has led it straight to G-d's door. Thus, counter-intuitively, sechel is a portal to faith, not an exit.

How, then, do we deal with hergesh? Do we view it as a pathology, an unfortunate but inescapable aberrant dimension of consciousness that must be constantly suppressed, the ape within? Hergesh is, in fact, a priceless gift, which if properly utilized, complements and perfects sechel. Finely honed and properly directed, intuition elevates the intellect and takes the mind beyond the structured logic of sechel. It is a unique source of insight that is unrestrained by the rules of language and mathematics. What about the ape? The ape is not hergesh, but rather hergesh abused. Hergesh functions properly only in concert with sechel. When it is focused on the intellection, the ideas, engendered by sechel, it illuminates the conceptual crannies inaccessible to formal thought and it imparts color to the black and white cogitations of the rationale mind. However, when sechel is inactive, hergesh is left without a mind, and its subsequent undisciplined, undiscerning and uncritical activity, directed toward things rather than ideas, produces the shallow, distorted world view and empty values so common in contemporary society.

Our challenge, then, is to be whole, to use all of our G-d-given faculties in pursuit of truth. King David perceived the hand of G-d in everything and encountered Divinity everywhere. "Yours is the heaven, Yours also the earth. The world and all it contains, You have established them" (Psalm 89, verse 12). The same Divine Providence that has designed the universe to meet our every need, has also imbued us with the intellectual attributes , sechel and hergesh, necessary to recognize the power of the creator in creation. It only remains for us to utilize them toward this end.

Dr. Yaakov Brawer is Professor of Anatomy and Cell Biology at McGill University Faculty of Medicine. He is the author of two books of Chassidic philosophy, Something From Nothing and Eyes That See

Fear

In the 20th chapter of Deuteronomy, the Torah instructs how a Jewish army is to prepare for battle:

When you come near to the battle, the priest shall approach and speak to the people. And he should say to them: “Hear, O Israel! You draw near today to wage war upon your enemies; let not your hearts soften, fear not, and do not panic nor break ranks before them. For it is G-d your G-d who goes with you, to fight for you against your enemies, to deliver you.”

And the officers shall address the people, saying: “Is there a man [among you] who has built a new house and has not inaugurated it? Let him go and return to his home, lest he die in battle and another man inaugurate it.

“Is there a man who has planted a vineyard and has not redeemed[1] its first crop? Let him go and return to his home, lest he die in battle and another man redeem it.

“Is there a man who has betrothed a woman and has not married her? Let him go and return to his home, lest he die in battle and another man marry her.”

And the officers shall further address the people, and say: “Is there a man who is afraid and faint of heart? Let him go and return to his home, so that he not melt the hearts of his brothers as his own.”[2]

Righteous Warriors Only
The Talmud cites a disagreement between two sages as to the definition of “a man who is afraid and faint of heart.” According to Rabbi Akiva, “the meaning is as the simple reading of the verse implies: one who cannot stand firm in the joint ranks in battle and see a drawn sword.” Rabbi Yossi of Galilee maintains that the verse is referring to “one who fears because of his sins.” “Thus,” adds Rabbi Yossi, “the Torah added him on to those who return on account of a [new] home, vineyard or wife—to cover up for he who returns because of his sins.”[3]

Rabbi Yossi’s concluding words also explain the reasoning behind his interpretation. Rabbi Yossi is bothered by the fact that the announcement calling for the fainthearted to go home comes after those regarding a new home, vineyard or wife. Earlier, we read how the priest addressed the troops, enjoining them, “let not your hearts soften, fear not, and do not panic nor break ranks before them”; this would seem the natural place to announce that those who fear battle should go home. Why precede its mention with three completely unrelated subjects? Furthermore, a coward in the ranks presents a far greater problem than the possibility that a solider might fail to return to inaugurate his home, redeem his vineyard or marry his betrothed: the former places many lives, and perhaps the very outcome of the battle, in jeopardy, while the latter only concerns the dimensions of an individual tragedy. For both these reasons, one would expect that the first announcement would concern those who are “afraid and faint of heart,” followed then by the other announcements.

This leads Rabbi Yossi to conclude that the meaning of the verse is other than what a simple reading would imply, namely, that the priest’s assurance that “G-d goes with you, to fight for you with your enemies, to deliver you” surely suffices to allay the fears of any anxious soldier—except for the soldier who fears that he is undeserving of divine protection because of his sins. This is why the announcement regarding the fearful is appended to those regarding a new home, etc.—to cover-up for those who depart because of their sins.

An Oxymoron
Rabbi Akiva, however, does not accept Rabbi Yossi’s interpretation. Despite the said difficulties, he maintains that the verse should be understood in its most literal sense—as regarding one who fears the roar of battle and the sight of a drawn sword—and rejects the notion that it might be addressed to “one who fears because of his sins.”

Rabbi Akiva’s reasoning can be understood in light of a remarkable law cited in the Talmudic tractate of Kiddushin, which deals with the laws of marriage. “One who marries a woman on the condition that he is a perfectly righteous man,” rules the Talmud, “the marriage may be valid even if he is utterly wicked, since it is possible that he had a thought of teshuvah in his mind.”[4]

Such is the power of teshuvah (repentance; lit., “return”). Teshuvah is the ultimate transformation that a human being can undergo—the transformation from a state of rebellion against G-d and disconnection from one’s source of life and the very purpose of one’s existence, to a state of unblemished perfection and union with G-d. Teshuvah consists of three basic elements: a) the cessation of sin; b) the acknowledgment that one has done wrong; and c) the resolve never to repeat it. All three stages, however, are present in a single dynamic: regret. Thus teshuvah can be achieved instantaneously—in a single moment of profound regret.[5]

Rabbi Akiva, who was known for his tendency to focus on what is positive and meritorious in the soul of man,[6] insists that there is no such thing as “one who fears because of his sins,” thus lacking the protection that G-d confers on an army that does battle with the enemies of His people. For if he fears because of his sins, this means that he recognizes that he has done wrong and regrets his deed. Hence, he is no longer a sinner, but a perfectly righteous individual!

Based on the Rebbe’s talks, Shabbat Parshat Shoftim[7] 5727 (1967) and 5729 (1969)[8]




The Month of the Bride

In every relationship, there are times when the “male” or giving partner takes the initiative, and times when the “female” or receiving partner is the one to first express her feelings and thereby stimulate the feelings of her partner.

The question of who takes the initiative has a profound effect on the nature of the relationship. For though the end result is that both of them express their love for each other, the one who takes the initiative determines the nature of the other’s response. When initiated by the giving partner, the response stimulated in the recipient will likewise be a “masculine” response; when initiated by the recipient, the giver’s response will also be of a “feminine” nature, for it will be influenced and shaped by the source of its arousal.

In Song of Songs, which explores the relationship between G-d and Israel through the metaphor of the love between a bride and her groom, we find expressions of both male-initiated and female-initiated love. In one verse, the narratress proclaims, “My beloved is to me, and I am to him.”[9] In another, she says, “I am to my beloved, and my beloved is to me.”[10]

There are times when the Almighty showers us with love and kindness, arousing in us a response in kind (“My beloved is to me, and I am to him”). But there are also times in which we take the initiative, expressing our love and devotion to Him despite His apparent distance from us, thereby arousing in Him His love for us (“I am to my beloved, and my beloved is to me”).

It may be argued that the divinely-initiated love produces a higher and loftier love than that which is initiated by ourselves. When the initial arousal comes from G-d, it is a show of love that is as infinite and sublime as its source, arousing in us feelings that we could never have produced ourselves. Nevertheless, such a love cannot be said to be truly our own. We have been overwhelmed by something that is infinitely greater than ourselves, and our own response is likewise “larger than life,” bearing little relation to who and what we are in our natural state.

On the other hand, the love we generate from ourselves may be less magnificent and glorious, but it is a deeper and truer love. It is an integral love—a love that comes from within and expresses our deepest yearnings. And when we awaken such a love in ourselves, G-d responds in kind, showing us an integral, intimate love—a love that embraces us as we are, rather than transporting us to sublime yet alien peaks of spirituality and transcendence.

The Acronym
The month of Elul is a month in which the love between the divine Groom and His bride Israel is at its height. This is alluded to by the fact that, in Hebrew, the first letters of the verse “I am to my beloved and my beloved is to me” (ani ledodi v’dodi li) spell the word Elul.

It is significant that the acronym for Elul comes from the verse that describes a love that is initiated by the bride, rather than the verse (“My beloved is to me, and I am to him”) in which the initial show of love comes from the groom. For despite its designation as a time for special closeness between G-d and man, Elul is a most “ordinary” month, conspicuously devoid of festivals and holy days (as opposed to the festival-rich month of Tishrei that follows it). Elul is not a time in which we are “lifted up” from our daily routine to the more spiritual atmosphere of a festival day; rather, it is a time in which we remain in our natural state as material beings inhabiting a material life.[11]

For the month of Elul, whose astral sign is the sign of betulah (“virgin”), is the month of the bride. Elul is a time when the initiative comes from our side of the relationship, and the divine response to our love is one that relates to us as finite, material beings and embraces our natural self and personality.

Based on the Rebbe’s talks on Av 27, 5750 (August 18, 1990)[12] and on numerous other occasions







The Military Method

When Rabbi Menachem Mendel of Lubavitch[13] was in Petersburg to attend the Rabbinical Convention of 1843, he received a special permit from the Russian Minister of War to address the Jewish soldiers serving at the military installation in nearby Kronstadt.[14]

When the Rebbe arrived, he was greeted by the waiting soldiers, who said to him: “Rebbe! We’ve been toiling all morning to prepare for your coming, polishing our buttons in your honor. Now it’s your turn to toil: polish our souls, which have been dulled and coarsened by our many years of disconnection from Yiddishkeit.”

Following his address, in which he encouraged their heroic efforts to cling to their faith, the Rebbe said: “You polished your buttons with sand and water. The soul, too, is polished with sand and water: with the holy letters of Tehillim (Psalms) recited with a generous infusion of tears.”

One of the soldiers spoke up: “But Rebbe, battles are won with joy, not tears.”

“So speaks a soldier!” said the Rebbe, with obvious satisfaction. “Yes, you’re right. A soldier enters the fray of battle to the tune of a joyous march, not with tears. It is by the power of his joy that he is victorious even in the most dangerous and challenging endeavors.”

Told by the Rebbe, Simchat Torah, 5727 (1966)

Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber



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[1]. See Leviticus 19:24.

[2]. Deuteronomy 20:2-8.

[3]. Talmud, Sotah 44a; Rashi on Deuteronomy 20:8.

[4]. Talmud, Kiddushin 49b.

[5]. See stories related in the Talmud, Avodah Zarah 10b, 17a and 18a.

[6]. See Rashi on Talmud, Sanhedrin 110b (section beginning “Shavkei”)

[7]. It is noteworthy that the Torah section of Shoftim (Deuteronomy 16-21, which includes the above cited verses) is always read on the first Shabbat in Elul, the month of teshuvah.

[8]. Likkutei Sichot, vol. IX, pp. 121-129.

[9]. Song of Songs 2:16.

[10]. Ibid. 6:3.

[11]. See The King in the Field, WIR, vol. VIII, no. 54.

[12]. Sefer HaSichot 5750, vol. II, pp. 631-633.



[13]. 1789-1866. Rabbi Menachem Mendel, also known as the “Tzemach Tzedek” after his books by that name, was the third leader of Chabad Chassidism.

[14]. This was in the days of Czar Nikolai I, who had decreed that six- and seven-year-old Jewish children be conscripted into the Russian Army for a period of twenty-five years and be indoctrinated into Christianity, G-d forbid. The fact that the Rebbe was granted permission to address the Jewish soldiers at Kronstadt was nothing less than a miracle, since the primary purpose of their conscription was to tear them away from the faith of their fathers.

Meat

When G-d your G-d shall broaden your borders, as He has promised you, and you will say, “I shall eat meat,” for your soul shall desire to eat meat, you may eat meat to your soul’s desire.
Deuteronomy 12:20-23

“Last and first You created me” (Psalms 139:5) ... If man is worthy, he is told: You are first among the works of creation. If he is not worthy, he is told: The flea preceded you, the earthworm preceded you.
Midrash Rabbah, Vayikra 14:1

There are those who contest the “morality” of eating meat. What gives man the right to consume another creature’s flesh? But the same can be said of man’s consumption of vegetable life, water or oxygen. What gives man the right to devour any of G-d’s creations simply to perpetuate his own existence?
Indeed, there is no such “natural” right. When man lives only to sustain and enhance his own being, there is no justification for him to tamper with any other existence to achieve this goal. As a great chassidic master put it, “When a person walks along without a thought of G-d in his head, the very ground under his feet cries out: ‘Boor! What makes you any better than me? By what rights do you step on me?!’”[1] The fact that man is a “higher” life form scarcely justifies the destruction of dumb or inanimate creatures. Moreover, according to the teachings of kabbalah, the souls of animals, plants and inanimate objects are actually loftier than that of the human being; for in the great collapse of the primordial world of Tohu[2] the higher elements fell lowest (as the highest stones in a collapsing wall fall farthest), so that the loftier sparks of divine light came to be incarnated in the lower tiers of the physical world.
Man does have the right to consume other creatures only because—and when—he serves as the agent of their elevation. The spiritual essence of a stone, plant or animal might be loftier than that of a man, but it is a static “spark,” bereft of the capacity to advance creation’s quest to unite with its Creator. The cruelty of the cat or the industry of the ant is not a moral failing or achievement, nor is the hardness of the rock or the sweetness of the apple. The mineral, vegetable and animal cannot do good or evil—they can only follow the dictates of their inborn nature. Only man has been granted freedom of choice and the ability to be better (or worse, G-d forbid) than his natural state. When a person drinks a glass of water, eats an apple, or slaughters an ox and consumes its flesh, these are converted into the stuff of the human body and the energy that drives it. When this person performs a G-dly deed—a deed that transcends his natural self and brings him closer to G-d—he “elevates” the elements he has incorporated into himself, reuniting the sparks of G-dliness they embody with their source. (Also elevated are the creations that enabled the G-dly deed—the soil that nourished the apple, the grass that fed the cow, the horse that hauled the water to town, and so on).
Therein lies the deeper significance of the above-quoted verse, “and you will say, ‘I shall eat meat,’ for your soul shall desire to eat meat.” You might express a desire for meat and be aware only of your body’s craving for the physical satisfaction it brings; in truth, however, this is the result of your soul’s desire to eat meat—your soul’s quest for the “sparks of G-dliness” it has been sent to earth to redeem.
Desire
There is, however, an important difference between the consumption of meat and that of other foods. The difference involves “desire” and the role it plays in the elevation of creation.
The human being cannot live without the vegetable and mineral components of his diet. Thus, he is compelled to eat them by the most basic of his physical drives—the preservation of his existence. Meat, however, is not a necessity but a luxury; the desire for meat is not a desire motivated by need, but desire in its purest sense—the desire to experience pleasure.
In other words, animals are elevated—their flesh integrated into the human body and their souls made partner in a G-dly deed—only because G-d has instilled the desire for pleasure in human nature.
This means that the elevation of meat requires a greater spiritual sensitivity on the part of its consumer than that of other foods. When a person eats a piece of bread and then studies Torah, prays or gives charity, the bread has directly contributed to these deeds. In order to perform these deeds, the soul of man must be fused with a physical body, and the piece of bread was indispensable to this fusion. Man eats bread in order to live; if he lives to fulfill his Creator’s will, the connection is complete. But man eats meat not to live, but to savor its taste; thus, it is not enough that a person lives in order to serve his Creator for the meat he eats to be elevated. Rather, he must be a person for whom the very experience of physical pleasure is a G-dly endeavor, something devoted solely toward a G-dly end; a person for whom the physical satisfaction generated by a tasty meal translates into a deeper understanding of Torah, a greater fervor in prayer, and a kinder smile to accompany the coin pressed into the palm of a beggar.[3]
Thus the Torah says: “When G-d your G-d shall broaden your borders, as He has promised you... you may eat meat to your soul’s desire.” From this the Talmud derives that, “originally, they were forbidden to eat ‘meat by desire’ (bassar taavah); it was only after they entered the Land [of Israel] that they were permitted to eat meat by desire.”[4] For the first generation of Israel’s existence as a nation—from the time they received the Torah and erected the Sanctuary in the Sinai Desert until they settled in the Holy Land—the only meat they were permitted to eat was the meat of the korbonot, the animal sacrifices offered to G-d in the Sanctuary. The consumption of this meat was a mitzvah, which meant that its elevation was achieved by the fact that eating it constitutes a direct fulfillment of a divine commandment. However, they did not have the capacity to elevate “meat of desire”—meat that is eaten for the purpose of granting pleasure to its consumer. So the consumption of such meat was forbidden.[5] It was only after G-d “broadened their borders,” granting them a mandate to make “holy” an adjective of “land,” that they were enabled to sanctify this most corporeal corner of human life.[6]
Similarly, our sages have said that “a boor is forbidden to eat meat.”[7] The license given to man to partake of the world and subjugate it to serve him is not unconditional. It is contingent upon his sensitivity to the spiritual essence of G-d’s creatures, and his commitment to serve them by making them component parts of his sanctified life. It takes an individual with broad spiritual horizons to properly relish a steak.
Based on the Rebbe’s talks, Shabbat Parshat Re’eh, 5719 (August 29, 1959) and Cheshvan 10, 5711 (October 21, 1950)[8]


[1]. Rabbi Yosef Yitzchak Schneersohn (1880-1950), the previous Lubavitcher Rebbe (quoted in Hayom Yom, 7 Adar II).[2]. See A Visitor From the World of Tohu (WIR, vol. VI, no. 36) and The Father of the Bride (ibid., vol. VII, no. 43) and sources cited there.
[3]. See Talmud, Yoma 76b; ibid., Bava Kama 72a; Tanya, ch. 7.
“Bread” and “meat” are employed here as prototypes of necessity and luxury; in this context, a cream pie or a yacht would be a form of “meat,” while a piece of meat eaten to keep body and soul together would fall under the category of “bread.”
[4]. Rabbi Yishmael, cited by the Talmud in Chulin 16b. Rabbi Akiva (ibid., 17a) interprets the verse differently, understanding the words “when G-d your G-d shall broaden your borders” not as a qualification of “you may eat meat to your soul’s desire” but of what the Torah states immediately afterwards, “You shall slaughter of your herd and your flock which G-d has given you, as I have commanded you.” Thus, according to Rabbi Akiva, not only was “meat by desire” permitted in the desert, it was even permitted without shechitah (the halachically prescribed manner of slaughter), while all meat eaten following Israel’s entry into the Holy Land requires shechitah.
However, the deeper significance of the law that Rabbi Akiva derives from these verses is identical to that of the law derived by Rabbi Yishmael. “Shechitah” means “drawing forth” (Talmud, Kiddushin 82a); the slaughter of an animal in accordance with the divinely-mandated laws of shechitah is what enables its elevation—the drawing of the animal out from its beastly state into the domain of a life consecrated to the service of the Creator. In the desert, shechitah was limited to the animals offered in the Sanctuary, for only these could be “drawn forth” in the manner that shechitah makes possible. The only difference in the opinions of Rabbi Yishmael and Rabbi Akiva is that Rabbi Yishmael states that since the full elevation of “meat of desire” was not possible in the desert, its consumption was prohibited, while Rabbi Akiva holds that it was nonetheless permitted, since a lesser elevation could be achieved.
[5]. Indeed, they were rebuked and punished for expressing a desire for meat (see Numbers ch. 11 and Rashi on Exodus 16:7-8).
[6]. What was the case in Jewish history was also the case in the history of mankind. Originally, man was granted license only to eat from “every seed-bearing herb on the face of the earth, and every tree on which there is fruit-bearing seed” (Genesis 1:29). It was only after the Flood, following which the world was imbued with a greater spiritual potential, that G-d told Noah that “every moving thing that lives shall be food for you.”
[7]. Talmud, Pesachim 49b.
[8]. Likkutei Sichot, vol. IV, pp. 1108-1114; Hitvaaduyot 5711, vol. I, pp. 70-71.

Poor blood circulation

A common cause for the ailments of the feet is poor circulation. The foot is the part of the body furthest from the heart; thus, the feet are often the first to suffer from inadequate blood supply due to circulatory problems, especially in its smaller veins and capillaries.

This physical phenomenon also has its counterpart in the spiritual life of man, which depends on the lifeblood of the soul—the Torah and its mitzvot—for its vitality and health.

The Torah section of Eikev (Deuteronomy 7:12-11:25), opens with the words, “And it shall come to pass, because you heed these laws and keep them and observe them...” The word eikev (“because”), which gives the section its name, is an uncommon term in the Hebrew language,[1] prompting a number of homiletic interpretations by our sages. One of these makes the correlation of eikev and akeiv (“heel”)—the two words have the identical Hebrew spelling—explaining that the verse is alluding to “those mitzvot which a person tramples under his heels.”[2]

Often we tend to distinguish between “important” mitzvot and “lesser” mitzvot. The same person who is outraged by an act of thievery or adultery, who wouldn’t think of eating pork or violating Shabbat, might casually transgress the prohibition against lashon hara (speaking ill of another). But a mitzvah is a divine commandment, an expression of the will of G-d; the human mind can hardly appraise a mitzvah’s true impact on his own life, much less its quintessential worth. So the ultimate test of a person’s commitment to G-d is to be found in those mitzvot which “people trample under their heels.” Is his observance of the mitzvot contingent upon his subjective appreciation of their social and spiritual utility, in which case he will inevitably discriminate between “greater” and “lesser” mitzvot, or has he indeed subjugated himself to the divine will, in which case he fulfills every divine command with equal joy and veneration?

When a soul’s heart—its commitment and bond to its Creator—is hale and fit, the distant heel also receives an adequate “blood supply,” and glows with the warmth and vivacity that are the hallmarks of spiritual life.

Based on a letter by the Rebbe dated Sivan 19, 5717 (June 18, 1957)[3]

Based on the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber

[1]. Eikev, in the sense of “because,” appears only thirteen times in the Bible (it appears twice more in the sense of “completely”). In contrast, ki and ka’asher, the other Hebrew terms for “because,” each appear hundreds of times.
[2]. Rashi on verse; see Talmud, Avodah Zarah 18a.
[3]. Igrot Kodesh, vol XV, p. 213

There were no greater festivals for Israel than the 15th of Av and Yom Kippur

There were no greater festivals for Israel than the 15th of Av and Yom Kippur. On these days the daughters of Jerusalem would go out ... and dance in the vineyards. And what would they say? "Young man, raise your eyes and see whom you select for yourself...."

And so it is written, "Go out, daughters of Zion, and see King Solomon,[1] in the crown with which his mother crowned him on his wedding day and on the day of his heart's rejoicing".[2] "His wedding day" - this is the Giving of the Torah; "the day of his heart's rejoicing" - this is the building of the Holy Temple, which shall be rebuilt speedily in our days

Talmud, Taanit 26b

It is no coincidence that Yom Kippur and the 15th of Av served as occasions for matchmaking for the young men and women of Jerusalem: these two days are the respective betrothal and marriage[3] dates of G-d and Israel. Yom Kippur - the day on which the Second Tablets were given to Moses, marking the completion of the covenant at Mount Sinai[4] - is the day of Israel's betrothal to G-d. The 15th of Av - the day that represents the rebirth which follows the great fall of Holy Temple's destruction on the 9th of Av[5] - celebrates the ultimate consummation of our marriage with the final Redemption of Moshiach.

After relating how "the daughters of Jerusalem would go out ... and dance in the vineyards," and that "whoever did not have a wife would go there" to find himself a bride, the Talmud goes on to describe three different categories of "daughters" and how each would call out to her prospective bridegroom:

What would the beautiful ones among them say? "Look for beauty, for a woman is for beauty."

What would those of prestigious lineage say? "Look for family, for a woman is for children."

What would the ugly ones say? "Make your acquisition for the sake of Heaven, as long as you decorate us with jewels."[6]

The marriage of G-d and Israel also includes these three categories of "brides." Amongst the souls of Israel are "beautiful" souls, souls "of prestigious lineage," and "ugly" souls, and each type contributes its unique dimension to our relationship with G-d.

Love
There are two kinds of love, say the Chassidic masters. There is a love that is generated by the person's own mind and heart, when he dwells upon the beloved's greatness and desirability and thereby develops feelings of love and attraction to it. Then there is an inborn love: a love that a person has not created himself - indeed, he may be unaware that he possesses it - but which resides in his heart from birth, a natural bond and attraction that is implanted in his soul by virtue of who and what he is.

"You shall love G-d"[7] is a crucial component of our relationship with the Almighty. Aside from the fact that loving G-d is one of the 613 mitzvot (divine commandment), it is also a prerequisite for the proper observance of all the mitzvot. Mitzvot which are not motivated by a love of G-d are performed mechanically and erratically; only one who loves G-d serves Him in a manner that is both integral and enduring.[8]

Our love for G-d also comes in the two forms described above. By studying what G-d has revealed about Himself in His Torah and contemplating and meditating upon these truths, one develops a feeling of love toward Him - a desire to approach His great and magnificent being, to unite and become one with Him. Indeed, this is one of the primary functions of prayer, "the service of the heart"[9]: to generate a feeling of love for the Creator by meditating on His greatness and majesty.

But also the person who does not succeed in creating a "self-generated" love by these means can attain a love of G-d, by resorting to the inborn love for Him we each possess as "an inheritance from our forefathers."[10] Abraham, the first Jew, was the very embodiment of divine love ("Abraham, who loves Me,"[11] in G-d's words to Isaiah), and G-d rewarded him with the gift of "fatherhood" - the ability to bequeath this love to his descendants. So each and every Jew has Abraham's love of G-d encoded in his spiritual genes. As with all inborn characteristics, this love may be buried in the subconscious, stifled by the dross of material life; but it can always be wakened and called upon to stimulate and vitalize our observance of the mitzvot.

The advantages of the second type of love are obvious. Every Jew possesses it - and the ability to realize it - regardless of the extent of his cognitive and meditative skills or his spiritual sensitivity. Furthermore, a self-generated love will always be limited by the finite capacities of the mind and heart which have created it, and will fluctuate in accordance with the person's mental and emotional state at any given moment; our inborn love, being divinely granted, is infinite and unequivocal.

But there are advantages to self-generated love as well. Though lesser in essence and scope, it is more keenly felt, more exuberantly experienced. For such is our nature: what we create is more precious to us than the most valuable endowment, what we conceive of ourselves is somehow more relevant and real than what is learned from the greatest master. So although the stimulation of our inherited love for G-d would suffice to drive our observance of the mitzvot, we should nevertheless strive to enhance our relationship with Him with the ecstasy and passion that only a love created by our own faculties and initiative can bring. In the words of our sages, "Although a fire came down [on the Altar] from the heavens, it is imperative to also kindle a man-made fire."[12]

The Sallow-Skinned Bride
Therein lies the deeper significance of the Talmud's description of how "the beautiful ones," "those of prestigious lineage" and "the ugly ones" among the daughters of Jerusalem conducted their courtship dance in the vineyards on the 15th of Av.

The dancing maidens of Jerusalem calling out their virtues to their prospective bridegrooms echo the call of the souls of Israel to their Divine Groom. Among these are the beautiful souls, those who have achieved a "best of both worlds" perfection in their love of the Almighty: a passionate, self-generated love set upon the foundation of inherited love. "A woman is for beauty," call these souls to G-d; take us as Your bride, and You will be rewarded by the pleasure You derive when Your creations realize the potential for perfection You have invested in them.

Then there are the souls of "prestigious lineage." We cannot offer you the flawless beauty of our perfect sisters, they call to G-d, but we have unearthed the hereditary love You have implanted in us. "A woman is for children": our relationship might not, as of yet, yield beauty, but it will bear fruit - the mitzvot generated by our natural love for You. For is not Your ultimate purpose in creation that Your creations fulfill your will? Our love for you might not excite our senses and illuminate our lives, but we offer You the rewards of family - the good deeds that are the tangible, enduring offspring of Israel's commitment to her Creator.[13]

And the ugly ones? Those who have neither roused their minds and hearts to desire their Creator, nor wakened their hereditary loyalty to Him? Those who never created a self-generated love and whose inborn love lies dormant beneath a husk of apathy and iniquity? They cry: "Make Your acquisition for the sake of Heaven!"

"Do it for Your sake, if not for ours,"[14] call the "ugly" souls of Israel. Take us as Your own, despite our appearance, because only You know what lies behind our appearance; only You know the truth of what You can inspire in us. For You know that, in truth, "The daughters of Israel are beautiful, it is only that poverty obscures their beauty."[15] You know that our "ugliness" is not our true essence, but imposed upon us by the spiritual poverty of galut.

If we have failed to realize our potential for beauty and fruitfulness, then it is left to You to "decorate us with jewels" - to shower us with the gifts that will waken our quintessential bond to You and bring to light our innate perfection.

Based on a letter by the Rebbe, Tevet 9, 5722 (December 16, 1961)[16]

Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber



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[1] In the metaphoric language of Song of Songs, "King Solomon" is a reference to G-d, "the King whom peace (shalom) is His."

[2] Song of Songs 3:11.

[3] According to Torah law, the marital union between husband and wife consists of two stages: kiddushin ("consecration" or "betrothal") and nissu'in ("marriage"). As we have elaborated on another occasion (Yes and No, WIR, vol. X, no. 36), the giving of the Torah at Mount Sinai constituted the kiddushin in the marriage of G-d and Israel, while the ultimate consummation of our union awaits the rebuilding of our eternal home in the age of Moshiach.

[4] See the essays The 120-Day Version of the Human Story (WIR, vol. X, no. 1) and Daughters Far and Near (ibid., Issue no. 3).

[5] See The Day of the Breaking of the Ax, (WIR, vol. IX, no. 45).

[6] Talmud, Taanit 31a.

[7] Deuteronomy 6:5.

[8] Tanya, ch. 4.

[9] Talmud, Taanit 2a. One of the meanings of the Hebrew word for prayer, tefillah, is "attachment."

[10] Tanya, ch. 18.

[11] Isaiah 41:8; cf. Sefer HaBahir (quoted in Pardes, portal 22, ch. 4): "The attribute of chessed (divine benevolence and love) said to G-d: 'Master of the Universe! From the day that Abraham is in the world, there is no need for me to do my work, as Abraham fills my role.'"

[12] Talmud, Eruvin 63a.

[13] Cf. Pesikta Zutrati on Genesis 6:9: "The offspring of the righteous are good deeds."

[14] From the selichot prayers.

[15] Talmud, Nedarim 66a.

[16] Likkutei Sichot, vol. IX, pp. 261-263; see also Tanya, chs. 3 and 16-18. The three categories described here correspond to the tzaddik, beinoni and rasha as classified by Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi in the first eighteen chapters of his Tanya.