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E-Maggid: Rewards of a Mitzvah

As Parashat Chayei Sarah begins, Avraham sees to all the details of the burial of his wife Sarah.  In Judaism, burial is called chesed shel emet, or the most faithful type of kindness.  Reb Chaim of Tzernovitz taught that it's because of this mitzvah that the following chapter begins by saying that Adonai blessed Avraham in everything.

Reb Chaim wonders about two ideas.  On the one hand, we are not to expect any reward in this world for performing a mitzvah.  On the other, the Mishnah teaches that "These are the things that a person eats the proceeds of them in this world, and the principal endures for him into the World to Come:  supporting one's father and mother, acts of kindness, bringing peace between a person and his friend -- and the study of Torah, which equals all of them."

 

All of these are mitzvot we do for the benefit of other people.  Reb Chaim says there is a mysterious dimension to these actions.  They are the easiest mitzvot in the Torah to understand, and yet our own motivations and sense of reward are complex.

 

The thanks we receive in return, the good feeling we have in helping others, the reputation we might develop -- these are not what is meant by the "proceeds in this world."  Instead, when we do acts of chesed, we are the most God-like we can be.  At the particular moment the world might reward us for our act, we are blessed with an awareness of how much we receive of God's generosity at every moment.

 

The paradoxical combination of that awareness, the humility that results, and the knowledge that our acts are the channel to others of God's generosity -- that's what stays with us.  That feeds us, and gives us what to chew on in this world.  And, says Reb Chaim, the ultimate understanding of all of it is hidden away, secured for us to learn in the World to Come.

E-Maggid: You Speak to God, Not Us

According to this week's parasha, Va-etchanan, after the Israelites heard the Ten Commandments directly from God, the leaders of the community who approached Moshe.

They said:  "This day, we have seen that God can speak to a human being (adam) and that person lives (chai).  Now, why shall we die….?  For who of any flesh (basar) who has heard the living voice of God speaking from the midst of a fire, as we have, can live? You go close and hear all that Adonai our God says, and you speak to us…and we will listen and do it." (Deuteronomy 5:21-24)

 

The leaders' request seems to make no sense.  They don't notice the contradiction in their own words.  They recognize that they have just lived through this direct encounter with God.  How can this be proof if it happens again, they will die?

 

The Slonimer Rebbe notices a subtle shift in their language.  The leaders say:  We understand that God can speak to an adam -- a person, living (chai) at the level of the image of God.  Yet when we are at the level of mere basar -- flesh -- a direct communication from God could not be understood.  Hearing God in such a state can only make a person aware of their spiritual deficiencies, and drive one further from the deeper reality of living.

 

This is why, according to the Slonimer, God endorses the elders' solution.  When it is too overwhelming to listen when God might be calling -- find someone in your life who represents closeness to God, and listen to her or to him.  Listen for the voice of God that person, for however long it takes.

E-Maggid: 42 Travels

Parashat Mas'ei, the end of the book of Numbers, opens with an enumeration of the "goings-out for the travels" of the Israelite "troops" from Egypt to the edge of the Land of Israel.  Forty-one times the community set out.  The forty-second time will be the last, from east of the Jordan across into the land.

What is the significance of the number 42?  The Slonimer Rebbe observes:  seven times six.  Seven represents completion and perfection -- Shabbat.  Six are the days of the work week, the absence of perfection.

 

Every person, the Slonimer teaches, passes through forty-two journeys in life in order to purify the mixture of seven and six that represents the mixture of good and bad in all of our actions.  Our spiritual work is to help the "seven" overpower the "six."  We explore our own choices and habits, to find the motivation of good that is in them.  That is the "going-out" that the Torah links to each travel.  Each discovery liberates a spark of goodness that finds the other sparks and strengthens them into "troops."

 

Our week is a collection of actions, good and not-as-good.  It's hard to avoid slipping into selfishness at times.  We don't always go the extra mile in a small moment of frustration to see the other person's view.  But even an argument can be proof that two people, or some group, cared enough to argue.  Or at least that you did.

 

The Slonimer notes that right before we welcome Shabbat with L'cha Dodi, there is a poem some communities sing.  It is made up of seven lines of six words each.  It is called Ana B'cho-ach -- "Please, with the strength of Your great right hand….purify us."  Shabbat is a time when we're shown "troops" of goodness.  We look around the congregation and see the motive of good that has brought each person to be together.  We can imagine more than a few sparks purified by our week, collectively.  We sing and ask God for the strength to see that even the small part of the journey, a single week, has purified us and unveiled even more good within.

 

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E-Maggid: How to Argue

Any dispute for the sake of Heaven has enduring value, and any dispute that is not for the Sake of Heaven has no enduring value.  What is an example of a dispute for the sake of Heaven?  The ongoing dispute between the School of Hillel and the School of Shammai.  What is an example of a dispute that is not for the sake of Heaven?  The dispute of Korach and his associates.  (Pirkei Avot 5:20)

Parashat Korach begins with an argument.  It's presented by Korach, a Levite, along with other prominent Israelites, who question why there has been one leader for forty years.  All of the people, every one of them is holy, and God is among them -- why are you elevated over the community of Adonai? (Numbers 16:3)

 

The rabbis compare this to another dispute.  The School of Shammai and the School of Hillel were groups among the early rabbis.  They used to argue about the details of ritual -- At the end of Shabbat, what's the proper sequence for the wine, candle, and spices?  They used to argue about ethics -- Is it ever permissible to lie?  They used to argue about social policy -- Should rabbis take time to train students who are not yet spiritual and morally developed?  They used to argue about philosophy -- Would the universe have been better off if human beings had not been created?

 

What makes the arguments of the School of Shammai and the School of Hillel "for the sake of Heaven"?  According to the Talmud, it's not the substance.  It's not because they are rabbis, arguing about all the kinds of things other rabbis value.  Instead, the Talmud tells us two things.  First, the School of Shammai continued to let their children marry children of rabbis from the School of Hillel, despite their reservations about the others' practices and philosophies.

 

Second, there was one particular dispute that went on for three years, and it took a voice from Heaven to resolve it.  God's representative declared that both sides had "the words of the Living God."  But the School of Hillel should be followed -- because they pressed their arguments more calmly, they studied the other side's opinions, and they used to present the other's sides arguments before their own.

 

Isn't there something valuable about Korach's dispute?  He too has some substance, in standing up for the idea that all the Jews are equally holy.  But we can easily detect jealousy mixed in.  Some of it is family jealousy too, since Korach and Moshe are cousins.  Korach couldn't separate his personal stake from the bigger picture.  His emotions racheted up the conflict.  As a result, his dispute couldn't have enduring value.

 

Arguing and conflict are everywhere in Torah, and they are facts of life.  The substance of arguments can have enduring value, worth studying.  Sometimes, it's how we act during an argument that has the most lasting effect, and can teach us the most.

E-Maggid: The Believing Game

Speak to Aharon and say to him, "When you mount the lamps, let the seven lamps give light at the front of the menorah." Aharon did so; he mounted the lamps at the front of the menorah, as Adonai had commanded Moshe.  Now this is how the lampstand was made: it was hammered work (mik'shah) of gold... (Numbers 8:2-4).

The midrash teaches that Aharon is being noticed for constructing the menorah exactly as Moshe had conveyed God's instructions to him.  Doing so was apparently a challenge for both Moshe and Aharon.  The menorah was made of gold that was mik'shah -- hammered or beaten.  The midrash says this is a hint that the menorah's design was kasheh -- it elicited questions, challenges, discussion!  Kasheh is the Talmudic term for "open to an objection, subject to debate."  You may know it from Pesach -- the Fir Kashes or Arba Kushiyot are the Four Questions/Puzzlements.

 

Moshe and Aharon were the supervisors for setting up all of the ritual objects and procedures.  As such they were accustomed to back-and-forth with each other and with God.  They were among the founders of questioning and pressing one's own viewpoint, which are of course paramount Jewish values.

 

But here, the midrash observes that sometimes we can "hammer" our own perspective too hard.  Sometimes it's a matter of objecting, placing my point of view over yours.  Sometimes it is more subtle.  In an argument with a loved one or coworker, we listen but impose our own interpretation on someone else's words.  This is what Aharon could have done, but the midrash says he went the extra mile to implement God's instructions as they were intended.

 

Peter Elbow, longtime professor of English at UMass-Amherst, talks about two stances he calls the "believing game" and the "doubting game."  We are taught to play the "doubting game" with texts and ideas, to think critically about them.  But he advocates taking the time to play the "believing game" whenever we encounter an idea that is new, unfamiliar, or provokes our doubts.  The believing game entails doing everything possible to find and experience the truth in an idea.  What would it be like to believe this?  What does it feel like to be the person who said what I just heard?

 

We can apply the believing game to Jewish traditions and laws that strike us as outmoded.  We can apply it when we are mired in arguments with other people about things we care about.  It's not the easy or most natural thing to do.  We are wired to see things from our own perspective.  But following Aharon's lead in a difficult situation is a path of generosity.  It can help us bring the light of different lamps into a single illumination.

E-Maggid: Halacha

Why is Jewish law known as halacha -- the walking?

 

Possibly, the term flows from the opening line of this week's Torah reading:  If you walk in My laws, and keep watch over My commandments, and do them… (Leviticus 26:3)

 

Rabbi Levi Yitzchak of Berdichev taught that this verse describes stages in the performance of a mitzvah.  Actually doing a mitzvah is only the third stage!

 

Since "walking in the law" is just the first stage, he says that it must refer to getting the idea of performing a specific mitzvah for the first time.  Rabbi Levi Yitzchak imagines that inside of us, there is a lot "walking around" when we consider a mitzvah.  There is a battle between inner voices.  One calls on us to listen to God's command.  Another says:  This mitzvah is irrelevant.  This mitzvah is inconvenient.  As soon as God detects this movement, God is drawn into us, so to speak, and helps us refine our thoughts toward taking on that mitzvah.

 

Even before we commit to the mitzvah, the step of considering it earns us "the reward for walking."  Rabbi Levi Yitzchak says that a person who is "walking" through the first thought about a mitzvah is just like the person who is already observant and "moving" into deeper meanings.

 

Which specific mitzvah has you moving?  Is it a potential new dimension of Shabbat?  Noticing a situation when you are prone to gossiping?  Moving might be mulling it over, or trying it out.  Halacha gives us not just a general way of life, but a specific practice to focus on.  Just by focusing, we are walking.

E-Maggid: What Shall We Eat?

From the insights of the Netivot Shalom ("Paths of Peace") from Rav Shalom Noach Barzovsky, the Slonimer Rebbe:

In this week's parasha, Behar, we learn the mitzvah of the Shabbaton -- the sabbatical of the land.  Every seventh year, the Land of Israel is to rest.  People are to eat simply what grows naturally from the land in that year.

 

The Torah itself raises the obvious question.  "What will we eat in the seventh year?  We are not planting, and we are not harvesting our crops!" (Leviticus 25:20)

 

Reb Chaim of Tchernovitz observes that the Torah could have asked the question differently: "How can we possibly survive in the seventh year?"  Instead, he says, the Torah portrays a person who knows he will eat, but wonders what the miracle of our food really is, and how God brings it about.  (He imagines a person asking:  Will we see manna from the sky again?  Will extra animals show up for us so we can eat them?)

 

The question of "what will we eat" is not about doubt.  It's about trying to understand in general what goes into having enough, not just in the seventh year.  How much is my own effort?  How much is augmented because of my merits, the extra goodness that flows to me as a consequence of what I do in the world?  How much is unpredictable and miraculous?  How much is consistently miraculous?

 

The seventh year is a thought experiment meant to prod us into these questions.  Our bodies, says the Slonimer, don't just want the food, but actually crave our answers.

E-Maggid: Counting Time

Last week we began the period of the year known as Sefirat Ha-Omer, the counting of the omer.  Between Pesach and Shavuot, we count fifty days to trace our journey from slavery to receiving the Torah at Mount Sinai.  This chasidic story is about counting time.  What can we learn from it in an age when the exact time is displayed everywhere, not only on watches and clocks but on phones and music players and computer screens?

 

* * * * *

 

When the Seer of Lublin died, he left very few possessions to his children.  One item was a clock.  His son took it, and once on a journey when he could not pay for his lodging, he gave the clock to the innkeeper.

 

Some years later, a young rabbi was staying at that same inn.  He arrived late and the inn was full.  But the owner had compassion and allowed him to spend the night in the master bedroom.

 

All night long, the innkeeper heard dancing from the room where the tired rabbi was staying.

 

In the morning, the innkeeper asked the rabbi what he had been doing all night.  "It was the clock!" exclaimed the rabbi.  "When I heard the ticking, I know It belonged to my teacher, the Seer of Lublin!  All other clocks, when people hear them ticking and tocking, they are simply counting down the moments to death.  But the clock of the Holy Seer was different.  He used it to count down the time to the next mitzvah.  'When can I say the morning Sh'ma?'  And he used it count how much closer he was coming to his goal of serving God with all his heart."

E-Maggid: Song of the Sea

According to tradition, the crossing of the Sea of Reeds is celebrated on the seventh day of Pesach.  In services that morning we will read Shirat Hayam, the Song of the Sea.  In the middle of the song is the most familiar quotation:  Mi cha-mocha ba-elim Adonai, "Who is like You, Adonai?"

 

The Torah tells us that "Moshe and the Children of Israel sang."  The word for "sang" is in the singular, though the subject of the verb is plural.  The word for "sang" is actually in the future tense -- yashir.  So how did they sing?  

 

Rabbi Nechemia interprets:  Moshe and the Children of Israel sang.  Everybody got the idea for the same song individually at the same moment, through divine inspiration.  Then they all sang together.

 

Rabbi Eliezer ben Taddai interprets:  Moshe, then the Children of Israel, sang.  Moshe taught part of a line, the people repeated it, and then the people added their own words to complete the line of song.

 

We prepared for Pesach by thinking ahead about freedom and redemption.  At our Seders, we reflected and talked together.  Now, on this side of the Seder, each of us has to seal in the meaning of freedom.  The song has to be our own, so we'll know what to do with it when we leave the Sea.  Perhaps you have been struck by a new inspiration.  Or perhaps from a teacher, Seder leader, or fellow participant, you have been given a hint to build on.  Either way, each of us has to make the song of liberation our own.  Each of us has to take this Pesach and keep it as a guide, as we march now into the days of counting the Omer.

E-Maggid: Cleaning Out Chametz

Three takes on chametz as we clean and prepare our homes for Pesach: 

1.  Rabbi Shneur Zalman of Liadi, the founder of Chabad Chasidism, taught that chametz represents haughtiness.  Yeast comes into the mixture of simple flour and water, and it starts eating.  The byproducts are gases that become trapped in the dough and expand it.  So too, our egos can cause us to be puffed up, gas bags!  Matzah represents humility, keeping ourselves in the proper place.

 

2.  Rabbi Yehuda Leib of Ger noticed that the letters of the words chametz and matzah differ only in one way.  One has a chet ח at the beginning and the other a hay ה at the end; the other sounds are the same.  There is a leg at the left of the hay in matzah, a small leg that represents the inner point, the soul connected to directly to God and separated from the dominant world by a space.  In chametz, the larger body of the letter chet fills the space and overpowers the inner point.  In the same way, the rising bread represents the material forces in our lives that attempt to dominate the soul.  By banishing chametz and eating matzah, we restore our focus on the inner point.

 

3.  For the biblical farmer, Pesach was a time of clearing out the old grain remaining from last year's harvest.  Old grain lies around, damp from the winter rain.  Fermenting occurs naturally -- chametz -- a sour taste, a sign of spoiling.  On Pesach, we eat new bread without any taste of sour fermentation.  This is the Torah's new year, a time to burn off anything sour from the past year, a time of freshness for our souls and our lives.

 

A zissen and kosher Pesach -- Wishing you a sweet and kosher Pesach!

Rabbi Jon