Shaarei Tzedek - Orthodox Judaism in Downtown Toronto

Rachel Weeps for Her Children
By Simon Jacobson

Dear Rabbi,

I am one of those unfortunate souls who never had a nurturing mother. I often stroll in the park just to watch a mother adoringly walk her young child, holding her hand, with endless love and care. Oh, how I long so for such love – for the love that only a mother can give.

I know, I know and have been told countless times to grow up and begin to accept that life is not fair; “learn to love yourself,” I have been told. I have heard it all. God knows the hours I have spent with therapists, gurus, soothsayers and healers – some better than others. But I still seek that motherly love. Call me a coward, call me immature. I want to be adored. Is it too much to ask for?

Please tell me something – anything – that can soothe my weary soul.

Tired and forlorn,

B.

The story of Rachel our mother, who dies at a the young age of 36 in this week’s Torah portion, is one of the most moving accounts you will ever read, and one that nurtures us till this very day.

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via Chabad.org

In the Torah portion of Vayishlach we read about Dinah’s brothers, Shimon and Levi: “each man took his sword,” in order to avenge their sister’s violation by Shechem. Shimon and Levi were at that time 13 years old.

According to some opinions, since at the age of 13 Shimon and Levi were deemed “men” — a term that denotes maturity, as the verse states: “Strengthen yourself and become a man” — we derive the law that “at the age of 13 one becomes obligated to perform the mitzvos.”

In other words, by the age of 13 one has acquired the intellectual characteristics and attitudes of an adult — maturity of intellect and discernment. It is for this reason that a person is then obligated to perform all the commandments.

Although it is possible to be intellectually acute even before the age of 13, maturity is still lacking, both with regard to the dearness and merit of performing mitzvos, as well as with regard to the severity of the sin in their non-performance. Accordingly, a pre-teen is not held responsible for his conduct and actions, and the obligation of mitzvos cannot be placed upon him.

According to another opinion, however, the source for the obligation to perform mitzvos at age 13 is a dictate handed down by G-d to Moshe at Sinai. As such, it follows along the lines of other supra-rational edicts regarding measurements and amounts. According to this opinion, the obligation to perform mitzvos at 13 has nothing to do with maturity or discernment; it is a supra-rational law.

One of the Halachic differences between these two opinions is the age at which a non-Jew becomes obligated to observe the Seven Noahide Laws.

If the obligation of mitzvos at the age of 13 is dependent on the age at which (most) people reach maturity, then it should apply to Jew and non-Jew equally. If, however, it is one of the supra-rational Laws of Measures — which do not apply to non-Jews — then the age at which non-Jews’ are obligated to perform their seven commandments depends entirely on individual maturity.

In terms of spiritual service, the difference between these two opinions relates to the manner in which a Jew is to approach the performance of Torah and mitzvos:

According to the first opinion, the approach is one of serving G-d logically; if the age at which one becomes obligated to perform mitzvos depends on one’ intellectual maturity, it is understandable that the service commences with logic and comprehension.

According to the second opinion, however, the obligation to begin performing mitzvos at 13 is supra-rational — because G-d has so commanded. It therefore follows that the approach to the performance of mitzvos involves the supra-rational acceptance of the Divine Yoke.

Nevertheless, even those who hold the first opinion — that the age for beginning one’s service is gleaned from the verse “each man took his sword” — also agree that the performance of mitzvos is bound up with mesirus nefesh, i.e., serving G-d in a self-sacrificial manner that transcends the bounds of intellect.

That this is indeed so is amply demonstrated by the fact that those who hold this opinion derive it from the verse “each man took his sword” — an action that demands self-sacrifice.

This in no way contradicts the earlier statement that this manner of service demands comprehension and intellect, for though they maintain that the action should be performed with understanding and discernment, they agree that the foundation of Divine service lies in acceptance of the Divine Yoke. Then, and only then, can a person be assured that he will not be blinded by his own logic, and that his performance of mitzvos will be done in an entirely proper manner.

by Rabbi David Lapin, iawaken.org

The Three Steps to Successful Traveling

I travel a lot, as I am sure many of you do. The geographical journeys have been the easiest ones. This applies to the transcontinental ones too, such as my current journey from California, through Europe, South Africa and Australia before returning to California. The harder journeys have been the intellectual, emotional and spiritual ones, and their destinations by far the most exciting and rewarding. On these journeys you are your own pilot; yet often you do not choose your destination. Life is your vehicle; but you cannot control its speed. Judgment is crucial; but you have no map.

I have found three success criteria to any journey, and I will share them with you: i) Truly departing; ii) Not arriving at your destination before you reach it; and  iii) Feeling the majestic future in the present moment – wherever you happen to be.  I discovered these criteria in the first verse of Parshat Vayetze, and I always try to live by them.

i) Truly Departing

Rashi asks[1] why the Parsha begins with Vayetze (“and he departed”) and does not merely tell where he traveled to: Haran. The Midrash[2] learns from this word, Vayetze, (without explaining how), that Ya’acov’s journey was without fear. Fear is the element most likely to sabotage a successful journey. Fear is what causes us to cling to the past, to nostalgically yearn for that which has been, and to remain attached to our previous assumptions, biases and viewpoints. Detachment is a precondition for movement, and fear prevents detachment. It is hard to let go of something you are holding onto if you fear the next step. Too often our bodies leave a place but our minds and sometimes our hearts remain there.

Detachment does not mean that you cease to value the past, nor that you forget it. It simply means you are not dependent on it for your sense of self and are ready to explore new vistas of human experience confident in your own capabilities and in the guiding hand of Providence. By the otherwise unnecessary use of the word vayetze, the Midrash sees an emphasis by the Torah of the fact that despite Ya’acov’s deeply spiritual and emotional attachments to his mother, father and home, he was able to depart, to let go and to start on a remarkable journey of pain, growth and joy.

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Location: Shaarei Tzedek Shul, 397 Markham Street, Toronto, ON
Title: Gog and Magog War Update
Date: Sunday, November 25, 2007
Time: 10 am

More details: Facebook invitation

Details on Rabbi Avraham Greenbaum.

By Yosef Y. Jacobson, www.algemeiner.com

The rabbis in the Talmud focus on an apparent grammatical inconsistency in this week’s Torah portion (Vayeitzei). When Jacob journeys from Beer Sheba to Haran, stopping on the way to rest for the night, the Bible tells us, “He took from the stones of the place, arranged them around his head, and lay down to rest.” But in the morning when he awakes, we read a slightly different story: “Jacob arose early in the morning, and took the stone he placed around his head and set it up as a pillar.” First we read of “stones,” in the plural; then we read of “the stone,” in the singular. Which one was it? Did Jacob use a single stone or did he employ many stones?

A delightful Talmudic tradition, laden with symbolism, answers the question thus: Jacob indeed took several stones. The stones began quarreling, each one saying, “Upon me shall this righteous person rest his head.” So G-d combined them all into one stone, and the quarreling ceased. Hence, when Jacob awoke, we read, he “took the stone” in the singular, being that all the stones became one.

What is the symbolism behind this imagery? What is the meaning of stones quarreling with each other and then reaching a state of harmony?

And one more question: How did the merging of diverse stones into a single entity satisfy their complaint, “Upon me shall this righteous person rest his head?” Even after the stones congealed into a single large stone, the head of Jacob still lie only on one part of the stone. (A simple illustration: Your mattress is made of one piece, yet your head can only lie on one particular space on your mattress). So why didn’t the other parts of the stone (Jacob’s “mattress”) still lament that Jacob’s head is not lying on them?

The Lubavitcher Rebbe once put it thus: When you feel one with the other, you mind not if the head of the righteous one rests upon him. When the stones are separated from each other, the question becomes, “Who gets the head”? “Why should you get the head, not me”? But when they become one, they do not care who gets the head, because they are one.

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By Yanki Tauber (courtesy of Chabad.org)

“Behold, a ladder stood on the earth, and the top of it reached to heaven; and behold, angels of G-d were ascending and descending on it”
(Genesis 28:12)

What motivates you? Why do you do what you do?

Do you wake up in the morning, go to work, are considerate to your spouse, patient with your children and nice to your neighbors because you are forced to? Because society rewards such behavior? Because you want to? Because you can’t imagine acting otherwise?

A close examination of our actions in the course of the day and the motivations that drive them would probably reveal elements of all of the above. But are these random influences, or is there some sort of order and hierarchy to them? And if there is, in what order are they aligned? And where is your life and psyche headed — is it advancing up the ladder or sliding down the stairwell?

According to the ancient mystics, all actions of man — indeed all workings of creation — derive from two general forces: love and awe. More specifically, there are two types of love: “lower love” and “higher love.” And two forms of awe — “lower awe” and “higher awe”.

“Lower awe” is the lowest of the four on the ladder of human motivations. A step above that is “lower love”. Then comes “higher love”. Finally, “higher awe” is the highest level a human being can reach.

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By Chabad.org, copyright 2007.

In the Torah portion of Toldot we read of the blessings that Yitzchak bestowed upon his son Yaakov, beginning with the words: “And may G-d give you….” Comments the Midrash: “May He give you, and May He give you again.”

Man is inherently limited, so his gifts are inherently limited. Even if a person were to give as much as he can, his gift would be limited, and thus he may add to his gift by giving once again.

G-d, however, is truly limitless. Surely, His original gift, emanating as it does from his infinite kindness, is also without limit. What possible need could there be for G-d to give and then give again?

The transmission of knowledge from teacher to student can be achieved in one of two ways: a) the student may understand his master’s teachings, but not thoroughly enough to arrive at novel concepts; b) the disciple may completely master his teacher’s discourse, so that he is able to amplify on these teachings and come up with novel thoughts of his own.

Examples of the above are found in the Mishnah, where R. Yochanan ben Zakkai speaks of the qualities of his disciples, comparing R. Eliezer ben Horkenus to “a cemented cistern which does not lose a drop” and R. Elazar ben Arach to a “fountain which flows with ever-increasing strength.”

It is readily apparent that the latter student is superior to the former. Thus Abba Shaul goes on to say in the name of R. Yochanan ben Zakkai: “If all the Sages of Israel, including even Eliezer ben Hurknus, were on one side of a scale, and Elazar ben Arach were on the other, he would outweigh them all.”

The reason for this superiority lies in the fact that even if “not a drop” of knowledge is lost, such a disciple will never have more than he received from his master.

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Parshat Toldot, 5768

© Rabbi David Lapin, 2007

Health and Spirituality

Eating, exercise and caring for our other physical needs are so much more than the nourishment of our bodies. They are an avodah (a spiritual practice), a religious responsibility, a mitzvah.

The connection of our souls to our bodies is the most fragile aspect of human life. When our bodies lose their connection to our souls, death results. Spiritual activities nourish our souls, but it is our physical health that keeps our bodies connected to our souls and keeps us alive. Physical health is a Mitzvah; that is why we say Berachot (blessings) both when we eat and when we relieve ourselves. The Ramah (Shulchan Aruch, O.Ch. 6:1) comments on the beracha for relieving ourselves: “For when G-d keeps us in a state of heightened health, our souls are protected inside of us.”

The Rambam in his Shmoneh Perakim (Chap. 1) talks of how the activity of human eating bears no resemblance to the activity of animals eating. Eating nourishes an animal’s body, but for humans it nourishes their souls too. The Nefesh Hachayim (2:6), takes this idea further and based on the Zohar (Tzav 33b and Eikev 271b), compares what eating does for the soul, to what the learning of Torah and prayer do for G-d Himself.[1] The soul does not need physical food for its own survival but it does need it for the survival of its connection to the body. In the same way Hashem does not need our prayers and study of Torah, but His continued connection to the universe is dependent on those human activities.

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