By Tali Loewenthal, Chabad.org

Alone with G‑d on Mount Sinai, Moses learnt the details of building the Sanctuary, the portable Temple described in this week’s Torah reading. This was to be the spiritual centre for the Jews, and eventually for the whole world: the place where the Shechinah, the Presence of G‑d, would be revealed.

The Sanctuary was constructed of heavy wooden planks standing upright. Each plank was supported at its base by two heavy blocks of silver. The plank slotted into these. The upright planks were overlaid with gold and securely fastened together. These planks formed the walls of the Sanctuary, and layers of curtaining formed the roof.

Inside the Sanctuary were the Menorah, a Table and an Altar for incense, all made of gold. Behind a beautifully embroidered curtain was the Holy of Holies, containing the golden Ark. Inside this were the sapphire tablets with the Ten Commandments engraved on them, which Moses brought down from Sinai.

The Sanctuary built by Moses existed long ago, and in the form of the Temple will again be rebuilt in Jerusalem. But there is also an inner Sanctuary, within the heart of every man and woman. The details of the physical Sanctuary described in our Parshah help us understand how we can build this inner Sanctuary, so that the Presence of G‑d should be revealed there too, within us.

The acacia wood of which the Sanctuary was made has in Hebrew a strange name. It can be translated as “the wood of folly.”

This helps us understand the purpose of the Sanctuary, and of life.

There is a level of ordinary, civilized behavior. This is the norm. Low, base and callous behavior means acting in a way which is lower than this norm: this is folly. All sin and evil come from this lower kind of folly.

But there is also another kind of folly, which entails going above the norm. This is termed “sacred folly.” Through faith, dedication, devotion and love, the person goes beyond their ordinary level. He or she makes a step which might be exceptional. Imagine a person deciding to put on tefilin every day, or to change round the kitchen so as to make it truly kosher.

Judaism is based on the power generated by such decisions. We have survived for thousands of years because of the power of this “sacred folly,” our willingness – occasionally – to go beyond the norm of conventional rationality. The leap forward which we then achieve redeems the blunders and excesses of our lower, unpleasant folly. Bad is changed into good, darkness into light. It is through this process that we build our inner Sanctuary.

This is why the Sanctuary was built of acacia wood, “wood of folly.” Through the quest to advance we go beyond ordinary reason into the realm of sacred folly, transforming our coarse, worldly folly into something spiritual. Thus we reveal the radiant Shechinah, the Presence of G‑d. It illuminates the Sanctuary in our heart, our home, our life and ultimately, from the Temple in Jerusalem, the entire world.1

FOOTNOTES
1. Based freely on the discourse by Rabbi Yosef Yitzhak Schneersohn, Bati LeGani, ch. 5.

On the first night of Chanukah all eight candle holders stand before you. But you light only one. Tomorrow night you shall light two. You know that eventually you will light all eight.

From which we learn two things:

1. Move step by step in life. Take things on at a pace you can handle.

2. Always grow. Always keep moving. If you did one good thing yesterday, do two today. Your ultimate achievement is always one step ahead.

[via Chabad.org]

[From the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe]

The Torah portion of Lech Lecha relates that Avraham built three altars to G-d.1 Rashi , basing his commentary on the Midrash2 , explains that Avraham built the first altar “upon hearing G-d’s promise that he would have children, and that they would inherit the land of Israel.”3

Rashi goes on to state that he erected the second altar — in the vicinity of Ai — because “he saw in his prophecy that his progeny would stumble there through the sin of Achan. He therefore prayed for them there.”4

However, no explanation is given by Rashi as to the reason for Avraham’s third altar, since Avraham built it out of his simple love of G-d upon his arrival in the city of Chevron.

Our Sages inform us5 that “G-d gave Avraham a sign that all that transpired with him will transpire with his children as well.” This is so because the actions of the Patriarchs serve as an antecedent and a catalyst for the subsequent actions of their descendants.

Thus, the altars built by Avraham empowered his progeny to successfully bring offerings upon the altars in the Mishkan and the first and second Beis HaMikdash.

How did Avraham accomplish the building of these three altars?

The Gemara relates6 that the altars performed three primary functions: they provided sustenance to the entire world; they negated any harsh decrees against the Jewish people by bringing about atonement for their sins; and they caused the Jewish people to be loved by G-d.

These three functions correspond to the three general categories of offerings: Olah — which were wholly consumed upon the altar; Chatos — atonement offerings; and Shelamim — peace offerings:

The Shelamim — parts of which were eaten by those who brought them — symbolize the altar’s function of providing the world with sustenance; just as the owners were able to physically sustain themselves by eating parts of the offerings, so too is the “entire world sustained in the merit of the offerings.”

Chatos — offerings that brought atonement — served to negate any and all harsh decrees, and caused the Jewish people to be forgiven for their sins.

The wholly consumed Olah , offered “entirely for G-d’s glory,”7 without any ulterior motive, served to make the Jews even more loved by G-d.

The bringing of offerings was deemed to be so important that the generic term “service” (Avodah) is applied to it.8 It thus follows that in our day-to-day service to G-d, which mirrors the “service of offerings,” we will also find the three above-mentioned categories:

First and foremost is the ongoing service of Torah and mitzvos — similar to the Shelamim offering — which continually provides a Jew with his physical and spiritual sustenance.

The second general aspect of Divine service — similar to the Chatos offering — is that of repentance and atonement; even when one — G-d forbid — transgresses, one is able to gain forgiveness through repentance and atonement.

However, a Jew achieves total unification with and attachment to G-d only through the service of mesirus nefesh — complete, absolute and selfless dedication, similar to the wholly consumed Olah offering.

In this state, a person dedicates himself to G-d not for the sake of physical or even spiritual reward, but solely for the sake of G-d’s glory, with no thought of self. By acting in such a manner a Jew becomes “ever the more loved by G-d.”

Avraham’s building of three altars and their effect on his progeny can be understood accordingly: he thereby laid the foundations for the three general aspects of Divine service practiced by the Jewish people throughout history.

The first altar — built upon hearing G-d’s promise about children and the land — relates to the physical and spiritual sustenance achieved through the ongoing service of Torah and mitzvos.

The second altar — wherein he prayed that the sin of Achan be forgiven — involves repentance, atonement and forgiveness.

The third altar — for which Rashi provides no reason at all — symbolizes that aspect of service which transcends reason: the service of mesirus nefesh.

“Down Is Up”

The name of a Torah portion is, of course, indicative of its general content, inasmuch as the title applies equally to all its verses. This is also true regarding Lech Lecha , “Go for your own sake” — a title that implies a continual moving forward.

The general meaning of forward movement in the life of a Jew, prefigured by the journey of Avraham — the first Jew — is a constant spiritual elevation through divine service, the reason for which man was created.9

The beginning of Lech Lecha describes how Avraham fulfilled G-d’s command to “move forth from your land, birthplace and father’s home,”10 by completing his father’s journey to Eretz Yisrael. It then goes on to chronicle how Avraham continued to journey in the direction of Jerusalem and the Beis HaMikdash.11

The above facts thus detail Avraham’s constant spiritual climb, forever attaining more sublime spiritual levels.

However, soon afterwards the Torah relates how a famine in Eretz Yisrael forced Avraham to descend to Egypt, a land whose spiritual degradation was such that is was called the “abomination of the earth.”12

How does this descent conform with a title that refers to continual spiritual ascent?

Our Sages inform us13 that “All the events that transpired with the Patriarchs serve as a sign to their progeny.” This means that not only were these events the forerunners of similar ones involving the Jewish nation, but also that the trailblazing of the Patriarchs brought about those ensuing events.

Thus the Zohar says14 that Avraham’s descent to Egypt led to the subsequent exile of the Jewish people there, and understandably, Avraham’s ensuing ascent from Egypt made possible the Jewish people’s subsequent exodus and elevation. Similarly, since Avraham left Egypt “heavily laden with livestock, silver and gold,”15 the Jewish people would leave Egypt with great wealth.

Accordingly, it is to be understood that the ultimate meaning of Avraham’s descent into Egypt is indeed alluded to in the title Lech Lecha ; his descent into Egypt was a necessary prerequisite to his subsequent ascent, “heavily laden with livestock, silver and gold.” Therefore, this descent was part and parcel of his later ascent.

The same holds true with regard to our own spiritual debasement in the present Exile — an exile rooted in the Egyptian exile, the source of all later exiles.16

The ultimate intent of this exile is the enabling the Jewish people — through their spiritual service under the most trying circumstances — to reach an even loftier level than that attained during the time of the Beis HaMikdash.17 Thus, the present descent is in itself truly part of the coming ascent.

The above helps immeasurably in terms of our own spiritual service. When one ponders the current state of the world, one may well despair of ever vanquishing the spiritual darkness and illuminating the world with the light of Torah and mitzvos.

In truth, however, all these descents and concealments are merely external. On a more sublime level, since G-d conducts the world according to His will and since He desires that all creation attain spiritual perfection, even those things that seem to indicate darkness and a headlong fall are but a prerequisite for refinement, illumination and soaring ascent.

Thus, since the present state of affairs is truly part and parcel of the coming ascent. The world overall is indeed becoming holier day by day, and ultimately will attain completion as a wholly fit dwelling place for G-d.

Based on Likkutei Sichos , Vol. V, pp. 57-63.
FOOTNOTES
1.     Bereishis 12:7, 12:8, 13:18.
2.     Bereishis Rabbah, conclusion of ch. 39.
3.     Rashi, Bereishis 12:7.
4.     Ibid. 12:8.
5.     Tanchuma, Lech Lecha 9; similarly in Bereishis Rabbah 40:6.
6.     Kesuvos 10b.
7.     Midrash Tadsheh; Sefer Raziel HaMalach.
8.     See commentaries on Avos 1:2.
9.     Conclusion of tractate Kiddushin.
10.     Bereishis 12:1.
11.     Bereishis Rabbah 39:24.
12.     Bereishis 42:9.
13.     See Tanchumah, Lech Lecha 9; Bereishis Rabbah 40:6.
14.     Zohar, Lech Lecha.
15.     Bereishis 13:2.
16.     See Likkutei Sichos IX, p. 178, fn. 28.
17.     See Pesachim 87b; Torah Or , 6a; Or HaTorah , Lech 86a.

By Shifra Hendrie

“As in the days when you left Egypt, I will show you wonders” Micah 7:15.

On the fifteenth of the Hebrew month of Nissan, Jews around the world will sit together with family and friends. They will sit at tables covered with white cloths, illuminated with candlelight, sparkling with silver, china and crystal. Throughout the night, they will taste the richness of wine, the bitterness of horseradish, and the subtle pure taste of matzah, the bread of faith.

On the seder night, we celebrate our liberation from slavery in Egypt, our redemption and freedom.

And yet, we are still waiting to be free.

When I was a small child, I lived in Chicago. We weren’t observant, but my grandparents were. And every Passover (Pesach), we would go to their apartment – my parents, my brothers and I – together with all my aunts, uncles and cousins, to celebrate the seder.

I remember my Uncle Artie and my Aunt Shiffy joking, the kids clowning around, my grandfather talking about the Exodus from Egypt and my grandmother saying: “Samuel, I’m hungry! Can you please hurry so we can eat?”

I never wanted my grandfather to hurry. I would have loved it if he had told the story of the Exodus all night long. Because from as far back as I can remember, at the seder – in the eating, the drinking and the telling of the story – I could feel the walls of the world shifting, opening and moving back. I could feel the presence of something else; something sparkling, something powerful, profoundly in motion, real and alive.

Many years have passed since my grandparents passed away. There were years – lots of years – when I didn’t go to any seder. There were years when I didn’t even know that Pesach had come and gone.

Then began my own journey back-back to my roots, to the roots of my grandparents and great-grandparents, to the roots of all the generations that came before. My journey brought me all the way back to the generation of the Exodus from Egypt, an Exodus which is still occurring today.

The slavery of Egypt was the most profound and all-encompassing that ever existed, as it was not only physical but spiritual as well. The redemption from Egypt took place in the midst of thunderous miracles, and through it, both bodies and souls become free.

But that freedom did not last. True, the Exodus was the prototype for every redemption that would ever follow. It was a world-altering event that led to the birth of the Jewish nation and the giving of the Torah, the Divine mandate for all of humanity. But it was incomplete.

G-d took us out of Egypt, but He did not take Egypt out of us.

Kabbalah explains that the Hebrew word for Egypt, Mitzrayim, means limitations, boundaries, constraints. In breaking out of Egypt, we were freed from those constraints, changed forever. From the moment Pharaoh let us go, there was no longer any force in the world powerful enough to keep a Jew from connecting with G-d. No force in the world.

But inside the Jew-that’s a different story.

Many times over the millennia of our history we were enslaved, oppressed, expelled-and much worse. The world has not been a hospitable place for the Jews. But in each of those situations, Jews kept the Torah. Though the world has tried to destroy the Jewish nation time and time again, the Jews have never agreed to disappear.

Nevertheless, Egypt remains alive inside the hearts of each one of us. It makes us feel small and unworthy. It makes us forget who we are and who we could become. It makes us believe that we have to blend in with those who seem bigger and more powerful than ourselves. It gives us the stubborn illusion that the world is solid and real, and that the intimate presence of G-d and our own souls is a fantasy or a dream.

This “slave mentality” is the cause of all the limiting beliefs, uncertainties and fears that are in our way. It makes us feel helpless and disempowered. It cuts us off from the miracles of our past, the potential of our future and our own truly infinite power to change our world for good.

It all comes down to this: Until we free ourselves from the inner Egypt we will never be truly free.

But once we do, we will never be slaves again-to anything, or anyone. Not even ourselves.

The generation that left Egypt ran up against the same basic problem again and again. They were conditioned to think like slaves. They feared the power of the nations who opposed them, and they could not fully internalize – trust and rely upon – their relationship with G-d.

But Kabbalah tells us a fascinating thing. It says that the souls of the generation that left Egypt will be reincarnated in our times, in the generation of the final redemption. It is the task of this generation to finally transform the inner Egypt and set ourselves and all our descendents free.

Passover occurs in the month of Nissan. Nissan is called the Rosh Hashanah, the New Year, of redemption. The name Nissan itself contains within it the Hebrew word for miracle (nes). And each Nissan, as it enters, brings with it exactly that-a vast potential for miracles of redemption, a new level of potential that was never present in the world before.

You might sense this; you might not. But either way, it doesn’t change the facts. As the last generation of exile and the first of redemption, we were born with the slave mentality, but only in order that we can transform it once and for all. We are meant to come face-to-face with those feelings of smallness and helplessness, the fears and uncertainties, and the fact that the constraints and challenges of our physical world still seem all too real. But only so that we can finally leave them behind.

You have to feel these things, true. But you don’t have to believe in them. You don’t have to let them control your life anymore.

According to the Lubavitcher Rebbe, at this crucial and transitional time in history we can and must begin to use our new potential – our miraculous potential – in every aspect of our lives. It’s not enough to simply stop being slaves, to become a nation among nations. We must go much higher than that. Each one of us, through the intimacy and intensity of our connection with G-d, now has the power to connect with our own concealed essence as well. From that place, we become true partners in Creation. Not only will our lives become miraculous, but miracles will become a part of our very nature.

Here’s a little secret that will help. The truth is that everything is already a miracle. Since G-d is bringing this world into existence from divine “nothingness” at every moment, everything is intentional, everything is miraculous and everything is an alive, moving expression of its infinite Source. But this reality can’t just remain an idea. It must be internalized; become a part of our daily consciousness, our ordinary lives.

So let’s start with you.

What would change in your life if you connected to this reality and began to tap into a still-unexplored level of awareness and power? Would you notice the myriad and continuous expressions of Divine Providence in your life and world? Would you feel more connected and empowered? Bolder, more confident, less afraid?

What would your relationships be like? What would you be committed to? What would you create?

You don’t have to wait. In fact, waiting is the last thing you should do.

This Nissan, it’s time to approach each challenge and every opportunity of your life with a new belief, the belief that it is now within your nature to make miracles, to create redemption. This belief – and the actions that go with it – will change your world.

We don’t have to wait for next year in Jerusalem. As we sit by the seder table this year, may we be truly free!
- Shifra Hendrie is a personal and spiritual coach who has been studying and teaching the principles of authentic Kabbalah for over 20 years. More about her writings and programs can be found on her website (http://www.kabbalahoftransformation.com).

- To view this article on the Web, or to post a comment, please click here: http://www.chabad.org/663552 .

By Rabbi Manis Friedman, Chabad.org

There are two kinds of human love: the intrinsic, calm love that we feel for people to whom we’re related by birth; and the more intimate, fiery love that exists in marriage. This is why the husband-wife relationship is very different from the parent-child relationship.

The love within a family, between relatives who are born of the same flesh, is innate. The love between a mother and child, a brother and sister, two brothers, two sisters, comes easily. Since they’re related by nature, they feel comfortable with each other. There’s an innate closeness between them, so their love is strong, solid, steady, predictable, and calm. There’s no distance that has to be bridged; no difference that has to be overcome.

The love between a husband and wife isn’t like that. Their love wasn’t always there; they didn’t always know each other; they weren’t always related. No matter how well they get to know one another, they aren’t alike. They are different from each other physically, emotionally, and mentally. They love each other in spite of the differences and because of them, but there isn’t enough of a commonality between them to create a casual, calm love. The differences remain even after they are married, and the love between them will have to overcome these differences.

After all, husband and wife were once strangers. Male is different from female, so in essence they must remain strangers. Because of this, the love between them can never be casual, consistent, or calm.

This acquired love is naturally more intense than the love between brother and sister. When love has to overcome a difference, a distance, an obstacle, it needs energy to leap across and bridge the gap. This is the energy of fiery love.

Because the gap between husband and wife will never really close, their love for one another will continually have to reach across it. There will be distance, separation, then a bridging of distance, and a coming back together, again and again. This sense of distance intensifies the desire to merge.

To come together, man and woman have to overcome certain resistances. A man has to overcome his resistance to commitment, and a woman has to overcome her resistance to invasion. So, in coming together, husband and wife are reaching across great emotional distances, which intensifies their love. The absence of innate love actually makes the heart grow fonder.

If a brother and sister were to have a fiery love, their relationship would suffer. It’s not the appropriate emotion for a brother and sister to have. Their love thrives when it’s unbroken, unchallenged, constant, and calm. Not that they can’t have disagreements, but those disagreements don’t disrupt their love. On the other hand, if a husband and wife develop a calm love for each other, their relationship will not thrive. If they are too familiar with each other, too comfortable with each other, like brother and sister, their love will not flourish. True intimacy in marriage–fiery love–is created by constant withdrawal and reunion.

If a husband and wife are never separate, their love begins to sour, because they are not creating an environment appropriate to that love. The environment of constant togetherness is not conducive to man-woman love: it’s the environment for brother-sister love or parent-child love.

That’s why the ideal blessing for a married couple is, “Your honeymoon should never end.” A honeymoon–when two people who were once separate come together for the first time–should never end, because that’s what a marriage thrives on.

The love between a man and a woman thrives on withdrawal and reunion, separation and coming together. The only way to have an environment conducive to that kind of relationship is to provide a separation.

There are many kinds of separations. A couple can live in different places, have differences of opinion, or get into arguments and be angry at each other. Often the arguing isn’t for the sake of arguing, but for the sake of creating a distance so that husband and wife can feel like they’re coming together. That’s not a very happy solution. Making up after an argument may be good for a marriage on occasion, but not on a regular basis. It isn’t a good idea to go looking for arguments, especially since separations can take a more positive form.

The physical separation given to us by G-d for that purpose is a much happier solution. That separation is created by observing a collection of Torah laws deriving from Leviticus 15, called “the laws of family purity” or “the laws of mikvah.” The word mikvah refers to the ritual bath in which traditional Jewish women, since the days of the Bible, have immersed themselves following their monthly period and before renewing sexual relations with their husbands.

According to these laws of mikvah, during the time that a Jewish woman is menstruating, and for one week afterward, she is physically off-limits to her husband. For those days, the physical separation is total: no touching, no sitting on a swing together, no sleeping in the same bed.

Through the ages, all sorts of explanations have been given for these laws, but all of them have one thing in common: Separation protects and nurtures the intimate aspect of marriage, which thrives on withdrawal and reunion.

This understanding is not unique to Jews. In most cultures throughout the world, the ancients practiced varying degrees of separation between husband and wife during the woman’s menstrual period. Some, such as certain tribes of American Indians, actually had separate living quarters, menstruant tents, where a woman would stay during her period. Later these customs deteriorated into myths, taboos, fears, superstitions, hygienic arguments, and other rationalizations, in an attempt to make sense of a delicate and sensitive subject. But separation was such a universal practice that I wonder if human beings know instinctively that male-female love thrives on withdrawal and reunion, on coming together following a separation. The body is actually respecting an emotional state. Just as the love between man and woman cannot be maintained at full intensity all the time, but needs a certain creative tension without which it will not flourish, the body has a similar need.

As far as Jews are concerned, we know these cyclical changes were created for that very purpose. This is much more than a coincidence: It is how the body reflects the soul, how the body is created in the image of the soul.

Like everything else that exists in our lives, the cycle of withdrawal and reunion that exists in marriage is meant to be a reflection of our relationship with G-d. The two kinds of love, calm love and fiery love, exist not only among human beings, but between ourselves and G-d.

When we refer to G-d as our Father, it’s an innate and intrinsic relationship. We don’t have to work for it; it’s just there. It’s a steady, constant love, an indestructible love, a love compared to water-calm love.

But we also talk about how G-d is infinite and we are finite; G-d is true and we are not; G-d is everything and we are barely something. Because of these differences, we feel a great distance from G-d, and the need to create a relationship with Him. Establishing a relationship in spite of the differences, in spite of the distance, is more like a marriage. That’s a stormy relationship–fiery love.

More precisely, our soul loves G-d like a child loves a parent, because our soul is of G-d. That love is innate and calm. When G-d tells this soul to go down into a body, that’s a separation. Then our soul loves G-d with a fiery love, which, like the love between a husband and wife, does not come automatically. Acquired love is by nature intense and fiery.

Eventually, the soul will be reunited with G-d more intimately than before, just as the intimacy between a husband and wife is deeper when they come together following a separation. Therefore, when G-d says that a husband and wife have to be modest with one another, that they may be together and then separate, come together and separate again, according to a monthly cycle, it’s not an artificial imposition. It may produce discipline, which is nice. It may keep the marriage fresh, which is important. But there’s more to it than that. It is, in fact, the natural reflection of the type of love that must exist between husband and wife. In order to nurture that stormy, fiery love, our way of living has to correspond to the emotions we are trying to nurture and retain.

If there’s going to be a separation–and there needs to be one–consider the following: Rather than wait for a separation to develop, where a husband and wife get into a fight or lose interest in each other, let’s take the cue from the body and create a physical, rather than emotional, separation. Everyone is saying, “I need my space.” It’s true. Keeping the laws of mikvah, when they apply, is one way of creating that space.

- Rabbi Friedman is an internationally acclaimed author, educator, social philosopher and counselor, as well as primary lecturer at Bais Chana Women International.

via Chabad.org, based on the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe:

The Torah reading of Pekudei (Exodus 38:21-40:38) opens with an accounting of the various materials donated by the people of Israel for the making of the Mishkan, the portable sanctuary which “housed” the divine presence in the Israelite camp during their journeys through the desert.

These donations included: gold for the Mishkan’s “vessels” (the Menorah, Ark, etc.) and the plating of its wall panels; silver used for the “foundation sockets” into which the wall panels were inserted; copper used in the making of the Altar and the washbasin; wood for the wall panels and posts; wool dyed in a variety of colors, and fine-spun linen, for the tapestries and the priestly garments; goat hair and animal skins for the roof coverings; a variety of precious stones for the Ephod and Choshen (the apron and breastplate worn by the High Priest); oil for the lighting of the menorah and spices for the making of the ketoret (“incense”) — fifteen materials in all.

With 14 of these 15 materials, each Jew gave whatever he or she chose to give and how much he or she chose to contribute. The type and amount given depended solely on the resources and the degree of generosity of the individual making the donation.

The single exception was the silver used to make the Miskan’s foundation. Here, G-d commanded that each should give exactly half a shekel of silver — “The rich man shall not give more, and the poor man shall not give less” (Exodus 30:15; from the section of Shekalim, a special supplementary reading added this week because of the upcoming month of Adar, when the half-shekel was traditionally contributed).

Every person is different: we differ in our intellect, character, talents and sensitivities. But we are all equal in the very basis of our bond with G-d: our intrinsic commitment to Him. So while we each contributed to the making of the various components of the Sanctuary in accordance with our individual capacity, we all gave equally of the silver of which its foundation was made. As regards the foundation of the relationship between us and G-d, the rich man cannot give more, and the pauper cannot give less, since we all equally possess that intrinsic commitment.

Upon this foundation, we each build our individualized edifice. Upon this foundation, we each erect a home for G-d made out of the unique talents, capacities and resources we are able to contribute. The foundation is the lowest, least noticeable part of the edifice; sometimes it is buried out of sight in the ground. But it is the silver foundation of absolute, immutable commitment that is the basis and support of it all.

via Chabad.org

The Talmud relates that the great Sage R. Yochanan ben Zakkai wept before his death, saying: “There are two paths stretching before me, one to Gan Eden [Heaven] and one to Gehinom. I know not on which I shall be led.”

It goes without saying that R. Yochanan ben Zakkai was concerned as to whether he had attained a sufficient level of holiness to enter Gan Eden. Why did he voice his apprehension only on his deathbed? His spiritual status should have been an ongoing concern.

Every Jew is entrusted with a unique Divine mission that he is to accomplish during his lifetime. He is allotted a specific time in which to accomplish that task — not one day more and not one day less.

When a Jew fails to make use of a day, an hour, or even a moment, in pursuit of his mission, he not only fails to achieve his fullest spiritual potential, but more importantly, he has failed — during those moments — to accomplish his entrusted task.

R. Yochanan ben Zakkai spent every moment of his life totally immersed in his mission, so much so that he simply did not have time to pause and contemplate his own spiritual level. It was only at the conclusion of his mission — just prior to his demise — that he was able to ponder his own status.

The importance of absolute dedication to one’s mission is also alluded to in the Torah portion of Mishpatim, wherein Scripture states: “You will serve G-d… No woman will miscarry or remain childless in your land; I will make you live out full lives.”

In spiritual terms, the above verses mean that when performed with proper intent, Divine service leads to ever greater spiritual heights — it “bears children.” When, however, a person is self-satisfied in his service, it fails to produce the desired results — he “miscarries” and is spiritually “barren.”

One can guard against this by “living out a full life.” I.e., a person should realize that he is granted a specific number of years. Every moment wasted on something other than his appointed task constitutes an act of rebellion against G-d, who entrusted him with his sacred mission.

When a person realizes this, he will gladly sacrifice all sense of ego, and concentrate solely on completing his assignment. Eventually he will become so absorbed that he will even forget that it is he who is fulfilling it; the mission in general and the task at hand will fill his mind completely.

When someone else inquires about such a Jew’s spiritual state, he will respond: “How can I possibly think about myself when I have been granted only a limited number of days in which to fulfill my purpose in life? I must constantly be on guard to assure that not one precious moment is lost; I simply do not have time to think about my spiritual achievements!”

When a Jew attains this level of self-abnegation, G-d blesses him with “a full life”; even if there were days in which he did not fulfill his mission, or worse yet, acted in a counterproductive manner, G-d promises him that the missing days will be made up. Ultimately, all his days become whole.

(Based on Likkutei Sichos Vol. XVI pp. 271-274)

via Chabad.org

In the Torah portion Bo we read that, “G-d said to Moshe and Aharon in Egypt: ‘This month shall be the head month to you; it shall be the first month of the year.’“ We learn from here that it is a mitzvah to “sanctify months, set leap years, and establish the festivals of the year according to the determined sanctification.”

Our Sages note that the entire Torah might have begun with this commandment, “for it is the first mitzvah that the Jewish people were commanded.”

The very fact that of all 613 commandments the Torah chose to begin with this one indicates that this mitzvah contains an element fundamental to all the rest.

What is so special about this commandment?

The primary function of the mitzvos is to enable man to permeate the world with goodness and holiness. Thus all mitzvos involve the transformation of physical objects into mitzvah-objects, entities of holiness.

This, too, is the overall theme of the commandment to sanctify the new month: The court sanctifies a certain day and declares it to be Rosh Chodesh, the beginning of the month — not an ordinary working day, and one which establishes when the holidays shall be celebrated.

In addition to the above, this commandment is inherently first in theme and content: Although the world is a composite of both space and time, and time is bound up with space, nevertheless, time precedes space. For all of Creation, including space, implies an aspect of change — present conditions are compared to the past, i.e., to conditions prior to creation.

Thus, before anything was created, including space, there already existed an entity subject to change — time. Therefore the starting point of all creation is time.

This is true in terms of man’s experience as well. First comes the actual day, and only then can man make an impact on that day by transforming physical objects.

Sanctification of the new month is thus the first commandment, for sanctity is first imbedded in time — the beginning of existence — and only then comes man’s interaction with physical objects — the aspect of space.

There is yet another all-encompassing aspect to this mitzvah: All of creation was brought about in order to be sanctified through the Jewish people’s performance of Torah and mitzvos. This is a theme that affects all of creation at all times and in all places.

A Jew’s service consists of actualizing and revealing the ultimate purpose within all things. When a Jew performs a mitzvah with a particular object, he thereby fulfills the object’s reason for being, and the object becomes a mitzvah-object.

For example, when a Jew transforms an animal’s hide into parchment for a Sefer Torah, tefillin, or mezuzos, that animal’s hide attains the purpose for which it was created — the hide has now become imbued with holiness.

Since time, too, is created, it is readily understandable that it is meant to fulfill the same purpose as the rest of creation.

Herein lies the additional significance of this most important command: Through the Jewish people’s sanctification of months — Rosh Chodesh and festivals — they reveal that the true purpose of time is to be sanctified.

For in reality the sanctification of any one month affects not only the establishment of Rosh Chodesh and the festivals in that month, but alters the entire time continuum, so that all of time becomes permeated with the realization that it is to be filled with goodness, holiness, and mitzvos.

(Based on Likkutei Sichos Vol. XXVI, pp. 59-65.)

via Chabad.org – Based on the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe

At the “Covenant Between the Parts” G-d said to Abraham: “Know that your children shall be strangers in a land not theirs, and they will enslave them and afflict them… and afterwards they will go out with great wealth.”

For much of our history, we have indeed been strangers in a land not ours. There was the Egyptian Exile that preceded our birth as a nation; the Babylonian Exile that followed the destruction of the First Temple; the Greek Exile during the Second Temple Era; and our present exile, which began with the Roman destruction of the Holy Temple in 69 ce and from which we have yet to emerge after more than nineteen centuries under the hegemony of alien powers.

Exile — galut, in Hebrew — is much more than a person’s physical removal from his homeland. A person in exile is a person severed from the environment that nourishes his way of life, his principles and values, his spiritual identity. In exile all these are in jeopardy, for the onus is now on him alone; he must call upon his own resources of resolve and perseverance to survive. In the words of our sages, “All journeys are dangerous.”

Why are we in galut? Galut is commonly regarded as a punishment for our national and individual failings. Indeed, the Prophets repeatedly describe it as such, and in our prayers we lament the fact that, “Because of our sins, we were exiled from our land.” But if galut was solely punishment for sin, its intensity would gradually diminish as the sins that caused it are atoned for; yet we find that galut grows darker and deeper as it progresses. Furthermore, our state of galut was foretold to Abraham in his covenant with G-d as an integral part of the Jewish mission in history long before the sins for which it atones were committed.

The Promise

A clue to a deeper significance of galut can be found in the “great wealth” that G-d promised to Abraham as the result of his children’s sojourn in the land of Egypt. Indeed, this promise is a recurrent theme in the Torah’s account of the Egyptian Exile and the Exodus — to the extent that one gets the impression that this was the very purpose of our enslavement in Egypt.

In G-d’s first communication to Moses, when He revealed Himself to him in the burning bush and charged him with the mission of taking the Jewish people out of Egypt, He makes sure to include the promise that, “When you go, you will not go empty-handed. Every woman shall ask from her neighbor, and from her that dwells in her house, vessels of gold and vessels of silver and garments… and you shall drain Egypt [of its wealth].”

During the plague of darkness, when the land of Egypt was plunged into a darkness so thick that the Egyptians could not budge from their places, the Jewish people — whom the darkness did not affect — were able to move about freely inside the Egyptians’ homes. This, says the Midrash, was in order that the Jews should be able to take an inventory of the wealth of Egypt, so that the Egyptians could not deny the existence of any valuable objects the Jews asked for when they left Egypt.

And just prior to the Exodus, G-d again says to Moses: “Please, speak into the ears of the people, that each man ask his [Egyptian] fellow, and each woman her fellow, for vessels of silver and gold.” G-d is virtually begging the Children of Israel to take the wealth of Egypt!”

The Talmud explains that the Jewish people were disinclined to hold up their departure from Egypt in order to gather its wealth:

To what is this comparable? To a man who is locked up in prison and is told: Tomorrow you shall be freed from prison and be given a lot of money. Says he: I beg of you, free me today, and I ask for nothing more … [So G-d had to beseech them:] Please! Ask the Egyptians for gold and silver vessels, so that the righteous one (Abraham) should not say: He fulfilled “They will be enslaved and tortured”, but He did not fulfill “and afterwards they will go out with great wealth.”

But certainly Abraham, too, would have been prepared to forgo the promise of great wealth if this were to hasten his children’s liberation. Obviously, the gold and silver we carried out of Egypt was an indispensable component of our redemption.

The Glitter in the Gold

The Talmud offers the following explanation for the phenomenon of galut: “The people of Israel were exiled amongst the nations only so that converts might be added to them.”

On the most basic level, this is a reference to the many non-Jews who, in the course of the centuries of our dispersion, have come in contact with the Jewish people and have been inspired to convert to Judaism. But Chassidic teaching explains that the Talmud is also referring to souls of a different sort that are transformed and elevated in the course of our exiles: the sparks of holiness contained within the physical creation.

The great Kabbalist Rabbi Isaac Luria taught that every object, force and phenomenon in existence has a spark of holiness within it — a pinpoint of divinity that constitutes its soul, its spiritual essence and design. This spark embodies the divine desire that the thing exist, and its function within G-d’s overall purpose for creation. When a person utilizes something to serve his Creator, he penetrates its shell of mundanity, revealing and realizing its divine essence.

It is to this end that we have been dispersed across the face of earth: so that we may come in contact with the sparks of holiness that await redemption in every corner of the globe.

Every soul has its own sparks acattered about in the world, which actually form an integral part of itself: no soul is complete until it has redeemed those sparks related to its being. Thus a person moves through life, impelled from place to place and from occupation to occupation by seemingly random forces; but everything is by divine providence, which guides every man to those possessions and opportunities whose soul is intimately connected with his.

Thus the Torah relates how Jacob risked his life to retrieve some “small jugs” he had left behind after crossing the Yabbok River. “The righteous,” remarks the Talmud, “value their possessions more than their bodies.” For they recognize the divine potential in every bit of matter, and see in each of their possessions a component of their own spiritual integrity.

The Lesson

At times, a person might be inclined to escape galut by enclosing himself in a cocoon of spirituality, devoting his days and nights to Torah study and prayer. But instead of escaping galut, he is only deepening his entrenchment within it, for he is abandoning limbs of his own soul–his sparks of holiness –in the wasteland of unrefined materiality.

It is only by meeting the challenges that divine providence sends our way, by utilizing every bit of material gold and silver toward a G-dly end, that we extricate these sparks from their galut, achieve a personal redemption, and hasten the universal redemption when “The great shofar shall be sounded, and the lost shall come from the lands of plenty, and the forsaken from the lands of stricture, and they shall bow to G-d on the Holy Mountain in Jerusalem.”

- Based on the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe; adapted by Yanki Tauber