by Rabbi David Lapin, 2009 http://iawaken.org

Much has been said and written this year about the once-in-twenty-eight-year phenomenon of Birkat Hachama this Wednesday. There are many dimensions to it: halachik, philosophic, kabbalistic and astronomical. Birkat Hachama is recited on the day that the sun, at sunset, is positioned against the same constellations on a Tuesday evening as it was on the Tuesday evening on which it was created 5770 years ago. This is one of the few occasions in our calendar governed by solar rather than lunar cycles (the other being the day we start to recite “vetein tal umattar” in chutz la’aretz).

Our Calendar is unique among the nations and cultures of the world. It is the only calendar that synchronizes both the solar and the lunar cycles in one integrated calendar system. The movement of the moon governs our months and our year. The cycle of the sun governs our Sabbath as it does our leap year and the positioning of our chaggim in their appropriate seasons.

Synchronizing lunar and solar cycles in an integrated calendar is about more than timing and seasons. The Sun and the Moon, the two primary celestial luminaries, each represent different modes of being. The Sun is ever constant and never changing. It looks the same each day. Even an astronomical amateur knows with a fair measure of precision where to expect the sun to rise each morning and where it will set. Its cycle moves a little each day to the north or the south, but this is not perceptible to the average person on a daily basis.

The moon on the other hand is ever changing and never constant. Every night it looks noticeably different. The average person doesn’t really know where it will rise and set each night.

The moon governs our months, known in Hebrew as Chodesh, which means new. The sun governs our year, Shannah in Hebrew, which means recycleor repetition. We need both disciplines: We need to build “grooves”, seder, for ourselves by constant repetition. These grooves create habits that guarantee at least some measure of consistent behavior and even achievement. Our davening is a daily “groove”. So are our Yamim Tovim and Shabbat. However if all we do is function in grooves, those grooves become ruts, and we become stale and stagnant. In addition to our seder, our grooves, we also need newness, vitality, experimentation, and exploration. We need chidush. The moon represents this chidush, this newness and innovation. The sun with its constancy, predictability and stability represents our seder. We need both. The moon wanes and grows; the sun is unvarying.

In Torah learning and thought a similar principle applies: Chidush (innovation) is core to Torah learning. “Bechol Yom yiheyu be’einecha kechadashim” (Each day the words of the Torah should be as if they are new). Yet all Torah innovation needs to be constructed within unchanging frameworks of mesorah (authentic methodology). The term mishnah comes from the same root as shanah.

In finance and economics we have similar principles. We need the ever-changing, volatile, unpredictable equity markets as much as we need more stable markets for more predictable instruments like government bonds. When innovation is not tempered with stability, we experience the kinds of seismic shake-up that our financial markets have been experiencing now. If we punish innovation and swing the pendulum to cling to safety and security, we deny ourselves the exhilaration of adventure and discovery. If we encourage unrestrained risk, we will destroy what our parents have built. If we stop investing in anything that is not secure we will leave nothing for our children. We need to develop the fine art of innovating without being reckless, of treading cautiously without shutting off the joys of human brilliance.

The Jew lives this exciting paradox of stability and volatility. Like Jacob’s ladder our feet are meant to be planted firmly on earth, while with our minds and our souls we explore, innovate and visit the highest reaches of spiritual achievement. We create behavioral grooves to guarantee our safety and we innovate to expand our experience.

On Wednesday, as we bless G-d for His creation and sustaining of the sun, we will marvel at the universe’s predictability. At the same time of the year we will emphasize the mitzvah of Hachodesh hazeh lachem (this New Moon is for you) and celebrate our capacities for individual and national renewal.

Birkat Hachama

Erev Pesach 5769

by Rabbi David Lapin, http://iawaken.org

Much has been said and written this year about the once-in-twenty-eight-year phenomenon of Birkat Hachama this Wednesday. There are many dimensions to it: halachik, philosophic, kabbalistic and astronomical. Birkat Hachama is recited on the day that the sun, at sunset, is positioned against the same constellations on a Tuesday evening as it was on the Tuesday evening on which it was created 5770 years ago. This is one of the few occasions in our calendar governed by solar rather than lunar cycles (the other being the day we start to recite “vetein tal umattar” in chutz la’aretz).

Our Calendar is unique among the nations and cultures of the world. It is the only calendar that synchronizes both the solar and the lunar cycles in one integrated calendar system. The movement of the moon governs our months and our year. The cycle of the sun governs our Sabbath as it does our leap year and the positioning of our chaggim in their appropriate seasons.

Synchronizing lunar and solar cycles in an integrated calendar is about more than timing and seasons. The Sun and the Moon, the two primary celestial luminaries, each represent different modes of being. The Sun is ever constant and never changing. It looks the same each day. Even an astronomical amateur knows with a fair measure of precision where to expect the sun to rise each morning and where it will set. Its cycle moves a little each day to the north or the south, but this is not perceptible to the average person on a daily basis.

The moon on the other hand is ever changing and never constant. Every night it looks noticeably different. The average person doesn’t really know where it will rise and set each night.

The moon governs our months, known in Hebrew as Chodesh, which means new. The sun governs our year, Shannah in Hebrew, which means recycleor repetition. We need both disciplines: We need to build “grooves”, seder, for ourselves by constant repetition. These grooves create habits that guarantee at least some measure of consistent behavior and even achievement. Our davening is a daily “groove”. So are our Yamim Tovim and Shabbat. However if all we do is function in grooves, those grooves become ruts, and we become stale and stagnant. In addition to our seder, our grooves, we also need newness, vitality, experimentation, and exploration. We need chidush. The moon represents this chidush, this newness and innovation. The sun with its constancy, predictability and stability represents our seder. We need both. The moon wanes and grows; the sun is unvarying.

In Torah learning and thought a similar principle applies: Chidush (innovation) is core to Torah learning. “Bechol Yom yiheyu be’einecha kechadashim” (Each day the words of the Torah should be as if they are new). Yet all Torah innovation needs to be constructed within unchanging frameworks of mesorah (authentic methodology). The term mishnah comes from the same root as shanah.

In finance and economics we have similar principles. We need the ever-changing, volatile, unpredictable equity markets as much as we need more stable markets for more predictable instruments like government bonds. When innovation is not tempered with stability, we experience the kinds of seismic shake-up that our financial markets have been experiencing now. If we punish innovation and swing the pendulum to cling to safety and security, we deny ourselves the exhilaration of adventure and discovery. If we encourage unrestrained risk, we will destroy what our parents have built. If we stop investing in anything that is not secure we will leave nothing for our children. We need to develop the fine art of innovating without being reckless, of treading cautiously without shutting off the joys of human brilliance.

The Jew lives this exciting paradox of stability and volatility. Like Jacob’s ladder our feet are meant to be planted firmly on earth, while with our minds and our souls we explore, innovate and visit the highest reaches of spiritual achievement. We create behavioral grooves to guarantee our safety and we innovate to expand our experience.

On Wednesday, as we bless G-d for His creation and sustaining of the sun, we will marvel at the universe’s predictability. At the same time of the year we will emphasize the mitzvah of Hachodesh hazeh lachem (this New Moon is for you) and celebrate our capacities for individual and national renewal.

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 Midrash states that the entire saga of Joseph and his brothers — the brothers’ seemingly uncontrollable jealousy of him; his sale, imprisonment and rise to power; their eventual confrontation and rapprochement — was all an “awesome plot” devised by G-d to bring Jacob and his family to Egypt.

When Jacob sent Joseph to go check up on his brothers — a mission from which Joseph did not return and was lost to his father for the next 22 years — the Torah describes it thus: “And he sent him from the valley (literally, ‘the depth’) of Hebron, and he came to Shechem.” Where is “the valley of Hebron”? ask our sages. Hebron sits on the high ground! But the meaning of the phrase, they explain, is allegorical: Joseph was dispatched on his way from “the depth of Hebron” — from the depths of the Divine plan that had been confided to Abraham, the patriarch buried in the Cave of Machpeila in Hebron.

At the “covenant Between the Pieces,” Abraham had been given a choice by G-d: Shall your children suffer galut (exile) or gehenah (hell)? Abraham chose galut, thus sending Joseph on the road to Egypt, to be followed by the rest of his family, so that the Children of Israel should experience four generations of exile and slavery before proceeding to Mount Sinai to receive their mandate as G-d’s chosen people.

But why did it have to be so complicated? Was there no other way to get Israel and family to Egypt? The Midrash offers the following parable in explanation:
This is comparable to a cow upon whom it was desired to place a yoke, but the cow was withholding her neck from the yoke. What did they do? They took her calf from behind her and drew him to the place where they wanted her to plow, and the calf was bleating. When the cow heard her calf bleating, she went despite herself, because of her child.

By the same token, Jacob might have had to be brought down to Egypt in chains, but then G-d declared: “He is My firstborn son; shall I then bring him down in disgrace?” Now, if I provoke Pharaoh [to forcefully bring him to Egypt], I will not bring him down with befitting honor. Therefore I will draw his son before him, and so he will follow despite himself.

This explanation, however, seems to raise more questions than it answers. Was the manner in which Jacob was made to arrive in Egypt any more pleasant than if he’d been brought down as a prisoner of Pharaoh’s? Were the pain and despair of the 22 years in which he mourned his beloved son preferable to the discomfort of physical chains? Certainly Jacob would have readily suffered that indignity to spare Joseph his years of slavery and imprisonment, and his other sons their years of guilt and remorse!

Furthermore, in the final analysis Jacob was forced to go down to Egypt, by the fact that G-d had sent Joseph there; in what way was this any less coercive than if he had been physically forced? Why, for that matter, did he have to be coerced in any way? What if G-d would have simply appeared to him one day, and said, “Jacob, take your whole family and go to Egypt. It’s all part of My grand plan for the people of Israel” — would Jacob not have complied?

Chassidic teaching explains that two counter-objectives had to be achieved. On the one hand, Jacob had to be compelled to relocate to Egypt — a voluntary migration would not have been an exile! Galut, by definition, is a place where one does not want to be — a place that is contrary to one’s intrinsic self and will. On the other hand, the fact that Jacob arrived in Egypt in honor, glory and in a position of power as the father of that country’s ruler, rather than as a prisoner in chains, meant that he and his descendents would never truly be subject to their host country. Thus the key to Israel’s eventual liberation from Egypt was already “programmed” into the circumstances under which their galut commenced.

This was G-d’s “awesome plot”: to force Jacob to go down to Egypt, but to do so in a way that did not entail Egypt’s power over him, but his power over Egypt. What brought Jacob to Egypt was the fact that his son was the ruler of the land; but the chain of events that brought this about had to develop without his knowledge and contrary to his will.

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

Via Rabbi YY Jacobson, Algemeiner.org 

There is a lovely tradition of playing dreidel during the festival of Chanukah.

What is a dreidel? It is a four-sided top, containing the four Hebrew letters of Nun, Gimmel, Heh and Shin. The four sides join to form a point, upon which the dreidel spins (1).

All Jewish customs contain profound spiritual meaning. Today we will discuss the deeper symbolism behind the dreidel game.

The Five Components

Jewish philosophy and mysticism teaches that human behavior is driven by four primary factors: ego, bodily urges, reason and a compulsion to destroy.

Each of us has an ego — a craving for power, self-dominance and self-determination. All of us experience incessant demands from our bodies. We all have the power of reason, the ability to try and make sense out of reality. And, each of us has a compulsion toward evil and destruction. For many of us, this impulse finds expression merely in a dream or a fleeting thought; for others, it is actualized in behavior.

This last impulse is unique in the sense that it rarely displays its genuinely disturbing face to the man who experiences it. Our compulsion toward evil usually disguises its demeanor behind the veil of the other three human qualities. It uses the ego, bodily needs or human reason as a means to explain and justify its abominable goals. Yet at the root of this urge is a simple craving toward evil and destruction, rooted in the human psyche.

Beneath these four familiar components of our personality lies a fifth and deeper dimension, known in Kabbalah as the “higher self,” or the “inner self.” This is the moral conscience of the human spirit — the spark of G-d within us — that drives us to transcend ourselves and attemot to touch the truth of reality. This inner self inspires human idealism and reflects the goodness and integrity of its Creator.

If the four elements of the human engine are detached from the higher divine self, potentially each can become dangerous. A self-serving ego can drive us to destroy those who are standing in our way. Our bodily urges and temptations can plunge us into the abyss. Excessive self indulgence breeds addiction and chaos.

The power of reason on its own allows a person to rationalize any type of behavior and invalidate the world’s moral boundaries. With reason alone we may justify cruelty and barbarism. Our rational and intellectual sophistication can even lead us to justify true evil: terrorists are turned into “frustrated militants” and human monsters who burn little children alive are judged as equals to their victims. Reason alone devoid of moral clarity can become dangerous.

Finally, our impulse toward evil may easily compel us to inflict suffering on innocent human beings.

On the other hand, if we open ourselves to the Divine essence of our personality and begin absorbing ts beautiful melodies, we can employ these four components as instruments for our spirituality and moral growth.

Our egos, bodily desires and power of reason may be used in a constructive and good fashion. Even our impulse to destroy can be used as a weapon to eradicate and destroy the evil within ourselves and to put an end to the evil within the world around us.

Four Empires

In Kabbalah, the microcosm reflects the macrocosm and vice versa. Thus, the Kabbalah explains that these four elements of the human psyche were represented by the four global empires that dominated the world in past history (2).

The first was the Babylonian Empire, notorious for its ambition of unbridled power and dominance. Its first king, Nebuchadnezzar, who destroyed the first Temple in Jerusalem and exiled our people to Babylonia (present day Iraq), embodied the egotist par excellence (3).

Then came the Persian Empire, notorious for its incessant indulgence in hedonism and materialistic pleasures (4). Achashverosh, the Persian king and husband of Queen Esther, threw a party that lasted for 187 days (5)! Imagine a party that continues for six months straight…

The Greek Empire followed. Its contribution to civilization was the development of logic and philosophy. For the Greeks, the human mind was the zenith of existence.

Then came the Roman Empire. This empire was led mostly by cruel monarchs whose brutality often knew no limits. Rome destroyed the Second Temple, massacred millions of Jews and countless other innocent human beings, but perhaps most importantly, Rome turned brutality into a culture. The Gladiator, the height of Roman sports, was a chilling example of this.

After a Gladiator’s defeat, if the crowd gave the signal for him to die there was a ritual to be observed. With one knee on the ground, the loser grasped the thigh of the victor, who, while holding the helmet or head of his opponent, plunged his sword into his neck or cut his throat depending on his weapon. To die well a Gladiator was not allowed to ask for mercy and was not allowed to scream when killed. If defeated but mortally wounded the Gladiator was not killed in front of the audience but was taken from the arena to be executed “humanely” with a hammer on the forehead in private.

Now, each of these four empires dominated the world, and astoundingly, each of them saw Judaism and its carriers as a threat to their very existence and success. Babylonia, Persia, Greece and Rome each declared war against the people of Israel, attempting to destroy them. Why where these mighty empires obsessed with a tiny minority, the Jews?
The answer is that to their minds, as to the many monarchs and rulers that would follow, the Jewish people represented the “fifth dimension,” which challenged the very way they perceived the objective of life. Hitler put it in these words: “Conscience is a Jewish invention. It is a blemish, like circumcision.”

The Jews throughout their entire history were obsessed with the question of right and wrong. They still are. (I know of no other group that is so critical of its behavior as the Jews.) Judaism taught that the most important thing for civilization is not self aggrandizement (Babylonia), nor indulgence (Persia), nor even logic and the pursuit of knowledge (Greece), and certainly not unbridled aggression (Rome), but rather the most critical component of society its unequivocal commitment to a universal morality, based on the presence of a living G-d who cares about human behavior.

The Jews saw themselves as chosen to bestow upon human history the dignity of purpose and to refine and sublimate the ego (Babylonia), the body (Persia), logic itself (Greece) and the evil impulse (Rome) as instruments to serve the moral and spiritual cause.
According to the teachings of Jewish mysticism, one of the primary reasons for the Jewish people living im exile among these four empires was to gain insight and depth into the unique energy of these civilizations and then utilize them as instruments for serving G-d, defined in Kabbalah as “elevating the sparks.” But in the process, the clash was usually profound.
The confrontation between Judaism and Ancient Greece can serve as a good example. The most influential thinker in Greece (and perhaps in all Western intellectual history) — none other than Aristotle — argued in his Politics (VII.16) that killing children was essential to the functioning of society. He wrote: “There must be a law that no imperfect or maimed child shall be brought up. And to avoid an excess in population, some children must be exposed . For a limit must be fixed to the population of the state.”

Note the tone of his statement. Aristotle isn’t saying “I like killing babies,” but he is making a cold, rational calculation: over-population is dangerous; this is the most expedient way to keep it in check.

Plato wrote of this in his Symposium (178C): “I, for my part, am at a loss to say what greater blessing a man can have in earliest youth than an honorable lover …”

The Greeks introduced into human consciousness an idea that the human being is the center of all things. The human mind and its ability to understand and observe and comprehend things rationally is the be-all-and-end-all. To the Jews, human beings were created in the image of God. To the Greeks, gods were made in the image of human beings. To the Jews, the physical world was something to be perfected and elevated spiritually. To the Greeks the physical world was perfect. To Greeks, what was beautiful was holy; to the Jews what was holy was beautiful.
Such disparate views were bound to clash.

And they did in the second century BCE. The Syrian-Greek empire sought to Hellenize Jews by force and put an end to the faith of Judaism. Women who allowed their sons to be circumcised were killed with their sons tied around their necks. The scholars of Israel were hounded, hunted down and killed. Jews who refused to eat pork or sacrifice hogs were tortured to death. The altars to Zeus and other pagan deities were erected in every village, and Jews of every area were forced to participate in the sacrificial services. Chanukah celebrates the victory of the Jewish way of life over the Greek one.

Spin Your Personality

Now we will appreciate the secret behind the dreidel.

The four sides of the dreidel represent the four dimensions of the human psyche: ego, body, reason and evil. This is reflected in the four Hebrew letters of Nun, Gimmel, Shin and Heh, which stand for the words Nefesh, Guf, Sechel and Hakol.

Nefesh, meaning self or identity, reflects the human ego. Guf, meaning body, represents all of the bodily urges and temptations. Sechel, which means reason, defines the human quest for knowledge and understanding (6). And finally, Hakol, which means everything, symbolizes the evil force in man, which, as mentioned above, will cloak itself in everything and anything to reach its goals.

The sharp, almost immeasurable point situated at the foundation of the dreidel, represents the fifth — and divine — component of the human spirit. This spark of infinity within us cannot be measured by space and time, and it serves as the foundation and quintessence of each human being, just as it serves as the foundation of the dreidel.

On Chanukah, celebrating the victory of the Jewish way of life over Greek Hellenism, the triumph of divine ethics over human esthetics, we are charged with the mission to kindle our inner G-dly flame, represented by the Chanukah candles. Chanukah is therefore the opportune time for spinning our psychological four-sided dreidel on its point, directing the other four components of our personality and reorienting them as tools to express the pure love and spirituality of the soul (7).

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Footnotes:
1) These four letters stand for the Hebrew words “Nes Godal Hayah Sham,” which means, “A Great Miracle Happened There.”
2) See at length Ner Mitzvah by the Maharal of Prague and the many references noted there.
3) See Daniel 2:37-38; 7-4 and Ner Mitzvah ibid.
4) See Kedushin 72a and Ner Mitzvah ibid.
5) Esther chapter 1.
6) In the Holy Land the Shin is replaced by the Hebrew letter Pei. In light of the explanation of this essay, it may be that Pei stands for the word “philosophy,” similar to the word “Sechel” in the Diaspora dreidel (thanks to my student Rabbi Yisroel Geisinsky for pointing this out to me).
7) This essay is based on the writings of the Maharal of Prague and the Chassidic Masters (Neir Mitzvah by the Maharal; Benei Yissachar Mammarei Kislev. Cf. Ketzurim V’Hearos L’Tanya by the Tzemach Tzedek to Tanya chapters 1-2).
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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.

[This hierarchy is alluded to in the verse, "And these are the chronicles of Isaac the son of Abraham; Abraham gave birth to Isaac" (Genesis 25:19). According to the Kabbalists, Abraham was the embodiment of the attribute of love, while Isaac embodied awe. The verse repeats itself, signifying that there is a lower and higher Abraham, as well as a lower and a higher Isaac. And the order in which their names appear is: Isaac, Abraham, Abraham, Isaac; in other words -- awe, love, love, awe.]

“Lower awe” is fear. When we keep our hands out of the cookie jar because we’ll be punished if we’re caught, when we follow the rules at work to avoid being fired and having our spouse yell at us and call us a good-for-nothing, when we obey G-d’s laws out of fear of divine retribution in the afterlife — we’re acting out of fear. We’re operating on the lowest rung of human virtue — lower awe (which is still a whole lot higher than human iniquity).

A step above that is “lower love” — the impulse to do something because we receive something positive in return. Every day, we do countless things — including things that require a great degree of effort and toil — because these things bring us physical pleasure, emotional joy, intellectual stimulation, peace of mind or spiritual fulfillment. Yes, we’re acting “selfishly”, but we’re also giving of ourselves, willingly and freely rather than compulsively, and often we’re giving up something immediate and tangible for the sake of something more ethereal. On the whole, it’s a self-expanding experience, rather than the self-constricting fear of “lower awe”.

“Higher love” is altruistic love — when we give of ourselves out of a pure desire to give. For while it is true that we are driven by a core impulse for self-preservation and self-enhancement, we also posses a higher self, a soul that is “a spark of G-dliness” whose core desire is to give rather than take, to serve rather than receive. Whenever we find ourselves motivated to pursue truth simply because it is true, to do goodness for no reason other than that it is good, that is our G-dly self asserting itself over our selfish self, a flash of our divine spark peeking through the veil of “lower love” that dominates so much of our psyche and personality.

But there is something that is even higher than “higher love”. Higher love is when we do something because we want to; “higher awe” is when we do something because we are in touch with something greater than ourselves and our desires. Watch a tzaddik praying to G-d, a soldier sacrificing his very life to protect his people, a parent interacting with her child. There is something here that’s beyond selfishness or selflessness — beyond the self and its need to receive or to give. It is something that occurs when the self is awed by something that is infinitely greater than itself, and submits to it not because it is forced to, or enticed to, or even wants to, but because its finite self has become part of the Infinite.

The endeavor of what we call “life” is to ascend this ladder, to climb these four rungs of transcendence. Climbing the ladder doesn’t mean that we’ll attain a state in which everything we do is on the highest of the four planes; nor does it mean that we’ll leave the lower levels behind us as we ascend to the ones above it: there will always be things that we do out of fear, out of love of self, out of altruistic desire, and out of sublime awe. Ascending the ladder means being aware of these four levels, aware of their relationship vis-a-vis each other, knowing which way is up and which way is down, and always striving upwards.

By Yanki Tauber; based on the teachings of the Rebbe

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.

However, a student who “flows with ever-increasing strength” will be able to use his master’s teachings as a springboard to gain ever-increasing amounts of knowledge.

Nevertheless, it goes without saying that even the student who “flows with ever-increasing strength” owes his gains to the teachings of his master. After all, it is upon those teachings that his subsequent knowledge is based. In fact, this ability in his student represents a teacher’s crowning achievement, for the ultimate objective of a teacher is to get his students to think for themselves.

Herein lies the meaning of “May He give you, and May He give you again”: G-d’s blessings are so splendid that not only is the person blessed with unlimited bounty from Above, but he is inspired to make use of these blessings on his own, thereby gaining yet again.

In terms of man’s spiritual service, these two types of students correspond to the righteous individual and the penitent:

The righteous individual follows the path of Torah and mitzvos as they were transmitted from Above, while the penitent, having deviated from the path, transforms iniquity into merit. His method of service uses his power of repentance — the arousal of which is also granted to him by G-d — to perform an additional measure of service, a service not readily available to the righteous.

Furthermore, just as the student who is likened to “a fountain that flows with ever-increasing strength” is superior to a student who is similar to “a cemented cistern which does not lose a drop,” so too is the service of the penitent superior to the service of the righteous. Our Sages express it thus: “On the level that penitents stand, the completely righteous are unable to stand.”

Their superiority is similar to that of the preeminent student: just as he is capable of endlessly increasing his knowledge, so too is the penitent’s manner of service on an infinite level, while the service of the righteous, however excellent, is merely finite. The penitent thus serves in a manner of “May He give you, and May He give you again.”

(Based on Likkutei Sichos Vol. X, pp. 80-83.)

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.

Beyond nutritional content

It is not only the nutritional value of what we eat that nourishes our souls’ connection to our bodies. It is also the taste, the appearance of the meal and its aromas as well as the intention and attention with which we eat, that nourish that connection. Infusing a culinary experience with spiritual meaning elevates an otherwise hedonistic experience to an Avodat Hashem (service of G-d).

Yitzchak’s focus on culinary delight

It is with these ideas that the Vilna Gaon explains our elderly and saintly forefather Yitzchak’s apparent obsession with food in Breishit 27:4: “and make for me delicacies just as I love them,” he requests of his son, “and bring them to me so that I will eat; in order that my soul will bless you before I die.” Yitzchak is not suggesting that he cannot bless without having eaten, rather the need for him to bless Eisav creates an opportunity for a culinary experience that is not hedonistic but sanctified, one that will nourish not only his body but also his soul. Yitzchak would not have indulged in a delicious meal unless there was spiritual purpose in doing so. It is that spiritual purpose, in this case the blessing that elevates the meal to an avodah. To effectively nourish the soul’s connection to the body, not only must the meal be delicious and prepared mindfully and with love, but it should also be an expression of a higher purpose.

Similarly, according to the Gaon, the meals we eat on Shabbat and Yom Tov are not just facilitators of our Sabbath joy. Rather, the part our meals play in our Sabbath service elevates them from hedonism to the level of Avodat Hashem (service of G-d). This elevation allows the meals to more beneficially nourish our souls’ connection with our bodies.

Purpose elevates all activities to kedusha

A higher purpose converts the act of eating into an Avodat Hashem, and makes that action capable of nourishing us not only physically but also spiritually.[2] In just the same way we can infuse spiritual nutrition into any activity in which we engage by elevating it to a higher purpose. Ask yourself, with respect to almost everything you do, “for what higher purpose am I doing this”? For what higher purpose am I in business, to maximize profit or to do chessed (kindness) to my customers and help build a better society? For what purpose am I working out at the gym, to worship my body or to achieve a heightened state of fitness and wellbeing so that I can more meaningfully contribute to my family and to society? Of course profit and a good body are the outcomes of these activities too, but they should not be the focus. By elevating the purpose of our activities, they move from actions of self-centeredness to acts of chessed and contribution to others (even though we benefit from them too). From secular activities, they become acts of avodah (service) and of kedusha (holiness), no longer serving our physical needs only but also nourishing our souls.

When our lives are a portfolio of many acts of avodah we live them with the same levels of mindfulness and attention that the Kohanim performed the avodah (Temple service). A life of avodah is lived for others not only for ourselves; it is lived with attention to detail, with beauty and precision, with love and with sanctity.

Notes:
[1] “Lechu lachamu be’lachmi” (Mishlei 9:10), the Zohar translates as “go and engage in Torah, My nourishment”.
[2] To learn how to practice spiritual eating, please read Parshat Eikev, 5767: Diet and Weight Management located at www.iawaken.org/shiurim/view.asp?id=6475