The Lubavitcher Rebbe, Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson-The History of Love

The History of Love
http://www.chabad.org/therebbe/article_cdo/aid/60680/jewish/Essays.htm
BIO


The Rebbe, Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson, of righteous memory
The Lubavitcher Rebbe, Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson, of righteous memory (1902-1994), the seventh leader in the Chabad-Lubavitch dynasty, is considered to have been the most phenomenal Jewish personality of modern times. To hundreds of thousands of followers and millions of sympathizers and admirers around the world, he was -- and still is, despite his passing -- "the Rebbe," undoubtedly, the one individual more than any other singularly responsible for stirring the conscience and spiritual awakening of world Jewry.
The Rebbe was born in 1902, on the 11th day of Nissan, in Nikolaev, Russia, to the renowned kabbalist, talmudic scholar and leader Rabbi Levi Yitzchak and Rebbetzin Chana Schneerson. Rebbetzin Chana (1880-1964) was known for her erudition, kindness and extraordinary accessibility. Her courage and ingenuity became legend when during her husband's exile by the Soviets to a remote village in Asian Russia she labored to make inks from herbs she gathered in the fields -- so that Rabbi Levi Yitzchak could continue writing his commentary on kabbalah and other Torah-subjects. The Rebbe was named after his great-grandfather, the third Rebbe, Rabbi Menachem Mendel of Lubavitch, with whom he later shared many characteristics.
To Save a Life: There is a story told about the Rebbe's early life that seems to be almost symbolic of everything that was to follow. When he was nine years old, the young Menachem Mendel courageously dove into the Black Sea and saved the life of a little boy who had fallen from the deck of a moored ship. That sense of "other lives in danger" seems to have dominated his consciousness; of Jews drowning in assimilation, ignorance or alienation--and no one hearing their cries for help: Jews on campus, in isolated communities, under repressive regimes. From early childhood he displayed a prodigious mental acuity. By the time he reached his Bar Mitzvah, the Rebbe was considered an illuy, a Torah prodigy. He spent his teen years immersed in the study of Torah.
Marriage in Warsaw: In 1929 Rabbi Menachem Mendel married the sixth Rebbe's daughter, Rebbetzin Chaya Mushka, in Warsaw. (The Rebbetzin, born in 1901, was chosen by her father, the sixth Rebbe, to accompany him in his forced exile to Kostroma in 1927. For sixty years she was the Rebbe's life partner; she passed away on 22 Sh'vat in 1988.) He later studied in the University of Berlin and then at the Sorbonne in Paris. It may have been in these years that his formidable knowledge of mathematics and the sciences began to blossom.
Arrival in the U.S.A.: On Monday, Sivan 28, 5701 (June 23, 1941) the Rebbe and the Rebbetzin arrived in the United States, having been miraculously rescued, by the grace of Almighty G d, from the European holocaust. The Rebbe's arrival marked the launching of sweeping new efforts in bolstering and disseminating Torah and Judaism in general, and Chassidic teachings in particular, through the establishment of three central Lubavitch organizations under the Rebbe's leadership: Merkos L'Inyonei Chinuch ("Central Organization For Jewish Education"), Kehot Publication Society, and Machne Israel, a social services agency. Shortly after his arrival, per his father-in-law's urging, the Rebbe began publishing his notations to various Chassidic and kabbalistic treatises, as well as a wide range of response on Torah subjects. With publication of these works his genius was soon recognized by scholars throughout the world.
Leadership: After the passing of his father-in-law, Rabbi Yosef Yitzchak Schneersohn, in 1950, Rabbi Menachem M. Schneerson reluctantly ascended to the leadership of the Lubavitch movement, whose headquarters at 770 Eastern Parkway in Brooklyn, New York. Soon Lubavitch institutions and activities took on new dimensions. The outreaching philosophy of Chabad-Lubavitch was translated into ever greater action, as Lubavitch centers and Chabad Houses were opened in dozens of cities and university campuses around the world.
Passing: On Monday afternoon (March 2, 1992), while praying at the gravesite of his father-in-law and predecessor, the Rebbe suffered a stroke that paralyzed his right side and, most devastatingly, robbed him of the ability to speak.
Two years and three months later, the Rebbe passed away in the early morning hours of the 3rd of the Hebrew month of Tammuz, in the year 5754 from creation (June, 12 1994), orphaning a generation.
Uniqueness: With the Rebbe's teachings propelling them and his example serving as a beacon to emulate, Lubavitch has rapidly grown to be a worldwide presence, and all its various activities are stamped with his vision. Small wonder then, that many ask, "What is it about his leadership that was -- and, in so many ways, still is -- so unique? Why do leading personalities of the day maintain such profound respect and admiration for him?"
Past, Present and Future: Many leaders recognize the need of the moment and respond with courage and directions. This is their forte -- and an admirable one. Others, though their strength may not lie in "instant response" to current problems, are blessed with the ability of perceptive foresight -- knowing what tomorrow will bring and how to best prepare. Still other leaders excel in yet a third distinct area, possessing a keen sense of history and tradition; their advice and leadership is molded by a great sensitivity to the past.
But one who possessed all three qualities was truly unique, standing alone in leadership. Such was the Lubavitcher Rebbe -- the inspiration and driving force behind the success of Lubavitch today. Radiating a keen sense of urgency, he demanded much from his followers, and even more from himself. The Rebbe led, above else, by example.
Initiation, Not Reaction: He was a rare blend of prophetic visionary and pragmatic leader, synthesizing deep insight into the present needs of the Jewish people with a breadth of vision for its future. In a sense, he charted the course of Jewish history -- initiating, in addition to reacting to, current events. The Rebbe was guided by inspired insight and foresight in combination with encyclopedic scholarship, and all his pronouncements and undertakings were, first and foremost, rooted in our Holy Torah. Time and again, what was clear to him at the outset became obvious to other leaders with hindsight, decades later
Everyone's Unique Role: From the moment the Rebbe arrived in America in 1941, his brilliance at addressing himself to the following ideal became apparent: He would not acknowledge division or separation. Every Jew -- indeed every human being -- has a unique role to play in the greater scheme of things and is an integral part of the tapestry of G d's creation.
For nearly five of the most critical decades in recent history, the Rebbe's goal to reach out to every corner of the world with love and concern has unfolded dramatically. No sector of the community has been excluded -- young and old; men and women; leader and layman; scholar and laborer; student and teacher; children, and even infants.
He had an uncanny ability to meet everyone at their own level -- he advised Heads of State on matters of national and international importance, explored with professionals the complexities in their own fields of expertise, and spoke to small children with warm words and a fatherly smile.
"Actualize Your Potential!" With extraordinary insight, he perceived the wealth of potential in each person. His inspiration, now accessible through his writings and videos, boosts the individual's self-perception, ignites his awareness of that hidden wealth and motivates a desire to fulfill his potential. In the same way, many a community has been transformed by the Rebbe's message, and been given -- directly or indirectly -- a new sense of purpose and confidence. In each case the same strong, if subtle, message is imparted: "You are Divinely gifted with enormous strength and energy -- actualize it!"
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A History of Love

Adapted from a public talk by the Lubavitcher Rebbe


Man, by nature, is a selfish creature. Even in his relationships with others he tends to focus primarily on himself or, at most, on his self-colored perception of his fellow. "Love" is the endeavor to transcend this intrinsic selfishness and truly relate to one's fellow, to be sensitive to and devoted to his/her needs as an individual distinct of oneself and one's own stake in the relationship.
And yet, when the Torah speaks of the mitzvah (Divine commandment) to "Love your fellow as yourself" it does so in the context of man's duty to influence, and even change, the behavior and nature of his fellow man. In Leviticus 19 (verses 18-19), the Torah commands:
Do not hate your brother in your heart; repeatedly rebuke your fellow, and do not attribute sin to him. Do not take revenge, or harbor hatred toward your people, and love your fellow as yourself; I am G-d.
As the commentaries explain, there are two possible reactions a person can have toward a fellow who has wronged him, or whom he sees behaving in a morally deficient manner: 1) he can despise him in his heart, regarding him as a "sinner," and perhaps even persecute him for his "sins"; 2) he can rebuke him in the effort to convince him of the folly of his ways and seek to influence him to change them. The path of love, says the Torah, is not to to "hate your brother in your heart" but to "repeatedly rebuke" him and seek to better him.
Obviously, the desire to influence is consistent with the idea of love. No one would stand by as a loved one suffers hunger or is threatened by violence; no less so, if one sees someone he loves suffering from spiritual malnutrition or moral blindness, he will make every effort to reach out to him, to enlighten him, to offer guidance and assistance. But this aspect of loving behavior carries an inherent paradox. On the one hand, the endeavor to influence and change implies a departure from self and concern with the well-being of the other. On the other hand, it implies a seemingly selfish view of the other: a rejection of the other as he is and a desire to impose one's own perception of what is good for him upon him.
Four Biblical Prototypes
An exploration of the history of humanity, as recounted in the Torah, reveals four figures who personified four different points of reference on the relationship between self and fellow.
Each of these individuals was considered the most righteous of his generation. Thus, their lives can be seen to reflect four stages in the spiritual development of humanity -- four stages in the movement from an instinctive selfhood toward the complete abnegation of self and self-interest in relating to others. Our examination of this process will also shed light on the acceptance/non-acceptance dilemma inherent in the love relationship.
The first of these four outstanding individuals was Enoch, a great-great-great-great-grandson of Adam, who was born in the year 622 from creation (3139 BCE). By his time, humanity had abandoned the One G-d of their fathers and had succumbed to idolatry and pagan perversity. Only Enoch still "walked with G-d."
But Enoch's righteousness was wholly selfish: he was preoccupied only with the refinement and perfection of his own spiritual self. The Midrash even relates that, for many years, he disassociated himself from his corrupt generation and secluded himself in a cave.
Not only did Enoch fail to have a lasting impact on his society, but he was ultimately in danger of being influenced by their corrupt behavior. This is why Enoch died at the "tender young age" of 365 (compared with the 800 and 900-year life spans of his contemporaries): "G-d took him to Himself" before his time, lest the only righteous man of the generation also be lost.
For such is the relationship of an individual with his environment: there is no sustained equilibrium. Where there is contact there is a flow, in one direction or the other; one either influences his society or is influenced by it.
The 120-Year Failure
Several generations later we encounter another righteous man in a corrupt generation: Noah, builder of the ark and regenerator of humanity after the Flood.
In Noah, we find the first stirrings of a departure from self to improve and rehabilitate one's fallen fellow. In the year 1536 from creation (2225 BCE) G-d told Noah that "the end of all flesh has come before me, for the earth is filled with violence" and that He therefore intends to "bring a deluge of water upon the earth, to destroy all flesh" and start anew with Noah and his family. Noah is instructed to build an ark so that they may survive the Flood. Our sages relate that Noah worked on the ark's construction a full one hundred and twenty years; all this time, he called out to his generation to mend its ways and avoid catastrophe.
However, the Zohar criticizes Noah for the fact that, despite his efforts, he did not pray for the salvation of his generation, unlike Abraham and Moses who pleaded with G-d to spare the wicked. This implies that, ultimately, it did not matter to Noah what became of them. Had he truly cared, he would not have sufficed with doing his best to bring them to repent but would have implored the Almighty to repeal His decree of destruction -- just as one who is personally threatened would never say, "Well, I did my best to save myself," and leave it at that, but would beseech G-d to help him.
In other words, Noah's involvement with others was limited to his sense of what he ought to do for them, as opposed to a true concern for their well-being. His "self" had sufficiently broadened to include the imperative to act for the sake of another, recognizing that the lack of a "social conscience" is a defect in one's own character; but he fell short of transcending the self to care for others beyond the consideration of his own righteousness.
This also explains a curious aspect of Noah's efforts to reach out to his generation. When the Flood came, Noah and his family entered the ark -- alone. His 120-year campaign yielded not a single baal teshuvah (repentant)! Perhaps public relations was never Noah's strong point, but how are we to explain the fact that, in all this time, he failed to win over a single individual?
But in order to influence others, one's motives must be pure; in the words of our sages, "Words that come from the heart enter the heart." Deep down, a person will always sense whether you truly have his interests at heart, or you're filling a need of your own by seeking to change him. If your work to enlighten your fellow stems from a desire to "do the right thing" -- to observe the mitzvot to "love your fellow as yourself" and "rebuke your fellow" -- but without really caring about the result, your call will be met with scant response. The echo of personal motive, be it the most laudable of personal motives, will be sensed, if only subconsciously, by the object of your efforts, and will ultimately put him off.
The Departure from Self
Ten generations later was born an individual who raised the concept of man's devotion to the welfare of his neighbor to new selfless heights. This man was Abraham, the first Jew.
Abraham, too, faced a corrupt and pagan world; indeed, his title, "the Hebrew," is associated with the fact that "the entire world stood on one side, and he stood on the other." After coming to recognize the Creator, he devoted his life to bringing the belief and ethos of a One G-d to his generation. Wherever he went, he "caused G-d's name to be known in the world." Abraham also concerned himself with the more mundane needs of his fellows, offering his tent as an open house of refreshment and lodging for all desert wayfarers, regardless of spiritual station.
The selflessness of Abraham's concern for his fellow is demonstrated by his daring intervention on behalf of the five sinful cities of the Sodom Valley. G-d had decided to destroy these cities for their wicked ways. Abraham petitioned G-d on their behalf, using the strongest terms to demand of G-d that he spare these cities for the sake of the few righteous individuals they might contain. "It behooves You not to do such a thing," he challenged G-d, "to slay the righteous with the wicked... Shall the judge of the universe not act justly?!" Abraham put his own spiritual integrity at risk for the sake of the most corrupt of sinners; he was prepared to incur G-d's wrath upon himself, giving precedence to their physical lives over his own relationship with the Almighty.
And because people sensed that he had their own good, and only their own good, at heart, they responded. When Abraham and Sarah left Charan for the Holy Land, they were joined by the "souls which they had made in Charan" -- the community of men and women who had rallied to their cause. Sixty-five years later he was able to say to his servant Eliezer: "When G-d summoned me from the house of my father, he was G-d of the heavens but not of the earth: the inhabitants of the earth did not recognize Him and His name was not referred to in the land. But now that I have made His name familiar in the mouths of His creatures, He is G-d in both heaven and earth."
No Strings Attached
But even Abraham's love is still not the ultimate. It took another four centuries for the epitome of selfless devotion to one's fellow to emerge, in the person of Moses.
Abraham's virtue over Noah was that his objective in relating to others lay not in realizing the potential of his social self (as was the case with Noah) but in achieving the desired result: to transform their behavior and character, bringing to light their good and perfect essence. But therein also lies the limitations of Abraham's love: ultimately, Abraham's kindness had an ulterior motive. True, it was not a personal motive; true, it was a motive that spells the recipient's ultimate good and is consistent with the recipient's true self; but it was an ulterior motive nonetheless.
Our sages describe how Abraham's hospitality was but a means to achieve his goal of converting his guests to a belief in G-d. The same is true of Abraham's valiant prayer on behalf of the Sodomites. He beseeched G-d to spare them because of the righteous in their midst -- as long as righteous individuals remain in a city, there is hope for the wicked as well. On a deeper level, he was referring to the "righteous one" within the wicked person, his inner potential for good; spare them, Abraham was saying, because perhaps the good in them will triumph yet. As soon as he became aware that the wicked of Sodom were beyond hope, he ceased his prayers.
Such love and concern -- for the sake of the potential good that one sees in another -- is a love that is tainted, however minutely, with selfishness: one is relating to one's fellow not as one's fellow sees himself, but with an eye to one's own vision of him. This allows for a reaction on his part (expressed, unexpressed or even unconscious) that "You don't care for me as I am, only for what you wish to make of me. So you don't really care about me at all." True, one's only desire is to reveal the other's essential self; but this is a deeper, still unrealized, self. One's love fails to address the other as he now expressly is, focusing instead on one's knowledge of what he latently is and what he can and ought to make of himself.
In contrast, Moses' love for his people was utterly selfless. His was an unconditional love, one that is unassuming of what they ought to be or what they are on a deeper, yet unrealized level. He loved them as they were, and did everything in his power to satisfy their needs, both material and spiritual.
When Moses pleaded with G-d on behalf of the worshippers of the Golden Calf, he did not say "forgive them because they will repent" or "forgive them for they carry great potential," only "forgive them. And if You wont, erase me from Your Torah." Either You accept the sinner as he is, or put together a nation and Torah without me.
The difference between Moses and his predecessors is also reflected in the extent of their influence on their fellows. Enoch, with his wholly self-directed righteousness, had no influence, and was himself susceptible to influence. Noah -- who extended himself to his fellows, but only because he recognized that concern for one's fellow is an integral part of a perfect self -- was not influenceable, but did not influence. Abraham's teaching and instruction, free of such personal bias, was embraced by multitudes of followers; but since even Abraham's efforts fell short of the pure definition of selflessness, his influence was correspondingly limited. Today, we have no traceable heirs to Abrahams disciples (what, indeed, ever became of the "souls they had made in Charan"?). But the effects of Moses' utterly selfless love are eternal: his guidance and leadership of his people yielded a nation whose endurance and unbroken continuity, to this very day, defies all laws of history.
"Outreach" Redefined
In order to truly influence a fellow, we must devote ourselves to him or her without regard to whether s/he will be influenced or not. He is a fellow human being who needs your help. So help him. If she lacks something material, help her. If she is spiritually lost, help her. Many see the point of influencing a fellow Jew to do a good deed, a mitzvah -- to put on tefillin, to perform a single act of charity, to avoid a moral transgression -- if this leads to a greater involvement, and ultimately, a complete transformation. But when confronted with a "lost case" they feel it's a waste of time. Why bother?
Why bother? Because you care about him, not only about what he ought to be, what he will be, or what you see in him. He lacks something now, and you are privileged to be of assistance. If you care for him because you expect to influence him, then chances are he won't respond. But if you care for him whether he responds or not, then he will respond.

The World a Home
This, the mother of all questions, is addressed in turn by the various streams of Torah thought, each after its own style.

The Talmud states, simply and succinctly, "I was created to serve my Creator." The moralistic-oriented works of Mussar describe the purpose of life as the refinement of one's character traits. The Zohar says that G-d created us "in order that His creations should know Him." Master Kabbalist Rabbi Isaac Luria offered the following reason for creation: G-d is the essence of good, and the nature of good is to bestow goodness. But goodness cannot be bestowed when there is no one to receive it. To this end, G-d created our world -- so that there should be recipients of His goodness.

Chassidic teaching explains that these reasons, as well as the reasons given by other kabbalistic and philosophical works, are but the various faces of a singular divine desire for creation, as expressed in the various "worlds" or realms of G-d's creation. Chassidism also offers its own formulation of this divine desire: that we "Make a home for G-d in the material world."

A Home For G-d

What does it mean to make our world a home for G-d?

A basic tenet of our faith is that "the entire world is filled with His presence" and "there is no place void of Him." So it's not that we have to bring G-d into the material world -- He is already there. But G-d can be in the world without being at home in it.

Being "at home" means being in a place that is receptive to your presence, a place devoted to serving your needs and desires. It means being in a place where you are your true, private self, as opposed to the public self you assume in other environments.
The material world, in its natural state, is not an environment hospitable to G-d. If there is one common feature to all things material, it is their intrinsic egocentrism, their placement of the self as the foundation and purpose of existence. With every iota of its mass, the stone proclaims: "I am." In the tree and in the animal, the preservation and propagation of the self is the focus of every instinct and the aim of every achievement. And who more than the human being has elevated ambition to an art and self-advancement to an all-consuming ideal?

The only thing wrong with all this selfishness is that it blurs the truth of what lies behind it: the truth that creation is not an end in itself, but a product of and vehicle for its Creator. And this selfishness is not an incidental or secondary characteristic of our world, but its most basic feature. So to make our world a "home" for G-d we must transform its very nature. We must recast the very foundations of its identity from a self-oriented entity into something that exists for a purpose that is greater than itself.

Every time we take a material object or resource and enlist it in the service of G-d, we are effecting such a transformation. When we take a piece of leather and make a pair of tefillin out of it, when we take a dollar bill and give it to charity, when we employ our minds to study a chapter of Torah -- we are effecting such a transformation. In its initial state, the piece of leather proclaimed, "I exist"; now it says, "I exist to serve my Creator." A dollar in pocket says, "Greed is good"; in the charity box it says, "The purpose of life is not to receive, but to give." The human brain says, "Enrich thyself"; the brain studying Torah says, "Know thy G-d."

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The World a Home


Adapted from a public talk by the Lubavitcher Rebbe

Why are we here?

This, the mother of all questions, is addressed in turn by the various streams of Torah thought, each after its own style.

The Talmud states, simply and succinctly, "I was created to serve my Creator." The moralistic-oriented works of Mussar describe the purpose of life as the refinement of one's character traits. The Zohar says that G-d created us "in order that His creations should know Him." Master Kabbalist Rabbi Isaac Luria offered the following reason for creation: G-d is the essence of good, and the nature of good is to bestow goodness. But goodness cannot be bestowed when there is no one to receive it. To this end, G-d created our world -- so that there should be recipients of His goodness.

Chassidic teaching explains that these reasons, as well as the reasons given by other kabbalistic and philosophical works, are but the various faces of a singular divine desire for creation, as expressed in the various "worlds" or realms of G-d's creation. Chassidism also offers its own formulation of this divine desire: that we "Make a home for G-d in the material world."

A Home For G-d

What does it mean to make our world a home for G-d?

A basic tenet of our faith is that "the entire world is filled with His presence" and "there is no place void of Him." So it's not that we have to bring G-d into the material world -- He is already there. But G-d can be in the world without being at home in it.

Being "at home" means being in a place that is receptive to your presence, a place devoted to serving your needs and desires. It means being in a place where you are your true, private self, as opposed to the public self you assume in other environments.

The material world, in its natural state, is not an environment hospitable to G-d. If there is one common feature to all things material, it is their intrinsic egocentrism, their placement of the self as the foundation and purpose of existence. With every iota of its mass, the stone proclaims: "I am." In the tree and in the animal, the preservation and propagation of the self is the focus of every instinct and the aim of every achievement. And who more than the human being has elevated ambition to an art and self-advancement to an all-consuming ideal?

The only thing wrong with all this selfishness is that it blurs the truth of what lies behind it: the truth that creation is not an end in itself, but a product of and vehicle for its Creator. And this selfishness is not an incidental or secondary characteristic of our world, but its most basic feature. So to make our world a "home" for G-d we must transform its very nature. We must recast the very foundations of its identity from a self-oriented entity into something that exists for a purpose that is greater than itself.

Every time we take a material object or resource and enlist it in the service of G-d, we are effecting such a transformation. When we take a piece of leather and make a pair of tefillin out of it, when we take a dollar bill and give it to charity, when we employ our minds to study a chapter of Torah -- we are effecting such a transformation. In its initial state, the piece of leather proclaimed, "I exist"; now it says, "I exist to serve my Creator." A dollar in pocket says, "Greed is good"; in the charity box it says, "The purpose of life is not to receive, but to give." The human brain says, "Enrich thyself"; the brain studying Torah says, "Know thy G-d."

The Frontier of Self

There are two basic steps to the endeavor of making our world a home for G-d. The first step involves priming the material resource as a "vessel for G-dliness": shaping the leather into tefillin, donating the money to charity, scheduling time for Torah study. The second step is the actual employment of these "vessels" to serve the divine will: binding the tefillin on the arm and head, using the donated money to feed the hungry, studying Torah, etc.

At first glance, it would seem that the second step is the more significant one, while the first step is merely an enabler of the second, a means to its end. But the Torah's account of the first home for G-d built in our world places the greater emphasis on the construction of the "home," rather than its actual employment as a divine dwelling.


A sizable portion of the book of Exodus is devoted to the construction of the Sanctuary built by the children of Israel in the desert. The Torah, which is usually so sparing with words that many of its laws are contained within a single word or letter, is uncharacteristically elaborate. The fifteen materials used in the Sanctuary's construction are listed no less than three times; the components and furnishings of the Sanctuary are listed eight times; and every minute detail of the Sanctuary's construction, down to the dimensions of every wall-panel and pillar and the colors in every tapestry, is spelled out not once, but twice -- in the account of G-d's instructions to Moses, and again in the account of the Sanctuary's construction.

All in all, thirteen chapters are devoted to describing how certain physical materials were fashioned into an edifice dedicated to the service of G-d and the training of the Kohanim (priests) who were to officiate there. (In contrast, the Torah devotes one chapter to its account of the creation of the universe, three chapters to its description of the revelation at Mount Sinai, and eleven chapters to the story of the Exodus).

The Sanctuary is the model and prototype for all subsequent homes for G-d constructed on physical earth. So the overwhelming emphasis on its "construction" stage (as opposed to the "implementation" stage) implies that in our lives, too, there is something very special about forging our personal resources into things that have the potential to serve G-d. Making ourselves "vessels" for G-dliness is, in a certain sense, a greater feat than actally bringing G-dliness into our lives.


A sizable portion of the book of Exodus is devoted to the construction of the Sanctuary built by the children of Israel in the desert. The Torah, which is usually so sparing with words that many of its laws are contained within a single word or letter, is uncharacteristically elaborate. The fifteen materials used in the Sanctuary's construction are listed no less than three times; the components and furnishings of the Sanctuary are listed eight times; and every minute detail of the Sanctuary's construction, down to the dimensions of every wall-panel and pillar and the colors in every tapestry, is spelled out not once, but twice -- in the account of G-d's instructions to Moses, and again in the account of the Sanctuary's construction.

All in all, thirteen chapters are devoted to describing how certain physical materials were fashioned into an edifice dedicated to the service of G-d and the training of the Kohanim (priests) who were to officiate there. (In contrast, the Torah devotes one chapter to its account of the creation of the universe, three chapters to its description of the revelation at Mount Sinai, and eleven chapters to the story of the Exodus).

The Sanctuary is the model and prototype for all subsequent homes for G-d constructed on physical earth. So the overwhelming emphasis on its "construction" stage (as opposed to the "implementation" stage) implies that in our lives, too, there is something very special about forging our personal resources into things that have the potential to serve G-d. Making ourselves "vessels" for G-dliness is, in a certain sense, a greater feat than actually bringing G-dliness into our lives.

For this is where the true point of transformation lies -- the transformation from a self-oriented object to a thing committed to something greater than itself. If G-d had merely desired a hospitable environment, He need not have bothered with a material world; a spiritual world could just as easily have been enlisted to serve Him. What G-d desired was the transformation itself: the challenge and achievement of selfhood transcended and materiality redefined. This transformation and redefinition occurs in the first stage, when something material is forged into an instrument of the divine. The second stage is only a matter of actualizing an already established potential, of putting a thing to its now natural use.
Making Vessels

You meet a person who has yet to invite G-d into his or her life. A person whose endeavors and accomplishments -- no matter how successful and laudable -- have yet to transcend the self and self-oriented goals.

You wish to expand her horizons -- to show him a life beyond the strictures of self. You wish to put on tefillin with him, to share with her the divine wisdom of Torah.

But he's not ready yet. You know that the concept of serving G-d is still alien to a life trained and conditioned to view everything through the lens of self. You know that before you can introduce her to the world of Torah and mitzvot, you must first make her receptive to G-dliness, receptive to a life of intimacy with the divine.

So when you meet him on the street, you simply smile and say, "Good morning!" You invite her to your home for a cup of coffee or a Shabbat dinner. You make small talk. You don't, at this point, suggest any changes in his lifestyle. You just want her to become open to you and what you represent.

Ostensibly, you haven't "done" anything. But in essence, a most profound and radical transformation has taken place. The person has become a vessel for G-dliness.

Of course, the purpose of a vessel is that it be filled with content; the purpose of a home is that it be inhabited. The Sanctuary was built to house the presence of G-d. But it is the making of vessels for G-dliness that is life's greatest challenge and its most revolutionary achievement.1
1. Based on Likkutei Sichot, vol. 25, pp. 424-435

NOISE
A rich man once invited a beggar to share his meal.

The host settled quietly into his seat and tucked his linen napkin beneath his chin. The guest, finding himself supported by silken cushions instead of the usual hard bench, sighed in surprised pleasure; with much creaking and squeaking he burrowed into the chair, determined to savor its opulence to the utmost.

The soup arrived and proceeded to make its casual way down the rich man’s gullet. Across the table, a frontal attack was being launched against the delicate china bowl; the heavy silver spoon clanged and swooped, carrying every precious drop of steaming gold to an audibly eager mouth. The subsequent assault on the steak platter was no less enthused. As the wealthy man silently ingested bite-sized pieces of meat, his dinner partner, a maelstrom of clattering knives and chomping jaws, oohed and aahed his delighted way through the feast.

In the kitchen, the cook remarked to the butler: “At last, a man who appreciates fine cuisine! The master may be indifferent to the finer things in life, but his guest! What passion! How involved he is, how worshipful of quality. Now, here is a man with a sense of the sublime . . .”
DEFINITION OF NOISE
“You are mistaken,” countered the butler. “The very opposite is true. The rich man’s tranquility indicates the depth of his involvement with his dinner, while the pauper’s noisy excitement only underscores how alien all this is to him. To the rich man, luxury is the very essence of life; so he no more exclaims over it than you jump for joy upon finding yourself alive in the morning. But for the poor man, life is a boiled potato, and this is an otherworldly experience. All that noise you hear is the friction between his habitual self and the luxuriating self he is attempting to assume.”

The Hem
Noise is the mark of resistance. Consider the sounds emitted by a log fire, a pile of burning straw and an oil lamp. In each case, matter is succumbing to the energy locked within it. The log offers the most resistance, voicing its reluctance to part from its outer form with a noisy crackle and sudden explosions. The straw, not quite as physical as the log, protests with a whispering sizzle. And the oil in the lamp, the finest substance of the three, burns silently, freely yielding to the essence within.

Thus, Elijah the Prophet experienced G‑d’s immanence as “a still, small voice.” In his refined self, the material of the body did not resist the spirituality of the soul. Thus, he perceived the divine reality not in a norm-shattering storm, but in the same tranquil manner in which a person is aware of the life within him.

And yet, Aaron the kohen gadol (high priest), the epitome of refinement and spirituality, is commanded to wear a robe with bells sewn onto its hem, so that “its sound shall be heard when he enters into the holy area before G‑d.” For the kohen gadol represents the entirety of Israel in his service of the Almighty, including those for whom connection to G‑d is still a noisy struggle—the struggle to transcend their external, earthbound selves and bring to light their true, inner identity.

Rabbi Israel Baal Shem Tov was once asked: Why do some of your disciples make such a ruckus while praying? They shout, they wave their arms, they virtually throw themselves about the room. Is this the appropriate way to commune with the Almighty?

The founder of Chassidism replied: Have you ever seen a drowning man? He shouts, he thrashes his arms, he struggles with the waves that threaten to claim him. Throughout the day, a person is swamped by the demands of his material existence; prayer is the attempt to break free of the engulfing waters that threaten to extinguish his spiritual life.

True, a noisy service of G‑d is an indication that the person has not yet fully “arrived.” Had he succeeded in transcending the mundane, his endeavor to draw close to the Almighty would be a tranquil one—his soul would strive upwards with a silent, frictionless flame. His tumultuous struggle reflects the fact that his spiritual self has not yet become the seat of his identity—that his “natural” self still lies with the material externalities of life. Nevertheless, this is a healthy sign: he has not succumbed. He is straining to free himself of the confining envelope of his material being, straining to rise above his presently defined self.
So the bells on the hem of the kohen gadol’s robe are an indispensable part of his divine service. “Its sound shall be heard when he enters into the holy area before G‑d,” commands the Torah, “lest he die.” Were he to disclaim the lowly “hem” of the nation he represents, he would be violating the very essence of his mission. Were his service of the Almighty not to embody the struggles of his imperfect brethren, it would have no place in G‑d’s inner sanctum.

Apples and Pomegranates
In light of the above, we can understand the deeper significance of the debate between two of our sages regarding the bells and pomegranates on the kohen gadol’s robe.

The debate addresses the question of how to interpret the word b’tocham, which translates either as “between them” or, in a more literal rendering, “within them.” Does the Torah command to “make upon its hem pomegranates . . . and bells of gold between them,” or to affix the “bells of gold within them”?

Rashi, in his commentary on this verse, maintains that the bells were “between them . . . Between each two pomegranates, a bell was attached and hanging on the hem of the robe.” Nachmanides disagrees. “I don’t know why the master [Rashi] made the bells separate, a bell between two pomegranates,” he writes. “According to this, the pomegranates served no function. And if they were there for beauty, then why were they made as hollow pomegranates? They should have been made as golden apples . . . Rather, [the bells] were literally within them, for the pomegranates were hollow—like small, unopened pomegranates—and the bells were contained within them . . .”

The later commentaries enter into the debate. “Why does [Nachmanides] favor apples over pomegranates?” wonders Rabbi Elijah Mizrachi. Other commentaries explain that Nachmanides’ difficulty with Rashi’s interpretation is that the hollow form of the pomegranate (Rashi himself also says that they were “round and hollow”) indicates that they served a functional rather than a decorative purpose. But what does Nachmanides mean when he says that “if they were there for beauty . . . they should have been made as golden apples”?

Indeed, the menorah was decorated with spheres resembling apples, whose sole purpose was for beauty. Perhaps Nachmanides derives from this that in the making of the Sanctuary and its accessories, the decorative fruit of choice was the apple. But this itself requires explanation. Why apples? And why, according to Rashi, was the menorah beautified with apples, and the kohen gadol’s robe with pomegranates?

Insulated Deeds
Both the apple and the pomegranate are representative of the Jewish people. The Torah likens Israel to an apple (“Like an apple among the trees of the wood, so is my beloved”—Song of Songs 2:2) as well as to a pomegranate (“Your lips are like a thread of scarlet, and your mouth is comely; your temple is like a piece of pomegranate within your locks”—ibid. 4:3). But while the apple represents Israel in a virtuous state, the pomegranate refers to the “hollow” or “empty ones amongst you.” As interpreted by the Talmud, the verse “your temple is like a piece of pomegranate” comes to say that “even the empty ones amongst you are full of good deeds as a pomegranate [is full of seeds].” (Rakah, the Hebrew word used by the verse for “temple,” is related to the word reik, “empty.” Thus, “your temple” is homiletically rendered “the empty ones amongst you.”)
the paradox of the pomegranate
The pomegranate is more than a model of something that contains many particulars. On a deeper level, this metaphor also addresses the paradox of how an individual may be “empty” and, at the same time, be “full of good deeds as a pomegranate.”

The pomegranate is a highly “compartmentalized” fruit. Each of its hundreds of seeds is wrapped in its own sac of flesh, and is separated from its fellows by a tough membrane. In the same way, it is possible for a person to do good deeds—many good deeds—and yet they remain isolated acts, with little or no effect on his nature and character. So, unlike the “apple,” whose deliciousness is from core to skin, the “pomegranate” contains many virtues, but they do not become him. He may be full of good deeds, yet he remains morally and spiritually hollow.

This explains the connection between the pomegranates and the bells on the hem of the priestly robe. As explained above, the noisy bells represent the imperfect individual who is striving to transcend his deficient state. Although he is still a spiritual pauper, he refuses to act like one—hence the noisy friction that characterizes his life.

Beautiful Noise
To become an apple, one must first be a pomegranate. One must act unlike himself, like a poor man feasting at a rich man’s table: a clumsy spectacle, perhaps, but an inevitable one if a person is to transcend the animalistic, egocentric self into which every man is born. The first step to becoming perfect is to behave as if perfect. Indeed, before Elijah experienced G‑d in a “still, small voice,” he first beheld the wind, the storm and the fire.

Thus, Nachmanides sees the pomegranate-encased bells on Aaron’s hem as a preliminary phase of one’s divine service, rather than as the service itself. Beauty, however, is to be found in the “apple” perfection of the menorah: seven lamps of pure olive oil, representing the soul’s silent, tranquil flame. If the pomegranates on the priestly robe were for beauty, argues Nachmanides, they would not be pomegranates, but apples. These hollow fruits are purely functional, a preparatory stage in the soul’s quest for perfection and union with her source in G‑d.
According to Rashi, however, the beauty of Israel lies also in its “pomegranates.” In fact, in a certain sense, the struggle of the imperfect soul is even more beautiful than the serene perfection of her more virtuous fellow. For the perfectly righteous individual serves G‑d by being what he is, while every positive deed of the “empty ones amongst you” is an act of sacrifice and self-transcendence. So even before a person attains perfection—even if his entire life is spent in the quest for perfection—the clamor of his efforts is music to G‑d’s ear.

A Contemporary Application
There are those who claim that the Torah and its mitzvot are a private matter between the Jew and his G‑d, not something to be paraded in the streets. Tefillin, Shabbat, the sanctity of family life, “esoteric” concepts such as “divine reality” or “Moshiach,” are not to be hawked on a downtown sidewalk or catchphrased on a slick billboard. Never, in our history as a nation, has anything like this been done, they say. You are vulgarizing the soul of Judaism, they accuse.

But this is the “hem” of history, the lowliest and most superficial generation yet. To this generation, the still, small voice of G‑d sounds like alien noise. Should this voice be hushed, to be whispered only among the apples? Or should its call be sounded, noisy though it be, until it is heard above the din?

Speaking to this generation in its own language—the language of the soundbite, of incessant compartmentalization and hollow packaging—ever further raises the noise level. But fighting fire with fire is not only effective; it also brings to light facets of one’s own potential that would otherwise remain unrealized. The bells and pomegranates that broadcast the divine truth are more than the means toward a tranquil end; they are themselves things of beauty.