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Showing posts with label Midrash Rabbah. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Midrash Rabbah. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
the Four Kinds [taken on Sukkot
http://www.chabad.org/holidays/JewishNewYear/template_cdo/aid/3106/jewish/
The Ushpizin
According to Kabbalistic tradition, we are visited in the sukkah by seven supernal ushpizin ("guests") -- Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Moses, Aaron, Joseph and David. On each of the seven days of the festival, another of the seven ushpizin (in the above order) leads the group.
(The sixth Lubavitcher Rebbe, Rabbi Yosef Yitzchak Schneersohn (1880-1950) spoke of seven "chassidic ushpizin" as well: the Baal Shem Tov, the Maggid (Rabbi DovBer of Mezeritch), and the first five rebbes of Chabad: Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi, Rabbi DovBer of Lubavitch, Rabbi Menachem Mendel (the "Tzemach Tzeddek"), Rabbi Shmuel, and Rabbi Sholom DovBer. The Lubavitcher Rebbe would speak each night of Sukkot on the special characteristics of both the biblical and the chassidic ushpizin of the day and their connection to each other and their specific day of the festival.)
The-Four-Mysteries-of-King-Solomon.htm The Four Mysteries of King Solomon Despite all the wisdom granted to [King] Solomon . . . he was mystified by the Four Kinds. As it is written: “Three things are wondrous to me”—these are the Passover offering, matzah and maror [eaten at the Passover seder]; “and four I do not know”—these are the Four Kinds [taken on Sukkot].2 On Sukkot, the Torah commands us to take the “Four Kinds”—the etrog (citron), lulav (an unopened frond of a date palm), hadas (myrtle twig) and aravah (willow twig). As is often the case with the Torah’s commandments, the “Written Torah” (the Pentateuch or “Five Books of Moses”) conveys this mitzvah in a few cryptic words, leaving it to the “Oral Torah” (the traditional interpretation of the Written Torah taught by Moses and handed down through the generations) to decipher their meaning. In the Written Torah, the verse regarding the Four Kinds reads: And you shall take for yourselves . . . the splendid fruit of a tree, fronds of dates, the branch of the thick-leafed tree and aravot of the river . . .3 King Solomon, the Midrash tells us, was mystified by this verse. “Who says that ‘the splendid fruit of a tree’ is the etrog?” he queried. “All fruit trees produce splendid fruit! [As for] ‘fronds of dates,’ the Torah tells us to take fronds, in the plural . . . yet we take a lulav, the unopened heart of the palm. And who says that ‘the branch of the thick-leafed tree’ is the myrtle? . . . And concerning the ‘aravot of the river’—all trees tend to grow near water.” How, indeed, do we know that “the splendid fruit of a tree, fronds of dates, the branch of the thick-leafed tree and aravot of the river” are the etrog, lulav, myrtle and willow? The Talmud, which summarizes forty generations of the oral tradition of Torah interpretation, identifies the Four Kinds through a series of homiletic exegeses of the Hebrew words employed by the verse. The clue to the identity of “the splendid fruit of a tree” lies in the word hadar (“splendid”), which can also be read as ha-dar—“that which dwells.” The etrog is unique in that, while other fruits each have a particular season in which they grow, the etrog “dwells in its tree all year round,” continuing to grow and develop under a variety of climatic conditions.4 As for the lulav, the Torah indeed writes, “fronds of dates,” but the word kapot (“fronds of”) is spelled without the letter vav, meaning that it can also be read kapat, “the frond of,” in the singular. In addition, the word kapot also means “bound,” implying that we are to take a closed frond (“the heart of the palm”). By these means, the Oral Torah identifies the second of the Four Kinds as the lulav.5 There are many “thick-leafed trees” in whose branches “the leaves completely cover the stem”; but the Hebrew word avot (“thick”) also means “plaited” and “rope-like.” Hence the “branch of the thick-leafed tree” (anaf eitz avot) is identified as the myrtle twig, whose overlapping leaves grow in knots of three, giving it the appearance of a plaited rope. There is another plant that meets this description—the hirduf (oleander, Nerium oleander)—but the Talmud rejects that possibility as inconsistent with the rule the “[the Torah’s] ways are ways of pleasantness, and all its pathways are peace” (since the hirduf is a thorny and poisonous plant).6 The aravot of the verse are identified as willow branches, because of the willow’s tendency to grow near water, and the elongated shape of its leaves (like a river).7 Another identifying mark of the aravah is that willow bushes tend to grow in close-knit groups (aravah is related to the word achavah, “brotherhood”). So what was it about the identity of the Four Kinds that so mystified King Solomon? Surely “the wisest of men” was as proficient in the ways of Torah exegesis as the Talmudic sages whose analysis is summarized above. In any case, there are many cryptic passages in the Torah where laws are derived from double meanings and variant spellings of its words. Solomon’s dramatic declaration regarding the etrog, lulav, myrtle and willow—“[Three are wondrous to me] and four I do not know”—must bode a deeper meaning, a meaning that relates to the inner significance of the Four Kinds taken on Sukkot. Four Species of Man The Four Kinds, says the Midrash, represent four types of people. Man’s mission in life consists of two basic challenges, learning and doing; or, as these relate to Jewish life, Torah and mitzvot. The Torah is the vehicle by which we gain knowledge of our Creator and insight into the essence of life; the mitzvot, the divine commandments, are the means by which we build a better and holier world, developing the physical creation into a “dwelling for G‑d.” These two endeavors define the four personalities represented in the Four Kinds. >The etrog, which has both a delicious taste and a delightful aroma, represents the perfect individual who both learns and achieves. The lulav, being the branch of the date palm, produces fruit that has a taste but no aroma; this is the prototype of the reclusive scholar who grows in wisdom but shuns the world of action. The fragrant but tasteless myrtle is the activist whose profusion of good deeds consumes all his time and energies. Finally, the tasteless, scentless willow represents the person who neither learns nor does, actualizing neither his intellectual potential nor his capacity to improve the world. On Sukkot, concludes the Midrash, these “Four Kinds” are “all bound together in one bundle,” each an integral part of the community of G‑d.8 The Tormented Fruit In light of this, we can understand the four things that mystified the wisest of men. If the “splendid fruit” in the Four Kinds represents the harmony of learning and accomplishment, why is this the fruit that “dwells in its tree all year round”? One would expect such perfection from a fruit maturing in tranquility, in a climate that is singularly attuned to its nature and needs—not from one whose development is agitated by ever-shifting conditions. And yet, time and again we indeed find that the greatest lives are those beset by travail and challenge; that the most balanced personalities are forged by the need to deal with changing circumstances and to constantly adapt to new climates and environments. This, to King Solomon, was one of the great mysteries of life. How does vacillation fuel growth? Why is it that the individual who enjoys a tranquil existence is never as “fragrant” and “delectable” as the one who is battered by the vicissitudes of life? Pressed Leaves The lulav, too, perplexed the great mind of Solomon. Is not the very nature of intellectual discourse that it produces varied opinions and conclusions? In the words of the Talmud, “Torah scholars sit in numerous groups and study the Torah. One group deems a thing impure, and another deems it pure; one group forbids a deed, and another permits it; one group disqualifies something, and another renders it fit.”9 So when the verse speaks of “fronds of dates,” we are inclined to understand these words in their literal, plural sense. For if the second of the Four Kinds connotes the Torah scholar—the human mind enfranchised to assimilate the divine wisdom—should it not consist of two palm branches, in keeping with the plural nature of the intellect? Should not their leaves be opened and spread, pointing to the various directions that the rational examination of a concept will take when embarked on by the mind of man? And yet, the lulav commanded by the Torah is a single, closed frond, its leaves fused to a single rod pointing in a single direction. As the above-quoted Talmudic passage concludes: “Should a person then ask: How, then, might I study Torah? But all was received from a single Shepherd.” This was the second of the two mysteries pondered by King Solomon. How do the flock of opinions and perspectives of Torah relate to their “single Shepherd”? How can the divine wisdom be funneled through the multifarious world of human reason and remain the singular truth of a singular G‑d? The Plaited Twig The myrtle in the Four Kinds represents the “deed” aspect of life—the manner in which we fulfill the purpose of creation with the physical actions of the mitzvot, thereby constructing a “dwelling for G‑d in the physical world.” Thus, the Torah identifies the myrtle by alluding to its “plaited” appearance, given it by the way that its leaves grow in clumps of three: the number “three” represents the realm of action, which is the third of the soul’s three “garments” or vehicles of expression (thought, speech and deed). Here lies what is perhaps the most profound mystery of all. How can the finite and mundane physical deed “house” the divine essence? Indeed, the plaited twig that comes to mind when thinking of the physical world is not the fragrant myrtle, but the barbed and poisonous hirduf! Yet it is the material world where G‑d elected to make His home. It is the physical deed to which He imparted the ability to serve as man’s highest form of communion with Him. Why? To the wisest of men, this was one of the four phenomena to which he could only say: “I do not know it.” A Brotherhood of Trees The fourth of Solomon’s mysteries concerns the willow, a plant with neither fragrance nor taste, devoid of learning as well as deeds. Why is this species counted among the Four Kinds? The verse itself answers that question by referring to the fourth kind as “aravot of the river.” The willow might not exhibit any positive qualities, but its roots are embedded in the banks of its ancestral river and nourished by the waters of its heritage. It, too, is a child of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob; in its veins, too, course the love and awe of G‑d that they bequeathed to all their descendants. Another hallmark of the willow is that “it grows in brotherhood.” This alludes to a unique feature of the human “willow.” Taken alone, he might exhibit not a single positive trait or achievement; but when gathered in a community, the aura of holiness that suffuses each individual soul suddenly comes to light. Thus our sages tell us that the divine presence rests upon a gathering of ten individuals (the number that comprises a “community”) even if they are not engaged in the study of Torah or the performance of a mitzvah. This is also the significance of the minyan (the quorum of ten required to recite certain prayers): ten individuals gathered together represent a quantum leap in holiness. Ten ignorant boors make a minyan, while nine pious scholars do not. This is what mystified King Solomon about the willow. How does ten times nothing add up to something? If each on his own possesses no visible expression of his innate holiness, how does that change when ten of them come together? All trees grow on water, mused the wisest of men; what sets the willows apart, earning them a place among the Four Kinds? Simply the fact that they grow close together? Impossible Truths If we think of these mysteries, they are as enigmatic and elusive as when King Solomon pondered them thirty centuries ago. But we usually don’t think of them at all, so deeply are they ingrained in our reality. Despite their logical incomprehensibility, these are obvious and ever-present truths in our lives. Why do vacillation and hardship fuel growth? How can contradictory ideas embody a singular truth? Why does a simple physical deed elevate us to levels of holiness and G‑dliness unequaled by the most transcendent spiritual experience? How are a number of ordinary human beings magically transformed when knit into a community, greatly surpassing the sum of their individual parts? King Solomon couldn’t explain these mysteries; certainly, we cannot. But we recognize these as axiomatic to our lives, as four cornerstones to our existence that bear the stamp of a Creator within whose infinite being opposites merge and paradoxical truths harmoniously reside.10 FOOTNOTES 1. Proverbs 30:18. 2. Midrash Rabbah, Vayikra 30:14. 3. Leviticus 23:40. 4. Talmud, Sukkah 35a. 5. Ibid. 32a. 6. Ibid. 32b. 7. Ibid. 33b. 8. Midrash Rabbah, Vayikra 30:11. 9. Talmud, Chagigah 3b. 10. Based on an entry in the Rebbe’s journal dated Sukkot 5702 (1941); Reshimot #62, pp. 16–20.
Sunday, March 3, 2013
Five misfortunes befell our forefathers on the 17th of Tammuz,
Based on the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe
Courtesy of MeaningfulLife.com
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PrintE-mail Discuss (4)Our sages tell us that "Five misfortunes befell our forefathers on the 17th of Tammuz," the first of which was Moses' breaking of the Tablets in wake of Israel's worship of the Golden Calf. Many centuries later, this was also the day on which the walls of Jerusalem were breached, enabling the enemy's conquest of the city, and leading to the destruction of the Holy Temple three weeks later on the 9th of Av. Ever since, Tammuz 17 and Av 9 are both fast days, and the three week period between them a time of sadness and mourning.
The Golden Calf, then, started it all. Indeed, that infamous betrayal, coming just a few weeks after the people of Israel stood at Sinai and heard G-d proclaim, "I am the L-rd your G-d... you shall have no other gods before Me," has become a prototype in the sayings of our sages for every sort bad and negative thing -- including things that, on the face of it, don't even seem that terrible. Let us examine two such sayings:
The first is from the Talmudic tractate Sefer Torah, 1:8
Seventy sages translated the Torah into Greek for King Ptolemy. That day was as difficult for the people of Israel as the day on which the [Golden] Calf was made; for the Torah could not be fully translated.
The second is also from the Talmud, tractate Shabbat Shabbat 13b and 17a:
A count was conducted, and it was found that the sages of Shammai were more numerous than the sages of Hillel. Eighteen ordinances were enacted on that day... and that day was as difficult for the people of Israel as the day on which the [Golden] Calf was made.
Surely the translation of the Torah into a foreign language is not, in itself, undesirable. According to the Midrash Tanchuma, more than a thousand years before King Ptolemy ordered the translation of the Torah into Greek, Moses had already, by Divine command, translated the Torah into the seventy languages of the world. Nor can it be said that the Greek language is particularly problematic for Torah's translation, as Greek is one of the seventy basic languages into which the Torah was translated by Moses. In fact, the Talmud states that, of all languages, Greek is the most suited for the translation of Torah (Jerusalem Talmud, Megillah 1:9).
So what is it about the translation ordered by Ptolemy that was so "difficult for the people of Israel"? And why does the Talmud compare it to one of the greatest tragedies of Jewish history--"the day on which the [Golden] Calf was made"?
The making of the Golden Calf is also cited as a model for another "difficult day" in Jewish history: the day on which the disciples of the Shammai outnumbered the disciples of Hillel. The Torah decrees that, in cases of disagreement between the sages, one should "follow the majority." The disciples of Hillel were more numerous than the disciples of Shammai, so that the final ruling on the disputations between these two schools of Torah scholarship almost always follows the more lenient approach of Hillel. On one occasion, however, the disciples of Shammai constituted the majority of sages in the study hall, and eighteen laws were enacted following their stricter interpretation of Torah law. "That day," says the Talmud, "was as difficult for the people of Israel as the day on which the [Golden] Calf was made."
Again, the comparison with the Golden Calf seems extreme, if not inappropriate. The enactment of these laws might have "burdened" us with additional and stricter prohibitions, but the even 365 basic prohibitions of the Torah can be said to be "difficult" until one appreciates their value as Divine guidelines for a constructive and meaningful life. The eighteen Shammaian laws were enacted in full accordance with the authority vested by the Torah in the sages: from the moment they were put to vote and a majority of the sages endorsed them, they became part of Torah law, as binding and crucial to the Jew as the most basic of the Torah's precepts. So why does the Talmud consider the event to be "as difficult for the people of Israel as the day on which the [Golden] Calf was made"?
The Making of the Calf
The Golden Calf was made by Moses' brother, Aaron, on the 16th day of the month of Tammuz, in the year 2448 from creation (1313 bce).
Forty days earlier, Moses had ascended Mount Sinai to receive the Torah from G-d. Due to a miscalculation, the children of Israel expected him to return on the morning of the 16th of Tammuz (after 40 days on the mountain, counting the day of the ascent), instead of the morning of the 17th (after 40 days, not counting the day of the ascent). When Moses failed to appear when expected, "They massed upon Aaron, and said to him: Arise! Make us a god that shall walk before us. For the man Moses, who brought us up out of the land of Egypt -- we do not know what has become of him" (Exodus 32:1).
When Aaron saw that the people could not be dissuaded from their plan, he took charge of operation himself in the hope of postponing the actual worship of the idol. He collected their gold and smelted it into the form of a calf. He then announced: "Tomorrow is a festival unto G-d!" "Tomorrow" was the 17th of Tammuz, the date of Moses' return from Mount Sinai.
Were it not for the people's all-consuming enthusiasm for their new idol, which roused them from their beds at the crack of dawn the next morning, the 17th of Tammuz would indeed have been "a festival unto G-d" in the sense that Aaron had intended -- the day on which Moses prevented Israel's error and rededicated them to the true service of G-d. But when Moses descended from the mountain, the deed was already done. The people of Israel had violated their newly-made covenant with G-d.
Now we understand why the Talmud compares the day of the Torah's translation into Greek and the day of Shammai's triumph over Hillel to "the day on which the Calf was made," as opposed to the day on which it was actually worshipped. The day on which the Golden Calf was worshipped was the most tragic day in Jewish history -- the day that spawned all subsequent regressions and calamities experienced by our people. But on Tammuz 16, the day on which the Golden Calf was made, this was still a calamity in potential, with an equal potential for its prevention, and even its transformation into a positive occurrence.
The Quest for Divinity
What led the people of Israel to worship an icon of gold? If they were seeking a replacement for Moses, why did they not appoint another leader in his place? What is the connection between the perceived "disappearance" of Moses and their desire for a material representation of divinity?
Chassidic teaching explains that Moses was more than a leader to the people of Israel: he was a living model of the Divine immanence. As the Torah attests, Moses was an ish elokim ("man of G-d") a human being who so completely conformed to the Divine will, who so completely negated his self to G-d, that his mind, his personality, his very being, were pure, unadulterated expressions of the Divine truth (Deuteronomy 33:1, as per Midrash Rabbah, Devarim 11:4). In Moses, the people of Israel perceived how "There is none else besides Him": how a creature as individualistic and self-centered as man can manifest the truth that, in essence, he is but a ray of the Divine light.
With Moses' "disappearance," the people of Israel felt the need for a visual, tactual exemplar of the all-pervasiveness of G-d. But this time they wanted a physical object as their prototype, in the belief that this would constitute an even greater testimony to the truth that "There is none else besides Him." If we take an icon of gold, they reasoned, the epitome of materiality, and hallow it as a representation of the Divine immanence, this will truly demonstrate how even the most mundane being is not separate from the Divine reality.
Indeed, several months later, the people of Israel were instructed to do just that: to construct a "sanctuary" for G-d out of fifteen physical materials, the most dominant of which was gold. At the heart of the Sanctuary was to stand the gold-plated ark, topped by two keruvim (cherubs) hammered out of a block of solid gold. The golden keruvim symbolized the relationship between G-d and Israel and marked the seat of G-d's manifest presence within the physical universe. Furthermore, Israel's construction of this Sanctuary was to serve as their atonement for the sin of the Golden Calf!
Why was the Golden Calf the gravest of sins and the most perfidious of betrayals, while the golden keruvim were the epitome of holiness? Often, an extremely fine line distinguishes between the purest truth and the most distortive falsehood. Though ostensibly similar, the keruvim were the very antithesis of the Golden Calf.
When G-d commands to construct a material receptacle for His presence, it becomes a holy, G-dly object; when man chooses a material representation of the Divine presence, this is idolatry--a detraction from, rather than an affirmation of, the truth that "There is none else besides Him." For it is not the sanctified object that expresses the all-pervasiveness of G-d, but the fact that it is serving as an instrument of mans fulfillment of the Divine will.
Where there is a Divine command to make a certain physical object or do a certain physical deed, the fulfillment of this commandment attests that the Divine will has permeated the whole of creation, down to and including the object or deed that realizes it. Where there is no such command, only the human choice of a certain object or ritual to embody mans relationship with G-d, this is idolatry--the attribution of Divine qualities to something other than G-d Himself.
(Indeed, the essence of idolatry is not the denial of G-d's existence and supreme power, but the veneration of "other gods before Me"--the attribution of Divine significance to anything other than G-d. If man, by his own initiative, chooses a certain object or force as a representation of the Divine or as a vehicle of relationship with G-d, this is idolatry--see Mishneh Torah, Laws regarding Idol Worship, 1:1-2)
The Thirteen Imprecisions
Therein lies the parallel between the making of the Golden Calf and the translation of the Torah into Greek.
When G-d commanded Moses to translate the Torah into the languages of the world, this achieved the introduction of the word of G-d into all strata of human existence. Words and idioms, distilled from the most foreign of cultures and lifestyles, became a "sanctuary" housing the Divine wisdom. This was a Divine endeavor, achieved via Moses--the same medium through which G-d first "translated" His supra-literary truth into the words of the Holy Tongue.
But when the seventy sages translated the Torah at Ptolemy's behest, this was a human endeavor, initiated by a mortal ruler. As such, it boded the possibility of becoming a Golden Calf--a humanly-defined vessel for the Divine truth. There existed the danger that instead of faithfully conforming to their sacred content, the foreign garments in which the Torah was being dressed would allow the distortion of its original sense.
Thus, the day that the Torah was translated into Greek was "as difficult as the day on which the Golden Calf was made." The Golden Calf was not an idol until it was worshipped the following morning; but the potential for idolatry was there--for the pagan feast that Moses found upon his descent from the mountain as opposed to the "a festival for G-d" that Aaron had hoped for. By the same token, the Torah's translation into Greek constituted the introduction of a dangerous "otherness" to Torah, with the potential for subsequent distortion of the Divine truth.
This time, however, the negative possibilities of the endeavor were averted, or at least greatly minimized. The Talmud relates that Ptolemy isolated the seventy sages in seventy different houses to prevent their collaboration on an imprecise translation: the Hellenic king wanted a literal rendering of the Torah, so that he and his scholars would be free to interpret it according to their own understanding and not be dictated by the Mosaic tradition of the Jews. Nevertheless, the seventy translators departed from the literal meaning of the Torah's words in thirteen places where such a translation would be open to misinterpretation, each independently recognizing the problematic places and substituting an identical word or phrase which, while not a precise translation from the Hebrew into the Greek, was a faithful rendition of the Torah's intent.
This is the deeper meaning of the Talmud's words that the "difficulty" lay in that "the Torah could not be fully translated." Had the seventy sages fully -- that is, precisely and exactly translated the Torah into Greek, it would have been exposed to misinterpretation and distortion. It was only because they succeeded in presenting Ptolemy with a less than literal translation that this tragedy was averted. Indeed, their translation yielded the positive result of bringing G-d's word to the Greek world, and showing the way for the subsequent translators of Torah who would spread the light of Torah to all peoples and cultures of the earth.
The World According to Hillel
The parallel between the Golden Calf and the Torah's translation into Greek is an extremely subtle one: the first was outright idolatry, the gravest of sins proscribed by the Torah; the second was a permissible, and, in many ways, beneficial, endeavor to expand the influence of the Torah in the world. Nevertheless, the potential danger of the translation is, in essence, the very same danger posed by idolatry: the introduction of a foreign element into our relationship with G-d, an "otherness" that belies the Divine exclusivity expressed by the axiom of our faith, "There is none other beside Him."
Even more subtle is the parallel between the making of the Golden Calf and the triumph of Shammai over Hillel in eighteen disputations of Torah law. For here we speak of a legitimate development of Torah law, sanctioned and mandated by G-d's instructions as to how His will should by applied to our lives. Shammai's disciples understanding of the Torah, even when rejected by the final ruling, is a valid expression of the Divine will; when endorsed by the majority of Torah sages, it becomes the only valid way in which to implement the Divine will in practice. Nevertheless, the triumph of the Shammaian approach to Torah carries the potential for the very same "otherness"--albeit in subtlest of forms--represented by the Golden Calf.
As mentioned above, the school of Hillel tended to a more lenient application of Torah law, while the school of Shammai was characterized by strictness and severity. This was not a matter of a benevolent group of sages on the one hand and a group of harsh, uncompromising jurists on the other, but the product of two different perspectives on the very function of Torah.
Living as a Jew means daily grappling with a basic dissonance in our perception of reality. On the one hand, we affirm that "There is none else beside Him" (Deuteronomy 4:35); on the other hand, we are daily confronted with a world that blatantly exhibits its elseness and besideness.
To address this dissonance, G-d gave us the Torah, which is a set of guidelines on how to impose the Divine will upon the world. By implementing Torah in our lives, we create a world that is not separate from G-d but subservient to Him; a world that does not contradict the exclusivity of the Divine reality, but is the instrument of its realization.
The 613 mitzvot (Divine commandments) of the Torah consist of 365 prohibitions (e.g., not to work on Shabbat, not to eat meat with milk) and 248 positive commandments (to give charity, the put on tefillin). In other words, the Torah has a two-pronged approach to resolving the seeming contradiction between the Divine unity and the worlds perceived separateness: abnegation and cultivation.
In the "abnegation" mode, the negation of a part of the physical universe vanquishes its otherness. For example: the human appetite might desire a non-kosher food; the Torah commands not to eat it; by suppressing his craving for the sake of his commitment to the Divine will, the person demonstrates that his physical desire, and the desired physical object, are devoid of value and significance. They might exist, but they are "nothing" to him. The only "something" is G-d, for He is the only being of any significance.
In the "cultivation" mode of Torah, a part of the world is developed into an instrument of the divine. A piece of leather exists, bearing no manifest relationship with G-d; the piece of leather is fashioned into a pair of tefillin, an object whose obvious function is to fulfill a Divine command. A physical object has transcended its otherness to exhibit its subservience to G-d. It has not been made to nothing; indeed, its "somethingness" has been cultivated and developed. But its somethingness is no longer separate from (and thus opposed to) the Divine being, but is now its extension and expression.
Which of these two modes of Torah's interaction with the world is more primary to its overall function? This is the underlying difference between the two most basic schools of Torah law, the House of Shammai and the House of Hillel. From the Shammaian perspective, the Torah is basically "negative," its primary function being to expose the nothingness of the physical reality. True, the Torah also includes cultivative elements, but these, too, are a function of its abnegative effect on the world. When the Torah commands to develop a piece of leather into a pair of tefillin, this is just another way of abnegating the physical realityby demonstrating how even the spiritually "useful" elements of the physical world possess no significance of their own, save for their capacity to serve G-d.
Thus, when Torah allows for both a prohibitive and a permissive interpretation of a certain law, the school of Shammai naturally embraces the option that is consistent with its understanding of Torah's overall function: to proscribe and prohibit, thus negating the "somethingness" of the physical reality.
Hillel had a different perspective on Torah. In his view, the Torah comes not to negate the physical reality, but to reveal how its "somethingness" is of a piece with the "somethingness" of G-d. So it is the Torah's "cultivating" mitzvot which express its ultimate function. The Torah, of course, also includes many prohibitions, but these are but the necessary ground rules that allow for the proper cultivation of the world as a vehicle of G-dliness. For the physical world includes certain elements whose Divine potential is beyond our capacity to reveal; unless these are "abnegated," they will interfere with our cultivation of those elements which we are equipped to deal with. But when faced with two possible interpretation of a law in Torah, the Hillelian sage will opt for the permissive rather than the prohibitive, for he is inclined to include as much of the world as possible in the Torah's "cultivative" domain.
Both the Shammaian and Hillelian approach are legitimate perceptions of Torah; both affirm the truth that "There is none else beside Him." But in a very subtle way, the approach of Shammai recognizes an "otherness" to the world that is completely absent from the Hillelian view. In effect, the perspective of Shammai says: The world exists; therefore it must be abnegated. The world challenges the singularity of G-d; therefore it must be disavowed.
From the perspective of Hillel, however, the "existence" of the world is not an adversary to be vanquished, but an enigma to be revealed; not a rebellion against the Divine sovereignty to be put down, but a potential to be realized. The world according to Hillel possesses no "otherness" in the first place; what we perceive as its independence and separateness of being is but the expression of the Divine being that pervades it.
A Mitigating Victory
As long as the Shammaian approach to Torah was subservient to the Hillelian, it posed no threat to the integrity of Israel's relationship with G-d. On the contrary, it complemented it as a parallel vision of the Divine blueprint for life. For man's service of G-d includes both the cultivation of his self and world as a receptacle for G-dliness, as well as the abnegation of self and world before the all-transcending truth of G-d. There are times in a person's life that the first element must take precedence, and times when the second element should be accentuated; times when he must view the world as a Hillelian sage, and times when he must look at it with a Shammaian eye.
But the day that the sages of Shammai outnumbered the sages of Hillel and their vision of Torah became the basis of its actual practice, was "as difficult for the people of Israel as the day on which the Golden Calf was made." When the abnegative approach of Shammai supplanted the cultivative approach of Hillel in the actual, day-to-day practice of Torah, the danger existed that the Jew might eventually be led to view his world as something "other" than G-d, something alien to the truth of its Creator. In this sense, it was a day rife with a potential threat akin to that posed by the making of the Golden Calf.
But unlike the day on which the Golden Calf was made, which led to the day on which it was actually worshipped, the danger implicit in the brief reign of Shammai had no adverse results. The numerical superiority of the school of Shammai was short-lived; on the following day, the majority reverted to Hillel and his disciples. With the exception of the eighteen laws voted on that day, the actual practice of Torah law follows the Hillelian approach.
In fact, the day of Shammai's victory had a mitigating effect on his severity. For even as his view triumphed over that of Hillel, it was influenced by the very process of debate and defense against the other opinion. In a number of cases, we actually find the disciples of Shammai propagating a more lenient view than Hillels disciples; this was the result of the day on which eighteen laws were decided according to the opinion of Shammai, but not without being influenced by the defeated opinion of Hillel.
Because of this day, even when a person must, by necessity, adapt a "Shammaian" approach, it is mitigated by the vision of Hillel. Even when the circumstances necessitate the subjugation and abnegation of the materiality of his existence, this is accompanied with the recognition that, ultimately, there are no alien or "other" elements in G-d's world, where everything is one with its creator and source.
Tomorrow
Our sages tell us that the words of a tzaddik (perfectly righteous person) are never without result. Even if they are not realized immediately, they ultimately achieve fulfillment.
The same applies, says the great Kabbalist Rabbi Isaac Luria, to Aaron's proclamation, "Tomorrow is a festival unto G-d!" On that first "tomorrow," Aaron's hope was not realized: the 17th of Tammuz became the day on which the Golden Calf was worshipped, the Tablets of the Covenant constituting the "marriage contract" between G-d and Israel were broken, and the very day fated to become the scene of many tragedies in Jewish history -- including breaching of Jerusalem's walls which led to the destruction of the Holy Temple three weeks later on the 9th of Av and the exile of Israel from their land.
But as the prophet (Zechariah 8:19) promises, G-d will transform the 17th of Tammuz into a festival and a day of joy, when the tribulations and sufferings of galut will yield the Divine harmony and perfection of the messianic era. Then, the positive resolution of the making of the Golden Calf anticipated by Aaron will be realized, as the error and regression of Israel's sin will be transformed into a heightened appreciation of the all-pervading reality of G-d.1.
FOOTNOTES
1. Based on Likkutei Sichot, vol. XXIV, pp. 1-11.
Courtesy of MeaningfulLife.com
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PrintE-mail Discuss (4)Our sages tell us that "Five misfortunes befell our forefathers on the 17th of Tammuz," the first of which was Moses' breaking of the Tablets in wake of Israel's worship of the Golden Calf. Many centuries later, this was also the day on which the walls of Jerusalem were breached, enabling the enemy's conquest of the city, and leading to the destruction of the Holy Temple three weeks later on the 9th of Av. Ever since, Tammuz 17 and Av 9 are both fast days, and the three week period between them a time of sadness and mourning.
The Golden Calf, then, started it all. Indeed, that infamous betrayal, coming just a few weeks after the people of Israel stood at Sinai and heard G-d proclaim, "I am the L-rd your G-d... you shall have no other gods before Me," has become a prototype in the sayings of our sages for every sort bad and negative thing -- including things that, on the face of it, don't even seem that terrible. Let us examine two such sayings:
The first is from the Talmudic tractate Sefer Torah, 1:8
Seventy sages translated the Torah into Greek for King Ptolemy. That day was as difficult for the people of Israel as the day on which the [Golden] Calf was made; for the Torah could not be fully translated.
The second is also from the Talmud, tractate Shabbat Shabbat 13b and 17a:
A count was conducted, and it was found that the sages of Shammai were more numerous than the sages of Hillel. Eighteen ordinances were enacted on that day... and that day was as difficult for the people of Israel as the day on which the [Golden] Calf was made.
Surely the translation of the Torah into a foreign language is not, in itself, undesirable. According to the Midrash Tanchuma, more than a thousand years before King Ptolemy ordered the translation of the Torah into Greek, Moses had already, by Divine command, translated the Torah into the seventy languages of the world. Nor can it be said that the Greek language is particularly problematic for Torah's translation, as Greek is one of the seventy basic languages into which the Torah was translated by Moses. In fact, the Talmud states that, of all languages, Greek is the most suited for the translation of Torah (Jerusalem Talmud, Megillah 1:9).
So what is it about the translation ordered by Ptolemy that was so "difficult for the people of Israel"? And why does the Talmud compare it to one of the greatest tragedies of Jewish history--"the day on which the [Golden] Calf was made"?
The making of the Golden Calf is also cited as a model for another "difficult day" in Jewish history: the day on which the disciples of the Shammai outnumbered the disciples of Hillel. The Torah decrees that, in cases of disagreement between the sages, one should "follow the majority." The disciples of Hillel were more numerous than the disciples of Shammai, so that the final ruling on the disputations between these two schools of Torah scholarship almost always follows the more lenient approach of Hillel. On one occasion, however, the disciples of Shammai constituted the majority of sages in the study hall, and eighteen laws were enacted following their stricter interpretation of Torah law. "That day," says the Talmud, "was as difficult for the people of Israel as the day on which the [Golden] Calf was made."
Again, the comparison with the Golden Calf seems extreme, if not inappropriate. The enactment of these laws might have "burdened" us with additional and stricter prohibitions, but the even 365 basic prohibitions of the Torah can be said to be "difficult" until one appreciates their value as Divine guidelines for a constructive and meaningful life. The eighteen Shammaian laws were enacted in full accordance with the authority vested by the Torah in the sages: from the moment they were put to vote and a majority of the sages endorsed them, they became part of Torah law, as binding and crucial to the Jew as the most basic of the Torah's precepts. So why does the Talmud consider the event to be "as difficult for the people of Israel as the day on which the [Golden] Calf was made"?
The Making of the Calf
The Golden Calf was made by Moses' brother, Aaron, on the 16th day of the month of Tammuz, in the year 2448 from creation (1313 bce).
Forty days earlier, Moses had ascended Mount Sinai to receive the Torah from G-d. Due to a miscalculation, the children of Israel expected him to return on the morning of the 16th of Tammuz (after 40 days on the mountain, counting the day of the ascent), instead of the morning of the 17th (after 40 days, not counting the day of the ascent). When Moses failed to appear when expected, "They massed upon Aaron, and said to him: Arise! Make us a god that shall walk before us. For the man Moses, who brought us up out of the land of Egypt -- we do not know what has become of him" (Exodus 32:1).
When Aaron saw that the people could not be dissuaded from their plan, he took charge of operation himself in the hope of postponing the actual worship of the idol. He collected their gold and smelted it into the form of a calf. He then announced: "Tomorrow is a festival unto G-d!" "Tomorrow" was the 17th of Tammuz, the date of Moses' return from Mount Sinai.
Were it not for the people's all-consuming enthusiasm for their new idol, which roused them from their beds at the crack of dawn the next morning, the 17th of Tammuz would indeed have been "a festival unto G-d" in the sense that Aaron had intended -- the day on which Moses prevented Israel's error and rededicated them to the true service of G-d. But when Moses descended from the mountain, the deed was already done. The people of Israel had violated their newly-made covenant with G-d.
Now we understand why the Talmud compares the day of the Torah's translation into Greek and the day of Shammai's triumph over Hillel to "the day on which the Calf was made," as opposed to the day on which it was actually worshipped. The day on which the Golden Calf was worshipped was the most tragic day in Jewish history -- the day that spawned all subsequent regressions and calamities experienced by our people. But on Tammuz 16, the day on which the Golden Calf was made, this was still a calamity in potential, with an equal potential for its prevention, and even its transformation into a positive occurrence.
The Quest for Divinity
What led the people of Israel to worship an icon of gold? If they were seeking a replacement for Moses, why did they not appoint another leader in his place? What is the connection between the perceived "disappearance" of Moses and their desire for a material representation of divinity?
Chassidic teaching explains that Moses was more than a leader to the people of Israel: he was a living model of the Divine immanence. As the Torah attests, Moses was an ish elokim ("man of G-d") a human being who so completely conformed to the Divine will, who so completely negated his self to G-d, that his mind, his personality, his very being, were pure, unadulterated expressions of the Divine truth (Deuteronomy 33:1, as per Midrash Rabbah, Devarim 11:4). In Moses, the people of Israel perceived how "There is none else besides Him": how a creature as individualistic and self-centered as man can manifest the truth that, in essence, he is but a ray of the Divine light.
With Moses' "disappearance," the people of Israel felt the need for a visual, tactual exemplar of the all-pervasiveness of G-d. But this time they wanted a physical object as their prototype, in the belief that this would constitute an even greater testimony to the truth that "There is none else besides Him." If we take an icon of gold, they reasoned, the epitome of materiality, and hallow it as a representation of the Divine immanence, this will truly demonstrate how even the most mundane being is not separate from the Divine reality.
Indeed, several months later, the people of Israel were instructed to do just that: to construct a "sanctuary" for G-d out of fifteen physical materials, the most dominant of which was gold. At the heart of the Sanctuary was to stand the gold-plated ark, topped by two keruvim (cherubs) hammered out of a block of solid gold. The golden keruvim symbolized the relationship between G-d and Israel and marked the seat of G-d's manifest presence within the physical universe. Furthermore, Israel's construction of this Sanctuary was to serve as their atonement for the sin of the Golden Calf!
Why was the Golden Calf the gravest of sins and the most perfidious of betrayals, while the golden keruvim were the epitome of holiness? Often, an extremely fine line distinguishes between the purest truth and the most distortive falsehood. Though ostensibly similar, the keruvim were the very antithesis of the Golden Calf.
When G-d commands to construct a material receptacle for His presence, it becomes a holy, G-dly object; when man chooses a material representation of the Divine presence, this is idolatry--a detraction from, rather than an affirmation of, the truth that "There is none else besides Him." For it is not the sanctified object that expresses the all-pervasiveness of G-d, but the fact that it is serving as an instrument of mans fulfillment of the Divine will.
Where there is a Divine command to make a certain physical object or do a certain physical deed, the fulfillment of this commandment attests that the Divine will has permeated the whole of creation, down to and including the object or deed that realizes it. Where there is no such command, only the human choice of a certain object or ritual to embody mans relationship with G-d, this is idolatry--the attribution of Divine qualities to something other than G-d Himself.
(Indeed, the essence of idolatry is not the denial of G-d's existence and supreme power, but the veneration of "other gods before Me"--the attribution of Divine significance to anything other than G-d. If man, by his own initiative, chooses a certain object or force as a representation of the Divine or as a vehicle of relationship with G-d, this is idolatry--see Mishneh Torah, Laws regarding Idol Worship, 1:1-2)
The Thirteen Imprecisions
Therein lies the parallel between the making of the Golden Calf and the translation of the Torah into Greek.
When G-d commanded Moses to translate the Torah into the languages of the world, this achieved the introduction of the word of G-d into all strata of human existence. Words and idioms, distilled from the most foreign of cultures and lifestyles, became a "sanctuary" housing the Divine wisdom. This was a Divine endeavor, achieved via Moses--the same medium through which G-d first "translated" His supra-literary truth into the words of the Holy Tongue.
But when the seventy sages translated the Torah at Ptolemy's behest, this was a human endeavor, initiated by a mortal ruler. As such, it boded the possibility of becoming a Golden Calf--a humanly-defined vessel for the Divine truth. There existed the danger that instead of faithfully conforming to their sacred content, the foreign garments in which the Torah was being dressed would allow the distortion of its original sense.
Thus, the day that the Torah was translated into Greek was "as difficult as the day on which the Golden Calf was made." The Golden Calf was not an idol until it was worshipped the following morning; but the potential for idolatry was there--for the pagan feast that Moses found upon his descent from the mountain as opposed to the "a festival for G-d" that Aaron had hoped for. By the same token, the Torah's translation into Greek constituted the introduction of a dangerous "otherness" to Torah, with the potential for subsequent distortion of the Divine truth.
This time, however, the negative possibilities of the endeavor were averted, or at least greatly minimized. The Talmud relates that Ptolemy isolated the seventy sages in seventy different houses to prevent their collaboration on an imprecise translation: the Hellenic king wanted a literal rendering of the Torah, so that he and his scholars would be free to interpret it according to their own understanding and not be dictated by the Mosaic tradition of the Jews. Nevertheless, the seventy translators departed from the literal meaning of the Torah's words in thirteen places where such a translation would be open to misinterpretation, each independently recognizing the problematic places and substituting an identical word or phrase which, while not a precise translation from the Hebrew into the Greek, was a faithful rendition of the Torah's intent.
This is the deeper meaning of the Talmud's words that the "difficulty" lay in that "the Torah could not be fully translated." Had the seventy sages fully -- that is, precisely and exactly translated the Torah into Greek, it would have been exposed to misinterpretation and distortion. It was only because they succeeded in presenting Ptolemy with a less than literal translation that this tragedy was averted. Indeed, their translation yielded the positive result of bringing G-d's word to the Greek world, and showing the way for the subsequent translators of Torah who would spread the light of Torah to all peoples and cultures of the earth.
The World According to Hillel
The parallel between the Golden Calf and the Torah's translation into Greek is an extremely subtle one: the first was outright idolatry, the gravest of sins proscribed by the Torah; the second was a permissible, and, in many ways, beneficial, endeavor to expand the influence of the Torah in the world. Nevertheless, the potential danger of the translation is, in essence, the very same danger posed by idolatry: the introduction of a foreign element into our relationship with G-d, an "otherness" that belies the Divine exclusivity expressed by the axiom of our faith, "There is none other beside Him."
Even more subtle is the parallel between the making of the Golden Calf and the triumph of Shammai over Hillel in eighteen disputations of Torah law. For here we speak of a legitimate development of Torah law, sanctioned and mandated by G-d's instructions as to how His will should by applied to our lives. Shammai's disciples understanding of the Torah, even when rejected by the final ruling, is a valid expression of the Divine will; when endorsed by the majority of Torah sages, it becomes the only valid way in which to implement the Divine will in practice. Nevertheless, the triumph of the Shammaian approach to Torah carries the potential for the very same "otherness"--albeit in subtlest of forms--represented by the Golden Calf.
As mentioned above, the school of Hillel tended to a more lenient application of Torah law, while the school of Shammai was characterized by strictness and severity. This was not a matter of a benevolent group of sages on the one hand and a group of harsh, uncompromising jurists on the other, but the product of two different perspectives on the very function of Torah.
Living as a Jew means daily grappling with a basic dissonance in our perception of reality. On the one hand, we affirm that "There is none else beside Him" (Deuteronomy 4:35); on the other hand, we are daily confronted with a world that blatantly exhibits its elseness and besideness.
To address this dissonance, G-d gave us the Torah, which is a set of guidelines on how to impose the Divine will upon the world. By implementing Torah in our lives, we create a world that is not separate from G-d but subservient to Him; a world that does not contradict the exclusivity of the Divine reality, but is the instrument of its realization.
The 613 mitzvot (Divine commandments) of the Torah consist of 365 prohibitions (e.g., not to work on Shabbat, not to eat meat with milk) and 248 positive commandments (to give charity, the put on tefillin). In other words, the Torah has a two-pronged approach to resolving the seeming contradiction between the Divine unity and the worlds perceived separateness: abnegation and cultivation.
In the "abnegation" mode, the negation of a part of the physical universe vanquishes its otherness. For example: the human appetite might desire a non-kosher food; the Torah commands not to eat it; by suppressing his craving for the sake of his commitment to the Divine will, the person demonstrates that his physical desire, and the desired physical object, are devoid of value and significance. They might exist, but they are "nothing" to him. The only "something" is G-d, for He is the only being of any significance.
In the "cultivation" mode of Torah, a part of the world is developed into an instrument of the divine. A piece of leather exists, bearing no manifest relationship with G-d; the piece of leather is fashioned into a pair of tefillin, an object whose obvious function is to fulfill a Divine command. A physical object has transcended its otherness to exhibit its subservience to G-d. It has not been made to nothing; indeed, its "somethingness" has been cultivated and developed. But its somethingness is no longer separate from (and thus opposed to) the Divine being, but is now its extension and expression.
Which of these two modes of Torah's interaction with the world is more primary to its overall function? This is the underlying difference between the two most basic schools of Torah law, the House of Shammai and the House of Hillel. From the Shammaian perspective, the Torah is basically "negative," its primary function being to expose the nothingness of the physical reality. True, the Torah also includes cultivative elements, but these, too, are a function of its abnegative effect on the world. When the Torah commands to develop a piece of leather into a pair of tefillin, this is just another way of abnegating the physical realityby demonstrating how even the spiritually "useful" elements of the physical world possess no significance of their own, save for their capacity to serve G-d.
Thus, when Torah allows for both a prohibitive and a permissive interpretation of a certain law, the school of Shammai naturally embraces the option that is consistent with its understanding of Torah's overall function: to proscribe and prohibit, thus negating the "somethingness" of the physical reality.
Hillel had a different perspective on Torah. In his view, the Torah comes not to negate the physical reality, but to reveal how its "somethingness" is of a piece with the "somethingness" of G-d. So it is the Torah's "cultivating" mitzvot which express its ultimate function. The Torah, of course, also includes many prohibitions, but these are but the necessary ground rules that allow for the proper cultivation of the world as a vehicle of G-dliness. For the physical world includes certain elements whose Divine potential is beyond our capacity to reveal; unless these are "abnegated," they will interfere with our cultivation of those elements which we are equipped to deal with. But when faced with two possible interpretation of a law in Torah, the Hillelian sage will opt for the permissive rather than the prohibitive, for he is inclined to include as much of the world as possible in the Torah's "cultivative" domain.
Both the Shammaian and Hillelian approach are legitimate perceptions of Torah; both affirm the truth that "There is none else beside Him." But in a very subtle way, the approach of Shammai recognizes an "otherness" to the world that is completely absent from the Hillelian view. In effect, the perspective of Shammai says: The world exists; therefore it must be abnegated. The world challenges the singularity of G-d; therefore it must be disavowed.
From the perspective of Hillel, however, the "existence" of the world is not an adversary to be vanquished, but an enigma to be revealed; not a rebellion against the Divine sovereignty to be put down, but a potential to be realized. The world according to Hillel possesses no "otherness" in the first place; what we perceive as its independence and separateness of being is but the expression of the Divine being that pervades it.
A Mitigating Victory
As long as the Shammaian approach to Torah was subservient to the Hillelian, it posed no threat to the integrity of Israel's relationship with G-d. On the contrary, it complemented it as a parallel vision of the Divine blueprint for life. For man's service of G-d includes both the cultivation of his self and world as a receptacle for G-dliness, as well as the abnegation of self and world before the all-transcending truth of G-d. There are times in a person's life that the first element must take precedence, and times when the second element should be accentuated; times when he must view the world as a Hillelian sage, and times when he must look at it with a Shammaian eye.
But the day that the sages of Shammai outnumbered the sages of Hillel and their vision of Torah became the basis of its actual practice, was "as difficult for the people of Israel as the day on which the Golden Calf was made." When the abnegative approach of Shammai supplanted the cultivative approach of Hillel in the actual, day-to-day practice of Torah, the danger existed that the Jew might eventually be led to view his world as something "other" than G-d, something alien to the truth of its Creator. In this sense, it was a day rife with a potential threat akin to that posed by the making of the Golden Calf.
But unlike the day on which the Golden Calf was made, which led to the day on which it was actually worshipped, the danger implicit in the brief reign of Shammai had no adverse results. The numerical superiority of the school of Shammai was short-lived; on the following day, the majority reverted to Hillel and his disciples. With the exception of the eighteen laws voted on that day, the actual practice of Torah law follows the Hillelian approach.
In fact, the day of Shammai's victory had a mitigating effect on his severity. For even as his view triumphed over that of Hillel, it was influenced by the very process of debate and defense against the other opinion. In a number of cases, we actually find the disciples of Shammai propagating a more lenient view than Hillels disciples; this was the result of the day on which eighteen laws were decided according to the opinion of Shammai, but not without being influenced by the defeated opinion of Hillel.
Because of this day, even when a person must, by necessity, adapt a "Shammaian" approach, it is mitigated by the vision of Hillel. Even when the circumstances necessitate the subjugation and abnegation of the materiality of his existence, this is accompanied with the recognition that, ultimately, there are no alien or "other" elements in G-d's world, where everything is one with its creator and source.
Tomorrow
Our sages tell us that the words of a tzaddik (perfectly righteous person) are never without result. Even if they are not realized immediately, they ultimately achieve fulfillment.
The same applies, says the great Kabbalist Rabbi Isaac Luria, to Aaron's proclamation, "Tomorrow is a festival unto G-d!" On that first "tomorrow," Aaron's hope was not realized: the 17th of Tammuz became the day on which the Golden Calf was worshipped, the Tablets of the Covenant constituting the "marriage contract" between G-d and Israel were broken, and the very day fated to become the scene of many tragedies in Jewish history -- including breaching of Jerusalem's walls which led to the destruction of the Holy Temple three weeks later on the 9th of Av and the exile of Israel from their land.
But as the prophet (Zechariah 8:19) promises, G-d will transform the 17th of Tammuz into a festival and a day of joy, when the tribulations and sufferings of galut will yield the Divine harmony and perfection of the messianic era. Then, the positive resolution of the making of the Golden Calf anticipated by Aaron will be realized, as the error and regression of Israel's sin will be transformed into a heightened appreciation of the all-pervading reality of G-d.1.
FOOTNOTES
1. Based on Likkutei Sichot, vol. XXIV, pp. 1-11.
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
A Joyous Divorce
Tales from the PastFrom the Midrash
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A Joyous Divorce
Midrash Rabbah, Shir HaShirim 1
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PrintE-mail Discuss (13) A woman was married for many years to her husband, but had not had children. Her husband decided to divorce her, so he went to Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai, of blessed memory.
Rabbi Shimon told him that just as they had celebrated with joy their mutual bond when they got married, so should the severance of their mutual bond be celebrated in joy.
The husband therefore prepared a great feast, at the height of which he called his wife and asked her in his joy to choose whatever she desired of his possessions to be hers, and said that he would not refuse her anything.
What did she do? She served him so much wine that he got drunk and fell asleep on his bed. She then told her servant to take him on his bed into her bedroom in her father’s house.
The following morning, when he awoke and found himself in his wife’s home, he asked her why he was brought there—wasn’t it clear that he intended to divorce her? She replied, “Didn’t you tell me that I could take whatever I wanted? I desire not gold, nor silver, nor precious gems, nor pearls. All I want is you. You yourself are the sole object of my desire.”
When the husband heard this, he became once again enamored of his wife, and took her back as before. And in this merit the Holy One, blessed be He, granted them children.
Midrash Rabbah, Shir HaShirim 1
Excerpted from The Mystery of Marriage by Rabbi Yitzchak Ginsburgh
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A Joyous Divorce
Midrash Rabbah, Shir HaShirim 1
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PrintE-mail Discuss (13) A woman was married for many years to her husband, but had not had children. Her husband decided to divorce her, so he went to Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai, of blessed memory.
Rabbi Shimon told him that just as they had celebrated with joy their mutual bond when they got married, so should the severance of their mutual bond be celebrated in joy.
The husband therefore prepared a great feast, at the height of which he called his wife and asked her in his joy to choose whatever she desired of his possessions to be hers, and said that he would not refuse her anything.
What did she do? She served him so much wine that he got drunk and fell asleep on his bed. She then told her servant to take him on his bed into her bedroom in her father’s house.
The following morning, when he awoke and found himself in his wife’s home, he asked her why he was brought there—wasn’t it clear that he intended to divorce her? She replied, “Didn’t you tell me that I could take whatever I wanted? I desire not gold, nor silver, nor precious gems, nor pearls. All I want is you. You yourself are the sole object of my desire.”
When the husband heard this, he became once again enamored of his wife, and took her back as before. And in this merit the Holy One, blessed be He, granted them children.
Midrash Rabbah, Shir HaShirim 1
Excerpted from The Mystery of Marriage by Rabbi Yitzchak Ginsburgh
Six Hundred Dinars Minus Six
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Six Hundred Dinars Minus Six
From the Midrash
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PrintE-mail Discuss (5) Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai (who lived in the 2nd century CE in the Holy Land) was possibly the holiest man that ever lived. Besides authoring the 'Zohar', being a master of the oral Torah and a miracle worker, he was one of the few Jews in history who spent every instant of his time learning Torah; no casual conversations, coffee breaks and certainly no vacations--only Torah.
So everyone was surprised when, the day after Rosh Hashanah (Jewish New Year's Day) he showed up at the door of his nephews' home and began to lecture them about the importance of giving charity to the poor.
Although they didn't really have money to spare and totally didn't understand the urgency of what he was saying, they listened attentively; when Rabbi Shimon spoke everyone listened.
"Give with an open hand," Rabbi Shimon adjured. "Don't worry about tomorrow, G-d will provide. And most important: write it all down. Every penny you give, write it down and carry the list with you at all times. I want to see a big sum at the end of the year."
Rabbi Shimon made them promise and he left.
Almost a year later they had another strange visit--from a posse of Roman soldiers with an order for their arrest. Someone accused them of selling silk without paying the tax to the government. They began weeping and protesting their innocence but to no avail.
Trembling with fear, they were led off to prison where they were given a choice: either pay an outrageous fine of six hundred dinar or produce an even more outrageously priced silk garment for the king, both of which were utterly beyond their means.
When Rabbi Shimon heard what had happened he immediately rushed to the prison and got special permission to visit his relatives.
"Where is the account of the charity you gave?" He asked. "How much did you give?"
"Here," they replied as one of them pulled the small parchment from his pocket.
Rabbi Shimon took the account and noticed that they had given almost six hundred dinar; they were just six dinar short. "Do you have any money with you?" he asked.
They produced six dinar that they had sewn into their garments in case they needed it. Rabbi Shimon took the money, bribed one of the officials, the charges were dropped and they were released.
Rabbi Shimon explained to them what had happened. "This past Rosh Hashanah I dozed off and dreamt that the government would demand of you six hundred dinars. That is why I told you to give charity, to negate the decree."
"Then why didn't you tell us about that?" they complained. "We would have given the money immediately and spared ourselves a lot of anguish."
"But then," replied Rabbi Shimon. "You wouldn't have done the mitzvah for its own sake."
(From Midrash Rabbah, Vayikrah 34:12)
Six Hundred Dinars Minus Six
From the Midrash
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PrintE-mail Discuss (5) Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai (who lived in the 2nd century CE in the Holy Land) was possibly the holiest man that ever lived. Besides authoring the 'Zohar', being a master of the oral Torah and a miracle worker, he was one of the few Jews in history who spent every instant of his time learning Torah; no casual conversations, coffee breaks and certainly no vacations--only Torah.
So everyone was surprised when, the day after Rosh Hashanah (Jewish New Year's Day) he showed up at the door of his nephews' home and began to lecture them about the importance of giving charity to the poor.
Although they didn't really have money to spare and totally didn't understand the urgency of what he was saying, they listened attentively; when Rabbi Shimon spoke everyone listened.
"Give with an open hand," Rabbi Shimon adjured. "Don't worry about tomorrow, G-d will provide. And most important: write it all down. Every penny you give, write it down and carry the list with you at all times. I want to see a big sum at the end of the year."
Rabbi Shimon made them promise and he left.
Almost a year later they had another strange visit--from a posse of Roman soldiers with an order for their arrest. Someone accused them of selling silk without paying the tax to the government. They began weeping and protesting their innocence but to no avail.
Trembling with fear, they were led off to prison where they were given a choice: either pay an outrageous fine of six hundred dinar or produce an even more outrageously priced silk garment for the king, both of which were utterly beyond their means.
When Rabbi Shimon heard what had happened he immediately rushed to the prison and got special permission to visit his relatives.
"Where is the account of the charity you gave?" He asked. "How much did you give?"
"Here," they replied as one of them pulled the small parchment from his pocket.
Rabbi Shimon took the account and noticed that they had given almost six hundred dinar; they were just six dinar short. "Do you have any money with you?" he asked.
They produced six dinar that they had sewn into their garments in case they needed it. Rabbi Shimon took the money, bribed one of the officials, the charges were dropped and they were released.
Rabbi Shimon explained to them what had happened. "This past Rosh Hashanah I dozed off and dreamt that the government would demand of you six hundred dinars. That is why I told you to give charity, to negate the decree."
"Then why didn't you tell us about that?" they complained. "We would have given the money immediately and spared ourselves a lot of anguish."
"But then," replied Rabbi Shimon. "You wouldn't have done the mitzvah for its own sake."
(From Midrash Rabbah, Vayikrah 34:12)
The Boat From the teachings of Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai
Inspiration & Entertainment » Tales from the Past » From the Midrash
The Boat
From the teachings of Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai
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PrintE-mail Discuss (11) A group of people were travelling in a boat. One of them took a drill and began to drill a hole beneath himself.
His companions said to him: "Why are you doing this?" Replied the man: "What concern is it of yours? Am I not drilling under my own place?"
Said they to him: "But you will flood the boat for us all!" (Quoted in Midrash Rabbah, Vayikra 4:6).
From the teachings of Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai
Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai, also know by the acronym "Rashbi," lived in the Holy Land in the 2nd century C.E. A disciple of Rabbi Akiva, Rashbi played a key role in the transmission of Torah, both as an important Talmudic sage and as author of the Zohar, the most fundamental work of Kabbalah. He was buried in Meron, Israel, west of Safed.
More articles by Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai
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The Boat
From the teachings of Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai
Share
PrintE-mail Discuss (11) A group of people were travelling in a boat. One of them took a drill and began to drill a hole beneath himself.
His companions said to him: "Why are you doing this?" Replied the man: "What concern is it of yours? Am I not drilling under my own place?"
Said they to him: "But you will flood the boat for us all!" (Quoted in Midrash Rabbah, Vayikra 4:6).
From the teachings of Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai
Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai, also know by the acronym "Rashbi," lived in the Holy Land in the 2nd century C.E. A disciple of Rabbi Akiva, Rashbi played a key role in the transmission of Torah, both as an important Talmudic sage and as author of the Zohar, the most fundamental work of Kabbalah. He was buried in Meron, Israel, west of Safed.
More articles by Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai
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