Editor's Note:
Dear Friend,
Several years ago I was traveling with my family from Indiana to New York to celebrate my sister’s wedding. We left the house before dawn, and a few hours into the trip we stopped at a rest area in middle of Pennsylvania for morning prayers and breakfast.
Since it was the month of Elul, after I concluded my prayers, I took out my shofar and blew the customary notes, as is traditionally done during the month leading up to Rosh Hashanah. (No doubt it attracted some stares, but as a religious Jew, I’m used to standing out.)
It was a very picturesque moment; standing there—while still wearing tallit and tefillin—with a background of trees and an open plain, blowing the shofar for my family.
It reminded me of the theme of this month, as taught by Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi, that the King is in the field. G‑d is out in the open and accessible to us all, more so than at any other point of the year. He leaves the confines of His palace and greets everyone with a smile.
The sound of the shofar is the awakening call for us to come out of our own hibernation and go meet the King. He will be there regardless, so let’s take advantage of the moment.
Eliezer Zalmanov,
on behalf of the Chabad.org Editorial Team
Earned Living
All that can be cherished from this world,
All that makes life worth living,
Is that which is mined from its bowels through your own toil,
Fashioned from its clay by your own craft,
Fired in the kiln of your own heart.
That for which you bruised your hands and wearied your limbs,
For which you beat back the beast inside you,
For which you defied a mocking world.
Oh, how precious, how resplendent a feast,
a life forged by the hands of its own master!
This Week's Features:
Printable Magazine
Is It Right for Man to Eat Meat?
ased on the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe
Parshah
Is It Right for Man to Eat Meat? Based on the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe
When the L‑rd your G‑d shall broaden your borders, as He has promised you, and you will say, “I shall eat meat,” for your soul shall desire to eat meat—you may eat meat to your soul’s desire.
Deuteronomy 12:20–23
“Last and first You created me” (Psalms 139:5) . . . If man is worthy, he is told: You are first among the works of creation. If he is not worthy, he is told: The flea preceded you, the earthworm preceded you.
Vayikra Rabbah 14:1
There are those who contest the morality of eating meat. What gives man the right to consume another creature’s flesh? But the same can be said of man’s consumption of vegetable life, water or oxygen. What gives man the right to devour any of G‑d’s creations simply to perpetuate his own existence?
Indeed, there is no such natural right. When man lives only to sustain and enhance his own being, there is no justification for him to tamper with any other existence to achieve this goal. As a great chassidic master put it, “When a person walks along without a thought of G‑d in his head, the very ground under his feet cries out: Boor! What makes you any better than me? By what rights do you step on me?” The fact that man is a “higher” life-form scarcely justifies the destruction of dumb or inanimate creatures. Moreover, according to the teachings of Kabbalah, the souls of animals, plants and inanimate objects are actually loftier than that of the human being. For in the great collapse of the primordial world of tohu, the higher elements fell lowest (as the highest stones in a collapsing wall fall farthest), so that the loftier sparks of divine light came to be incarnated in the so-called “lower” tiers of the physical world.
Man does have the right to consume other creatures only because, and when, he serves as the agent of their elevation.
The spiritual essence of a stone, plant or animal may be loftier than that of a human being, but it is a static spark, bereft of the capacity to advance creation’s quest to unite with its Creator. The cruelty of the cat or the industry of the ant is not a moral failing or achievement, nor is the hardness of the rock or the sweetness of the apple. The mineral, vegetable and animal cannot do good or evil—they can only follow the dictates of their inborn nature. Only man has been granted freedom of choice, and the ability to be better (or worse, G‑d forbid) than his natural state. When a person drinks a glass of water, eats an apple, or slaughters an ox and consumes its meat, these are converted into the stuff of the human body and the energy that drives it. When this person performs a G‑dly deed—a deed that transcends his natural self and brings him closer to G‑d—he elevates the elements he has incorporated into himself, reuniting the sparks of G‑dliness they embody with their source. (Also elevated are the creations which enabled the G‑dly deed—the soil that nourished the apple, the grass that fed the cow, the horse that hauled the water to town, and so on.)
Therein lies the deeper significance of the verse quoted above, “And you will say, ‘I shall eat meat,’ for your soul shall desire to eat meat.” You may express a desire for meat and be aware only of your body’s craving for the physical satisfaction it brings; in truth, however, this is the result of your soul’s desire to eat meat—your soul’s quest for the sparks of G‑dliness it has been sent to earth to redeem.
Desire
There is, however, an important difference between the consumption of meat and that of other foods. The difference involves desire and the role it plays in the elevation of creation.
The human being cannot live without the vegetable and mineral components of his diet. Thus, he is compelled to eat them by the most basic of his physical drives—the preservation of his existence. Meat, however, is not a necessity but a luxury; the desire for meat is not a desire motivated by need, but desire in its purest sense—the desire to experience pleasure.
In other words, animals are elevated—their flesh integrated into the human body, their souls made partner in a G‑dly deed—only because G‑d has instilled the desire for pleasure in human nature.
This means that the elevation of meat requires a greater spiritual sensitivity on the part of its consumer than that of other foods. When a person eats a piece of bread and then studies Torah, prays or gives charity, the bread has directly contributed to these deeds. In order to perform these deeds, the soul of man must be fused with a physical body, and the piece of bread was indispensable to this fusion. Man eats bread in order to live; if he lives to fulfill his Creator’s will, the connection is complete. But man eats meat not to live, but to savor its taste; thus, it is not enough that a person lives in order to serve his Creator for the meat he eats to be elevated. Rather, he must be a person for whom the very experience of physical pleasure is a G‑dly endeavor, something devoted solely toward a G‑dly end. A person for whom the physical satisfaction generated by a tasty meal translates into a deeper understanding of Torah, a greater fervor in prayer, and a kinder smile to accompany the coin pressed into the palm of a beggar.1
Thus the Torah says: “When the L‑rd your G‑d shall broaden your borders, as He has promised you . . . you may eat meat to your soul’s desire.” From this the Talmud derives that “originally, they were forbidden to eat ‘meat of desire’ (besar taavah); it was only after they entered the Land [of Israel] that they were permitted to eat meat of desire.”2 For the first generation of Israel’s existence as a people—from the time they received the Torah and erected the Sanctuary in the Sinai Desert until they settled in the Holy Land—the only meat they were permitted to eat was the meat of the korbanot, the animal sacrifices offered to G‑d in the Sanctuary. The consumption of this meat was a mitzvah, which meant that its elevation was achieved by the fact that eating it constituted a direct fulfillment of a divine commandment. However, they did not have the capacity to elevate “meat of desire”—meat that is eaten for the purpose of granting pleasure to its consumer. So the consumption of such meat was forbidden. Indeed, the children of Israel were rebuked and punished for expressing a desire for meat, as related in the eleventh chapter of Numbers.
It was only after G‑d broadened their borders, granting them a mandate to make “holy” an adjective of “land,” that they were enabled to sanctify this most corporeal corner of human life.
[What was the case in Jewish history was also the case in the history of mankind. Originally, man was granted license only to eat “of every seed-bearing herb on the face of the earth, and every tree on which there is fruit-bearing seed” (Genesis 1:29). It was only after the Flood, following which the world was imbued with a greater spiritual potential, that G‑d told Noah that “every moving thing that lives shall be food for you” (ibid. 9:3).]
Similarly, our sages have said that “a boor is forbidden to eat meat” (Talmud, Pesachim 49b). The license given to man to consume the creatures and creations of the world and subjugate them to serve him is not unconditional. It is contingent upon his sensitivity to the spiritual essence of G‑d’s creations, and his commitment to serve them by making them component parts of his sanctified life. It takes an individual with broad spiritual horizons to properly relish a steak.
Based on the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe, Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson; adapted by Yanki Tauber.
Originally published in Week in Review.
Republished with the permission of MeaningfulLife.com. If you wish to republish this article in a periodical, book, or website, please email permissions@meaningfullife.com.
FOOTNOTES
1. See Talmud, Yoma 76b; ibid., Bava Kamma 72a; Tanya, ch. 7.
Bread and meat are employed here as prototypes of necessity and luxury; in this context, a cream pie or a yacht would be a form of “meat,” while a piece of meat eaten to keep body and soul together would fall under the category of “bread.”
2. Rabbi Yishmael in Talmud, Chullin 16b. Rabbi Akiva (ibid. 17a) interprets the verse differently, understanding the words “when the L‑rd your G‑d shall broaden your borders” not as a qualification of “you may eat meat to your soul’s desire,” but of what the Torah states immediately afterwards: “You shall slaughter of your herd and your flock which G‑d has given you, as I have commanded you.” Thus, according to Rabbi Akiva, not only was “meat of desire” permitted in the desert, it was even permitted without shechitah (the halachically prescribed manner of slaughter), while all meat eaten following Israel’s entry into the Holy Land requires shechitah.
However, the deeper significance of the law that Rabbi Akiva derives from these verses is identical to that of the law derived by Rabbi Yishmael. Shechitah means “drawing forth” (Talmud, Chullin 30b); the slaughter of an animal in accordance with the divinely mandated laws of shechitah is what enables its elevation—the drawing of the animal out from its beastly state into the domain of a life consecrated to the service of the Creator. In the desert, shechitah was limited to the animals offered in the Sanctuary, for only these could be “drawn forth” in the manner that shechitahmakes possible. The only difference between the opinions of Rabbi Yishmael and Rabbi Akiva is that Rabbi Yishmael states that since the full elevation of meat of desire was not possible in the desert, its consumption was prohibited, while Rabbi Akiva holds that it was nonetheless permitted, since a lesser elevation could be achieved.
© Copyright 2015, all rights reserved.
VIDEO
When I Decided to Close My Store on Shabbat
Torn between my business and a growing commitment to Judaism, I decided to write to the Rebbe.
http://www.chabad.org/therebbe/livingtorah/player_cdo/aid/3028554/jewish/Closing-Shop.htm
Watch (4:37)
http://www.chabad.org/3028554
More in Video:
• When G-d Is Touched (By Aryeh Weinstein)
Is It Right for Man to Eat Meat?
ased on the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe
Parshah Is It Right for Man to Eat Meat? Based on the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe
When the L‑rd your G‑d shall broaden your borders, as He has promised you, and you will say, “I shall eat meat,” for your soul shall desire to eat meat—you may eat meat to your soul’s desire.
Deuteronomy 12:20–23
“Last and first You created me” (Psalms 139:5) . . . If man is worthy, he is told: You are first among the works of creation. If he is not worthy, he is told: The flea preceded you, the earthworm preceded you.
Vayikra Rabbah 14:1
There are those who contest the morality of eating meat. What gives man the right to consume another creature’s flesh? But the same can be said of man’s consumption of vegetable life, water or oxygen. What gives man the right to devour any of G‑d’s creations simply to perpetuate his own existence?
Indeed, there is no such natural right. When man lives only to sustain and enhance his own being, there is no justification for him to tamper with any other existence to achieve this goal. As a great chassidic master put it, “When a person walks along without a thought of G‑d in his head, the very ground under his feet cries out: Boor! What makes you any better than me? By what rights do you step on me?” The fact that man is a “higher” life-form scarcely justifies the destruction of dumb or inanimate creatures. Moreover, according to the teachings of Kabbalah, the souls of animals, plants and inanimate objects are actually loftier than that of the human being. For in the great collapse of the primordial world of tohu, the higher elements fell lowest (as the highest stones in a collapsing wall fall farthest), so that the loftier sparks of divine light came to be incarnated in the so-called “lower” tiers of the physical world.
Man does have the right to consume other creatures only because, and when, he serves as the agent of their elevation.
The spiritual essence of a stone, plant or animal may be loftier than that of a human being, but it is a static spark, bereft of the capacity to advance creation’s quest to unite with its Creator. The cruelty of the cat or the industry of the ant is not a moral failing or achievement, nor is the hardness of the rock or the sweetness of the apple. The mineral, vegetable and animal cannot do good or evil—they can only follow the dictates of their inborn nature. Only man has been granted freedom of choice, and the ability to be better (or worse, G‑d forbid) than his natural state. When a person drinks a glass of water, eats an apple, or slaughters an ox and consumes its meat, these are converted into the stuff of the human body and the energy that drives it. When this person performs a G‑dly deed—a deed that transcends his natural self and brings him closer to G‑d—he elevates the elements he has incorporated into himself, reuniting the sparks of G‑dliness they embody with their source. (Also elevated are the creations which enabled the G‑dly deed—the soil that nourished the apple, the grass that fed the cow, the horse that hauled the water to town, and so on.)
Therein lies the deeper significance of the verse quoted above, “And you will say, ‘I shall eat meat,’ for your soul shall desire to eat meat.” You may express a desire for meat and be aware only of your body’s craving for the physical satisfaction it brings; in truth, however, this is the result of your soul’s desire to eat meat—your soul’s quest for the sparks of G‑dliness it has been sent to earth to redeem.
Desire
There is, however, an important difference between the consumption of meat and that of other foods. The difference involves desire and the role it plays in the elevation of creation.
The human being cannot live without the vegetable and mineral components of his diet. Thus, he is compelled to eat them by the most basic of his physical drives—the preservation of his existence. Meat, however, is not a necessity but a luxury; the desire for meat is not a desire motivated by need, but desire in its purest sense—the desire to experience pleasure.
In other words, animals are elevated—their flesh integrated into the human body, their souls made partner in a G‑dly deed—only because G‑d has instilled the desire for pleasure in human nature.
This means that the elevation of meat requires a greater spiritual sensitivity on the part of its consumer than that of other foods. When a person eats a piece of bread and then studies Torah, prays or gives charity, the bread has directly contributed to these deeds. In order to perform these deeds, the soul of man must be fused with a physical body, and the piece of bread was indispensable to this fusion. Man eats bread in order to live; if he lives to fulfill his Creator’s will, the connection is complete. But man eats meat not to live, but to savor its taste; thus, it is not enough that a person lives in order to serve his Creator for the meat he eats to be elevated. Rather, he must be a person for whom the very experience of physical pleasure is a G‑dly endeavor, something devoted solely toward a G‑dly end. A person for whom the physical satisfaction generated by a tasty meal translates into a deeper understanding of Torah, a greater fervor in prayer, and a kinder smile to accompany the coin pressed into the palm of a beggar.1
Thus the Torah says: “When the L‑rd your G‑d shall broaden your borders, as He has promised you . . . you may eat meat to your soul’s desire.” From this the Talmud derives that “originally, they were forbidden to eat ‘meat of desire’ (besar taavah); it was only after they entered the Land [of Israel] that they were permitted to eat meat of desire.”2 For the first generation of Israel’s existence as a people—from the time they received the Torah and erected the Sanctuary in the Sinai Desert until they settled in the Holy Land—the only meat they were permitted to eat was the meat of the korbanot, the animal sacrifices offered to G‑d in the Sanctuary. The consumption of this meat was a mitzvah, which meant that its elevation was achieved by the fact that eating it constituted a direct fulfillment of a divine commandment. However, they did not have the capacity to elevate “meat of desire”—meat that is eaten for the purpose of granting pleasure to its consumer. So the consumption of such meat was forbidden. Indeed, the children of Israel were rebuked and punished for expressing a desire for meat, as related in the eleventh chapter of Numbers.
It was only after G‑d broadened their borders, granting them a mandate to make “holy” an adjective of “land,” that they were enabled to sanctify this most corporeal corner of human life.
[What was the case in Jewish history was also the case in the history of mankind. Originally, man was granted license only to eat “of every seed-bearing herb on the face of the earth, and every tree on which there is fruit-bearing seed” (Genesis 1:29). It was only after the Flood, following which the world was imbued with a greater spiritual potential, that G‑d told Noah that “every moving thing that lives shall be food for you” (ibid. 9:3).]
Similarly, our sages have said that “a boor is forbidden to eat meat” (Talmud, Pesachim 49b). The license given to man to consume the creatures and creations of the world and subjugate them to serve him is not unconditional. It is contingent upon his sensitivity to the spiritual essence of G‑d’s creations, and his commitment to serve them by making them component parts of his sanctified life. It takes an individual with broad spiritual horizons to properly relish a steak.
Based on the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe, Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson; adapted by Yanki Tauber.
Originally published in Week in Review.
Republished with the permission of MeaningfulLife.com. If you wish to republish this article in a periodical, book, or website, please email permissions@meaningfullife.com.
FOOTNOTES
1. See Talmud, Yoma 76b; ibid., Bava Kamma 72a; Tanya, ch. 7.
Bread and meat are employed here as prototypes of necessity and luxury; in this context, a cream pie or a yacht would be a form of “meat,” while a piece of meat eaten to keep body and soul together would fall under the category of “bread.”
2. Rabbi Yishmael in Talmud, Chullin 16b. Rabbi Akiva (ibid. 17a) interprets the verse differently, understanding the words “when the L‑rd your G‑d shall broaden your borders” not as a qualification of “you may eat meat to your soul’s desire,” but of what the Torah states immediately afterwards: “You shall slaughter of your herd and your flock which G‑d has given you, as I have commanded you.” Thus, according to Rabbi Akiva, not only was “meat of desire” permitted in the desert, it was even permitted without shechitah (the halachically prescribed manner of slaughter), while all meat eaten following Israel’s entry into the Holy Land requires shechitah.
However, the deeper significance of the law that Rabbi Akiva derives from these verses is identical to that of the law derived by Rabbi Yishmael. Shechitah means “drawing forth” (Talmud, Chullin 30b); the slaughter of an animal in accordance with the divinely mandated laws of shechitah is what enables its elevation—the drawing of the animal out from its beastly state into the domain of a life consecrated to the service of the Creator. In the desert, shechitah was limited to the animals offered in the Sanctuary, for only these could be “drawn forth” in the manner that shechitahmakes possible. The only difference between the opinions of Rabbi Yishmael and Rabbi Akiva is that Rabbi Yishmael states that since the full elevation of meat of desire was not possible in the desert, its consumption was prohibited, while Rabbi Akiva holds that it was nonetheless permitted, since a lesser elevation could be achieved.
© Copyright 2015, all rights reserved.
Your Questions
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Every time I’m invited for a Shabbat meal, I notice that the host dips the bread into salt before serving it. At first I thought it was just a flavor thing, but then I saw it done in multiple homes. What’s the reason for this?
ReplyYour initial assumption was actually (partially) right. Bread can be bland. We want to make a blessing over the tastiest bread, so we add salt before partaking. Based on this, from a purely halachic perspective, if you are eating bread that is made of fine flour or is otherwise tasty (and modern challah certainly qualifies), you don’t need to dip it into salt.1Nevertheless, the custom is to always dip bread into salt—not only on Shabbat.2 Why? Your Table Is an AltarIn describing his vision of the altar to be placed in the Third Temple, Ezekiel says, “The altar was wood, three cubits high and two cubits long . . . and he spoke to me, ‘This is the tablethat is before the L‑rd.’”3 Note that the verse starts off calling it an altar, but then refers to it as a table.The Talmud explains: When the Temple stood, the sacrifices brought on the altar would atone for Israel. But now, when there is no Temple, a person’s table—upon which he feeds the poor—atones for him.4 If the table is like the altar, the food eaten upon it is like the offerings. With regard to the offerings, the verse states, “You shall not omit the salt of your G‑d’s covenant from [being placed] upon your meal offerings. You shall offer salt on all your sacrifices.”5 Hence, we add salt to our staple food, bread—even the most delicious varieties.6 How Is the Dipping Done? A Mystical PerspectiveAccording to Kabbalah, salt, which is bitter, represents divine severity, and bread, the staff of life, represents divine kindness. Both the Hebrew word for bread, lechem (לחם), and the word for salt, melach (מלח), contain the same letters. However, we wish to overpower the severity of the salt with the kindness of the bread. Therefore, the common custom is not to sprinkle the salt (severity) atop the bread (kindness), but instead to dip the bread into the salt—kindness atop severity.7Additionally, many have the custom to dip the bread into the salt three times. One reason for this is that the gematria (numerical value) of lechem is 78. We dip the bread three times, dividing the energy of 78 into 3, which equals 26, the numerical value of G‑d’s name (the Tetragrammaton). This reminds us of the verse8 “Man does not live by bread alone, but rather by whatever comes forth from the mouth of the L‑rd does man live.”9 The Satan and the Salt CovenantDipping aside, it is important to have salt on the table. Why? At the start of a meal we wash our hands and then sit down to wait for everyone else to do the same. The Midrash explains that while we wait silently—one may not talk between washing and the blessing over the bread—we are “bereft” of mitzvahs. At that point, the prosecuting angel (a.k.a. the Satan) tries to draw attention to this shortcoming. However, the “covenant of salt” mentioned above protects us. 10Why is it a “covenant of salt”? What has salt got to do with our bond with G‑d? Salt is a preservative that neither spoils nor decays. These unique properties make salt the perfect metaphor for G‑d’s eternal covenant with the Jewish people.11 So next time you wash for bread and are waiting to eat, take a look at your salt shaker and remind yourself of G‑d’s eternal covenant with the Jewish people. Even as you sit momentarily bereft of mitzvahs, the salt brings attention to the fact that G‑d’s pact with Israel will last forever.
Rabbi Yehuda Shurpin responds to questions for Chabad.org's Ask the Rabbi service.
© Copyright 2015, all rights reserved.
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Your Questions
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 Question:I often get déjà vu, the sensation that I have already lived this moment before. It has happened when I travel to new destinations with people I have never met, and I feel that I have been there in that place, with the same people, hearing that very conversation before. Is there a Jewish explanation for this?Answer:Some suggest that déjà vu is a sign of reincarnation. You feel you were here before because you were, in a previous life. Others explain that you had a predictive dream of the scene before it happened, and now you are seeing your dream materialize.Maybe. There is a more mundane explanation. In my personal experience, I get déjà vu only when my brain is a little tired. What seems to be happening is that my conscious mind is idle, but my memory is working in the background. So I am feeling the sensation of remembering the scene in front of me before I actually experience it in the present. It is as if the scene has slipped past my awareness and gone straight into my memory. There is a simple test to see whether déjà vu means you really have seen this before, or your mind is playing tricks on you. Can you blurt out what someone else is about to say before they even say it? If so, that must come from somewhere beyond intellect. But if you feel like you knew what they were going to say only after they already said it, I’m not so sure it means anything, except that you need to get some rest. But then there is a far deeper type of déjà vu. It’s called resonance. You hear an insight, a teaching, a truth, and although you have never heard it before, you know it is right. The idea rings true, seems familiar and comfortable. You are at home with it. It’s what you always knew, but had never put into words. It resonates with you. This happens when you study authentic Torah. You hear its message, and you know deep down that it is true. This is because you have heard it before. Our souls are taught the divine truths before we enter this world, but we forget it all at birth. However, an imprint remains, a faint memory, so we will know truth when we find it. There are many false ideas and temporary fads that sound interesting and may gain much popularity, but on the deepest level they do not resonate with us. Our mission on earth is to search for the divine message, to put aside momentary distractions and regain that eternal truth, the truth our soul is waiting to hear again. This is real déjà vu. Have you heard that before?
Aron Moss is rabbi of the Nefesh Community in Sydney, Australia, and is a frequent contributor to Chabad.org.
© Copyright 2015, all rights reserved.
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Parshah
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Jewish law looks askance at the concept of bankruptcy. An obligation which was willingly assumed cannot be absolved simply because the debtor currently lacks the means to satisfy his obligation.1 Nevertheless, Judaism has its own version of loan amnesty:
At the end of seven years you shall make a release. . . . Release the hand of every creditor from what he lent his friend; he shall not exact [payments due] from his friend or his brother, because time of the release for the L‑rd has arrived. (Deuteronomy 15:1–2)The When the land laws of Shemittah are observed, the loan laws of Shemittah are observedShemittah (Sabbatical) year is associated with two primary mitzvot: 1) The land must be left unplowed and fallow. All fruit or wild produce which does sprout is rendered ownerless. The owner of the land may partake of them—as may anyone else who so desires. 2) All personal debts are canceled.2 During the Second Temple era, due to prevailing socioeconomic conditions, Hillel the Elder established the pruzbul, a process which transfers personal debts to the courts, thus making them collectable despite the Shemittah laws. Though the rabbis are not empowered to devise a method that circumvents a Torah precept, the Talmud (Gittin 36a) explains that nowadays the Shemittah loan amnesty is no longer in effect according to biblical law. A little halachic background is in order here: the observance of many of the Torah’s agriculture-related laws—including the agricultural rules of Shemittah—are dependent on all twelve tribes of Israel living in the Holy Land. Such conditions existed until the 6th century BCE, when the Assyrians conquered the Northern Kingdom of Israel and sent the majority of its population, the “ten lost tribes,” into exile. While non-agriculture-related mitzvot remained largely unaffected, the rabbis deduced from scriptural nuance that all the laws of Shemittah are inextricably tied to each other. Thus, biblically, Shemittah’s loan amnesty is in effect only when its agricultural rules are observed. To quote the Talmud: “When the land laws of Shemittah are observed, the loan laws of Shemittah are observed.” While Shemittah is still observed today by rabbinic injunction, Hillel was empowered to circumvent these laws due to pressing need. We are all debtors. We were entrusted with days and years, material possessions and soul powers, talents and skills. In return, G‑d expects to be paid dividends. We must use the time and talents allotted to us to infuse our person, possessions and environs with holiness, thus “presenting” them to G‑d. It is fair to say that most of us have defaulted on this loan—some in a larger measure than others. How How do we call off the collection agencies and restore our preferred credit rating?do we arrange for loan amnesty? How do we call off the collection agencies and restore our preferred credit rating? “When the land laws of Shemittah are observed, the loan laws of Shemittah are observed.” Many of us don’t grasp the magnitude of leaving fields unseeded and neglected for an entire year. The reason? It’s just another mythical, biblical tale. “Yep, they would leave their fields untouched every seventh year—that was just after the Jordan split and the walls of Jericho fell . . .” A modicum of thought, however, suffices to appreciate the colossal sacrifice this mitzvah entailed, the tremendous faith in G‑d that was required to entrust one’s livelihood in G‑d’s hands for an entire year. Only someone who has succeeded in making G‑d a real part of his or her life is capable of such a move. This faith did not go unrewarded: I will command My blessing for you in the sixth year, and it will yield produce for three years. You will sow in the eighth year, while [still] eating from the old crops until the ninth year. (Leviticus 25:21–22)Apparently, loan amnesty was a fringe benefit.
Rabbi Naftali Silberberg is a writer, editor and director of the curriculum department at the Rohr Jewish Learning Institute. Rabbi Silberberg resides in Brooklyn, New York, with his wife, Chaya Mushka, and their three children.
© Copyright 2015, all rights reserved.
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When I Decided to Close My Store on Shabbat
Torn between my business and a growing commitment to Judaism, I decided to write to the Rebbe.
http://www.chabad.org/therebbe/livingtorah/player_cdo/aid/3028554/jewish/Closing-Shop.htm
Watch (4:37)http://www.chabad.org/3028554
More in Video:
• When G-d Is Touched (By Aryeh Weinstein)
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• The Mitzvah Campaign of Tefillin (By Mendel Kaplan)
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• The Mitzvah Campaign of Tefillin (By Mendel Kaplan)
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Essay
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Abstract: The suspicion that humankind can never meaningfully apprehend the truth of divine being seems to be affirmed by the tzimtzum narrative. But the Kabbalistic motif of the trace transforms the symbolic void oftzimtzum into a meaningful gesture of emptiness. In his elaboration and crystallization of the transformative significance of the trace, Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi explains how withdrawal, concealment and limitation can most eloquently trace the true transcendence of divine omnipotence.
Rrevelatory trace of withdrawal. Photo by Michoel Ogince, Oneinfocus.
Introduction: A Qualifying ClauseAt the core of every discussion about our relationship with G‑d is the niggling suspicion that we are totally out of our depth. Consider the finite capacity of the human mind, and the limited data available to it. Can we really think meaningfully about the infinite, the ineffable and the omnipotent? However profound we think we are, it seems inescapably self-evident that the essence of divine being must lie beyond human grasp.1At the outset, it seems, this suspicion is affirmed by the tzimtzum narrative. As taught by Rabbi Yitzchak Luria and recorded by Rabbi Chaim Vital, the withdrawal depicted by tzimtzum embodies an unbridgeable chasm, utterly separating the limited realms of emanation and creation from the true transcendence of divine revelation.2 Even more intangible than the infinite revelation of divine presence, it might seem, is the ineffable essence of divine being. In a previous article we explained the Chabad view that the essence of divine being can never be concealed, and is therefore everywhere revealed. It seems inescapably self-evident that the essence of divine being must lie beyond human grasp.But this revelation emerges as the decidedly introverted disclosure of the ineffable. As Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi taught, this is exemplified in the child’s axiomatic apprehension of G‑d, which remains empty of informational content. Children apprehend G‑d’s essential being, but have no understanding or grasp of how G‑d is manifest or of what G‑d is.3 Yet the introduction of a much older Kabbalistic motif into the tzimtzum narrative significantly reverses this paradigm, and excavates a path through which G‑d’s essence can be intellectually grasped and intelligently perceived. Through the development and contextualization of this motif, the suspicion that we must ultimately remain out of our depth is compellingly laid to rest as the tzimtzum narrative is dramatically reread. Yes, tzimtzum is the withdrawal of divine revelation. Yes, we inhabit a fractured world of limitation and darkness. But the motif of the trace (reshimu or reshimah, which can also be translated as “impression”) enshrines such constriction as the very foundation of divine eloquence. From the new perspective this motif brings, the very chasm that tzimtzum depicts is revealed to be a bridge. It is specifically through the fathomable tangibility of our finite experience that the truth of divine being can be most clearly comprehended. In the Zohar, in the writings of Kabbalists like Rabbi Moshe Cordovero (1522–1570) and in the teachings of various chassidic masters, the motif of the trace appears in a range of different contexts,4 and is not necessarily associated with tzimtzum.5 R. Chaim Vital’s original formulation of the tzimtzum narrative does not mention reshimu at all. But subsequent Kabbalists of the Lurianic school, such as Rabbi Moshe Zacuto (1625–1697), introduced this motif into the tzimtzum narrative as a qualifying clause.6 The original tzimtzum narrative incorporates three general phases: the assertion of infinite light (ohr ein sof), its contraction or concealment (tzimtzum) to form a hollow or empty space (chalal, or makom panui), and the narrow revelation drawn forth to emanate forms and create realms (kav). According to R. Moshe’s amendment, the reshimu is an additional phase that precedes the emergence of the kav. The term “hollow,” he cautioned, “is not used with precision, because a trace of the light (reshimu min ha-ohr) remains there.” Even before the influx of the more imminent revelation of divinity, the hollow is only empty of the infinite, but the presence of the trace remains.Reshimu: The essential language that allows finite emanation and creation to express the transcendent essence of divine being. The association between reshimu and tzimtzum was further developed by the 17th-century Kabbalist Rabbi Naftali Tzvi Bacharach. His influential treatise, Emek ha-Melech, aligns with the somewhat controversial Sarugian school of Lurianic Kabbalah, and includes motifs that do not appear in the writings of R. Chaim Vital.7 The first section of this work elaborates on the divine delight (shi’shu’a) that is traced in the letters (otiyot) of the primordial Torah, and which is the impetus for the creative process heralded by tzimtzum. The emergence of the trace and the letters are further associated with the primordial aspect of restrictive discipline (din), implying that the divine capacity of constraint does not begin with the process of tzimtzum but actually precedes it.8 Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi elaborated and further developed these ideas, integrating them into his broader reinterpretation of the tzimtzum narrative.9 In two discourses, dating from 1806 and 1810, he transforms the motif of the trace from a peripheral amendment to the central linchpin, which endows the entire narrative with a new degree of significance and coherence. Extending and recontextualizing the themes articulated in Emek Ha-melech, R. Schnuer Zalman enshrines reshimu as the essential language that allows finite emanation and creation (ohr ha-kav and hishtalshalut ha-olamot) to express the transcendent essence of divine being (atzmut u-mehut ein sof).10 The Tension Before the TraceAn important subtext to R. Schneur Zalman’s 1806 treatment of reshimu is the implicit tension that arises when his interpretation of the tzimtzum narrative is combined with its original import. In its most plain sense, tzimtzumdepicts a path of divine descent. In R. Schneur Zalman’s interpretation, however, it also comes to depict a path of divine ascent. To address this tension, R. Schneur Zalman built on the conception of reshimu articulated by R. Moshe Zacuto and R. Naftali Bacharach, developing a conceptual model in which descent and ascent can coherently coincide.The original import of the tzimtzum narrative is that the entire project of creation represents an unprecedented departure from the infinite transcendence of G‑d. The infinite light, the unbounded revelation of divine presence(ohr ein sof), is understood to preclude the very notion that there could be something other than G‑d. This is not a revelation in the usual sense of the word, one that extends to otherly recipients, but might rather be thought of as an internal self-assertion of the absolute infinitude of divinity. In this context, the suggestion that G‑d should be manifest in the limited role of Creator, mitigating divine infinitude by bringing other beings into existence, is not only counterintuitive but utterly unthinkable. In order for form, finitude and otherness to arise as viable possibilities, and in order for the divine process of creation to emerge, the infinite assertion of divine presence must be completely withdrawn or concealed. An implicit tension arises when R. Schneur Zalman’s interpretation of the tzimtzum narrative is combined with its original import.First and foremost, tzimtzum depicts a divine descent of immense magnitude, from infinite transcendence into the distinct role of Creator.11 Central to R. Schneur Zalman’s rereading of the tzimtzum narrative is the distinction between the light (ohr ein sof), an unbounded assertion of divine presence, and the luminary (etzem ha-ma’or), the very essence of divine being. While the original tzimtzum narrative describes the withdrawal or concealment of the light, the luminary itself goes unmentioned. Accordingly, R. Schneur Zalman adduced, the concealment of the infinite assertion of divine presence does not obscure the ineffable essence of divine being. On the contrary, he asserts, tzimtzumdiscloses the truly noncontingent potency of divine being, uninhibited by the bounds of revealed presence.12 This does not simply mean that divine being is necessary, but that divine being is not dependent on the normal conditions of existence. Normally, things can only be said to exist if their presence is asserted in some way. A luminous source of light, for example, can be said to exist only if it actually is a source of light. But while tzimtzum curtails the assertion of divine presence (the light), it does not curtail the presence of divine being (the luminary). The presence of divine being, it emerges, is not contingent on anything. This distinction between the light and the luminary is understood to preserve the original meaning of the tzimtzum narrative, while adding an additional layer of significance. The concealment of the infinite light and the disclosure of the ineffable luminary are two sides of the same coin.13 Yet this combination of meanings creates a fundamental tension: on its original reading, the concealment of the light depicts the divine descent into the role of Creator. But on R. Schneur Zalman’s reading it depicts the ascent into the essential non-contingency of divine being.14 As transcribed by Rabbi Chaim Vital, the tzimtzum narrative states that “the light was . . . drawn aside . . . leaving empty room, a hollow space . . . where emanations and creations could be formed and made.”15 If, on R. Schneur Zalman’s reading, this hollow space is to be equated with the ineffable essence of divine being, it would seem that tzimtzum should not accomplish anything at all. Rather than a step towards the creative process, it represents a retreat from infinite revelation into the inexpressible essence of G‑d. The tension outlined above reflects the inherent paradox embodied in the introverted disclosure of the essential luminary. As mentioned above, R. Schneur Zalman asserts that tzimtzum reveals the luminary so that even children axiomatically apprehend the essence of G‑d. But he describes this apprehension as empty of informational content. Noting that because “the luminary is revealed even children know that G‑d is present,” he adds that “they have no understanding or grasp of how G‑d is manifest or what G‑d is.” This reinforces the impression that the disclosure of the luminary within the Such is the fullness of divine being that its presence spills over the boundary of absence into the “hollow space” of essential emptiness.realm of otherness and creation is also a retreat into the unknowable essence of divine being.16 Taking this tension one step further, R. Chaim Vital’s description of the space left by tzimtzum as “hollow” and “empty” takes on a dual meaning. In its original sense this description depicted the newfound possibility of otherness, emanation and creation. But on R. Schneur Zalman’s reading it can synonymously be read as a depiction of the contentless disclosure of G‑d’s essence. R. Schneur Zalman’s description of the child’s apprehension of the luminary suggests that while the divine essence may be utterly inescapable, it is also utterly inexpressible. The disclosure of the essence is utterly empty of informational content. On this reading, the “hollow space” left by the tzimtzum is a true void, the void of ineffable essentiality. The hollow is not empty of divine presence, as understood on the literal interpretation of the tzimtzum narrative espoused by some authorities,17 but it is utterly empty of divine expression.18 The infinite light, the internal self-assertion of the absolute infinitude of divinity, is withdrawn. But the unexpressed being of G‑d, indeed the inexpressible essence of divine being, is still absolutely present. Such is the fullness of divine being that its presence spills over the boundary of absence into the “hollow space” of essential emptiness.19 In its original sense, the “hollow space” created through the withdrawal of the light signifies divine descent and the revolutionary emergence of the possibility of otherness. But on R. Schneur Zalman’s reading, the “hollow space” also signifies divine ascent into the true void of G‑d’s inexpressible essence.20 If the overt significance of the tzimtzum narrative is to be preserved in tandem with this new interpretation, we need to explain why the possibility of otherness is not drowned in the disclosure of the utterly transcendent essence. Why is the possibility of otherness not drowned in the disclosure of the transcendent essence?If finite forms and created beings cannot emerge from divine infinitude, are they not even unlikelier to emerge from the true emptiness of the essential void? This is the question that arises implicitly from a careful reading of R. Schneur Zalman’s interpretation of the tzimtzum narrative before the motif of reshimu is introduced. R. Moshe Zacuto introduced the motif of reshimu to undermine the assumption that the term “hollow” is used with precision. In the context of R. Schneur Zalman’s approach it undermines the impression that the tzimtzum leaves a true void, utterly empty of divine expression and informational content. Instead we should realize that this void also embodies a tangible trace of revelation. The Language of AbsenceEchoing Emek Ha-melech’s association of the trace with the primordial aspect of constriction, R. Schneur Zalman describes the reshimu as “a limited symbol of something entirely without limit.” It is specifically in the constrictive act of tzimtzum, he explains, in the divine descent into the finite role of creator, that the true infinitude of divine being is traced.21Recast in the context of R. Schneur Zalman’s broader interpretation of tzimtzum, the motif of the trace modifies the image of an empty hollow. No longer does this chasm represent a retreat into the utter emptiness of the essential void. Instead, the withdrawal of divine revelation is itself recast as an alternative avenue of revelation, as a tangible assertion of presence traced in the language of absence. While R. Moshe Zacuto described the trace as remaining within the hollow, R. Schneur Zalman’s elaboration identifies the trace as the revelatory import embodied by the hollow. Tzimtzum is transformed from an empty gesture into a gesture of emptiness, at once insubstantial and significant. No longer does this chasm represent a retreat into the utter emptiness of the essential void, but an alternative avenue of revelation.The form of the gesture is emptiness, but the gesture carries weighty import. R. Schneur Zalman illustrates the infinite symbolism of the reshimu by comparing it to “the trace on a blueprint that builders make, delineating a large building with extremely insubstantial and narrow traces.” The blueprint is a scaled representation that accurately depicts a vast building within the narrow confines of a two-dimensional chart. In the theological analogue, thereshimu similarly depicts the omnipotent non-contingence of G‑d’s essence through the scaled veil of limitation and withdrawal.22 There is a long tradition in Jewish thought that the essence of divine being can never be described in positive terms. To do so would be to conflate essential being with assertive expression.23 But the absence enacted through tzimtzum has no positive content, and therefore serves as an eloquent description of divine omnipotence and essentiality. So absolute is G‑d’s omnipotence that it includes the capacity to limit the unlimited assertion of divine presence. Such is the fullness of divine being that only absence is a fitting language for the communication of its presence.24 It is not that nothing can be said about divine being, but that only nothing can say something about divine being. The absent presence of G‑d affirms that divine being is not dependent on the normal conditions of existence, and that divine omnipotence is not dependent on any of the normal conditions of possibility. This explains how tzimtzum is at once an ascent into the divine essence and a descent into the limited role of creator: Through tzimtzum, R. Schneur Zalman explains, “the infinite revelation of G‑d . . . becomes subsumed within the concealment of the essence,” but is also “drawn within the aspect of limiting capacity, the aspect of the trace that remains in the hollow, because He, blessed be He, is omnipotent and carries the capacity of limitation (ko’ach ha-gevul) too, It is not that nothing can be said about divine being, but that only nothing can say something about divine being.the capacity to limit the revealed assertion that is not limited at all.”25 Tzimtzum and reshimu, the void and the trace, accordingly emerge as two sides of a single coin. Tzimtzum is withdrawal and concealment. Reshimu is the revelatory import of that withdrawal, transcendent infinitude traced in the language of limitation. The very emptiness of the hollow embodies a trace of divine expression, a distinct characterization of the transcendent luminary. It is only through the absent presence traced in the emptiness of the hollow that we catch a glimpse of the true non-contingency of divine being and omnipotence. It is specifically the concealment of tzimtzum that draws the ineffable within finite grasp, articulating the absolute in the language of absence.26 Hebrew words that refer to esoteric concepts often translate badly into English. But reshimu is not one of them. Like its Hebrew analog, the English word trace also has paradoxical intimations. A trace may be a transient and insubstantial residue, but it may also be a concrete indicator, a clue upon which truth can be established. A trace doesn’t always point vaguely to something in the past, a trace can also be a precise outline delineating a clear vision for the future.27 In the context of tzimtzum, too, the trace points in two opposing directions. As the divine capacity of limitation it points both upward and down; to the true omnipotence of G‑d’s essence, and also to the divine capacity to descend into the limited role of Creator.28 In R. Schneur Zalman’s own words, “The root of the line of measurement (kav ha-midah), which measures and limits the revelation [and extends that limited revelation into the creative process] . . . comes and is drawn The secret revealed by the trace is that G‑d’s omnipotence “carries the capacity of limitation too . . . to limit the revealed assertion that is not limited at all.”from that very aspect of the trace that remains in the hollow.”29 In many discussions of tzimtzum R. Schneur Zalman emphasized its original meaning: that there is a complete removal of the infinite assertion of divinity, a complete divide between the transcendent revelation of G‑d’s essence and the immanent emanation of finitude and creation. His distinction between the light and the luminary, between the concealment of divine presence and the unconcealable essence of divine being, appears both to deepen that divide and to undermine it. On the one hand, the essence of divine being is depicted in even more transcendent terms. On the other hand, tzimtzum is described as the disclosure of that transcendence. Not only does this undermine our conception of the hollow as a chasm that separates G‑d’s transcendent essence from the narrow role of creator, it also begs the question: How can finitude and form ever emerge from the utter void of ineffable essentiality? R. Schneur Zalman’s treatment of reshimu brings these different readings and meanings of the tzimtzum narrative together. The secret revealed by the trace, he asserts, is that G‑d’s omnipotence “carries the capacity of limitation too, the capacity to limit the revealed assertion that is not limited at all.”30 It is precisely the emergence of limitation and the onset of the creative process that most articulately traces the true transcendence of divine omnipotence. It is divine limitation itself that most accurately delimits G‑d’s unbounded essentiality. The qualifying significance of the trace emphasizes that the divide between immanence and transcendence is ultimately an artificial one. The hollow void of tzimtzum is simultaneously the withdrawal of the infinite revelation of divinity and the even more eloquent articulation of the true infinitude of divine being. The Trace As TextThe above discussion of reshimu follows R. Schneur Zalman’s 1806 discourse, which primarily references Emek ha-Melech’s association of the trace with the primordial aspect of constriction (din or gevul). In a discourse delivered in 1810 he further developed his conception of the trace and further explicated its significance.31 The later discourse, however, more strongly reflects Emek ha-Melech’s association of reshimu with the letters of the primordial Torah in which divine delight is traced.32
Starry Shema, Acrylic on Stretched Canvas by Alyse Radenovic: The repeated letters of the words “Hear, O Israel, the L-rd is our G-d, the L-rd is One,” in Hebrew in gold on dark blue with silver, white, and light blue.
Central to R. Schneur Zalman’s discussion of the primordial letters is the role of text and language in human consciousness and expression, which is used as a model for their conceptual counterparts in the divine analog. We normally think of language as a tool for the external communication of internal feelings and thoughts. But the truth is that within our own minds too we use a more abstract form of language to makes sense of ourselves, to give shape and expression to our identity. Even our inner thoughts and feelings must be internally articulated, formulated, identified and analyzed.33 The external and internal strata of language are respectively termed “letters of speech” and “letters of thought.” Letters of thought are less tangible than letters of speech, and more transparent to the inner flow of consciousness. But even the loftiest experience of human consciousness must be encoded or depicted in some kind of language or symbolism. Even the most sublime sensation of delight or pleasure must be traced in the transcendent contours, the ethereal “letters," Even the most sublime sensation of delight or pleasure must be traced in the transcendent contours, the ethereal “letters,” which give form and substance to its content.which give form and substance to its content. The essential point here is that letters are not just used to formulate the spoken and written word, but are also the essential fabric of even the most sublime strata of human consciousness. The same applies in the divine analogue. There can be no revelation without letters. “The aspect of letters,” R. Schneur Zalman asserts, “extends to the apex of all levels.” Even the most infinite assertion of transcendent divinity must be carried by an ethereal trace of text.34 Like the transcendent contours in which human delight is traced, the primordial letters are initially so saturated with divine delight that their finitude and form are utterly intangible. This state of saturation, R. Schneur Zalman explains, “is synonymous with the revelation of infinite light (zehu inyan gilui ohr ein sof), and the phenomenon of tzimtzum is that the light should not shine and be revealed in the letters.”35 Earlier we described tzimtzum and reshimu as two sides of a single coin. But the association of the reshimu with the primordial letters forces us to revise that description. The letters of the trace, which embody the divine capacity of limitation (ko’ach ha-gevul), actually precede tzimtzum and transcend the creative process. It is through the creative process, however, that their essential presence is brought to the fore. The purpose of the letters is to carry revelatory import, but in fulfilling their purpose their finite forms are extinguished in the infinite light that they so eloquently articulate. The medium is utterly submerged in the message. Finitude is veiled in infinitude, and G‑d’s ultimate capacity to limit the unlimited is also obscured. The effect of tzimtzum is not the creation of letters, but “that the light should not shine and be revealed in the letters.”36 It is only when the revelatory import is utterly withdrawn, only when tzimtzum carves out an expressionless void, that the essential letters come into their own. It is only when the superficial facade of infinitude is withdrawn that we can perceive the unbounded fullness of divine being as it transcends the binaries of the unlimited and the limited, of absence and presence, of ineffability and articulation, even of transcendence and immanence. It is in the collapsing of binaries embodied by the unilluminated letters of the trace that G‑d’s essence is most accurately discerned. It is in the collapsing of binaries embodied by the unilluminated letters of the trace that G‑d’s essence is most accurately discerned.Emptied of blinding revelation, G‑d’s essential capacity to limit the unlimited is disclosed, and the underlying contours of all expression are tangibly exposed.37 By describing the trace as something akin to the most essential fabric of human consciousness, R. Schneur Zalman endows the emptiness of tzimtzum with even greater significance than before. This not a mere gesture towards the true transcendence of divine being, but the unveiled presence of divine essentiality. The finite trace of linguistic expression is G‑d’s innate capacity of limitation, transcending the explicit possibility of otherness that is signified by tzimtzum. Not only is this primordial capacity of limitation not a mitigation of the absoluteness of divine presence, it is actually a more essential embodiment of divine being.38 Reading Between the LinesBuilding on this conception of the trace as text, R. Schneur Zalman uses two versions of a single parable to illustrate the theological innovation that reshimu introduces. The reshimudoes more than resolve an apparent tension in R. Schneur Zalman’s interpretation of the tzimtzum narrative. It also adds a further layer of qualification to the nature of the concealment that tzimtzum represents. Elsewhere R. Schneur Zalman qualified tzimtzum (a) as concealment rather than removal, and (b) as a concealment of the light, but not of the luminary.39 In the present discussion of reshimu he further asserts that even the concealment of the light is actually a matter of perspective.At the center of this discourse is the parable of a scholar who has committed a tractate of the Talmud to memory, including “all the content, arguments and conceptions in it.”40 In the first version of this parable the scholar then turns his mind to an entirely different topic, or simply “sits idle.” The knowledge previously imbibed is not forgotten or removed from the scholar’s mind, and therefore can be summoned at will. R. Schneur Zalman uses two versions of a single parable to illustrate the theological innovation that reshimu introduces.For the moment, however, it is not consciously revealed in the scholar’s mind. This version of the parable illustrates the (by now axiomatic) notion that tzimtzum does not represent a literal removal of the infinite assertion of divine presence, but rather its concealment. At the same time, the specific image of a scholar sitting idle implies that this concealment might embody an utter vacuum of informational content. The scholar’s mind is completely empty of any expression of knowledge, even though that knowledge is fully committed to memory and unconsciously present in its entirety. In the theological analogue this recalls the earlier suggestion that the concealment represented by tzimtzum is absolute, and that the “hollow space” (chalal) indeed embodies a true void, utterly empty of divine expression.41 As we have already noted, it is precisely to undermine this misconception that reshimu is introduced into the tzimtzum narrative. Reshimu transforms the hollow from an empty gesture into a meaningful gesture of emptiness, the fullness of divine being expressed in the language of absence. In the present discourse the conceptual import of reshimu is accordingly illustrated by a modified version of the above parable, in which R. Schneur Zalman distinguishes between immersive analytic study and textual review. Just like in the previous scenario, the scholar has committed to memory an entire tractate of the Talmud, with all its questions and answers, and with all its depth and breadth. The scholar grasps all this knowledge with full clarity, encompassing all the relevant explanations in his mind with complete clarity. But in this version of the parable, the scholar does not sit idle. Instead, there are two ways in which the scholar’s knowledge is exercised; through immersive analysis on the one hand, and through textual review on the other.42 Immersive analysis brings the full scope of the scholar’s knowledge to the fore, especially when expressed verbally. But textual review conceals the full extent of the scholar’s knowledge even as it traces it. The words themselves express only a minimal synopsis, a trace, of the vast body of argument and explanation they represent. Another person listening to this textual review will be left completely in the dark. But for the scholar, even a cursory rereading invokes the full scope of the knowledge encapsulated in his mind. G‑d is like the scholar reviewing the text, and similarly sees the fullness of divine infinitude and omnipotence luminously traced in the dark constraints of the creative process.In each fleeting moment vast quantities of complex data flash before his mind’s eye, illuminating the cryptic concision of the text. As R. Schneur Zalman puts it: “All the intellect of this tractate and these laws are revealed and known to him effortlessly, and he encapsulates in one thought what it would take a long while to articulate in speech. . . . Accordingly, even when he is simply reviewing the words of the text alone, all the depth of the intellect that exists in this tractate is revealed and known and encapsulated in his mind and thought. It is not at all in the aspect of concealment and departure from his intellect and thought in the ways that it is utterly concealed from the other who listens to his reading . . .”43 With this parable in mind, R. Schneur Zalman explains, we can better understand how the motif of the trace modifies the tzimtzum narrative. G‑d is not like the scholar who sits idle, so that not even a trace of revelation remains. In entering the creative process, G‑d is like the scholar reviewing the text. Like the cryptic concision of the text, the finitude of creation does not overtly express divine infinitude. But like the scholar who sees all his vast knowledge traced in that concision, G‑d similarly sees the fullness of divine infinitude and omnipotence luminously traced in the dark constraints of the creative process. All of reality is traced as text, but its full import is disclosed only if you can read between the lines.44 Crystallization and ContentionThe double parable of the scholar beautifully crystallizes the duality that reshimu represents. As the divine capacity of limitation through which otherness and creation emerge, reshimuextends endlessly downward into the realm of otherness and creation. As the disclosure of the primordial letters in which divine delight is traced, reshimu extends infinitely upwards into the transcendent essence of G‑d. As the text in which all reality is traced it extends to every created thing, at once revealing and concealing, concealing and revealing. Its overt revelation represents a concealment of divine transcendence, but that concealment itself unveils a more essential dimension of divine being.More specifically, R. Schneur Zalman uses this parable is to crystallize the third in a series of qualifying interpretations of the tzimtzum narrative. The first of these qualifications is his adoption and innovative defense of the nonliteral understanding of tzimtzum: the removal of the infinite assertion of G‑d’s presence is recast as mere concealment. The second of these qualifications hinges on his distinction between the light and the luminary; while the infinite assertion of divine presence (the light) is concealed, the ineffable All of reality is traced as text, but its full import is disclosed only if you can read between the lines.essence of divine being (the luminary) remains openly disclosed. R. Schneur Zalman’s treatment of reshimu does not only elaborate on these qualifications, but also introduces an entirely new degree of qualification. Previously, the removal of the light was recast as concealment. Now that concealment itself is qualified. Previously, only the luminary, the essence of divine being, was said to be unaffected by tzimtzum. Now the impact on the light, the infinite assertion of divine presence, is also qualified. As the parable of the scholar illustrates, the concealment of the light is actually a matter of perspective. From the perspective of G‑d, the narrow constraints of withdrawal and absence are not only filled with the ineffable presence of the divine essence, but are even seen as yet deeper forms of revelation and presence. It is not simply that the ineffable essence of divine being (the luminary) stands beyond the categories of concealment and revelation, and is therefore unaffected by tzimtzum. It is rather that the infinite assertion of divine presence (the light) is concealed only from the perspective of “outsiders,” those who do not share G‑d’s perspective of the creation process as an even more revealing form of self-expression. In the words of R. Schneur Zalman, “Even as there is the aspect of tzimtzum, that the light departs and only the aspect of the trace remains, this is not a concealment at all on the part of light itself. And therefore ‘I, G‑d have not changed.’ . . . This need not even be said of G‑d’s being and essence . . . but in truth, even in the light there is no change . . . even the light shines in the trace as it did prior to the tzimtzum.”45 The motif of the trace emerges not only as the centerpiece, but also as the culmination of R. Schneur Zalman’s radical reinterpretation of the tzimtzum narrative. Reshimu is not simply an afterthought, a mere trace of the infinite light concealed by tzimtzum. Instead, the motif of the trace utterly transforms the symbolism of tzimtzum. What may previously have seemed an empty gesture becomes a meaningful gesture of emptiness. Reshimureframes divine absence as a deeper expression of divine presence. It is through the prism of reshimu, through the transcendent letters that embody the primordial capacity of constriction, that all the elements of tzimtzum can be coherently reinterpreted. It is specifically in descending into the role of creator, specifically in the emergence of absence and the possibility of otherness, The question of the relationship betweenreshimu and kav led to serious contention over the degree to whichreshimu is impacted bytzimtzum . . .that the omnipotent non-contingence of divine being is traced. Despite the clarity with which R. Schneur Zalman elucidates his understanding of reshimu, there are some points that remain ambiguous. The question of the relationship between the trace (reshimu), which is left in the hollow, and the narrow “line” (kav) of revelation, which is extended into the hollow, was discussed by R. Schneur Zalman and subsequent Chabad leaders, opening new avenues of investigation and insight. In the fourth and fifth generations of Chabad, these discussions led to serious contention over the degree to which reshimu is impacted by tzimtzum. We have already seen how previous debates concerning tzimtzum marked seminal theological disagreements between the early chassidim and their opponents.46But this new dispute would drive a wedge between two contemporaneous strands of the Chabad dynastic tradition. Once again, the scholarly debate ran parallel to a social schism. The motif of the letters, so central to the dual parable of the scholar, would become the nexus of this heated dispute.47
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For the Month of Elul
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Dear readers,
Summers here in southern New Jersey can be very hot, very muggy and very humid. So when a friend called to invite me to swim in her pool, I eagerly accepted. She told me she swims every morning at 8:15 together with another friend, her swimming partner. They have been doing this for years; it’s their escape, a terrific form of exercise and a great way to invigorate their day. The pool was large, gorgeous and refreshing. When I arrived, the two were already hard at work. My friend swims eighty laps every morning (did I mention the pool was large?) and her friend does the same. Dipping toe by toe, I slowly stepped into the pool before jumping in. While my friend’s goal was eighty laps, I knew I’d be happy with eighteen. While my friend and her friend executed perfect front crawls, their strokes calculated and strong, I chose to do some relaxing backstrokes and breaststrokes. The important thing for me was just to keep on moving, which I knew was great exercise, even with my sloppy strokes. I was careful to stay in my “lane” and be considerate of their space as I gazed at the brilliant blue sky and the soaring trees, and I felt grateful just being there. Swimming my own program, I thought of the new month we are entering. Elul is an opportune time for introspection. It is a time to think about the year that passed and our goals for the coming year. Sometimes we can get so caught up with comparing ourselves to others that we miss the point. But introspection means looking inner, looking at ourselves and our potential. Elul is the time when “G‑d is in the field”—right here in our neighborhood, at our jobs, in our homes. The Alter Rebbe, Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi, explains that to come before the king in the royal palace requires the admission of a hierarchy of officers checking our credentials, but when the king comes out to the fields, anyone can approach him. Elul is our chance to seek G‑d out in a more open and personal way, without protocol blocking the way. Irrespective of what we have or have not achieved in the last year, and irrespective of how we compare to the guy or girl next door, it’s our opportunity to focus on strengthening and developing our own, personal and intimate relationship with G‑d. Because we’re all in the pool of life. Whether we succeed in doing eighty or eight laps is irrelevant. What is important is that we take the plunge, be considerate of others’ space, enjoy the stunning scenery and focus on moving forward! Wishing you all a wonderful new month! Chana Weisberg, Editor, TJW
Chana Weisberg is the editor of TheJewishWoman.org. She lectures internationally on issues relating to women, relationships, meaning, self-esteem and the Jewish soul. She is the author of five popular books.
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For the Month of Elul
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“The King is in the field.” This is the phrase that describes the month of Elul, the month leading up to the High Holy Days. The King is in the field. Okay, we know that the King refers to G‑d. What about the rest? What is the field? What does it mean that G‑d is in the field? And what am I supposed to do about it, if anything?
To start to understand, we need to go back a few months. Remember Shavuot? Remember staying up all night learning Torah? The anticipation leading up to it while we counted the 49 days of the Omer. The fabulous cheesecake we ate way too much of (well, maybe that was just me). On Shavuot we celebrated the receiving of the Torah. Before G‑d even told us what was in the Torah, we said “na’aseh v’nishma,” we will do and we will hear. This was our wedding. We formed an everlasting covenant with G‑d, binding ourselves to Him and His Torah for all time. So, Shavuot we stay up all night learning Torah, just like our wedding night. It feels like this is it. There’s nothing left, this marriage is overWe’re too excited to sleep, and besides, just as we feel about the one we are about to marry, we say, we want to know everything about You, G‑d. So we study His Torah, which is the best way to learn about G‑d. We live in this honeymoon state for a little while. But a month and a half later, things start to change. We have our first row. On the 17th of Tammuz we fast. It is a day of mourning. On this day the walls of Jerusalem were breached in 69 CE. On this day we realized that G‑d would not allow our infidelity to go unnoticed, and was not unconditionally protecting us as we expected. On this day we saw things were not perfect. The honeymoon is definitely over. For three weeks, we continue to be in mourning. But instead of doing teshuvah and repenting and fixing our holy marriage, we turn against each other. On the 9th of Av, our Holy Temple, the house we built for so that He would dwell among us, was destroyed. The reason our sages give us is baseless hatred against each other. It was a very low point for all of us, and still is. And it feels like this is it. Our House has been destroyed, there’s nothing left, this marriage is over. But then comes the month of Elul. And we hear the words “the King is in the field.” In the old world, where kings ruled and peasants worked the land, there was very little interaction between the two. The king ruled from his walled palace, and the peasants kept to the fields. But now it is Elul. And we are truly peasants. We work hard in our fields, barely lifting our heads from the dirt of this material world. But if we do, if we chance to take a moment from our everyday routine and just look “up,” we will see there, in the field, the King. The King of the world above, here in our world; the King ready to listen, to forgive, to love. This is our chance to repair our broken marriage. And indeed, the first thing a spouse needs to say is “I’m sorry.” But for those of you who are married, you know that “sorry” by itself is never enough. Because the next question is always, “Sorry for what?” And this is what the month of Elul is for: 29 days of talking to the King, going over all the hurt, pain and misunderstanding. And we can put ourselves in our loved one’s fields. Go to our spouses, our siblings, our parents, our friends, our children, ourselves. We do all this so that when we come to face G‑d on the High Holy Days, when we leave behind the materialism of the field and enter the spiritual world of the Palace, when we say we’re sorry, not only will we know what we are sorry for, but G‑d can smile and answer, “I know.” On a personal note, forgiveness can be so much more encompassing than we know. One Yom Kippur I was praying alone, feeling nothing. Exhausted, hungry, disappointed and, if I’m really honest, angryOne Yom Kippur I was praying alone, feeling nothing. No tears, no heartfelt apologies and no true forgiveness in my heart. I sat down exhausted, hungry, disappointed and, if I’m really honest, angry. Then I started to feel guilty for feeling all that, which made me feel it even more, and the cycle continued. I began speaking to G‑d as though He were in the room listening to me. And I said it all. I told G‑d that I was hungry. I told Him I was tired. I said that if He wanted me to be a more spiritual person, then He should have made me that way. I told G‑d that if He wanted me to be someone other than who I was, then He was at fault. He created me as I am. Then I said the thing I was most afraid to say. “G‑d, I’m angry at You. You’ve made me with so many faults. You have given me so much pain. You’ve taken away people I love. You’ve broken my heart.” But then, once I said it, I wasn’t angry anymore. In fact, a feeling swept over me that I hadn’t intended at all. And before I could think about it, the words came out of my mouth. “G‑d, I forgive You.” I know that logically, G‑d does not need my forgiveness. In fact, I truly believe that everything G‑d does for me is all a blessing, even if I can’t see it. It wasn’t G‑d who needed me to feel forgiveness in my heart; it was me. With those words I was able to reach into all areas of my life and find forgiveness for those in my life I didn’t even know I needed to forgive. I forgave my two-and-a-half-year-old for all the pain he caused me, through pregnancy and birth to sleeplessness and endless crying. I forgave my parents for not being perfect like I felt they should have been. I forgave my husband for not being the exact man I wanted him to be. And I forgave myself for being deeply flawed, making mistakes and not living up to my own expectations. Have a beautiful and blessed Elul.
Tovah Kinderlehrer lives with her family in Pittsburgh, Pa.
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Women
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I'm not embarrassed by my feeling that life is short and unpredictable and I need all the help I can get. One of the ways I try to do this for myself is by saying Tehillim, prayers from the Book of Psalms. Our sages say that if we knew the power ofTehillim,we would say them all day long. I remember hearing this and thinking it was almost too good to be true—all the help I need in one easy book? But then I thought, exactly how is it that a person can actually say them all day long?
I understand now that the suggestion was meant to encourage us to set aside time for regular Tehillim-saying, and to always prefer these prayers over "wasting time." I actually found saying Tehillim rather easy to do, and not only because of the tremendous benefit I trusted I was getting. I could whip out my book of Tehillim any time (preferably during daylight, though), almost anywhere, and I was on my way to getting Help From Above. Just like that. Well, not exactly, I quickly learned. The sages also say that the words of Tehillim are more powerful if said in the original Hebrew. Not a problem, I thought, especially if it maximizes the spiritual benefit. But because I didn't learn the language until I was over 30, saying the Book of Psalms in Hebrew actually would take me all day long. It would also mean that nothing else would get done. In order to start somewhere, I decided to say the daily chapters corresponding to every day of the Jewish month. This meant that by the end of every month, I said each of the 150 chapters. (This routine also reminded me of the Hebrew date, which made me feel very, well, Jewish.) If someone was sick, G‑d forbid, I could help by sayingTehillim with that person in mind. And if I needed to catch up on these prayers, all I had to do was say Tehillim while standing in the checkout line of a store—leading to my early discovery that "checkout Tehillim" provided the added benefit of keeping me from becoming annoyed and impatient. Saying Tehillim in public did take a little getting used to, though. The sages say that the power of these prayers is maximized when the words are actually said, either audibly or mouthed, which meant I had to get comfortable moving my lips when strangers were around. This wasn't as hard as I thought, probably because people almost never noticed. In order to have this help handy wherever I went, I thought it would be good to carry a book of Tehillim with me in my purse. It turned out this wasn't as easy as it sounded, either. If the book was too small, I couldn't read the Hebrew letters, which meant I wasn't saying the right words to get the maximum help. It defeated the whole purpose. But I did manage to find a mid-size book of Tehillim that could still fit in my purse. It even had an English translation, so I could understand at least some of what I was saying. Today, there's a free Tehillim app, so you don't need a book at all, but I've been using my book for years and I still prefer it. How these words do what they do, I don't understand. I just know that these verses, mostly composed by King David thousands of years ago, helped him, and who knows how many Jews since his time, travel through the long and winding road of life. And that's enough of a reason for me to trust that they can help me, too.
Lieba Rudolph lives in Pittsburgh, PA, and writes a weekly blog about Jewish spirituality.
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Women
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On our way out to my daughter’s play, I feel like I am forgetting something, but squinting in the glare of the afternoon sun, I can’t remember what it is. I run back inside and glance around. And then I remember. I pull out a tiny drawer in my jewelry box and reach instinctively for the smooth pearl ring encircled by tiny diamonds. My grandmother’s ring. I slip it on, and it is still too big on me, but I wear it anyway. I wear it the way I have worn it on every holiday and joyous occasion since my grandmother passed away.
It is still too big on me, but I wear it anywayWhen my first son was born, I searched the house until I found it before the brit (circumcision). As I slipped it on then, I remember whispering, I can’t believe you’re not here. I caught myself on that precipice of sudden grief and anger; I turned back to cradle my baby. But, oh, how I wished my grandmother could have held him, just for a moment. And as the days and months passed, I thought the grief would dissipate slowly, like an exhale of darkness bleeding into the dawn. But it returned before every Shabbat. It pulled me back right before each holiday. It became a permanent aching gap in the midst of every milestone. When I was helping my mother while she was sitting shivah, people kept saying to me, “I’m sorry.” I knew they were just trying to be nice, but it bothered me.Those words couldn’t possibly make even entry into the seemingly endless chasm of my grief. They didn’t know. They couldn’t possibly know how much I had just lost. She wasn’t just my grandmother, I wanted to cry. She was my best friend. I didn’t get to say good-bye, I wanted to cry. And when people asked if I was okay, I wanted to tell the truth: No, I’m not okay. Why would I be okay? But I didn’t. I nodded. I helped. I went back to the land of the living without a sliver of protest. And I began to just accept that there would always be this aching gap where my grandmother’s presence used to be. I wouldn’t try to fill it anymore because it couldn’t be filled. And maybe that gap was really a blessing, maybe it was a sacred, precious testament to the light and strength my grandmother brought into this world. It was a Grandma-shaped gap, and no one and nothing would ever take its place. We even say a blessing thanking G‑d for the gap. The blessing is called “borei nefashot,” and we say it after eating certain foods: “Blessed are You, L‑rd, our G‑d, King of the universe, Who creates numerous living things with their gaps, for all that you have created with which to maintain the life of every being. Blessed is He, the Life of all worlds.” We bless G‑d for creating gaps because we recognize that the gaps themselves are gifts. Because G‑d created a special gap for each person, and no one else can fill it. The crevices, the contours, the walls of that space are created specifically for the needs and abilities of that soul. Every day, we have a choice. To fill our gap or turn away from it. To find our place or hide in the shadows. I sit in the audience later with my grandmother’s ring glinting in the light that is streaming in through the windows, and I feel suddenly encircled by my grandmother’s love. I look up at my daughter who is walking toward the stage. And when I catch her eye for a moment, we share a smile that reaches back across the generations and brings back just a whisper of her great-grandmother’s laughter. And my eyes fill with tears as my daughter’s voice echoes through the room. Fill your gap, I think as I look at her. Take your place. Only you can fill your space in the world, and without you, it will be empty not just for you, but for everyone around you. It’s not easy for each of us to figure outWe share a smile that reaches across the generations what that space is in the world that we are meant to fill. And once we know, we still need to search for countless ways to fill that space. Because there will be obstacles. There will be storms where we can’t see past the next step. And to fill your gap, you will need to believe not only in yourself, but in the importance of that space that is calling to you. Sometimes we think our greatest moments are in the spotlight. When we are the first ones to break through that finish tape. But most of our greatest moments happen when we are all alone. When we are running beyond the limits of who we thought we could ever be. When we are so hot and exhausted that we think there is no way we can take another step. And instead of giving up, we go on. With sweat and tears and everything that we have inside of us, because we won’t stop until we find our place. Until we fill our gaps. And watch our gifts take their places among a long line of blessings of those who came before us, illuminating the way. Even when we think no one is watching. L'ilui nishmat Gitel Rochel bat Miriam. May her soul continue to rise through the deeds of her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren.
Sara Debbie Gutfreund lives with her husband and children in Waterbury, Connecticut. She holds a B.A. in English from the University of Pennsylvania, and a Masters in Family Therapy from the University of North Texas.
© Copyright 2015, all rights reserved.
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Story
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Like any small town, Safed has a few professional beggars. None of them are drunkards, thank G‑d, or homeless, G‑d forbid. They just beg for a living. It’s their job, and they work hard at it. They keep regular hours, and each has his own territory. Some of them work for religious organizations, like the fat guy who limps and carries a pushka (collection can), or the spry, skinny, little guy on the midrahov, our cobblestoned main street. He sings Yiddish and Hebrew folk songs, and even dances around waltz-like on a good day, gentle and grateful, giving a berachah (blessing) and a sweet smile to every generous soul. Then we have a few others who are self-employed. They put out their hand, or an unlabeled plastic jar. Most of our beggars are clean, although I’m sure that some of them believe that they will have a more successful day if they look a bit down in the collar. But every day, there they are.
Not that many years ago I would turn my back on such sorts, suspicious of their need. Once I asked my rebbe, “How do I know whether they really need the money? I’ll bet some of them are better off than I am.” His wise reply was, “If they ask, then they need it, even if only in their own minds, and you should give.” So I give to them all every time I see them, which is usually every day, just ten agorot, our smallest coin, worth about three cents, or a half-shekel, about 12 cents. It’s the best bargain in the world, I figure—a blessing for a few cents. But the holiest of our seedier citizens isn’t a beggar. When I first saw him loitering on the midrahov in old, torn clothes, with big holes in the heels of his socks that protruded far above the tops of his shoes, I thought he might be homeless, down and out. Then I started seeing him around regularly, often sitting at the cafe tables hanging out with friends. Were they feeding him, I wondered? Then the annual Safed Klezmer Music Festival happened. Tens of thousands of people flock to Safed to enjoy musicians playing in the streets, in the squares, in the parks, in every nook and cranny of town. I saw him there, at Klezmer. But he wasn’t a spectator. I was attracted by the sound of the music, and I fought through the crowd until I could get close enough to see what they were watching. It was him. He was dancing. Michael was dancing all by himself, entertaining about a hundred spectators, all captivated by his grace and improvisation. His thin body was celebrating the ecstasy of the music. His deeply lined, tanned, old face was glowing from an inner light, his eyes dancing from the joy of pleasing the crowd. He danced like Anthony Quinn in Zorba the Greek, his hands raised above his head to punctuate his movements. A chassid all in black garb jumped up to dance with him. There they were, the two of them—young and old, religious and secular, respected and unrespected, yarmulka and stocking cap—dancing together before the crowd. Michael was putting so much of himself into his dancing that I felt like I was looking at his soul. I didn’t see him after that for a while. Then one day I saw only the familiar, tired yellow knit cap. Adjacent to my house is a common site in Safed, a horvah, a ruin. Destroyed in the last earthquake that devastated the town, apartments or entire buildings are abandoned, inhabited only by stray cats and worse. I was coming into my courtyard through the back gate, and suddenly the old, metal gate of the horvah slammed shut! A hand was reaching out, face and body hiding out of sight, to fasten the heavy chain and padlock. But his hat was visible. It was Michael’s hat. What should I do? I didn’t know. I was afraid to tell anyone. They might have the police come and evict him. There was no electricity, no water, no heat—there weren’t even any windows. How could he sleep there in the cold Safed nights? I figured that he showered daily at the shul down the street, where many of the men went every morning to use the mikvah (ritual bathhouse). That would explain how he was able to always look so clean. Was he dangerous? Was it because of him that people locked their doors? I had heard talk of “a few rotten apples” in the town. Could he be one of them? Was I safe? But I had seen him dance. Others might view him with suspicion. But I had seen him give himself to the people, holding nothing back. I decided to leave things as they were. He didn’t know that I had recognized his hat. He was old enough to receive social security. If he wanted to live in a ruin, I wasn’t going to meddle. I would keep his secret. Winter turned to spring, and quickly into summer. Gradually, I figured out that almost everybody in town knew that Michael was living in the horvah next door to me. They say that he works. So instead of being a bum, he’s an eccentric. But there is one more story to hear about him, the best story of all. Michael saw a friend one day who was sitting at an outdoor cafe on the midrahov. He was crying, his head down on the table, buried in his arms. Michael sat down to console him, and asked what was wrong. The friend said that he was in a lot of trouble. He was divorced, and had not paid any child support. He hadn’t paid in years, and now the authorities had caught up with him. He needed about $20,000 immediately, or he would go to jail. Michael reached into his shabby pants pocket. He took out a worn, crumpled Lotto ticket. Fingering it once more for the hundreth time, he showed it to his friend. Michael said, “Look at this. You don’t have to cry anymore. You don’t have to go to jail. I won this Lotto game. This is a winning ticket. It’s worth $20,000. All week, I’ve been wondering, ‘Why did I win it?’ I knew I didn’t need the money, so I figured that there must be some reason why I won. Well, this must be why. So take the ticket, and your troubles are over.” Perhaps you are wondering whether the story is true or not. Really, it doesn’t matter so much. What is most important is that people here tell these kinds of stories. It tells us a lot about the kind of people who live in Safed. Even our bums and our beggars are holy. Perhaps they are the holiest of all.
Chana Besser was born in postwar Germany, grew up in Chicago, and raised her daughters in Denver, Colorado. She made aliyah in 1995 to Safed, where she teaches, learns Torah and occasionally writes.
Please do not publish or circulate without permission from the author.
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Lifestyle
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Stained glass cookies are not just another treat; they're an activity. And since many people have their children home over the next couple of weeks, when camp has ended but school has not yet started, this seemed like a good week to share this recipe.
 The idea is simple, but the possibilities are endless. You're basically making shapes/designs that have some section cut out, which you fill with crushed candy which then melts in the oven, creating the stained glass effect. A couple of tips to keep in mind:
   You can use cookie cutters to make your shapes. Use a smaller shape to cut out the centers. The best way to do these is to cut out the shape and transfer it to a cookie sheet lined with parchment paper. THEN cut out the center and fill with candy. If you try to cut out the center first and then transfer it, it is more likely to break or stretch out of shape.   You can use cookie cutters, but they are not necessary. You can manage without—just shape the cookies freehand. You can even make a detailed scene like this. Once you're happy with the way it looks, fill the holes with candy and bake. Children enjoy letting their imaginations run wild here—they can be busy for an hour or more, easily (depending on the child, obviously).    Ingredients:
Directions:
Miriam Szokovski is the author of the historical novel Exiled Down Under, and a member of the Chabad.org editorial team. She enjoys tinkering with recipes, and teaches cooking classes to young children. Miriam shares her love of cooking, baking and food photography on Chabad.org’s food blog, Cook It Kosher, and in the N’shei Chabad Newsletter.
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Lifestyle
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 To honor those roots is to celebrate Jewish identity in a modern world. Connect with your roots and generate growth in your own life!
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Jewish News
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Sol Volen, 88, has been an indefatigable volunteer since his retirement at 71. One of the numerous organizations he serves is the Jewish Relief Agency (JRA), a project of Lubavitch House of Philadelphia, where Volen has been lending a hand for the past 12 years. This Sunday, Aug. 9, they will be delivering non-perishable foods for the High Holidays, marking the organization’s 180th food distribution to more than 3,200 families (nearly 6,000 individuals) in the Greater Philadelphia area.
JRA was founded in 2000 by Rabbi Menachem Schmidt, co-director of Lubavitch House of Philadelphia with his wife, Chava; and Marc Erlbaum, whose brother Daniel Erlbaum serves as board president. It has partner chapters in Chicago; Pittsburgh; Cherry Hill, N.J.; Morristown, N.J.; and will soon launch in Southwestern Connecticut. “One of the most rewarding outcomes besides helping those with food insecurity is the sense of community that JRA has created among volunteers. Everyone is an eager and needed participant,” says Schmidt, who will be at the warehouse on Sunday. “From families with little kids to Sol, multi-generations from across the entire Jewish community come out to pack and deliver boxes. It’s a very beautiful thing.” Volen, who has a daughter, Meryl Gerner, has lived for nearly 50 years in the same house in Northeast Philadelphia. His wife, Irma, passed away 15 years ago. Q: How did you first become involved with JRA? A: I heard about it and thought they were doing a good thing, a necessary thing. At first, I went on Sundays and made the boxes—putting them together so other volunteers could fill them with food items—and then when everyone had gone out to deliver, I would sweep up the warehouse and leave. I came every month. It was amazing to see all the young kids there. Now I go on Mondays, where I pick up some of the leftover routes from the day before. I do as many as I can. Last month, I delivered 38 boxes in about four hours. Q: You mean you and someone else? 
The octogenarian is an avid collector of U.S. coins and metal charge coins, which American department stores used for extending credit before credit cards existed, shown here.
It’s also a good way to stay active. I’m not feeble, and I have no plans to slow down. Q: What are some of the exchanges you’ve had with food-package recipients? A: Actually, I haven’t had many. A lot of them are Russian and hardly speak English. I say hello, and they thank me. I try to give them a smile, a greeting. People have told me they like my smile. Q: You have a long history of volunteering. What are some of the other outlets you assist? A: I started with the Red Cross. When there was a fire—and there were a lot of house fires in Philadelphia—we would get notified at all times of the day, at 2 in the afternoon, at 3 in the morning. We would hand out paperwork after the firefighters left, and give folks vouchers for food and clothing. I also worked at the USO at the Philadelphia airport. There’s a lounge for military personnel, and I would serve food there. I’m involved with the Jewish War Veterans and go to meetings every month. Also monthly, a bunch of us go to the Delaware Valley Veterans Home and bring sandwiches and drinks, paid for by the Jewish War Vets post. I participated in Volunteers for Israel about 10 years ago, helping out on an army base for three weeks sorting fatigues. As for hobbies, I collect old U.S. coins and metal charge coins, which department stores used for extending credit before credit cards existed. And I have is a Ham radio license, and during fundraisers, like walks for cancer and a fall bike-athon for multiple sclerosis, I travel alongside participants with other radio operators in case anyone gets in trouble. We can help physically and offer communication during the whole route, especially in areas that don’t get cell-phone reception. The bike fundraiser, for example, goes 75 miles a day over two days. Q: You seem to do a lot for veterans. What is your background? A: I served in the U.S. infantry during World War II, during the latter part of 1944 and into 1947. My three brothers served as well—all of us at the same time. They were sent to Europe; I was in the Philippines. Our parents were both from Ukraine; here in the United States, they ran a candy shop in the neighborhood near Strawberry Mansion, which at the time was almost all Jewish. As for my career, my father, brother and I bought a bar, where I bar-tended for 22 years. But it was a rough business, and we eventually sold it. Then for years I had a vending-machine route, where I sold them, moved them, repaired them—everything. That branched into a coffee-machine route, placing them in businesses, automobile dealers, factories. And then I retired. 
This Sunday, Aug. 9, marks the 180th food distribution and the delivery of High Holiday packages to more than 3,200 families (nearly 6,000 individuals) in the Greater Philadelphia area. The food-relief organization, founded in 2000, is a project of Lubavitch House of Philadelphia. (Photo: JRA)
A: It’s a big deal. When they started, it was small-scale. Now, so many are involved, and so many get food every month. There are hungry people out there, and it makes you feel good to help them. I was born in 1926 and grew up during the Depression, when no one had anything. I remember if a Jewish person was traveling through town from one city to another, my mother would put them up in our house until they got on their feet. Now I try and give back, too. What do I get out of it? It’s gratifying. It’s gratifying to do it. That’s what I tell everyone. To learn more about the Jewish Relief Agency, visit their website here.
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Jewish News
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Cyprus brings to mind many visuals, in addition to the sandy terrain and lush greenery evocative of Mediterranean islands.
Those of a certain age look past the landscape to an older image—of Jewish refugees detained in Displaced Persons camps behind barbed wire following World War II, and an ensuing exodus from Europe and towards what was then British Mandate Palestine. From 1946 to 1948, the British confined more than 50,000 Jewish refugees on the island. After 1948, most of them made it to Israel, but during their time there, more than 2,000 Jewish babies were born in tent-camps. For contemporary Israelis, Cyprus represents something different altogether—a neighboring nation visited mainly by young vacationers, as well as home to families who have relocated there for business or as diplomatic representatives. Although the majority of the community the Chabad House serves consists of Israelis, it is not exclusively so; several British expatriates and their families are part of the community. Cyprus is the third-largest and third most populous island in the Mediterranean, after Sicily and Sardinia in Italy. When Chabad-Lubavitch emissaries Rabbi Arie Zeev and Shaindel Raskin arrived in Larnaca, Cyprus, with their four children in 2003 (they now have seven children), they found a Jewish community consisting of about 350 to 400 families, including many seniors who lived with their adult children. They recognized the potential for both the physical and spiritual growth of the community, in addition to the need to accommodate not only those who were already living there, but generations to come. 
Camp Gan Israel Cyprus ran all summer and ends this week; it came complete with English and Hebrew lessons.
“There were not even the ruins of an ancient synagogue for them here,” says the rabbi. “In order to congregate for prayers, the elders of the community were still doing what they had been doing for years—finding a private home to host prayer services and bringing the Torah scrolls there from which to read the weekly portion. Today, we have daily prayers and are able to provide minyans every day for people to attend.” Shaindel Raskin adds that “one of the very first things we did when we arrived here was to establish a kindergarten. We needed to have an educational framework for our children. But the demand soon grew as couples also wanted their children to come to the Chabad school and receive a Jewish education as part of their upbringing. So we immediately were able to see that it would not be long before we would need more space than the cramped quarters we had.” Irit Avni, who came to live in Cyprus with her husband and family about five years ago for his business, says she was amazed by how the Raskins welcomed them with open arms. “I come from a background a bit more Torah-observant than my husband,” she says. “The Raskins made us feel at home and took such great pains to see we had everything we needed—no matter what or when. In time, my husband started to enjoy coming to the Torah lessons and to shul more, and today, he davens [prays] three times a day. The community here has enriched our lives.” 
The Raskin family
More Room for AllThe Raskins began to formulate a plan to build a complex large enough to serve the population and its multifarious needs. This would prove a better alternative to renting smaller spaces all over town, which was a stopgap measure; thus, the concept of constructing the Jewish Educational Culture Center was born. The JECC, though conceived a while ago, just recently passed to the next step. The first challenge was to obtain the building they wanted, followed by a bout of red tape associated with zoning laws (the new building lay in a residential area). Still, the sale went through and now comes an equally challenging aspect: funding the renovations. The rather ambitious project will cost in the area of €1,900,000 (approximately $2 million). At present, about one-fifth of the funds needed have been raised. “Right now, the synagogue is located in the same building as our home,” says the rabbi, “and people are sometimes hesitant to knock at the door to go and daven for fear that they will be bothering the family. With the new center, we will be able offer daily, Shabbat and holiday services where worshippers can feel free to come to pray at will.” 
Kids show off their Tu B'Shevat projects.
Also on tap is sufficient space for celebrations like bar and bat mitzvahs; communal events and holiday programs; classes; Talmud and Torah study for different age groups; a personal counseling center and more—all in a central location. The Raskins already provide bar and bat mitzvah preparation, teen and youth programs, the kindergarten for children under 4, Hebrew classes for those under 12, and Hebrew school for all ages and levels. A Sunday school takes place once a month to introduce and instill Jewish values and tradition in the younger set. Shaindel Raskin adds that they also deliver challah weekly to businesses and private homes. “Our primary goal is to improve the quality of Jewish life for every Jew in Cyprus,” says Rabbi Raskin. “The moral values and rich traditions that Judaism has to offer are things that no Jew should be deprived of.” Growing Across the IslandOn Sept. 12, 2005, Raskin was named the official rabbi of Cyprus at the dedication ceremony of the Chabad House. Afterwards, the crowd moved outside, where supporters laid the foundation stone for the new mikvah, a welcome development for the local families who were currently making use of the Mediterranean for such purposes. 
A stack of kosher-for-Passover food items, much of it from Israel, that arrived for the holiday this year.
By 2006, the building of Mikva Mei Menachem was completed, and the Cyprus International Jewish School opened. In addition to the Chabad Houses in Larnaca, and Kyrenia in the island's north, there is a summer center in Ayia Napa, a resort at the far eastern end of the southern coast. Other projects in the works include a kosher market. As the Jewish communities on the Isle of Cyprus have come back to life in the past decade, a need arose in nearby Limassol, less than an hour away by car, to serve the Jewish business community, Israelis, native-born Jews and Jewish tourists there. The Limassol Chabad House—“a Jewish home for all,” stresses Raskin—serves as a meeting place to have coffee, conversation and a Torah class. The site supplies Jewish services required by the local community: kosher food, a synagogue, Torah classes, joint Shabbat meals, and an attentive ear for guidance and direction in all things Jewish. 
Located in the eastern Mediterranean, Cyprus is visited by young Israeli vacationers, as well as home to Israeli families who have relocated there for business or as diplomatic representatives. (Map: Google)
“The Raskins have not only been our advocates and our mentors, but our friends,” she continues. “There is nothing too little or unimportant in their eyes when it comes to helping others. They remind me of a story I once heard about Rabbi Akiva—that when asked to explain the Torah in one sentence, he said: ‘Love thy fellow [Jew] as thyself.’ ” 
A Tu B'Shevat seder features an array of fresh fruit in honor of the Jewish hokiday.
Rabbi Raskin instructs children at a “Model Matzah Bakery” workshop prior to Passover.
Children at the Chabad House; a Hebrew school and kindergarten were established as soon as the Raskins arrived. As Shaindel Raskin says: “We needed to have an educational framework for our children.”
Havdalah ceremony at a Friends of Chabad dinner
Community members and visitors attended at a Friends of Chabad dinner, held in part to help raise funds for the new building.
Planting for the future
Adults and kids add trees to the landscape at a communal event.
The rabbi says that “with the new center, we will be able offer daily, Shabbat and holiday services where worshippers can feel free to come to pray at will.”
A public menorah on the Mediterranean island of Cyprus
© Copyright 2015, all rights reserved.
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Jewish News
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Iquitos in Peru is known as the most isolated city in South America. Surrounded by thick jungle, it sits on the banks of the mighty Amazon River. For the first time in decades,it was recently visited by a group of rabbinical students, who were there as part of the Merkos Shlichus Chabad “Roving Rabbis” program.
“Iquitos was unlike any other place we’ve been,” says 22-year-old Yecheskel Posner, who visited the city together with fellow student Nosson Huebner. “There are almost no cars, and many of the houses here are built on stilts because the rising waters of the Amazon often flood the city, known as the ‘Venice of South America.’ ” Using boats and water taxis, the pair traveled through the city meeting American and Israeli tourists, as well as a few local Jews, descendants of Romanian immigrants who came to the city at the turn of the 20th century. Many Jewish people also arrived during the rubber boom—a cemetery and synagogue were then built—but the native Jewish population has dwindled to near extinction. Many of the tourists take speedboats to remote locations along the Amazon where they revel in the abundant nature, seeing pink dolphins, sloths, monkeys, alligators, and exotic birds and insects. Others turn to the area in search of cures extracted from the place’s rich flora. 
Posner catches a piranha straight out of the Amazon River.
“It was very special,” says Posner. “There we were at the edge of the earth praying, wrapping tefillin, sharing Shabbat candles, celebrating with our fellow Jews—just like we would anywhere else in the world.” The two wisely passed up on the opportunity to purchase a baby alligator, but did buy a captive baby pygmy marmoset,the world’s smallest monkey, which they promptly brought to a local animal rescue center. During their six-week stint in Peru, the pair also visited the cities of Lima, Huaraz and Arequipa, in addition to the town and beach resort of Máncora. 
Huebner holds a baby pygmy marmoset, the world’s smallest monkey.
The two men bought the animal and then donated it to a local rescue center.
In the same market where they purchased the captive monkey were small alligators, turtles and parrots for sale.
Huebner as seen from a boat on the Amazon, facing a lodge where the two students met many Jews and helped them put on tefillin.
The Amazon River bank on the city of Iquitos, a great part of which is in the water
Huebner, left, and Posner help a Jewish man wrap tefillin.
The placid river near Iquitos, known as the most isolated city in South America
One of Peru's many verdant jungles
A top-down view of the jungle foliage
The mighty Amazon, where many turn to the area in search of cures extracted from the place’s rich flora
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Jewish News
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As 2,322 Jewish men and women gathered around tables Friday night for what has officially been declared by the Guinness World Records to be the largest Shabbat meal on record, Shneur Volfman says he and his fellow Chabad-Lubavitch rabbinical students were on a mission: to make sure that each attendee had a meaningful Shabbat experience.
“There was much more than meets the eye,” reports the native of Oak Park, Mich., who studies at Chabad schools in the United Kingdom. “Even giving out kipahs. It may seem simple, but when you realize how many people there were, you see it’s a big deal.” The meal was preceded by prayer services. Speaking to some of the worshippers, Rabbi Yehuda Teichtal, rabbi of the Berlin Jewish community and the head of Chabad of Berlin, shared the significance of that particular Shabbat. “This Shabbat is the Shabbat of Nachamu, which means ‘comfort,’ ” said the rabbi to the crowd. “Following the destruction of the Temple on the ninth of Av, we now rise up and G‑d comforts us. It is also the 15th of Av, the day the decree that the Jews wander in the desert came to an end and one of the happiest days on the Jewish calendar. From the terrible suffering comes joy and comfort. “Of course, this is truest in Berlin,” he continued. “Just decades ago, this was the source of horrors beyond imagination. Yet in this very same city, thousands of young Jews can gather to celebrate, fraternize and explore their heritage.” 
Rabbi Yehuda Teichtal, rabbi of the Berlin Jewish community and the head of Chabad of Berlin, with Robby Rjber, vice president of Maccabi in Germany, in front of the table setup before the record-breaking Shabbat dinner in Berlin
‘A Beautiful Scene’Once everyone (or almost everyone) was seated their tables and had broken bread, Volfman says he and the other rabbinical students—part of the Merkos Shlichus “Roving Rabbis” program—were encouraged to fan out into the crowds to sing, dance and engage the athletes in Jewish conversation.“The crowd was much too big to be centrally conducted,” states Teichtal, “but through song and dance, we were able to coalesce into one giant display of Jewish pride.” “It was a beautiful scene,” reports Volfman. “Some people were celebrating Shabbat for the very first time and others had celebrated for every week of their lives, but everyone was talking, laughing, sharing and singing.” Many of the songs were from a special booklet produced by Chabad of Berlin that had both Hebrew, German and English versions of some popular Shabbat melodies, in addition to the “Grace After Meals.” The Shabbat meal was part of the 2015 European Maccabi Games, which run through Wednesday. The meal was the project of Alon Meyer, president of Maccabi in Germany, and Robby Rjber, its vice president. Throughout the week, Chabad students have been operating two tefillin and information booths—one of them at the stadium where the games are being played, the same site where Hitler sought to bar Jewish athletes and other minorities from the 1936 Olympic Games.
© Copyright 2015, all rights reserved.
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Chabad.org Magazine - Editor: Yanki Tauber
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