Category: Excerpts

Excerpted from Megillat Ruth Mesorat HaRav, co-published by OU Press and Koren Publishers Jerusalem

Standing for The Ten Commandments

On the first day of the holiday of Shavuot, we read the Torah portion about the Revelation at Sinai and the Ten Commandments (Shulḥan Arukh, Oraḥ Ḥayyim 494:1). Maimonides (Teshuvot, Blau ed., 263) was asked if it is an appropriate custom to specifically stand during the reading of the Ten Commandments. The questioner felt that such a custom should not be allowed, just as the Rabbis themselves (Berakhot 12a) dissolved the practice of reading the Ten Commandments along with the Shema because of heretics who claimed that the Ten Commandments were more important than the rest of the Torah. The questioner felt that anything that places extra emphasis on the Ten Commandments over the rest of the Torah would share the same potential for heresy.

In his response, Maimonides passionately agrees with the questioner and maintains that indeed one should not stand specifically for the reading of the Ten Commandments. Rather, one should sit, as one does during the rest of the Torah reading. Maimonides suspects that standing for the Ten Commandments will possibly lead to a laxity in faith, for one will begin to think that certain sections of the Torah are more important than others. Therefore, Maimonides concludes that this practice should be avoided.

However, despite Maimonides’ opinion, the current commonplace custom is to stand during the reading of the Ten Commandments (see Shaarei Ephraim 7:37; Iggerot Moshe, Oraḥ Ḥayyim 4:22). The question is, why indeed is this our custom? Why do we not follow Maimonides’ compelling argument? Furthermore, why is standing for the reading of
the Ten Commandments any different from the custom that the Rabbis dissolved of reading the Ten Commandments with the Shema?

We can understand our custom of standing for the reading of the Ten Commandments based on the following. The Ten Commandments, unlike other sections of the Torah, have two sets of cantillations, known as “ta’am taḥton” and “ta’am elyon.” The difference between them is as follows: the ta’am taḥton divides the Ten Commandments by verses, in the same manner as the rest of the Torah. The ta’am elyon, however, divides the Ten Commandments not into units of verses but by commandment. For example, the fourth commandment contains four verses according
to ta’am taḥton (Ex. 20:7-10), but when using the ta’am elyon, it is read as one long verse, being that these four verses comprise just one of the Ten Commandments. Likewise, the fifth through eighth commandments, according to ta’am taḥton, are contained in one verse (Ex. 20:12), but when using ta’am elyon are read as four separate verses, one verse for each individual commandment.

With this in mind, we can understand the custom of standing for the Ten Commandments. The regular weekly reading of the Torah was instituted in order to fulfill our communal obligation of Torah study. It was specifically designed to fulfill this obligation through the reading of the Written Torah. Consequently, we fulfill this obligation by reading the pesukim of the Torah. The Talmud states that we cannot divide a verse in a way that Moses did not divide it (Megillah 24a). Therefore, when fulfilling our communal obligation of learning Torah, the Torah must be read in
the way that Moses divided it, to constitute reading pesukim.

When the Ten Commandments are read with the ta’am elyon, by contrast, our goal is not to fulfill our obligation of reading Torah. Rather we are reading the Ten Commandments as a  commemoration of what transpired at Mount Sinai, and therefore the reading is divided into commandments (as they were said at Sinai), not into verses.

In many congregations, on the weeks of Parashat Yitro and Va’etḥanan in which the Ten Commandments are read, they are read with the regular cantillation, ta’am taḥton (see Beiur Halakhah 494). This is because this reading is part of the regular weekly reading of the Torah in which we are fulfilling our communal obligation of learning Torah, and therefore it must be read with the regular cantillation (ta’am taḥton).

However, on Shavuot, everyone has the custom to read the Ten Commandments with the ta’am elyon. This is because the reading of the Ten Commandments on Shavuot is not meant to fulfill our communal obligation of learning Torah; rather, the reading is a commemoration of the giving of the Torah at Mount Sinai, and thus we divide the Ten Commandments into the unit of commandments, not into verses (see Magen Avraham 494 in the name of Ḥizkuni).

It follows that our current custom to stand during the recitation of the Ten Commandments applies when they are being read with the ta’am elyon. This cantillation demonstrates that our reading is a commemoration of what took place at Mount Sinai, and therefore we stand just as the Jewish nation stood around Mount Sinai when receiving the Torah (see Ex. 19:17; Deut. 4:11). Likewise, it would seem that Maimonides’ disapproval of standing for the Ten Commandments is when they are being read with the ta’am taḥton, which indicates that they are being read as verses of the Torah. One cannot stand for the Ten Commandments when they are read as a particular segment of the Torah, because this would indeed indicate that one ascribes more significance to them than to the rest of the Torah.

When reading the Ten Commandments with ta’am elyon, however, we do not have to be concerned about the appearance of giving primacy to the Ten Commandments. We are not standing due to the content of the Torah reading but rather as a commemoration of what transpired at Mount Sinai. The Ten Commandments are no more sacred than the parashah which speaks of Timnah, the concubine of Elifaz (Gen. 36:12), but the Ten Commandments are read not only as a text which is being studied, but as a text which is being promulgated and proclaimed by God Himself.

Judaism developed a very peculiar philosophy of memory, indeed, an ethics of memory. Memory and forgetfulness are subject to ethical determination. Memory is not just the capacity of man to know events which lie in the past. Memory is experiential in nature; one does not simply recollect the past or just remember bygones, but reexperiences that which has been, and quickens events that are seemingly dead.

Many mitzvot are based upon this idea. The Passover seder is, of course, the prime example: “In each generation a person is required to see himself as if he had gone out of Egypt” (Haggadah). Likewise, the reading of the Ten Commandments is not only a didactic performance of limmud, study, but a restaging, a dramatic reenacting of mattan Torah. That is why people rise when it is read.

Excerpted from Megillat Ruth Mesorat HaRav, co-published by OU Press and Koren Publishers Jerusalem

The Jewish People’s Conversation at Sinai

Maimonides (Hil. Issurei Biah 13:1,4) writes:

Israel entered the covenant with three acts: circumcision, immersion, and offering a sacrifice…. Similarly, for [all] future generations, when a gentile desires to enter into the covenant, take shelter under the wings of the Divine Presence, and accept the yoke of the Torah, he must undergo circumcision, immersion, and the offering of a sacrifice.

Maimonides’ description is based on the Gemara (Keritot 9a) which derives the laws of conversion from the experience of the Jewish people at Sinai. The Vilna Gaon (Beiur HaGra, Oraḥ Ḥayyim 490:9) explains that this is the basis for our custom to read Megillat Rut on Shavuot – just as Megillat Rut describes one conversion, Shavuot commemorates the conversion of the nation.

However, the idea that mattan Torah was the Jewish people’s conversion seems to stand in contradiction to a statement of Nahmanides in his commentary on the Torah (Lev. 24:10). Nahmanides writes that “from the time that Abraham entered the covenant, they [i.e., his descendants through Isaac and Jacob] were Israelites and were ‘not reckoned among the nations.’” According to Nahmanides, following Abraham’s circumcision he and his descendants already achieved Jewish status. If so, what was the need for the conversion at Sinai? Ritva (Ketubot 11a) addresses this issue and states that, “The seed of Abraham had already been commanded regarding circumcision and were entered into his [Abraham’s] covenant from their youth, and this [i.e., the conversion at Sinai] was only the completion of conversion [gemar gerut].” How are we to understand this?

We can explain as follows. The concept of conversion is equivalent to accepting the yoke of Torah and mitzvot. Abraham was given one commandment – circumcision – and therefore, in his time only partial conversion was possible. In Egypt, the Jewish people received additional mitzvot (see Hil. Melakhim 9:1) but since they did not receive all the mitzvot, full conversion was still impossible. At Sinai when the people received all six hundred and thirteen mitzvot, they required a new act to complete their conversion and be imbued with the full sanctity of the
Jewish people. Since the sanctity of the Jewish people derives from Torah and mitzvot, the addition of new mitzvot required a new conversion; the completion of kedushat Yisrael could take place only with the revelation of all six hundred and thirteen mitzvot. This is the meaning of the gemar gerut that took place at Sinai.

Although we have described the conversion at Sinai as the paradigm of future conversions, it seems that there is one significant difference between the conversion at Sinai and subsequent conversions. In characterizing the offering brought as part of the people’s conversion, Maimonides (Hil. Issurei Biah 13:3) writes: “Sacrifiices [were offered then], as the verse (Ex. 24:5) states: ‘And he sent out the youth of the children of Israel and  they brought burnt offerings.’ They offered them as agents of the entire Jewish people [על ידי כל ישראל הקריבום].” The phrase על ידי כל ישראל הקריבום seems to indicate that these offerings were brought on behalf of the Jewish people as a nation, not as individuals, i.e., as korbenot tzibbur. If so, it follows that the conversion of the Jewish people was performed not as a group of individuals but as a single communal conversion. Likewise, the acceptance of the mitzvot (kabbalat mitzvot) was performed communally when the people said naaseh venishma – “we shall do and we shall heed” (Ex. 24:7) – “as one man, with one heart” (Rashi, Ex. 19:2). The conversion took effect on the nation as a whole at one time.

Based on this, we can resolve a question that arises from the Gemara (Shabbat 130a). Commenting on the verse “Moses heard the people weeping with their families” (Num. 11:10), the Gemara explains that Israel was weeping concerning family matters, for marriages within the family that became forbidden after they accepted the Torah. Yet there is a well-known rule that a convert to Judaism is akin to a newly born infant (Yevamot 22a) – meaning that the convert’s former family relationships are dissolved. If so, Maharal (Gur Aryeh, Gen. 46:10) notes that there should have been no prohibited marriages following mattan Torah, since all Israel underwent conversion at Sinai.

However, according to the above, we can explain that this rule did not apply to the conversion at Sinai because it was fundamentally distinct from the ordinary form of conversion. Ordinarily, conversion is an individual act, and in such cases the convert gains the status of a newborn. But the conversion at Sinai was not a separate conversion of each individual member of Israel, but a conversion of the entire nation in the aggregate.  Since the conversion at Sinai took effect on the whole nation as a single entity, their family relationships persisted.

Excerpted from Rabbi Aaron Goldscheider’s Torah United: Teachings on the Weekly Parasha from Rav Avraham Yitzchak HaKohen Kook, Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik, and the Chassidic Masters, co-published by OU Press and Ktav Publishing House

An Antidote for Recidivism

When the metzora, someone afflicted with the special skin condition of tzara’at, concludes their quarantine, the Torah requires them to offer sacrifices before reentering society: “The Kohen shall command, and he shall take for the one to be purified two living pure birds, cedar wood, red-dyed wool, and hyssop” (Leviticus 14:4). Why these items specifically?

Rashi explained their significance based on the Midrash. The tall and mighty cedar represents the offender’s arrogance. The red-dyed wool is called sheni tola‘at, the second word meaning “worm” in Hebrew, and the hyssop has a low-lying habit. “What is his rectification so that he can heal? He should abase himself from his arrogance like a worm and hyssop.”

The second Sochatchover Rebbe, the Shem mi-Shemu’el, found Rashi’s wording curious. Has the metzora not been cured already at this point? In the previous verse, the Torah says, “The Kohen shall go outside the camp, and the Kohen shall look, and behold the tzara’at affliction has healed” (Leviticus 14:3). Moreover, why does a metzora need to remove their arrogance through the sacrifice? Didn’t they need to repent already so that the affliction would heal? The Sages state, “The affliction effects his atonement; the offerings permit him to reenter the community.” Atonement has been made!

The Rebbe resolved this by sharing an explanation from his illustrious father, Rabbi Avraham Bornsztain, known as the Avnei Nezer, one of the greatest halachists of the nineteenth century. Not every act of humbling oneself is identical. One can be humbled by external circumstances, like the crushing blow of suffering or penury. These force a person into submission and make them all too aware of their vulnerability and even mortality. Ejected from the community and disgraced for his or her sins, the metzora is humbled. How can someone remain arrogant when they must broadcast that they are impure to all who approach them? The metzora therefore does teshuvah (repentance), and it is sufficient to cure the malady.

The metzora’s rehabilitation, however, is not yet complete. Now that he is cured, the oppressive circumstances are lifted, and with the pressure eased off he is liable to return to his arrogant attitude. “What is his rectification so that he can heal” refers to a complete, spiritual healing. As the metzora enters the Temple to offer his sacrifice, he has a newfound realization of the grandeur of God and the need to humbly submit to the divine will. The symbolic ingredients of the sacrifice contribute to this personal transformation that results in true humility that comes from within rather than from without. The arrogance is eradicated rather than repressed.

In a concluding remark, the Sochatchover Rebbe added another proof to his father’s teaching. As mentioned above, the cured metzora brings two birds, one to be slaughtered and the other to be set free. What is the purpose of this? The Midrash answers: “To tell you that just as it is impossible for a slaughtered bird to return, so it is impossible for the affliction to return.” With the bringing of the sacrifice, the metzora has thoroughly repented, and the rehabilitation is complete. There is no lingering threat of recidivism.

Through this commentary on the metzora’s sacrifices, we learn two ideas about teshuvah from the Shem mi-Shemu’el and the Avnei Nezer.

First, “the Merciful One desires the heart”(רַחְמָנאָ ליִבָּא בָּעֵי).  God truly wants emotional investment with a pure heart; without it, our service is much less desirable to Him. We are not supposed to go through the motions but to truly feel it.

The importance of this sincerity of the heart is beautifully captured in a classic Chassidic tale. Once Rebbe Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev held up the prayer service on Rosh Hashanah. This was the account he later gave as to why he did so:

There is a young lad in town who is a shepherd. He was orphaned at a young age, and never had the opportunity to learn how to read Hebrew. This morning, when he saw everyone streaming toward the synagogues, and upon inquiring was told that today was the solemn day of Rosh Hashanah, he felt very bad that he could not join others in prayer.

The young lad went out into the field and turned his eyes upward toward heaven. “Dear God,” he said. “I have never learned to pray like others have. All I know is the alef-bet. I will recite the letters for You, and You put them together to make proper words.” The lad began reciting alef, bet, gimel, dalet, etc.

The lad is now reciting the alef-bet, and God is busy putting the letters together to form proper words. We must delay our prayers until the lad is finished with his, at which time God can be attentive to us.

The formal prayer obligation was set aside for a few minutes to make way for prayer of the sincerest kind, a wordless outpouring of the song of the soul.

Secondly, teshuvah must not be forced by external circumstances, but by an internal movement of the heart. As we know from experience, too often the well-intentioned find themselves right back at it after having repented. Teshuvah requires sincere regret for having done wrong and a firm commitment never to repeat the wrongful act. But that is not enough, as Rabbi Dr. Abraham J. Twerski, the famed addiction specialist and Chassidic scion, observed:

One must think, “How is it that I came to do this wrongful act?” One must analyze oneself to discover the character defects that made such an act a possibility, and improve on these defects, developing oneself to a level of spirituality at which such an act could not recur.

In the time of the Temple, entering its holy precincts instilled the fear of God, and the bringing of the sacrifice would effectuate the final transformation. In the absence of these aids, we need to subject ourselves to deep soul-searching. The antidote to recidivism is to tear out our sins by the roots.

Excerpted from Rabbi Aaron Goldscheider’s Torah United: Teachings on the Weekly Parasha from Rav Avraham Yitzchak HaKohen Kook, Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik, and the Chassidic Masters, co-published by OU Press and Ktav Publishing House

Moshe’s Self-Erasure

If asked to identify what made Moshe outstanding, we might point to his intellect or prophetic ability. The common honorific Moshe Rabbeinu identifies him as our greatest teacher and the chief expositor of God’s Torah. Another good candidate is his humility, as the Torah testifies that he was “very humble, more than any other person on the face of the earth” (Numbers 12:3). The second Sochatchover Rebbe, the Shem mi-Shemu’el, focused on what may not be our first guess: selflessness.

In praise of Moshe, the Torah calls him ne’eman (Numbers 12:7), typically translated as “faithful” or “loyal.” The rebbe quoted his maternal grandfather, the Kotzker Rebbe, who understood it to mean “selflessly devoted.” Moshe was unconcerned with himself, only thought about others, and was willing to sacrifice himself for God and the Jewish people.

The Alter of Kelm championed the virtues of selflessness and genuine concern for others, and he also cited Moshe as an exemplar of them. Moshe not only identified with and responded to the general downtrodden condition of his people (Exodus 2:11), but he demonstrated concern for individual Jews too (Exodus 2:12). He even felt the suffering experienced by non-Jews and acted on their behalf, as his actions at the well in Midian demonstrate (Exodus 2:17). The Torah tells us all of this background to demonstrate that Moshe was worthy of leading the Jewish people, as he naturally shared the burden of his fellow, he was nose be-ol chavero.

We can add to this Moshe’s lack of regard for himself in devoting every ounce of energy, “from morning until night” (Exodus 18:14), to offering advice and counsel to his people. Yitro foresaw the disastrous consequences which this self-neglect would eventually yield and exclaimed, “you cannot do this alone” (Exodus 18:18), bringing Moshe to his senses. This episode shows how far Moshe was willing to go for everyone else.

Perhaps the most remarkable example of Moshe’s selflessness can be seen in what occurred after the sin of the golden calf. For his people, who often displayed ingratitude, Moshe was willing to erase himself from this world and risk losing the next. He threw his lot in with theirs despite that he himself had no part in the sin. This was the ultimate act of dedication and devotion.

Rabbi Mosheh Lichtenstein, a rosh yeshivah of Yeshivat Har Etzion, describes Moshe’s devotion to his people, this way:

Moshe’s very existence and being are dependent on the survival of the people, and he rejects any option that will part him from them and their fate. Like a mother who throws herself in the line of  fire to save her child from danger – for what would her life be without him? – so Moshe responds to the threat that hangs over his flock. He prefers to be wiped out with the Israelites rather than be alone in Paradise, although he is well aware, perhaps more than any other human being, of the doom and perdition entailed in being erased from the Book of Life, and of the price of not being inscribed in the eternal Torah. Nevertheless, he chooses to risk everything in his attempt to save his flock. It is not for naught that the Torah describesMoshe as “very humble,” that is, as one who sets no importance on his personal existence and value.

Where did Moshe learn this trait of self-effacement? Rebbe Ben-Zion Rabinowicz, the current and third Biala Rebbe, is convinced that he learned this from Pharaoh’s daughter. She risked her life to defy her own father’s evil decree and to save a Jewish child from certain death. Her disregard for her own wellbeing in saving an outsider from a different culture and religion modeled for him the ultimate self-sacrifice.

And it was appropriate that Moshe learned this lesson and implemented it in his life. Rabbi Chaim Vital wrote that Moshe was a gilgul (reincarnation) of Noach’s soul, forced to return to this world to correct a sin. Which sin? Noach did not care enough for others to pray for his generation. Moshe sacrificed himself for the sake of his people, thereby rectifying the mistake made by Noach’s soul. This is alluded to by Moshe’s statement “erase me” (מְחנֵיִ), which is an anagram of the Hebrew phrase “the waters of Noach” (מֵי נֹחַ)

Taking our cues from Moshe ultimately redounds to our own benefit. A well-known parable has it that in Gehinnom, people sit at a huge, sumptuous banquet and are given absurdly long cutlery with which they cannot eat, and so they starve. In the Garden of Eden, people sit down to the same feast, and each person feeds the person across the table with the oversized cutlery. Thus, everyone is sated. We might one day be the beneficiaries of our own kindnesses to others.

More than that, the Sochatchover Rebbe writes, emptying ourselves of selfishness benefits the entire world. We become diaphanous vessels for the abundance God sends down to the world. Moshe was the perfect treasurer for the Mishkan, because his absolute devotion to God and the Jewish people allowed the greatest blessing to flow into the building and its implements, unobstructed by any element of ego. The less space we take up, the more room there is for the divine.

Excerpted from Hasidus Meets America: The Life and Torah of the Monastryscher Rebbe zt”l (1860-1938) and an Anthology of his Teachings, co-published by OU Press and Ktav Publishers

Purim: Nahalat Yehoshua, pp. 126-128

Rabbi Yohanan began with this verse: “He recalled His kindness and His faith to the House of Israel; all the ends of the earth have seen the salvation of our God” (Ps. 98:3). When did all the ends of the earth see this? In the days of Mordechai and Esther. (Megillah 11a)

R. Yehoshua Heschel asks: How are we to understand the question itself? Was it only on Purim that the world saw God’s salvation?! After all, the redemption from Egypt was vastly more impressive, both the Exodus itself and the chain of visible, breathtaking miracles that led up to it. What, then, makes Purim a clearer sign of God’s power than the redemption from Egypt? After all, then, too, all the ends of the earth saw God’s salvation!

He prefaces his response by recalling some basic principles concerning the way God runs the world. Three orders must be distinguished: the natural; supernatural, revealed miracles; and hidden miracles, concealed in nature. Revealed miracles utterly defy the laws of nature; they emerge from the very depths of Divine being to enter this world, and thus they are humanly incomprehensible. While those who personally experience such miracles will believe they occurred, others, more distant from the experience may question, doubt, or even deny them. The Exodus itself attests to this reality. Even though “Nations heard – they were agitated; terror gripped the dwellers of Philistia; the chieftains of Edom were confounded, trembling gripped the powers of Moab, all the dwellers of Canaan dissolved” (Exod. 15:14–15) – nonetheless, Amalek, the absolute non-believer, refused to recognize any of the miracles that God had wrought for the Jewish people. Recklessly, “Amalek came and battled Israel” (Exod. 17:8). In the same way Balak King of Moav saw the Exodus as a natural event, and thus he brought in Bilaam to conquer Israel by force of his curses.

All this, of course, stands in sharp contrast to the inner workings of the third order: hidden miracles, concealed in nature. Ironically, on R. Yehoshua Heschel’s understanding, here alone, all the nations of the world have the capacity to recognize the hidden presence of Divine influence. He offers a series of biblical examples. Yitzhak sowed his field as farmers do; “and in that year he reaped a hundredfold” – clearly a heaven-sent blessing (Gen. 26:12). Yitzhak made wells, as shepherds do; unexplainably, wherever in that arid land his servants dug, they discovered flowing wellsprings. Hearing of his success, the shepherds of Avimelekh and Phicol approached Yitzhak, saying: “We have surely seen that God is with you” (Gen. 26:28). All this suggests that when abundant Divine blessing is bestowed through natural means, all of humanity recognizes the hand of God in it.

These thoughts lead R. Yehoshua Heschel to a radical conclusion:

In truth, it is the order of hidden miracles concealed in nature that testifies most cogently to God’s greatness. For God could of course supervise the world solely via miracles, in a continual, incomprehensible show of Divine omnipotence. Instead, though, God chose to constrict His infinite greatness, to confine His power in the guise of nature. This mighty act of tsimtsum (contraction) is far greater than any gesture of expansiveness (hitpashtut).

Finally, now we can understand what the Rabbis then taught some pages later (B. Megilah 16a): “[Haman] found Mordecai with the Sages sitting before him, and he was showing them the laws of kemitsah.” Those halakhot that Mordecai was teaching [on the simple level, they concern how a pinched handful of flour is to be taken from the meal-offering to be burned on the altar] – his intent was to grant the Sages more profound insight into the way God runs the world: God may choose to bring respite and salvation disguised in natural event; this most of all reveals His power. For the laws of kemitsah allude to the mystery of tsimtsum: miracles contained and concealed in nature. Thus, such phenomena actually enable us to recognize God’s glory.

To this point, R. Yehoshua Heschel has focused on the second part of the “prooftext” that would define the unique nature of Purim: “He recalled His kindness and His faith to the House of Israel; all the ends of the earth have seen the salvation of our God” (Ps. 98:3). But what of the first part? How are “God’s kindness and His faith (emunato)” related to the Purim experience in particular?

“Kindness” (hesed) symbolizes the infinite measure of beneficence that God gives the world as it is manifest in the supernatural order. Miracles disguised within nature, on the other hand, are entrusted to the Jewish people, a gesture of pure faith (emunah). God, as it were, believes in them: even if He conceals the traces of His surveillance of the world, the House of Israel will recognize and know that, here as well, God’s hand secretly guides all of history. Thus, in the days of Mordechai and Esther the miraculous was concealed in natural law, finally to emerge and, ultimately, to be acknowledged unto the ends of the earth.”

 

Excerpted from Rabbi Aaron Goldscheider’s Torah United: Teachings on the Weekly Parasha from Rav Avraham Yitzchak HaKohen Kook, Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik, and the Chassidic Masters, co-published by OU Press and Ktav Publishing House

A Heart Bursting with Love

“You shall not covet your neighbor’s house . . . or whatever belongs to your neighbor” (Exodus 20:14). Of the Ten Commandments, this final one may be the hardest to fathom. How can God command man not to experience an emotion that overtakes us naturally, seemingly of its own accord?

The medieval commentator Ibn Ezra contended that we can in fact control it, because this emotion is grounded in logical perception. He offered the following parable. No peasant in his right mind ever thinks he will marry the princess. Since the commoner knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that he will never be admitted to the aristocracy, he does not even covet the princess. She is the very definition of out of his league. Ibn Ezra explained that this is the mindset mandated by the tenth commandment. Everything we acquire in life comes from God; whatever others might have has been apportioned to them by God and is not within the realm of possibility for us. One who has proper faith recognizes this and consequently is not beset by feelings of envy.

Rabbi Pinchas Eliyahu Horowitz approached this problem differently. He pointed out that we are enjoined to love God with “all of our heart” (Deuteronomy 6:5). The “all” here instructs us that to fulfill this mitzvah, the only thing we must have in our heart is love for God. And “if one’s heart is overflowing with love of God, then it is impossible to covet anything in this world . . . It is like a brimming cup to which not a drop can be added.”

This is not some theoretical construct. These words were lived by Rav Avraham Yitzchak Hakohen Kook. In his poetic, mystical reflections, we discover a man in whom love for God, for his fellow man, and for
the world, takes up so much space so as to leave not even a toehold for envy:

I love everything. I cannot but love every person, every nation. From the depths of my heart I desire the resplendence of everything, the rectification of everything . . . I have no need whatsoever to force this feeling of love – it wells directly from the holy depth of Wisdom of the divine soul.

We can overcome feelings of jealousy or begrudging others their good fortune by filling our hearts with boundless love. Then, we will naturally rejoice at their success without thoughts of comparison
intruding. Covetousness will find no spot in our hearts to take root and produce its fetid flowers.

The final utterance of the Decalogue communicates the divine conviction that man can transcend his selfishness and pettiness that all too often begets conflict. Rav Kook taught that with the Jewish people
in particular, this love can be more readily accessed. While the members of other nations share an external identity, the Jewish people share an internal, metaphysical identity, because every individual Jewish soul is a piece of one greater, universal soul. When we are mindful of this, we are more likely to desire only good and happiness for our fellow Jew.

Rav Kook’s love for fellow Jews, his ahavat Yisrael, was not confined to the private stirrings of his spirit recorded in his notebooks. His extraordinary love of other Jews was legendary. One of Rav Kook’s
closest colleagues and beloved friends was Rabbi Aryeh Levin, “the Tzaddik of Jerusalem.” Living in Jerusalem at the same time was a man who was vocally critical of Rav Kook and Rabbi Levin. One day this man became very ill and was brought to the local hospital. On hearing the news, Rabbi Levin rushed, as was his practice, to the hospital to visit the new patient. The patient was astonished to see the good rabbi at his bedside. “Rabbi Aryeh, you must know how I have attacked you and your rabbi over your deeds and practices. I cannot help but ask: From where do you draw the strength to visit this patient and be so forgiving?” The Tzaddik of Jerusalem responded, “From that very same rabbi whom you oppose and have attacked have I learned unconditional love.” He was referring of course, to Rav Kook.

The Chassidic master Rebbe Chanoch Henoch Levin of Aleksander once drew attention to the fact that in Ibn Ezra’s parable the poor villager stands for the Jew who is supposed to be satisfied with his lot and
accepting of his station. The Rebbe adamantly asked, “Why compare the Jew to the peasant; after all, is not every Jew a child of the King? We should envision ourselves as the princess!” To be part of the royalty requires regal comportment with dignity, grace, and generosity.

When our hearts overflow with warmth and affection for others, there is no room for small-mindedness or pettiness. What is more, we seek everyone’s good fortune, and even cheer them on in their achievements. Let us observe the tenth commandment by not only being satisfied with our own God-given lot, but by being happy about what those around us have as well.

Excerpted from Rabbi Aaron Goldscheider’s Torah United: Teachings on the Weekly Parasha from Rav Avraham Yitzchak HaKohen Kook, Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik, and the Chassidic Masters, co-published by OU Press and Ktav Publishing House

Living Memory

Remembering our past is a key feature of Jewish life. Yearly, our entire community gathers to remember Amalek’s dastardly attack on the fledgling Jewish nation as they left Egypt: “Remember (זכָוֹר) what Amalek did to you” (Deuteronomy 25:17). Weekly, we remind ourselves as we consecrate Shabbat during Friday night Kiddush that Shabbat is “a commemoration (זכִּרָוןֹ) of the creation of the world.” Daily, we recite the all-important Shema and in so doing discharge our obligation to recall the Exodus from Egypt in the third passage, an obligation codified by the Mishnah based on the verse, “that you shall remember (תִּזכְרֹּ) the day you left Egypt all the days of your life” (Deuteronomy 16:3). So many commandments and rituals center on the Exodus; an entire holiday commemorates the event. Why must we Jews constantly bear in mind the Exodus?

Our greatest Torah scholars have grappled with this question. One approach suggests that remembering the Exodus is a way of thanking God and cultivating gratitude each and every day. The Haggadah we read during the annual period devoted to commemorating the Exodus, Pesach, confirms this: “Had the Holy One not taken our forefathers out Egypt, we, our children, and our grandchildren would still be enslaved to Pharaoh in Egypt.” How can we not be grateful?

A second approach was taken by the second Gerrer Rebbe, the Sefat Emet. He said that we are not merely to recall the foundational event of the Exodus, but to internalize it. The birth pangs that heralded the imminent birth of our great nation in Egypt were meant to instill within the Jews of the time, and within all generations of Jews to come, absolute faith in God.

Many of us recall the association between the four cups of wine drunk at the Passover Seder and the arba leshonot ge’ulah, the four expressions of redemption – “I shall take you out . . . I shall rescue you . . . I shall redeem you . . . I shall take you to Me” (Exodus 6:6–7). The Sefat Emet shifts our focus from these stages of redemption to its culmination: “so that you shall know that I am the Lord your God” (Exodus 6:7).

The Exodus occurred in a specific time and place, but it also represents a state of mind. The word for “Egypt” (מִצְרַיִם) shares multiple letters with the word for “strait” (מֵצַר) and “pain” (צַעַר). The Sefat Emet writes, “Truthfully, at every moment every Jew has an Egypt (מִצְרַיִם).” As we encounter these “Mitzrayim moments” in our daily lives, we are supposed to recall how God acted in Egypt, so as to sear into our consciousness unfailing trust in God. Just as He answered the cry of our forefathers in Egypt, so will He answer us. Recalling the Exodus is not about remembering an earth-shattering event from the annals of Jewish history, but reliving the redemption by God’s hand.

In the Shabbat Kiddush, we recite the words: “the first calling to holiness (לְמִקְרָאֵי קוֹדֶשׁ) a commemoration of the Exodus from Egypt.” Rebbe Naftali Zvi Horowitz of Ropshitz remarked that the memory of the Exodus calls us to holiness, that is, it gives us encouragement in our darkest moments to transcend. Though the Jewish people had gotten trapped in the impure and immoral quicksand that was Egypt, God did not only lift them out of it, but He raised them to great spiritual heights to receive the Torah and live with God’s presence, the Shechinah, in their midst. As God did miracles for our forefathers, so can He do them for us.

The idea that God takes us out of our personal Egypt or performs miracles, albeit less conspicuous ones, for us today, rests on the fundamental Chassidic conception that God is accessible to every Jew, that His presence can be felt even as He is intangible. The Lubavitcher Rebbe once shared an anecdote at a farbrengen, a gathering of Lubavitch Chassidim, about how we can “taste” God:

When the teachings of Chassidut were first being heard throughout Russia and Latvia, the Alter Rebbe, Shneur Zalman of Liadi, once passed through the city of Shklov on his travels. Shklov was then famous for its antagonism to Chassidut and for the rigorous hold exerted by the mitnagedim (opponents of Chassidut) over the entire city.

The Alter Rebbe entered the city and directed his steps to the main synagogue. He went up to the bimah and in his singular melodious tune, translated a verse from Psalms (34:9) into Yiddish: “Taste and you will see that God is good.” These soothing words, having emanated from his pure, truthful heart, pierced the hearts of his listeners. Scores of young people ran after him. They began to learn the teachings of Chassidut; soon they became prominent personalities in the Chassidic community.

The Alter Rebbe expressed a profound idea in a simple and uncomplicated way: one can “taste,” intimately feel, God’s presence. The young people drawn to him and his teachings must have realized that this was what was missing from their lives, and desired to experience the joy and meaning that follows from the sensation of God’s presence. Rav Avraham Yitzchak Hakohen Kook, who was profoundly influenced by Chassidic thought, interpreted that verse from Psalms as follows. We “see” the miracles and divine providence that surround us, which are external indications of the divine presence, but we can also internalize, or “taste,” God’s presence. Every single one of us is in reality very close to God.

Rebbe Nachman of Breslov, it is told, felt this to be the case even with those who have lived a life of sin and feel as distant from God as possible:

One of the town’s assimilated Jews fell seriously ill, and thought he was about to die. He became very melancholy, and could not be comforted. Rebbe Nachman came to visit him. With tears in his
eyes, the old man confided, “Rebbe, at a time like this, I only wish that I could pray.” Rebbe Nachman asked him, “Why not? Why can’t you pray?”

The old man replied, “Rebbe, you know that I haven’t been a very observant Jew. Saturday was my best day of business. I enjoyed a good restaurant meal too much to even attempt to keep kosher. I really haven’t lived a religious life. How can I pray to God when I feel so far away from Him?”

Rebbe Nachman fixed his gaze on the dying man and spoke. “Have you ever walked out on a clear bright night?” he asked. “Have you ever viewed the heavens, and contemplated the great vastness
of space? Have you ever stared upward with fixed attention, as if you could penetrate the fathomless depths of space, as if you could probe the hearts of the stars and steal their secrets? Have you ever felt the words of the Psalmist, “The heavens declare the glory of God, the sky above tells that He made it?” The old man nodded his head. “Then,” continued Rebbe Nachman, “you are much closer to God than you could ever imagine. God searches out the tiniest ember of faith, and fans it into a brilliant light, to guide us throughout our lives.” The old man was comforted.

To remember the Exodus is to imbibe God’s immediate presence or immanence. If God is with us, we can transcend our faults and failings no matter where we are in life.

Excerpted from Rabbi Dr. Norman J. Lamm’s Derashot Ledorot: A Commentary for the Ages – Genesis, co-published by OU Press, Maggid Books, and YU Press; edited by Stuart W. Halpern

An Old Shirt for a Young Prince*

When our father Jacob was on his deathbed and just before he blessed all his children, he called over his favorite son, Joseph, and told him that he was giving him a special award, something the others would not get. “Son,” he told his royal child who was now effectively the master of Egypt, “I have given you an extra portion over your brothers” (Genesis 48:22). The Torah does not say what that portion is. But our rabbis (Targum Yerushalmi, Genesis 48:21) suggested what that extra legacy
was. Rabbi Yehuda maintains that it was the garment worn by Adam!

What a gift to give a king! That an inheritance for a man who controlled the greatest kingdom of antiquity, who had millions under his thumb, who regulated the commerce of the whole nation, who was an absolute potentate who had all that he wanted at his command: a shirt, and an old one at that! It was quite a buildup Jacob gave for what turns out to have been merely a family heirloom. A shirt twenty-three generations old may have some sentimental value, it may be of archeological value. You may give it to other children, or to a museum; but you don’t give that to a fabulously wealthy viceroy as a “special” reward.

But if that is what Jacob decided to give to Joseph, according to our sages, there must have been some very special reason for doing so. Our rabbis meant to tell us something of what Jacob wanted to teach Joseph, and the Josephs of all ages. There are three descriptions of that garment worn by Adam which indicate three major points that we must take to heart and remember. They are three lessons Jacob wanted to drive home to Joseph – because he was the wealthiest and most powerful of all his children – three correctives to the abuses that come so frequently with the acquisition of prosperity, power, and social recognition.

The first thing our rabbis said of this piece of clothing was that it was made of a special kind of leather. The Bible calls it “katnot or” (Genesis 3:21), a leather garment. And the rabbis add that it came from the skin that the serpent shed off. Joseph, he told him, I am afraid that your wealth or power is going to go to your head. You have every reason in the world to be proud of yourself. You started as a slave in a miserable prison, sold down the river by your brothers. Now you’ve achieved political eminence, economic domination of an empire, and social recognition, being heralded by all Egypt as its savior, and crowned by Pharaoh himself as second to him alone. You have money, you have real estate, you have power. You have, in other words, the greatest temptation any man can ever have – to lose his humility. You ride around in golden chariots; you are a titled prince; you are a shrewd businessman; the Egyptians may not want to break bread with you because you’re a Jew, but still, you have made yourself your own palace. But don’t forget, Joseph, don’t forget that it doesn’t mean a thing. Don’t you ever pride yourself on being a self-made man. No man is self-made. His power is a dream. His wealth is illusory. His shrewdness is only in his imagination. His eminence is transitory. It’s all a great spiel, nothing else. And just as a reminder, son, here, take this old, tattered snakeskin shirt and frame it and hang it on your living room wall for everyone to see. Every once in a while take a look at it. And let you and your descendants and all men forever remember that the original owner of that shirt once had a complete Paradise in which to disport himself. He had Trees of Knowledge and life, and had gold and silver. He must have thought it was all his – that he was self-sufficient – and he could live as proudly as he wanted to. But then remember that he was chased out of Eden, and he was left with nothing, not even a shirt on his back. And then, only through the goodness of God, was he given a garment to wear. And, Joseph, my princely and wealthy and powerful son: where do you think even that one shirt came from? Adam’s own work? His handicraft? Nonsense. It came from the skin the snake sloughed off. Man, despite his delusions of grandeur, is ultimately only a parasite!

Remember, Josephs of all generations: you’re not self-made, you’re God-made. Forget your golden chariots or your Cadillacs; forget your empire-building or business sense; forget your social status, whether in ancient Egypt or modern America. Remember that whatever you have came from someone else, that even the shirt you wear came from the hair of a sheep or the skin of a snake or the back of an underpaid cotton picker down South. Use your power and wealth and all you now have, but use it with humility. Keep the snakeskin in front of you, Joseph. It’s the greatest gift you can receive. It’s the only thing that will help you keep your balance and keep you from submitting to that great abuse of prosperity: the belief that you are a god and that you are self-sufficient.

The second thing our rabbis said about that garment was regarding its design. It had, drawn upon it, pictures of birds flying. Here was the corrective to a second, and very unusual and unexpected kind of difficulty that power and prosperity bring in their wake. One writer, I think it was Max Lerner, has maintained that in the history books of the future, our age will not be called the Atomic Age or Hydrogen Age or any other such name. It will be called the Age of the Ulcer. With increasing prosperity and with the higher standard of living, we have inherited a whole line of diseases caused by the anxiety that grips us. In ages gone by people hardly ever experienced or even knew of that whole array of illnesses we now call by that fancy name, “psychosomatic diseases” – something our ancestors would have preferred to call “an aingerreter krenk.” Why the plague of migraines, the necessity of visits to a psychiatrist, the ubiquitous ulcer? It is because we do not know quite what to do with our power and our money, and because we are always seeking to increase it – and this, because of another fear: that if we don’t get more, we’ll lose all we have. In the midst of all the luxurious blessing, we feel a curse – a sort of obsessive unhappiness, a neurotic anxiety and, of course, the ulcer. What good are all these things if the price we must pay is stewed prunes, sweet cream, and amphojel? We have better beds and mattresses, but can’t sleep at night. Wonderful new reclining sofas, but we are no longer able to sit back and relax, so tense are we. We have television even in color, and can’t even force a sincere laugh out of our systems; we’re too worried to be able to be happy. We rack our brains devising timesaving devices – and then, when we do get home earlier, we take along the office in our minds and our phones, and leave no real time for our families. We’re unhappy, busy, nervous, anxious, and – of course – ulcerous.

“Joseph,” Jacob must have told his great son, “Joseph, don’t fall victim to these plagues. Don’t destroy the value of your greatness by submitting to the anxiety that goes with it. Here’s Adam’s garment. He had lost every penny, been driven out of a Paradise, forced to go to work – manual labor, no less – and had nothing to his name but this garment. And look: he managed to remain so happy and satisfied with his simple life that he drew the figures of birds in flight, the symbols of careless happiness, of unconcerned joy and a feeling of uninhibited and un-anxious well-being. Remember, son, after your day of business is done, be done with it. Don’t worry about losing it. Just relax, trust in God who gave it to you to keep it for you, and don’t get sick looking for amusement. Just determine always to be happy with what you have. Let your mind be as free as a bird, though all you may have after all is only a shirt.” “When a king is at a celebration,” said the Mezeritscher Rebbe, “he is approachable to many people who otherwise would be denied admittance to the palace. Likewise, when we serve God with joy, He is more approachable.”

And finally, the third thing our sages had to say about this ancient garment worn by Adam was that it was no ordinary garment at all. It was, they maintained, bigdei kehuna, the robe of a high priest, worn while serving God, first used by Adam, then down the ages through Abraham and Isaac and Jacob and now being given to Joseph. That garment, in short, was the symbol of religious tradition. It was the service and worship of our one God, being transmitted from father to son, spanning all human history from its very beginnings. Oh how worried Jacob must have been when he took leave of his earthly existence and of his twelve sons. Joseph must have troubled him more than all the others. Such a wonderful son, such a clean-minded, upright young man of true integrity and fear of God. How would he fare when tested with wealth and might? Had he, perhaps, in all this luxury and regal splendor, forgotten his old father and his Eternal God? “What about these two young sons of Joseph I just blessed?” Jacob must have thought. “What is to become of them in this land of Egypt? Will they assimilate? Will they be Egyptian like all Egyptians, and angrily maintain that they are no different from other Egyptians who worshiped the sun as it rose on this Nile valley?” Joseph had to have a reminder with him at all times. And so Jacob gave him this high-priestly vestment, first worn by the first man. Religious responsibility, he meant to tell him, does not decrease with increased substance; it increases. Here, Joseph, is this yellow- greenish, ancient-looking, outmoded, outlandish, and, to Egyptian eyes, ridiculous-looking little robe. Wear it, Joseph. Maybe this garment of Adam, the robe of the high priest, doesn’t go well with your royal purple. Maybe a brand new, shiny, and attractive Egyptian robe would look nicer and be more appealing to your young folks who never saw or understood the religious tradition of Adam and Abraham and Isaac. Maybe so, but this is yours, and now you’re to wear it.

Even more than arrogance and unhappiness, the greatest victim of our American Jewish prosperity has been our religious tradition. It hasn’t always looked good beside the shiny brassiness of our newfound wealth. Some of our non-Jewish neighbors might have snickered at it – or so we thought. The tallis hasn’t always matched up to our tuxedos and riding habits and minks. And so we scrapped it. We disinherited ourselves from the ancient mantle which came down to us through the ages. We now wallow in the fat of the land – and the priestly garments lie somewhere unknown and un-mourned. I have been stressing the outlandish and old-fashioned look of this garment of Adam, precisely because this is the test of the Jew. Any child will automatically grab for that which is new and shiny and colorful. The test of Jewish maturity is to hold to the heart the old mantle, perhaps to polish it up, but never to exchange it. The Jew who is ashamed of it because it is so ancient looking is not an authentic Jew. Ludwig Lewisohn has given us an excellent description of the authentic Jew when he said that it depends on your reaction when walking with gentile  friends through New York’s East Side and seeing bearded, kaftan-robed and shtreimel-decked Jews running to Minĥa. If you feel uneasy and embarrassed, you’re not an authentic Jew, just like the Catholic ashamed of the robed nun is not an authentic Catholic. You can test it right here in Springfield. If you’re ashamed of being identified with your religion on Main Street, then – sorry to say – you’re not a full Jew. The true test of authenticity is to be as Americanized as Joseph was Egyptianized; as wealthy and mighty as Joseph – and still to proudly wear the mantle of your religious tradition.

“I have given you an extra portion over your brothers” – it is only one more trifle than the others received. But it is that one garment of Adam, with its triple message of humility, happiness, and holiness, which can spell the difference between successful, satisfying Jewish living, and abortive, unsatisfying, and un-Jewish living. The Torah offers it to us, even as Jacob offered it to Joseph. Let us not wait. Let us extend our hands, open our hearts, and take it – with humility, with happiness, and in holiness.

Excerpted from The Light That Unites: A Chanukah Companion – Blessings, Teachings, and Tales by Rabbi Aaron Goldscheider

The Teaching of A Single Candle

If a person finds himself with only one candle on Friday afternoon during Chanukah, should he light it as a Shabbat candle or a Chanukah candle?

It can’t be both. One might suggest that he should light it as a Chanukah candle. After all, this light signifies the great miracle and spreads its light to tell of the great event in our history.

Yet Jewish law holds that, faced with such a choice, he should light it as a Shabbat candle.

Why?

The Rambam beautifully explains: “The Shabbat light takes priority because it symbolizes shalom bayit, ‘domestic peace.’ …And great is peace, because the entire Torah was given in order to make peace in the world” (Laws of Chanukah 4:14).

Halachah, Jewish law, rules that if a person can light only one candle, the Shabbat light takes precedence. Peace in the home matters more than the great Maccabean military victory and even more than the miracle of the oil.

This teaching is beautifully exemplified by a wonderful story about one of the most beloved sages, the Chafetz Chaim (1839–1933). The world-renowned Rabbi Yisrael Meir Kagan had a rebbe, a mentor, who was not as well known as he was. His rebbe was a saintly man from the town of Horodna, Lithuania, named Rabbi Nachum Kaplan (1812–1879), known lovingly as Reb Nachum’ke.

The Chafetz Chaim made a point to observe carefully Reb Nachum’ke’s every action and deed, for he knew that anything that Reb Nachum’ke ever did was done with forethought and good intent.

It happened one night during Chanukah that the Chafetz Chaim came to visit his rebbe.

The time for lighting Chanukah candles came, and the Chafetz Chaim waited for his rebbe to recite the blessings and to light the candles. Surprisingly though, Reb Nachum’ke let the time pass and made no move to light the menorah. The Chafetz Chaim was a bit baffled that his rebbe would let the time slip by and not light on time, but he didn’t dare say anything.

More time elapsed, and still Reb Nachum’ke went about his regular routine without saying anything about the lighting of the Chanukah candles. An hour went by and then another hour; still the menorah was not lit. The Chafetz Chaim simply could not understand his rebbe’s inaction and apparent inattentiveness to this mitzvah.

Finally deep into the night, there was a knock on the door. The rebbe opened the door. It was his wife. Almost immediately after she came in, Reb Nachum’ke began his introductory prayers, recited the appropriate blessings, and then lit the Chanukah menorah. The Chafetz Chaim realized that there had to be a lesson here, so once the flames were flickering, he respectfully asked his rebbe to explain to him why he had let so much time elapse before finally lighting his menorah. Reb Nachum’ke explained patiently to his beloved student.

The Talmud (Shabbat 23b) poses a question: What is the law if a person has money to use for only one candle on the Friday night of Chanukah? Should he spend it on a Shabbos candle and fulfill the mitzvah of lighting Shabbos candles, or rather spend the money on a candle for his Chanukah menorah, and thereby fulfill the mitzvah of Chanukah candle lighting?

Reb Nachum’ke answered, “The Talmud states unequivocally that one is obligated to spend the money for a Shabbos candle, the reason being that the Shabbos candle, aside from the mitzvah involved, adds to shalom bayit, peace and tranquility of the home. Thus, a candle that fosters shalom bayit takes precedence even over the mitzvah of lighting Chanukah candles.

“I have no doubt,” continued Reb Nachum’ke, “that had my wife come home and realized that I did not wait for her with the Chanukah candles, she would unquestionably have been distraught. There would have been tension, and perhaps even anger on her part that I didn’t show her the courtesy of waiting until she returned. Thus, I delayed until she came home.

“You see,” added Reb Nachum’ke, “the Talmud itself used Chanukah candles as a focal point to emphasize the importance of marital harmony. Should I have taken these same Chanukah candles and through them diminished shalom bayit? Better to let the ideal time to light pass by and to fulfill the mitzvah of generating love and harmony in the home.”

Excerpted from Rabbi Aaron Goldscheider’s Torah United: Teachings on the Weekly Parasha from Rav Avraham Yitzchak HaKohen Kook, Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik, and the Chassidic Masters, co-published by OU Press and Ktav Publishing House

The Name That Calls Us

Vayetze is the parashah of names. In it, eleven children are born and each of them is given a unique name. The Ishbitzer Rebbe contemplated the underlying meaning of names. Each of us has been given a name, but what is its true significance?

In the days of the Patriarchs, wrote the rebbe, parents were able to discern the disposition of their child already at birth, and to give them an appropriate name. Rachel and Leah were given names that expressed their essential nature by their father Lavan. Rachel is named after an ewe, whose submissiveness before shearing reflects her restraint. Leah’s name comes from a root indicating weakness, because she drained herself in supplication to the Almighty. It follows that the names of Yaakov’s children are also not random but verbal distillations of their essences.

Regarding the notion of names, the Ishbitzer further quoted a thought-provoking Midrash: “A person has three names: The name that your parents gave you; the name that others call you; and the name you acquire for yourself.” Clearly, the Midrash does not refer to actual names but is offering insight into the human psyche. The first name is given by parents who name their child based on his or her innate personality, and such names are the ones recorded in Vayetze. The second “name” derives from one’s accomplishments, stature, or professional life, and might be “physician,” “mechanic,” “lawyer,” “academic,” and so forth.  It is how others see us. But what is the third name that we “acquire”?

The Ishbitzer Rebbe explained that the third name is “the rectification and healing of what one is lacking, even if the lack is imprinted at birth.” He does not mean purifying oneself from sin, but developing and ennobling one’s personality to make oneself a fuller person. The old aphorism has it that “you need to know yourself in order to grow.” Evidently, the rebbe was teaching his Chassidim, and by extension us, to be more aware of their “third name.” He impressed upon them the need for personal development and growth to realize the ideals and virtues that had not yet found a place in their lives.

We limit ourselves severely if we relate only to our first two “names.” If we aren’t working on ourselves actively, we can all too easily slide into a slippery rut from which escape is difficult. Our first “name” is rooted in our past, and the “second” in the present. The third is not a name we are called but a name that calls us to look to the future and encompasses our yearnings, personal victories, and steady growth. The
Maharal beautifully captured this idea:

Man is not created in his ultimate perfection. Man was created to realize his perfection. That is [the meaning of the verse], “Man is born to toil” ( Job 5:7) – man is born and exists for the aim of this toil, which is the actualization of his perfection.

Rabbi David Aaron, a contemporary master teacher of Kabbalah, tells the story of a guest his family once hosted for Shabbat dinner in the Old City of Yerushalayim. The guest had stopped in Israel after traveling the world. Her previous stop had been Japan, where she was, in her own words, “looking for herself.” Rabbi Aaron’s daughter, eight years old at the time, turned to her father with a very confused look. She opened her eyes wide and asked: “Looking for herself? I don’t understand. How did she lose herself? And if she was never in Japan before, why would she think she would find herself there?”

Rabbi Aaron shares this humorous anecdote in order to illustrate that, truthfully, we do carry multiple layers of identity. When we speak about “finding ourselves,” we are actually touching on a profound idea. We are far more than just the identity that we embody from birth, and even more than our hard-won professional attainments and social status. In the Ishbitzer Rebbe’s terms, we have a “third name” that is our very essence; it is what we call the soul. It is the seat of our strivings, lofty aspirations, and growth. Rabbi Aaron pithily terms these layers found in every human being “me, myself and I.” “Me” is the bundle of traits present at birth; “myself ” is the long string of accomplishments; and “I” is our essence, the divine spark within.

The Baal Shem Tov, the founder of Chassidut, similarly taught that a person consists of body, soul, and name. The Hebrew word for name (שֵׁם) comprises the middle two letters of the word for soul (נְשָׁמה), and so is conceived as the core of the soul. In other words, our name defines us, and as we have seen we possess more than one. Nevertheless, the divine image embedded within us is the core that fuels our creativity, propels us beyond our seeming limitations, and drives us toward becoming the most magnificent human beings we can be.