Rabbi Zeitlin

This article first appeared in the JTNews, Seattle and the Pacific Northwest’s Jewish bi-weekly newspaper.

Judaism has contributed a great deal to world civilization.  We introduced the concept of ethical monotheism and were among the first peoples to encourage universal literacy.  Our tradition speaks of freedom and liberty for all, not just for an elite, a society based on law rather than power.  We have much to be proud of.

But, have we run out of gas?  Does our tradition today offer anything more than a private and temporary “shelter in the storm” from an increasingly material-oriented, crisis-torn world?  Is there anything in our millennia-long story that makes any difference any more?  Is our charge to “be a light unto the nations” now obsolete, part of the distant past or is the best yet to come?

Perhaps our least-appreciated resource (outside, of course, Yeshiva enclaves) is our talmudic tradition.  Among the many ways we can describe it is a two-millennia cooperative art project, a living system which continues to develop.  It’s also a systematic unfolding of the Infinite into the physical world of boundaries and limits.  It serves as the the foundation, source material and methodology for deriving Halacha, defined as “a going” (i.e. a path towards spiritual development), ritual and liturgical law, as well as Jewish civil and communal law.  The detailed descriptions and analyses of the written Torah text and of our Temple services have inspired us and fired both our imaginations and our yearning, contributing greatly to our miraculous and unique survival as a homeless people.

But, is that really all it is?

Beyond the various “internal” (limited to religious/ritual/halachic) benefits Talmud study provides, the process itself is unique, powerful and multi-layered.  Transcending all specific subjects, it trains our minds to think in very advanced ways.  As we zero in on a point, we suddenly find ourselves examining other phenomenon which might share only one non-obvious similarity to our original subject.  Some times we’ll return to the main point, other times we’ll continue exploring and examining a chain of associations.  We examine everything from multiple points of view, both in isolation and in relation to other ideas and opinions.  Some times we’ll solve the puzzle, but other times we’ll just leave the question for the time being, marking it as, indeed, difficult (kushiya (that’s a hard one) or teyko (we’ll wait for Elijah the Prophet (announcing the imminent arrival of Mashiach) to explain).

If we take a step back, something even more curious emerges.  Although Talmud is based on questions and answers, it soon becomes apparent that the answers were already well-known before the discussion even begins.  For example, the very beginning of Oral Torah, the first perek (chapter) of the first masechet (tractate), Berachot, begins asking from what time can we begin to say the evening Shema.  Obviously, the rabbis of the mishna davened every day of their lives, as did their fathers and grandfathers and great-grandfathers.  They knew exactly when to say the Shema.

In fact, this is really our first clue that something much more important is going on–we’re being taught and drilled in an advanced methodology of thinking.  Daily Talmud study resembles nothing so closely as daily gym workouts or daily musical scale practice.  Intense immersion in Talmud study, in addition to the religious and even the spiritual benefits, develops our minds to work linearly and laterally, empirically and intuitively, serially and associatively, all at the same time!

Although the Gemara (Berachot 6b) defines its actual benefit as learning how to reason, I have no quarrel with those who want to limit their study to questions of halacha, nor with those who study in order to, in indescribable but actual ways, merge their intellect with the Divine Intellect in order to deepen their relationship with God.  But I want to propose an entirely additional direction.

Our world is a mess!  Between almost universal economic meltdown, endless environmental disasters, continual wars and culture clashes, starvation, resurgent disease and probably more people living under slavery than at any time in the past, we’re all in a heap of trouble!  To add even more urgency, our former problem-solving strategies no longer seem effective.

One reason, I propose, for this crisis is our exclusive reliance on science, based entirely on empiricism.  Even ever-advancing computing power doesn’t really help since it’s the same binary-only fallacy, just at much higher speed.

I propose applying Talmudic methodology to these challenges.  Let’s introduce rigorous Talmud study to our finest science, economics, law and government students, Jewish or not, with or without religious belief, in order to learn and master this powerful tool.  By this I mean serious, yeshiva-level, immersion training in Talmud–I’m not talking about a superficial overview nor an academic survey class.  The goal is not to be able to talk about “talmudic methods”, but, rather, acquiring an entirely new modality of thinking, a true working knowledge.

Let’s also try to engage our finest Yeshiva scholars, with lifetimes spent already honing these skills, in real-world issues.  Not only would that be a significant step in healing divisions within our people, it just might, from an unexpected direction, rekindle the fire that will allow us, once again, to become that “Light unto the Nations”.

Tikkun Olam is a very popular theme these days.  Although traditionally this has been a kabbalistic concept, the past several decades has seen the phrase applied more to environmental, as well as to social/political issues including climate, disease, human rights, war and peace.

Without discounting the seriousness, and, to some degree, the urgency of the problems we face, I don’t think we’re yet properly prepared nor equipped to really accomplish very much.  Protests, marches, petitions and meetings might make us feel good about ourselves, but, to date, they have done almost nothing to resolve these challenges.  Many recent political upheavals, often spearheaded by mass protests, have actually created much worse worse realities than what they set out to change.

Our Torah brings us several examples of people getting ahead of themselves, trying to usher in new eras before they had developed the necessary abilities to direct things to a positive outcome.  From eating from the Tree of Knowledge before humanity had prepared itself by experiencing our first Shabbat, to Korach’s rebellion, based on the true, but not-yet-realized concept of all Israel being holy, we see disasters that while wholly unintended, continue to reverberate even today, bringing damage into our world.

It might be inappropriate to bring John Lennon into the discussion, but in the Beatle song Revolution, he tries to calm the zealots of the 1960s, telling them to first, “free your minds instead”.  Before we try to change the world, we need to change ourselves, make ourselves the most capable and the most wise we can be.  Otherwise, the chance of potentially disastrous mistakes or disastrous overestimating our abilities soar.  It isn’t for nothing that even in our day of sophisticated and advanced medical technology, for example, the Hippocratic Oath emphasizes “Do no harm”.

Our Torah and the paths in life it teaches us, is one of transformation and growth.  We’re mandated to make ourselves as great as we each can be.  Avot (1:6) says  עֲשֵׂה לְךָ רַב, Aseh L’Cha Rav.  This is frequently translated as “make yourself a teacher”, but, literally, it says “make yourself great”.  Many kabbalistic texts discuss the relationship between the macrocosm and the microcosm, defining macrocosm as עולם גדול, Olam Gadol, the great universe, and microcosm, each individual human, as עולם קטן, Olam Katan, the small universe.  (Similarly, the macrocosm is also referred to as אדם גדול, Adam Gadol, the great human, the microcosm as אדם קטן, Adam Katan, the small (individual) human.)

The Mitzva system which our Torah graces to all Jews, is designed, perhaps in ways beyond our understanding (But how many of us have the slightest understanding of the computer I’m composing this with or the computer you’re reading this on?  Nonetheless, we find it easy to “trust” often-baffling technology.)  to guide our growth and evolution, aimed at our eventually being able to merge our tiny, individual selves with the vast Infinite.  Torah study, described as כנגד כולם, k’neged culam, corresponding to (or being equal to) the entire Torah, and specifically Talmud study, is designed to grow and utterly transform our minds into being capable of simultaneous movement in different directions.  It trains us to think linearly and laterally, empirically and intuitively, serially and associatively, ALL AT THE SAME TIME.  It leads us to evolve to a state where human beings will, hopefully, begin to utilize more than the 20% of our brains that we normally do.  All of this should make us much more capable than we are now.

So, in order to successfully “repair” the greater world, with all of its social, political and environmental crises, we need first to “repair”, to bring to its highest functioning state, our  עולם קטן, Olam Katan–in other words, our individual selves.  Frankly, in our current state of awareness, I’m not confident that we can even accurately identify the real issues, let alone devise strategies that will actually make the problems better, and not merely our make our self-esteem feel better.

The Torah, whose giving we read about this week in Parshat Yitro, brings the Infinite into our finite world, with the capability and purpose to transform each of us from our limited selves to our maximum beingness.

This is another from the series of Mussar workshops I assist.  Unfortunately, it was already printed before I had the privilege to read Rabbi Nathan Lopes Cardozo’s recent article which, with the synchronicity which always accompanies Torah, talks about responsibility.

Had I read that, I would have begun by discussing our general attitude towards responsibility.  Our youth-obsessed culture doesn’t place much more demand on personal responsibility than it expects from children.  All too often, we receive the message that responsibilities are burdens which we should try to avoid.  Rav Cardozo, in his article (which I highly recommend) proposes that we, instead, see them as compliments, affirmations that we’re sufficiently mature and capable to fulfill them!

Another topic I didn’t cover is the relationship of the אחר in אחריות to time (Achar–later) in addition to person (Acher–the other) which I did discuss.  Avot 2:9 (Ethics of the Fathers) poses the challenge of Rabbi Yochanan Ben Zakkai, “Go out and discover which path (of life) a person should cling to?”  One response, from Rabbi Shimon is הָרוֹאֶה אֶת הַנּוֹלָד, HaRoeh Et HaNolad, to see the consequence (what will be born by an action or decision).  Responsibility requires taking the long view of things.

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Mussar Midot and Mitzvot

אחריות  Achrayut (Responsibility)

פדיון שבויים (Ransoming Captives)

(:פדיון שבוים מצוה רבה היא  (בבא בתרא ח

Ransoming a captive is a great mitzva (Baba Batra 8b)

שמות כב:כד) לֹא־תְשִׂימוּן עָלָיו נֶשֶׁךְ)

Don’t charge interest (Shemot 22:24)

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Judaism is based on the concepts of relationship and responsibility.  Acknowledged or not acknowledged, accepted or rejected, the entire Mitzva system, which Kaballistically is equivalent to the Torah, speaks in the language of חוב (chov), obligation or debt.  In a balanced approach to encourage observance while avoiding coercion, it’s up to each of us whether we fulfill a particular mitzva (and this is a very complex discussion in itself) but we’re all assumed to be dedicated to, each in our own way, bringing the world to its ultimate fulfillment.  In fact, the common term, both halachic and colloquial, to refer to death is נפטר, niftar, which literally means released from all (mitzva) obligations.

The word we’re using for this month’s midda, אחריות, Achrayut, is based on the three-letter root  אחר, acher, which means “other”.  The specific type of responsibility we’re discussing is our joining with/for others.  This is also summarized in the traditional dictum, כל ישראל ערבים זה לזה, kol yisrael eravim zeh l’zeh (Shavuot 39a), all Jews are bound together with each other.  When we act responsibly, we benefit all of Israel and when we take responsibility for another we also benefit ourselves. Although sacrifice is often involved, ultimately this is a win-win interaction.

Unfortunately, our long history records too many occurrences of Jews, both prominent and anonymous, undergoing captivity.  Our people became a nation during the Egyptian captivity and we’ve undergone a series of national captivities.  However, even more frequently Jews have been held captive as individuals.  The Talmud (Gittin 58b) tells the story of Rabbi Yehoshua ben Hannania while visiting Rome to plead for the Jewish people, being shown a young Jewish slave.  He refused to leave Rome without him, and this young boy grew up to be the influential Tanna (Mishnaic Sage), Rabbi Ishmael ben Elisha, a great Kaballist as well the author of the thirteen hermeneutical principles.

Although there were early opinions to not pay excessive ransom because this would only encourage kidnapping, it became widely accepted, especially after the destruction of the Temple, to go to any lengths to redeem Jewish captives since we all have a vital stake in one another.  This ruling is still in effect today, reflected in the almost universal approval of religious authorities, even among the ultra-orthodox, to ransom Gilad Shalit at any cost.

Just as we have a responsibility to help our fellows who find themselves in mortal danger, we are also commanded to never take advantage of someone else’s misfortune.  Loaning money is considered a high form of Tzedaka, charity, but we must not profit monetarily from this action.  (Another underlying principle here is that we should perform mitzvot for the sake of the mitzva and ultimately for the benefit of enhancing devekut (bonding with God), but never for material gain which increases our sense of self/ego, creating a barrier to devekut).  We are prohibited three times in the Torah, (Shemot 22:24, Vayikra 25:36-36 and Devarim 23:20-21) from this practice.

The word for interest is נשך, neshech, which more frequently means to bite!  It’s impossible to be responsible for someone if we act as a predator towards them.  This language seems to indicate that our relationships will tend towards either extreme, supportive or exploitative.  By acting with the sense of our responsibilities to others foremost, we build our fellow Jews, ourselves, the Jewish people in general and, dealing the same way with people outside the faith, with all humanity.

The Torah acknowledges that our fortunes in life go both up and down.  Not only is society more stable (and, in the long-term, more prosperous) when the fortunate help the unfortunate, the fraternal bond is established and strengthened through mutual help.  Another benefit of responsibility towards others is that it helps us reduce our biggest obstacle, our “selfs”, between ourselves and the Infinite.

There might be valid reasons why there is today such distrust of rabbinic authorities.  Not everyone in a black hat knows what they’re talking about.  True Gadolim (Great Ones, Spiritual Masters) are few and far between.  In our current culture wars, too many people want to present their limited vision as TRUTH.  I fear that they repel many more Jews than they inspire.

But when you meet a true Gadol, or even just read his words written two hundred fifty or more years ago, you sense greatness.

This past Shabbat I was reading  Rabbi Menachem Nachum Twerski of Chernobyl (1730 – 1797) in his famous book, Meor Eynayim, The Light of the Eyes, on the parsha (weekly Torah reading) V’Eyra (Sh’mot 6:1 – 9:35).  After reminding us that the true exile we experienced in Egypt was that our דעת, Dat, knowledge (specifically, our interactive, intimate knowledge/experience of God, The Infinite), was hidden from us, lost behind the overwhelming culture of materialism and sensual hedonism (not to mention our exhaustion and depression as slaves), he talks about living instead with an awareness of the transcendent and immanent reality of The One.  He describes the impossibility, dooming us to, at best, an incomplete experience of the Infinite through our finite being, but he also describes the experience of letting go as much as possible, of opening oneself to the greatest possible experience of this ecstatic but, paradoxically, impossible experience.

In the middle of my study, I realized that he was not talking empty theory or pious clichés.  Rather, he was describing his own personal experience.  In doing so, he reminds us that we, too, can achieve these spiritual heights.  He then, in greater detail than this essay allows, instructs us on an approach (a meditational focus when reciting the verse שמע ישראל יקוק אלקינו יקוק אחד, Shema Yisrael Adonay Eloheinu Adonay Echad, Listen, Israel, the in-dwelling, animating experience of God, the surrounding, transcendent, defining nature of God, the in-dwelling, animating, unique-to-each-individual experience of God, it’s all One) to do just that!

A true Gadol, a Tzakid (צדיק), saintly teacher, has no interest in coercing or shaming us to regiment our behavior, but, rather, lovingly reaches out with the fruit of his own experience, to encourage each of us to reach as far as we may.  He assures us that if it was possible for him to have at least a touch of this experience of a finite being containing the infinite, so can we.

At a shiur last night with my friend and colleague, Rabbi Avi Rosenfeld, we talked about Tu B’Shvat, the 15th of Shvat, because Rosh Chodesh Shvat, the new month of Shvat arrives with Shabbat in just a few minutes here in Seattle.  R’Avi’s main topic was Tu B’Shvat as a tikkun, repair, for our everyday eating, and this brought up mankind’s first error in eating, eating from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil.  Of the many questions this can raise, among the first is why God would not want people to be wise and to have knowledge.

Traditionally, we usually answer this question by saying that the prohibition was not a permanent one.  Man was created on Erev Shabbat, and it was for that time that the fruit was prohibited.  Had Adam and Eve waited until they experienced the grounding, the foundation of that first Shabbat, they would have been properly prepared to ingest this knowledge and then go onto the state of ultimate perfection that is still Creation’s destiny.

The problem, it appears, is impatience.  We too often don’t realize that preparation is necessary for just about everything.  While certain premature babies might be viable, in the grand scheme of things this very prematurity generally causes problems.

The next question that comes up, though, is why did God create the world and people in such a way that we’re so attracted to the end that we often want to shortcut the means?  Couldn’t God create things so that either we wouldn’t require the preparation or we’d have the strength to withstand our own enthusiasm and desire long enough–remember, for only one short Shabbat day–to take the next step?

Our sages give insight in this matter.  In related situations, we have the rebellion of Korach who argued that all Israel were holy, so why was the priesthood given only to a subsection of the Levi clan?  We learn that, in fact, Korach is on the right track, but the problem was that the rest of the Jewish people had not yet achieved the level of spiritual development needed to have this more direct relationship with God.  Some time in the future we would all reach that higher plane of being and would no longer require any insulation.

A second example, before his death Moshe pleads over and over with God to be admitted to the Land of Israel in order to lead the Jewish people to their final destiny.  We’re taught that God finally told him, “Enough!”  If he had asked even one more time, God would have granted his desire!  Surprisingly, Moshe understood to stand down.  He realized that yes, he would have led the Jewish people into the Land and would, himself, have become the Mashiach, the annointed, eternal leader.  After all these exiles, that sounds like it would have been pretty sweet!  However, Moshe realized that we would have entered a state of perfection that was inferior to a higher state of perfection we will eventually reach after undergoing and participating in all the refinement processes that lay ahead.  Premature “perfection”, even if “perfect” is defective “perfection”.

It’s all a matter of timing.

The Meor Eynayim, a classic Torah commentary by R’Menachem Nachum of Chernobyl, founder (18th century) of the Chernobler school of Chassidut, included a very short paragraph in his discussion of yesterday’s weekly parsha (Torah reading), שמות, Sh’mot, (Exodus).  At first glance, I almost overlooked it, but something made me go back and take a closer look.  I discovered a gem!

The verse, (Exodus 1:8) states that “A new king arose in Egypt who didn’t know about Yosef“.  Rashi, our most profound (who usually speaks in hints of hints of hints) commentator (11th century), writes, quoting Talmud Sota 11a,  that Rav and Shmuel (prominent first generation (3rd century) Amoraim (scholars of the Gemara)) disagreed over the meaning of the phrase “a new king”.  One says that it was, literally, a new person who became king.  The other says that it was the same king, but he radically changed his policies (no longer remembering how Yosef saved his kingdom during the seven years of famine).

The Meor Eynayim then reminds us of a rule governing our understanding of talmudic disagreements like this.  אלו ואלו דברי אלקים חיים, elu v’elu divrei Elohim Chayim, both opinions are true (they are each the “words of the Living God”).  However, he adds that we won’t be able to understand this paradox עד ביאת המשיח, ad biyat haMashiach, until the arrival of the Messiah.

(There is an entire class of talmudic discussions which remain unresolved.  Sometimes we merely say קשיא, kashya, “that’s a hard one”.  Others end with the acronym תיק”ו, teyko, תשבי יתרץ קושיות ובעיות, Tishbi (referring to Elijah the Prophet who is said to precede the arrival of the Mashiach) will answer the unsolvable riddles.)

The rabbi, pressing home the point, reminds us that at this point in time, or let’s say at this stage of human evolution, we’re not able to understand how something can be both true and false at the same time, how two contradictory statements can, simultaneously, be right.

About two pages later, I turned back to this paragraph and it hit me.  What the rabbi was really saying is that we can’t yet understand what we don’t understand.  Much in life remains mysterious and will stay that way until we enter a new age, a new stage of consciousness.

Common wisdom tells us that, at best, humans seem to currently utilize 10-15% of our brain’s capacity.  When we eventually find a way to activate at least another significant portion of our brains we’ll start to understand concepts and realities which now elude us.  At the very least, our tradition promises that we’ll transcend our devotion to binary thinking.

Of course, even in this era, we do have tools to at least prepare us for this higher reasoning.  Although often trivialized as either source material for religious ritual/law, or even worse, as a compendium of “what those ancient rabbis thought”, the Talmud is actually a comprehensive technique to train our minds to combine the linear and the associative, the empirical and the intuitive, the analytic and the synthetic.  Alone, the practice of Talmud study might not bring us to a stage of truly understanding profound contradictions like this, but it will prepare us, giving us the methodology for when we finally develop the physical capability.

(Another secret of Talmud study is that it frequently, in one way or another, brings us to our personal intellectual limits (different for each of us) and then allows us to “crash and burn”, to “run into a brick wall”.  Although with practice we can push these boundaries back, eventually each of us will have to give up.  This point of confronting our limitations, however, is “the prize” itself, bringing us a profound experience of the Infinite God.  Even when we evolve to realize our full potentials (another way of understanding what we mean by “messianic times”) there will always be a wall that defines us as human.)

In any event, it seems to me that there are two ways of experiencing our limitations.  We can either fall into despair that we’re not perfect or we can look forward to the adventure of being who we will be tomorrow.

One of the most insidious trends in Judaism, and I think it has analogs in other religions as well, is called דעת תורה, Das Torah.  It literally means “knowledge of (from within) the Torah”, but the idea is that one can find the answer to absolutely everything through correct understanding of Torah.

The result, as we too often see in the religious political parties in Israel, is often the ridiculous claim that this or that party is, authentically, “God’s party” (a frightening parallel is that Hizbollah, the terrorist organization occupying southern Lebanon, literally means “The Party Of God”).  The fallacy is that Torah study and halachic analysis will, infallibly, yield a divinely-mandated policy or decision.

As a believing Jew, I absolutely believe that our Torah is, indeed, all-inclusive.  Yes, that wisdom is embedded within Torah.  But I also believe, equally strongly, that God, in His Infinite Mercy, כי לעולם חסדו, Ki L’Olam Chasdo, because His love endures forever, intentionally does not give us all the keys.  There is some knowledge that is just inaccessible to humanity–in fact, there is infinitely more that we’ll never know that which we will.  Otherwise, we’d lose the most precious gift that God grants us, the ability to earn our rewards through having the courage to make free choices, בחירה, bechira.

To the contrary, our tradition teaches us that no human will ever be perfect and infallible. To our glory, even our greatest prophet and teacher, Moses, the Torah-Giver himself, remains firmly grounded in humanity, perfectly balanced, like all of us, between good and evil, between right and wrong.

And that’s not so bad.

This is another in the series from Mussar workshops I’ve been assisting with.  The Middah for December’s meeting was חסד, Chesed, often translated as Loving Kindness.

Before presenting that, I want to clarify an idea about the middot/sefirot as they appear on the עץ חיים, Etz Chayim, Tree of Life.  Rather than looking at each middah/sefirah as a separate entity, I think it’s more productive to view them together as a series of lenses or filters.  As thoughts and impulses work their way through this chain, they become enhanced and balanced in the most effective way.

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Mussar Midot and Mitzvot

חסד  Chesed (Loving Kindness)

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ביקור חולים (Visiting the Sick)

מלביש ארומים (Clothing the Naked)

קבורת המת (Burying the Dead)

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A basic principle of Judaism is to model ourselves after God:

  ללכת בכל דרכיו – הוא רחום ואתה תהא רחום, הוא גומל חסדים ואתה גמול חסדים

(רש”י דברים י”א:כב)

“To Walk in His Ways–As He is compassionate, you also be compassionate, as He bears loving kindness, so you, too, bear loving kindness” (Rashi, Devorim 11:22).

There are many reasons we strive to emulate the Creator.  The mission of the Jewish People is to bring the Infinite into the finite world.  Our tradition teaches that God and the Torah are One.  Both are infinite and unbounded by the limits of our physical world.  While the Written Torah is, obviously, a definite number of words and letters, each scroll a fixed quantity of ink and parchment, it returns to its native infinity through the Oral Torah.  When we learn Torah, we don’t merely acquire esoteric facts, but we add our individual contributions to the entirety of the ever-growing and evolving Torah.  Our charge, to be “A Light to the Nations” is not a mandate to spread Judaism, but to share the light which our insights and practices provide the world.  When we, limited beings, emulate God, we likewise transform our finiteness into the infinite.

As we’ve previously discussed, distance along the spiritual dimension is measured not by geometry but by similarity.  As we approach God and strive to unite with him, which is defined by our tradition as both our goal and our ultimate “reward”, we benefit ourselves by, curiously, not thinking about ourselves but, rather, of others.  We taught that God is a Creator who creates for the benefit of others, inspiring us to also be creative for the sake of others.

Three life-phases in which we’re especially effective are enabling people to achieve their own goals, consoling them when they’re temporarily disabled and honoring them when they’re no longer alive.

We anticipate other’s needs much like God did when he provided the first clothing to Adam and Eve.  Our daily liturgy begins with a series of brachot, blessings, that includes praising God for clothing the naked.  As God provides much more than clothing to enable us to function in this world, we also strive to assist others to realize themselves and fulfill their own potentials and dreams.  This generosity is about the other person, not ourselves.

Each of us has experienced times in our lives where we’re both unable to provide for ourselves and also are overwhelmed with pain, weakness, depression, loneliness or illness.  The boost to our spirits that we experience when someone takes their time just to be with us, to console, to listen, to share, to empathize, is beyond words.  We’re in need not necessarily of anything material, but of human contact.  It’s natural to take the time and to give of ourselves for a close friend or relative, but the good we can achieve isn’t limited to only that small circle.  In fact, visiting people we don’t usually include in our lives, getting to know a little about them, listening to them, not only brings them comfort but it also takes us out of ourselves.  We learn of this mitzva from God, in the form of the three “angels”, visiting Avraham while he recovered from his self-administered brit mila (circumcision).

All of the mitzvot surrounding burial are collectively known as Chesed Shel Emet, the truest expression of chesed.  The reason our sages give for this designation is because there is never the ulterior motive of receiving thanks or even acknowledgement.  We learn of God, Himself, providing burial to Moses.  Additionally, the dead are totally incapable of meeting their need for this, they are totally dependent on those who shoulder this responsibility.  Also, when we attend to the dead we come face to face with our own most primal fear.  Jewish burial rituals are delicate, loving and respectful–we never objectify the body but rather focus on the person’s neshama (soul), easing its journey to the next world.

These three mitzvot, each a unique expression of Chesed, bring different facets of our own being into closer harmony with our highest potentials.  Although, perhaps because, we’re not the primary beneficiary of these actions, we do, ourselves, grow through them.  By serving others we also contribute to the spirit of communal and universal love in the world.  Perhaps they are the essence of one description of Mussar, self-improvement but not for the sake of the self.  Rather, they exercise our practice of modeling God’s actions, partnering with Him in the final refinement of our world.

It’s oft-mentioned that Chanukah is the least mentioned and least explained of our holidays.  The Talmud only refers to it in passing when discussing Shabbat candles.  Rather than further illuminating this holiday, this fact has contributed to the trivialization of Chanukah as “just for children” or “the Jewish Christmas”.

The profundity of Chanukah, however, lies in this very silence.  There is but a single mitzvah associated with the chag (holiday), to light candles each night for eight days.  Too often, once the Chanukiot (Chanukah Menora) are lit, all the attention is focused on eating and parties.  Of course, celebration is good and important and I’m not knocking it, but I’d like to suggest that we take at least a few minutes just gazing, in silence, at the silence of these candles, watching the flames strain against their anchors/wicks as they try to rise heavenward, to transcend their limits.

We teach that the number eight, which is how many days we celebrate Chanukah, always points to the spiritual.  Seven, as we’re very familiar, always points to the physical, material world which was created in seven days.  Eight breaks these boundaries and lift us to the realm of the miraculous.

We use words to define our reality.  This process, however, simultaneously limits our thoughts and perceptions.  Of course, this is necessary in order to communicate specific thoughts and feelings, but it’s an artificial limitation nonetheless.  Ludwig Wittgenstein, 20th century mathematician and philosopher, famously wrote that “What can be said can be said clearly.  What cannot be said clearly must be passed over in silence.”  Perhaps this is why music and visual art are experienced as more universal languages.

Another teaching about Chanukah, mentioned in a previous post here, is that the original miracle was initiated from above.  We bore the constant attacks on our ways of life and our world view, not to mention the desecration of our holiest site, but were unable or unwilling to unite in opposition against them.  Rather, we’re taught that God, at His own initiative, inspired a small band of men to expel the invaders and bring about the miracles we celebrate today.

The Talmud is “silent” about Chanukah not because it has nothing to teach us, but because the essence of the holiday is above mere words.  It is in the realm of “8”, transcending the material.  Our mitzvah (mode of binding ourselves with the Divine Infinite God) is to send our silent flames, actually our unbounded souls, in response and thanks for the holy light that God sends into our world in these days as in the days of past.  We’re invited to break our own boundaries and limitations and to soar even higher than we can imagine.

Chag Urim Sameach