The pangs of redemption: finding meaning in suffering

I had the pleasure of spending this past Shabbos in Crown Heights, a community in Brooklyn that is central to the Chabad-Lubavitch movement. There you can find anything and everything Jewish; there's various yeshivas and seminaries, synagogues, including the main 770 shul; Judaica stores, kosher restaurants- a little bastion of Jewish life in America. This Shabbos was an immense source of strength for me, providing me with the inspiration and tools needed to get through these next two weeks, but why do I need strength? What is it that is troubling me so much that I need a Shabbos in Crown Heights in order to get over it? I've spoken about it before many times, so the term "golus" shouldn't be a foreign word to you. It's the major source of our confusion when it comes to faith, the source of our anxieties, fears, and doubts; an itch that you can never quite scratch and so it drives you mad with desperation. What's the best analogy to explain Golus? I found myself sitting in Hadar HaTorah friday night, the first Ba'al Teshuvah yeshiva in Lubavitch, speaking with a complete stranger about his journey. I began to share with him my journey, trying to explain my recent struggle. I said to him "golus is like....it's like..." when the lights in the room went out. I heard a familar voice behind me, my friend from yeshiva, Daniel Bortz, say to me "that's what golus is like." He was right, what a perfect analogy: it's like the lights going out and the room being cast into darkenss. We see in this week's parsha one of the ultimate blackouts for the Jewish people- their enslavement in Egypt.



We all know the story: The Jewish people were enslaved in Egypt for hundreds of years until G-d sent Moshe, the people's redeemer and shepherd, the take them out. The pivitol moment in Moshe's life was when he encountered the burning bush, a revelation of G-d that informed him of his need to return to Egypt. When Moshe asks G-d "when I come to the children of Israel and I say to them, 'the G-d of your fathers sent me to you,' and they say to me, 'what is His Name?' what shall I say to them?", G-d responds "Ehyeh asher ehyeh (I am that I am)". When we think about the question that Moshe was asking, it seems a bit odd: according to his question, Moshe had already said who it was that sent him, "the G-d of your fathers". Why did he need to ask what G-d's Name was if he already knew? To illucidate this, let's take Rashi's commentary on G-d's response; according to Rashi, "Ehyeh asher ehyeh" doesn't refer to a name of G-d at all, but a statement: "I will be with them in their present time of need, just as I will be with them at the time of future persecution". The key here is consistency, that I am here for you now just as I will be in the future. Even if we take "Ehyeh asher ehyeh" as a Name of G-d, there is something to learn. It is known that a name of G-d actually refers to a Divine attribute; one name corresponds to judgement, another to mercy, etc. In light of all this information, we can now understand Moshe's question: "what will I tell the Jewish people when they ask me what Name i.e. what attribute of G-d, is this that would let us suffer in Egypt for so long? The answer: I am with you now just as I have always been. This applies to us as well, while we are in golus, G-d is with us just as consistently. However, while this is all well and good, one cannot help but wonder why, if G-d is always with us, does He allows us to suffer?

An answer can be found in G-d's response. After He says "Ehyeh asher ehyeh", G-d then tells Moshe that "Havyah (a Name of G-d)...has sent me to you. This is My eternal Name," The Divine Name Havyah, a Name connotating Mercy, is spelled with a yud, a hei, a vov, and a hei. l'olam, the hebrew word for 'eternal', is usually spelled with a vov, and yet in this passage the vov is missing. What we can learn from this is that G-d's Mercy, while being there, is hidden from us during the exile. Sometimes, a person can feel isolated, lost on the empty gray road of life, alone in a room void of light. We get upset at G-d, blaming Him for all of the misfortune to befall us, only to forget Him when times get better.

This is also another reason for G-d's response of "Ehyeh asher ehyeh": "I am what I am, I am not ashamed to be who I am, so please accept me for that even if you might not understand all of my motivations. I'm consistent; I love you and I never change, so although you may percieve your situation as meaningless suffering, please understand that I am there, in that moment of melancholy, that stinging bitter pain that threatens to cripple your heart. I want you to let Me, Me in all that I am, into your life to give your perspective and to heal. I want you to step outside of the four walls of your own situation, go beyond yourself and find the inner meaning within your pain, transcend your suffering and see it from a higher perspective. The bad times that you are experiencing may just be the birth pangs of something incredibly good. This is what we are supposed to do in golus. We are having a conversation; when the lights go out in the room, we need to trust that Hashem is still there listening. All we need to do is continue speaking our hearts and trust that He will respond. Have a liberating week.
With all my love,
Zach

Torah blog of the week: Exile and strength

Lately, I've had a dilemma. It's not neccesarily something that I expected, yet at the same time, many people kept reminding me that it would happen. I fought it, I prepared for it, but lately it's been getting the better of me. This dilemma isn't universal thought of, at least not in the sense of it being at the forefront of everyone's mind. Not many people understand it, I can't say that I completely understand it myself even though I know that it's there. It often remains unspoken, sometimes deliberately so, remaining as the large pink elephant in the room, quietly brushing its tail and shuffling its massive feet while we try to avoid it. Sometimes we recognize its presence in the form of a brief existential moment, a "wool removed from the eyes" sort of feeling that we get at the most random times, only to lapse back into a lucid dream. It's called golus- exile- and whether we know it or not, it affects us constantly. It's the state of the world where G-dliness isn't openly revealed, where the knowledge of G-d is put into question, and even the most evident truths are doubted. In place of this massive hole, a "reality" of empty materialism and meaningless hedonism is constructed; a world where instant gratification holds sway over our emotions and the animal in us remains supreme. If only we could break out from our self-constructed prisons, cure ourselves of this perpetual Stockholm syndrome, take some advice from the sages and realize that we are as dreamers, then perhaps, with a little glimpse of light like the sun breaking through the horizon, the elephant would disappear and we could all breath a little easier.

Why do I say that it's my dilemma? If this is something that afflicts the global community, then why do I single myself out? Because a little over a week ago, I left my yeshiva on David Yellin Street in Jerusalem, my cacoon of Torah learning, to head back to the States for a month-long visit. While this may not seem like that long of a time and while I'm incredibly happy to be with my family and friends, it's been giving me a taste of what the "real world" is and what to expect from it. I had mentally prepared myself to have difficulty with my focus and my Torah learning, with the flow of inspiration, yet it wasn't until living it that I was able to realize a hard-to-swallow truth: it will always be this way to a certain extent. We cannot pretend like the "real world" doesn't exist and hide away in our books, tucked away in the little corner of the room. We have our familes, relationships, jobs, politics, hardships, life. Life isn't about being in the bubble, it's about recognizing that the bubbles exist- both the bubble of yeshiva and the bubble of the real world- and being able to interact in them while not being tied down by them. It's about gathering strength so that we can take care of the task at hand, These past two parshas have really spoken to me intimately on this topic and, hopefully, it will speak to you as well.

In last week's parsha, Joseph was reunited with his father, Jacob. This was especially evident in my life since I was reunited with parents after a six month leave from home. In this week's parsha, the theme seems to be all about one thing: strengthening ourselves for the golus. One example of this is in the blessing that Jacob bestows upon Joseph's sons, Menashe and Ephraim. In a few parshas back, the Torah commented on why Joseph decided on those two names: Menashe was because "G-d has caused me to forget (NaSHaNi) all my hardships and all that was in my father's house." (Gen. 41:51) while Ephraim was because "G-d has made me fruitful (hiFRani) in the land of my subjugation." (ibid. 52) Menashe's name refers to Joseph's longing to leave Egypt (exile) and return to his "father's house" (liberation) while Ephraim's name refers to our mission in exile that we need to carry out (made me fruitful). Although Menashe is the first born and should have been blessed first, Jacob decided to bless Ephraim first instead. What we learn from this is two things: firstly the fact that Menashe is the first born means that we must feel out of place in the exile; we need to recognize that while we may have a whole life set up here, there is still the absence of G-d's revelation in this world, which means that the world has yet to reach its perfected state; and secondly, the fact that Ephraim was the first to be blessed means that our primary focus must be on fulfilling our mission and suceeding in our Divine service.

What exactly is our mission? It's hinted to in the end of the parsha and the end of Genesis, the first book of the Torah. On Shabbos when we read the Torah out loud, when we finish a book in the Torah it is customary to say "Chazak! Chazak! V'nischazek!" (Be strong! Be strong! And may we be strengthened!) At the end of Genesis, Joseph passes away and is interned in Egypt, so why, if the book ends on such a depressing note, would we celebrate by saying "chazak"? There are two reasons for this, one obvious and one less obvious. The first is that this is the last parsha before the book of Exodus, the retelling of the Jews enslavement in Egypt. By saying "chazak" we are strengthening ourselves for the exile ahead, reminding ourselves of the promise of liberation. The second and less obvious idea deals with the life of Joseph. While Joseph was alive he rose to great power, becoming second in command to Pharoah. By his body remaing in Egypt, it is symbolic of Joseph's greatness remaining with the Jewish people and ultimately, of our mastery over the golus.

So what does this tell us about our mission? That we must strengthen our convictions and be able to not just survive in the golus, but to thrive. Joseph didn't just live his life in Egypt, he amassed immense wealth and eventually came to rule it. So too with us: we must be able to draw the spiritual wealth out from the golus, to realize the endless amount of light hidden in the illusory darkness. For weeks I've tried to write words in this blog that would strengthen my friends, people that a different points in time were outside of the yeshiva within themselves, outside of their personal Jerusalem. Now that I find myself in a similar situation, in a place where I'm in need of strengthening, I've realized the importance of this week's lesson. It takes a bit of bitachon (trust in G-d) to believe that we're always here for a reason no matter where we are. Though we may feel out of place and lacking in the fulfillment of our duties, it's important to realize that we are here for a reason, whether it be one seemingly random good deed, a person that is in need of a single charitable act, or the worried heart of a friend that requires easing. If we can come to the realization that we are constantly reconstructing our purpose and meaning in life, then the dilemma will disappear; the exile both within the world and within ourselves will be no more than a memory fading away into abstraction, a dream lost in a vacuous haze. Here's to finding our purpose in the exile and to a speedy redemption from it.
With all my love,
Zach

Special Holiday Blog: The Miracle of Chanukah

Shalom everyone! I'm sorry for not posting last week, things have been quite busy over here at the yeshiva. This week, instead of posting a blog on the weekly Torah parsha, I'd like to talk about Chanukah, specifically the miracle that took place over two thousand years ago and how it is still relevant in our lives.

Most people know the basic story: during the time of the Second Temple, the Greeks began their campaign of conquest in Israel through assimilation. Their mission was simple: deconstruct any sort of religious Jewish identity, forcing the Greek customs and society upon the local Jews. Although many brave Jews who stood by their convictions were forced to become martyrs, the battle being fought was essentially a spiritual one; it was to wipe out the Jewish nation off of the spiritual map. They did this by prohibiting certain practices such as a bris (ritual circumcision), the study of Torah as a religious text, and even forced the sacrifice of pigs on the ritual alter. Hope seemed to be completely gone, when a militia of soldiers called the Hashmoneans led by Matisyahu (later on to be led by Judah Maccabee), challenged the Greeks head on. Although the odds were completely against them winning, it was their spirit of fearless self-sacrifice that led to their victory.

Now this would seem like a good enough reason for a commemorative celebration, yet the event most spoken of in connection to Chanukah is the miracle of the oil. After reclaiming and purifying the Temple, the Hashmoneans, wanting to light the menorah in dedication, were sadly disappointed to find that all of the oil had been made impure except for one jug, a jug that still had the unbroken seal of the high priest protecting it. They decided to light it anyway and, to their shock, the oil that should have lasted for only one night lasted for eight nights. These two accounts- the victory over the Greeks and the oil- form the collective narrative of the miracle of Chanukah. Something that seems a bit puzzling though is why they're connected. Let's "shed some light" on the subject.

In chasidic philosophy, oil is symbolic of kodesh (holy). According to Judaism, kodesh doesn't just mean "holy", but it also signifies "separateness". By having something separate from everything else, it keeps it special, pure, and untouched. However, there's another aspect of kodesh that seems to be the complete opposite, the idea that it permeates everything, adding infinite depth to seemingly finite things. This idea of kodesh is paralleled perfectly with oil: oil, when mixed with most other liquids such as water, will separate and float on top (remember those 3rd grade science projects?). Oil can also saturate, the exact opposite of separateness. What is it that the Greeks were fighting against? It was the kodesh found in Judaism, the holiness that pervaded the study of Torah, the practice of rituals, and the loftiness of G-dly things i.e. the sacrificial alter. This is why the jugs of oil were made impure, because the Greeks had done all that they could to spiritually eradicate the soul of Judaism (the G-dly element of Torah), leaving only an empty body (a dry and lifeless academic approach). Their best wasn't good enough since there was that one jug of pure oil that had the unbroken seal.

The importance of this jug cannot be expressed enough, yet before going into it, it's important to understand what it was that the Greeks in this story stood for. The Greeks were considered to be the pinnacle of logic and philosophy; open up any philosophy text book and you have the Greeks to thank for their foundations. While they provided us with an absolutely amazing body of knowledge, it was this hyper-rational approach, of the supremacy of the human intellect, that could not understand the supra-rational beliefs of Judaism, the idea that there is something outside of the four corners of our heads that we will never be able to grasp or understand. This is why they were so against the Jewish practices and beliefs: because, just like the oil comes to permeate everything, the supra-rational kodesh permeated Judaism. The main idea of supra-rationality in Torah is this: although G-d made Torah so that we can understand certain concepts and commandments, our finite understanding of them will never be able the reach the infinite understanding of G-d; the two understandings are completely different orders. With this understanding, any human-given reason for the commandments pales in comparison to that of G-d's and it is because of this that the driving force behind observance of commandments is that they are G-d given. In simple terms, where reason ends, faith begins and not only that, but the faith encompasses the reason as well. This was a concept that the Greeks could neither appreciate or understand, which led to such a fierce conflict between the two opposing sides of Greeks and the Jews.

This brings us to the last jug of oil. What is the significance of its finding? The oil represented a level of holiness untouched, a level of the soul that can never be destroyed, a level that will always remain kodesh and pure even in the face of the fiercest adversity, the level where the soul is most connected to G-d. This is the level with which the Hashmoneans fought the Greeks. We now see why it was possible for there to be such an underdog victory: the Hashmoneans were few and their weaponry not nearly as advanced as the Greeks, yet their secret weapon was a spiritual one, a supra-rational faith in G-d's Will and a spirit of self-sacrifice that washed over the Hellenistic rationality. This is the why the fire burned for as long as it did, because it was a fire connected to the infinite light of G-d. The Greek campaign of assimilation and spiritual destruction was a darkness so black that it threatened to swallow up the spark of the Jewish soul. However, when that tiny spark touch the surface of an endless supply of "oil", a vast infinite sea of G-dliness and truth, that the spark transformed into an all-consuming fire, fighting off the darkness and even turning that very darkness into light.

This concept, the victory of light over the darkness, is especially important in our lives. This world is filled with a darkness that we know all too well. Our lives can often feel empty without a meaning or purpose for existence. Depression often creeps upon us, smothering us and snuffing out our spark. We've tried materialism and its proven to only increase the depth of the darkness. We've tried hedonistic indulgence, and yet deeper still. Stumbling around this world like someone in a room deprived of all light, we sometimes have the fortune to come into contact with a random, lone candle. It is up to us what happens next: either we let it pass us by and we continue on in our blind journey, or we do something, taking the initiative; we grasp the candle in our hand and kindle more candles, slowly increasing the small collection of candles into a steadily building flame. Once we do that, it won't be long until the room becomes illuminated, clearly showing us it's true nature. A world once thought to be completely lost in darkness will suddenly be revealed to have merely been hiding the beauty that was there all along.
Happy holidays and with all my love,
Zach