Parshat Vayeishev

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The Young Ox in the Room

This parsha opens up with a picture of a young Yosef. Specifically, he is described as a “na’ar, a youth” (Bereisheit 37:1), and at first glance this doesn’t seem to be a particularly flattering assessment. Rashi elaborates that Yosef would fix up his hair and his eyes to look handsome. Maharal adds that Yosef would act without thinking through the consequences, doing things like telling his dreams to his brothers.

And yet, Rav Schorr invites us to look at this idea of “na’ar” from a different perspective. “Na’ar” is connected to the idea of hitorerut, the idea of being awake to the changing spiritual possibilities of the moment. We can look at this idea of “na’ar” as the idea of a young Yosef trying to fit himself into the circumstances of the moment.  What may seem to be negative or neutral in the moment are the seeds of what will later become his greatness.

Rav Schorr describes Yosef’s derech as the derech of the mind. When he is young, he is guided on what he knows to be right, and he acts on it, regardless of the consequences. He brings reports about his brothers to his father, and he shares his dreams of kingship with brothers who are jealous of him. However, as he matures, we begin to see a different form of Yosef emerge. The Yosef who confronts his brothers at the end of the story is cool, calm and collected. He is clearly thinking through the consequences, nevertheless, he remains steadfast in his commitment to act on what he believes is right.

As a young man, the firstborn of Rachel, and the beloved of Yaacov, Yosef had dreams that were prophecies about being a ruler. And, in fact, this is exactly what he would later become. But this aspect of himself had not been fully developed yet. It expressed itself in interesting ways. Rav Schorr explains that it was actually the deep feeling of kingship within Yosef that motivated him to spend time on his appearance.

Yosef is not the only king in the family. Yosef’s story is  intertwined with the story of Yehudah. This is the story of two kings with two very different paths. Yosef was the king that was compared to an ox, but Yehudah was the king that was compared to a lion. Yehudah wore his kingship more naturally, while Yosef was having some trouble fitting into his circumstances. And while Yosef, as we mentioned, followed the path of his mind, Yehudah followed the path of his heart.

Both sons face similar tests. Just before we learn about Yosef’s encounter with Potifar’s wife, we learn about Yehudah’s encounter with Tamar. Out of love for his son, Yehudah denies Tamar’s right to do the mitzvah of yibum. And then, at the expense of great personal embarrassment to himself, he admits that Tamar had been right. Yehudah’s essential trait, as expressed by his name, is his ability to admit that everything that he is, and everything that he has, comes from Hashem. He can begin moving in one direction, and then pivot and move in the other direction if that’s what Hashem wants. He is King, because he channels the kingship of Hashem.  His complete devotion to Hashem’s will is the starting point for the line of Moshiach.

Against this backdrop, we are given the story of Yosef in the house of Potifar. The wife of Potiphar would come to Yosef each day, not just with perfume, but with an argument. She knew they were destined to have descendants together. She knew this was part of Hashem’s plan. But Yosef’s path was not Yehudah’s path. Yosef was driven by his youthful ability to be alive to the spiritual potential of the particular moment, to stay true to what he knew was right, regardless of the consequences.

Both Yehudah and Yosef passed their tests, though they did it in very different ways.  Rav Schorr tells us that each of us is tested, again and again, in our essential middah.  All the different aspects of ourselves, however they are expressing themselves at the moment, are important. They are expressing who we are. Life gives us the opportunity to refine them. This is exactly what Yosef did. He was able to take the mantle of leadership because he had remained true to the aspect of kingship within himself, and refined it through the circumstances of his life.

Parshat Vayishlach

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Standing Alone and Connected

The stage is set for the greatest battle of Yaacov’s life with three simple words. “And Yaacov was left alone.” In his comments to this week’s parsha, Rav Schorr reveals some of the tremendous depth that exists in these three words. On one level, these are the words that always begin any major spiritual test. As we mentioned in connection with parshat Lech Lecha, the nature of a test is that Hashem removes some level of His constant help and closeness, which leaves room for us to stand on our own and develop our own strength. This means that each of us faces our spiritual tests in a state of aloneness.

We are not always comfortable with being alone. The Gemara (Ta’anit 23a) expresses the general feeling on the topic with the phrase, “Either companionship or death.” Without companionship, we feel lost. Many of us, constantly under assault from social media and streaming content don’t even know the meaning of being alone. Alone just seems sad and lonely. But there is another, spiritual way of being alone.  

Yaacov Aveinu mastered the spiritual level of standing alone, and he paved the way for us to learn it, too.  To stand alone as Yaacov stood alone is to stand in reflection of the middah of Hashem. Bereisheit Rabbah 77 notes that just as it says about Hashem, “And Hashem will stand alone on that day (Yishayahu 2:17), it says about Yaacov, “And Yaacov was left alone.” What does it mean, the Hashem stands alone? Hashem exists, in all His Unfathomable, Inexpressible Greatness, completely independent of anything else. To reflect this means to connect to that aspect of ourselves which remains unchanging, and is independent of our circumstances. To stand alone is to stand in connection to the deepest part of ourselves, the part that never changes, the soul which keeps us constantly connected to Hashem.

Yaacov’s middah was Emet, the middah of connecting to truth, which does not change. Yaacov was able to retain his connection to the awareness of the Oneness of Hashem, completely  independent of any situation in which he found himself. The fight against Eisav’s angel was a fight over whether Yaacov could maintain this level, “alone,” even when faced with the concentrated essence of everything Eisav stood for. When Yaacov emerged victorious, it was not only that his essence was changed. We gained as well. The spiritual victories of the Avot are our spiritual inheritance.  We now carry within us the ability to tap into this spiritual level of “alone.” Balaam says of us (Bamidbar 23:9), “it is a nation that will dwell in solitude.” And Moshe blesses us (Devarim 33:28), “Thus Israel will dwell secure, solitary, in the likeness of Yaacov.”

The test of this middah on a national level came during the time of Chanukah. The battle with the Greeks was a battle over the essence of who we are. We can gain insight into its nature by looking at its roots in the Torah: the narrative of Shem, ancestor of the Jews, and Yafet, ancestor of the Greeks.  In Parshat Noach (Bereisheit 9:18-27) Shem and Yafet are informed by their brother Ham that their father Noach is intoxicated and uncovered in his tent. They both take a garment, and carefully cover their father. But Rashi (9:23) says that their reward is very different. Shem is rewarded with tzitzit, while Yafet is rewarded with burial for his sons during the wars before Moshiach. Why is there a different reward for the same action?

The answer is, it was not the same action at all, even though it looked the same. And this is essence of the difference between Bnei Yisrael and Yavan, Greece. Chazal call the wisdom of Yavan “external wisdom.” Yavan had wise men who were experts in all manner of logic and science, math and athletics. Everything that could be quantified and rationalized was important in their world. They defined reality by what they could perceive and quantify. But they did not believe that there was a spiritual reality that existed above the natural order of logic and reason. We, clearly, disagree. Hashem creates reality as a form within a form, and there is always a spiritual core inside the physical husk, even if we can’t immediately see it.

The difference in the actions of Shem and Yafet lays in the area that could not be seen. It was a difference of intent. Yafet was concerned with the external nature of the event, the impropriety of seeing his father in such a drunken state. He was rewarded with burial, which is a covering for the physical body. Shem covered his father because of kivud Av, and out of a concern for kavod habriot. He was rewarded with tzitzit, which is a covering for the soul within the body. This is the root of the two paths of these two nations.  The Greek path is one natural physical and intellectual accomplishment, which negates that which lies outside the realm of what the mind can comprehend. The Jewish path is the path of connection to the pnemiut, the inner essence of life.

              Looking at this a little more deeply, Rav Schorr introduces the idea in chazal that each of the four Kingdoms of our exile relates to a different one of the four most serious sins, and Greece relates to the sin of murder. At first glance it seems odd to connect the Greek culture of beauty and wisdom with murder. But there is great depth that is hidden here.  In Hebrew, the term used for murder is shefichat damim, which literally means spilling blood.  As we know, the blood is the life of the person. Murder is the separation of the soul, the inner essence of the person, from their body. But there is more than one way to murder someone. The Greeks denied the reality of the soul, the inner life of the person. Through the denial of the reality of the soul, Greek culture created the greatest separation that could exist between body and soul while the person was still alive in this world.  No less than murder, this was a drawing out of the lifeblood of the person, our inner essence. A person who remains detached from his inner essence is not really alive.

              What the Greeks were attempting at the time of Chanukah was murder on a national level. In every instance, they wanted to maintain the outer hull of Jewish life, but bleed it dry of its inner essence. The Greeks translated the Written Torah into Greek, and accorded it honor, but denied its inner life, the Oral Torah. They were happy to join us in the Temple, but they defiled the holiness of all the oil. They were “michallel” the Beit Hamikdah, they defiled it by removing it’s inner kedusha, and turning it into something like a “chalal,” a corpse, void and empty within.   

              The polar opposite of this is Yaacov, the father about whom we say, “Yaacov Avinu didn’t die.” Yaacov is called “Mekor Hachayim,” the source of life.  This is connected to his  middah of emet. For something to be true, it means that the external reality reflects and is completely aligned with the internal reality. Falsehood occurs when there is disparity between the outward appearance and the internal reality. Yaacov’s middah was the ability to connect completely all the external aspects of this world to their internal truth. This was how Yaacov did battle with Eisav.  “And Yaacov was left alone.” He was alone, but very much with himself, connected to his soul and connected to Hashem.

We can walk in Yaacov’s footsteps. The essence of Greek culture is still very much alive today. Chanukah is an excellent time, spiritually, to revitalize ourselves. It’s a great time to reacquaint ourselves with the joy and power that comes from being alone in its truest sense. This means being alone with the deep and unlimited self we carry within us, which is our constant and intimate connection to Hashem.

Parshat Vayeitzei

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The Dream That Was a Test

Parshat Vayetzei is a parsha of galut, a parsha where we can feel the familiar stresses of exile. The structure of the parsha reflects this theme. It begins with the words “And Yaacov left” and then continues, like a run-on sentence, with no parashah petuhah or parashah setumah (spaces in the Torah text), until the very end. In this parsha, there is no place to find rest, or peace of mind. Yaacov is uprooted from his physical home and his spiritual source. The Zohar compares his journey to one who is descending into a very deep well. However, this parsha is not just the story of Yaacov experiencing galut. It is also the story of Yaacov triumphing over galut. Even more, this parsha gives us insight into ourselves, and the tools that Yaacov left us, so that we, too, can triumph over whatever form of galut we happen to be in.

The parsha begins, “And Yaacov left from Be’er Sheva.” In a play on words, Bereisheit Rabbah (68:7) tells us that Yaacov left from the Well of Oaths. A person about to go down into a very deep well would do well to tie himself to a very strong rope that will lead him back to the top. That rope, for Yaacov, was an oath. Specifically, says the midrash, it was an oath of seven.

What was this oath of seven? This number seven refers to the seven lower middot. Without attempting to give any real explanation of the kabbalistic concept, we can understand the seven lower middot as seven essential strengths of our soul. As we have discussed before, each of our Avot had a unique way in which they were meant to serve Hashem, and each of the Avot was tested in that exact area. Yaacov’s middah was the middah of Emet, truth. The nature of truth is that it does not change. It is always true.  Yaacov’s test, as he went into a world of deceit, a world where he would be forced to use cunning to survive, was whether he could remain unchangingly true to his own spiritual self. To strengthen himself, before he left, Yaacov took an oath, a vow to tie each one of his strengths to his higher self. Although he would use many different strengths to survive in galut, Yaacov vowed to live only in accordance with the truth of who he was in his deepest self.

Rav Schorr explains that this vow was immediately put to the test. Yaacov was tested through sleep, which is often used by Chazal as a metaphor for galut. On a purely physical level, sleep is a time when our control over ourselves is not strong. In our sleep we are unguarded, and are therefore more likely to reveal the essence of who we are. Yaacov was tested to see if even in a state of sleep, and a state of galut, he would remain unchangingly true to his spiritual self.

Yaacov’s dream begins with “v’hinei, and there was,” a word which introduces a new idea, a chiddush. In this case, that chiddush was a ladder, which was used as a symbol for the natural world. The natural world is completely rooted in the physical, and yet, it reaches up to the heavens. Through deep contemplation of nature, we come to deep recognition of Hashem. The ladder in Yaacov’s dream represented a beautiful spiritual path of living in harmony with the world and the laws of nature, and also in continuous connection to Hashem. The question posed in the dream was, will Yaacov attach himself to this level of spirituality?

At first glance we might be tempted to think that that is exactly what Yaacov was meant to do. Sure, this natural level wasn’t the level of Yaacov as we described him in last week’s essay. However, things have changed since the time when Yaacov spent all day in his tent.  Looking at this moment in Yaacov’s life, we see so much destruction. The Midrash Tanchuma compares Yaacov’s exile to the exile of a person who murdered someone accidentally. Through Yaacov’s actions, Eisav was cut off from his rightful spiritual inheritance, his eternal life. Yaacov cannot walk away from that reality easily. As he enters galut, he is facing an uncertain future, where the original plan, of Eisav and Yaacov working together to continue Avraham’s legacy, is no longer in play.

This is reflected in how Yaacov perceives the first stop on his journey. The pasuk says, “vayifga bamakom,” he encountered a place, or as Rav Hirsch explains it, he was struck by a place, and that place impacted him. That “place” was Har HaMoriah, but the midrash says that what Yaacov saw there was the Beit Hamikdash in ruins. Har HaMoriah was built up through the akeidah. When Avraham first sees it, from afar, it is just a place: “he saw the place from afar (Bereisheit 22:4).” However, by the end of the akeidah, Avraham has given the place a name, and the Torah has changed its description from “place” to “mountain.” It is now the “mountain of Hashem Yira’eh  (22:14).”  The Midrash says that Avraham built a mountain from the valley, but that is not how Yaacov experiences it. He sees just “a place.” Avraham’s legacy appears diminished.

Despite all of this, despite the galut, despite his own limitations, despite the undisputed fact that he is leaving the land of miracles, Yaacov refuses to settle for a natural path of spirituality. He knows himself, he knows his soul, and he knows that this path is not fitting for him. Even in his sleep, Yaacov refuses to attach himself to it.

And so, the dream begins again. Once again, we see the word, “v’hinei,” indicating a new aspect being revealed. Now, Yaacov sees angels going up and down the ladder. This expresses a higher level of revealed spirituality, a closer connection to Hashem. This is a level of connection to Hashem beyond nature, through the means of angels. Yaacov rejects this level as well. This is still not the level of his soul.

Finally, for a third time, the nevuah begins again. And this time, Hashem Himself is standing over Yaacov. This is the direct connection to Hashem that Yaacov was seeking, a level of guidance completely beyond the order of nature. This is the only level which is true to Yaacov’s spiritual level, the level that he finally accepts.

Rav Schorr tells us that it is not just that this was the only level that was fitting for Yaacov. This is the real level of all of us, children of Yaacov. This level is implanted spiritually within us. We may be deep in the well of galut, but that doesn’t mean we have to let go of our grip on our rope. We are not supposed to lose sight, even in galut, of who we really are, and what we are able to accomplish spiritually.

True, we are not all on the level of Yaacov Avinu. Hashem may not stand above each of us in our dreams. But we all have the ability to create a relationship with Hashem. We can open up our mouths and talk to Hashem at any moment, even if we are not that religious, not that spiritual, or don’t feel ourselves to be that great. Our circumstances, even if they are not what we want them to be, are not a reason to ever lose touch with that relationship. We have neither the requirement to, nor permission to, accept a subpar level of spirituality.

Yaacov Avinu did not let any of the circumstances of his life, neither his external stresses, nor his own limitations, interfere with his relationship with Hashem. This is a middah which the Sfat Emet called the Middah of Hishtavut, and it is the ability to meet all of life’s challenges with equanimity, due to an unswerving commitment to, and faith in, our relationship with Hashem. I would like to end with a story, which I feel illustrates this middah of commitment to relationship with Hashem in the face of even the greatest challenges, in a very inspiring and down to earth way. It comes from Yair Rosenberg’s 2013 interview of Rabbi Jonathan Sacks.

Though he seldom mentions it, Sacks battled cancer twice, once in his 30s, and later in his 50s. Yet unlike many other rabbis and scholars of religion, from Rabbi David Wolpe to James Kugel, who incorporated their bouts with cancer into their theological reflections, Sacks makes no reference to it in his voluminous output. I asked why.

“It’s very simple,” he said. “I saw my late father in his 80s go through four, five major operations. This was not cancer, it was hip replacements and those things. And when you have operations in your 80s, they sap your strength. He got weaker and weaker as the decade passed. He was walking on crutches at my induction—he was alive for my induction, and that was very important to me.”

“Now, my late father, alav ha-shalom, didn’t have much Jewish education, but he had enormous emunah [faith],” Sacks continued. “I used to watch him saying Tehillim in the hospital, and I could see him getting stronger. It seemed to me that his mental attitude was ‘I’m leaving this to Hashem. If he sees that it’s time for me to go, then it’s time for me to go. And if he still needs me to do things here, he’ll look after me.’”

“And I adopted exactly that attitude. So on both occasions I felt, if this is the time Hashem needs me up there, thank you very much indeed for my time down here; I’ve enjoyed every day and feel very blessed. And if he wants me to stay and there’s still work for me to do, then he is going to be part of the refu’ah [healing] and I put my trust in him. So there was no test of faith at any point—just these simple moments at which to say, ‘b’yado afkid ruchi’ [‘In his hand, I place my soul’]. That was my thought. And since we say that every day in [the prayer] Adon Olam, I didn’t feel the need to write a book about it. It was for me not a theological dilemma at all.”

“I had faith,” said Sacks, “full stop.”

This Shabbat marks the second year Yahrzeit of my beloved father-in-law, Albert Allen a”h. He was a man who truly understood the value of relationships, and those of us who had the pleasure of knowing him miss him very much.  

                                       לעילוי נשמת אברהם בן סלחא ע”ה 

Toldot

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The Depth Behind The Deception

On this week’s parsha, Rav Schorr gives us some fascinating insights into the meaning behind Yaacov’s use of trickery and cunning to obtain the brachot from Yitzchak. He begins with the idea that each of the Avot and Imahot had the avodah of repairing the sin of eating from the Eitz Hada’at, but they each accomplished this in their own way, based on their particular avodah in this world. For example, Avraham worked through his middah of chesed, and Yitzchak through his middah of din.   

Eisav and Yaacov, each through their own unique avodah, had the opportunity to follow in their father and grandfather’s path by working together. They were twins, formed from the same source, and in this, the Shelah Hakodesh tells us, they spiritually reflected the two trees in Gan Eden which were also formed from one root: the Etz HaDa’at and the Etz HaChayim. Yaacov, the “Ish Tam,” had within him aspects of the Etz HaChayim. Like Adam HaRishon, his Yetzer Hara was external. He lived with complete and total devotion in his tent of Torah.  Eisav, on the other hand, had within him aspects of the Eitz Hada’at, the tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. His fight with the Yetzer Hara was personal and internal. His challenge was using the good within him to to overcome his yetzer hara.  

Ideally, the two brothers were meant to work together in the form of “sur me’ra v’oseh tov, distance yourself from bad, and do good.” Eisav would focus on the sur me’ra aspect, and Yaacov would focus on oseh tov. Together, they would have the twelve shevatim, six each, and continue Avraham’s mission, creating Am Yisrael.  

Looked at from this perspective, we understand that there was no need for rivalry between the brothers. And yet, we see that only one was meant to receive the brachot. Why? This is because the bracha was not a prize to be won, it was the giving over of the physical tools that were needed for Eisav’s  mission. Yaacov say in his tent, attached to the Torah. Physical keilim were not vital for the success of his mission. Eisav, however, had the avodah of going out into the world, and battling evil. Yitzchak wanted to give Eisav the bracha because he understood clearly Eisav’s mission and wanted to give him the help he needed to succeed.  

It is for this reason that Yitzchak turns to Eisav, before he gives him the bracha, with a request (Bereisheit 27:3), “And now, sharpen your vessels, your sword and bow and go out into the field.” Yitzchak begins with the words “and now” which Rav Shorr tells us refers to teshuva. He was telling Eisav, the time has come to do teshuva, to earn your bracha, and to fully accept your spiritual mission as part of Avraham’s lineage. Yitzchak knew that Eisav’s ability to hunt and trap was given to him for spiritual purposes. He was given cunning in order to use it to fight the Yetzer Hara. The Midrash (Bereisheit Rabbah 65) gives these words cosmic meaning: “your vessels, is Bavel, your sword is Persia, your arrow is Greece, and the field is Edom.”  These four galiyot represent the four aspects of evil in the world. Yitzchak was giving Eisav insight into his own abilities. He is telling Eisav that he has the potential ability to fight all four types of evil in the world. All he needs to do is make the choice to accept his spiritual mission.  

However, that was not the choice that Eisav made. And this is where Rivka steps into the picture. Rivka, who grew up in the house of the master deceiver Betuel, had her a perspective born from her years of experience with hypocrisy.  The Torah tells us (Bereisheit 25:28) that Yitzchak loved Eisav “for tazyid, the ability to hunt, was in his mouth.”  Yitzchak recognized Eisav’s tremendous potential for fighting the yetzer hara with cunning. But what Rivka understood was that all that potential was only “b’piv,” in his mouth. Eisav had not internalized his mission or his tools. He had in fact, sold the birthright. He was only interested in Yitzchak’s mission when he was near Yitzchak, and it suited him. But he was not interested in dedicating his life to fighting evil.  

And so, Rivka stepped up to do her part in repairing the damage done by the sin of Adam and Chava in Gan Eden. It was Chava, after all, who gave the fruit of the Etz HaDaat to Adam, and thereby caused good and evil to be mixed up within us. The task fell to Chava’s great-great granddaughters to separate out the evil from the good. It was Sara who had the determining role in removing Yishmael from her home. Likewise, it now fell to Rivka to remove Eisav and his hypocrisy from her home.  

However, Eisav could not just be simply removed. His mission still needed to be accomplished. Someone else needed to do his job. Rivka understood what needed to be done with such spiritual clarity that when she told Yaacov to get the brachot from his father, there was the force of nevuah behind her words. Her request of Yaacov was not just that he get the brachot, but that he expand himself, change his very nature, and accept Eisav’s mission as his own. When Yaacov agreed to listen to her, he was taking the first step in being worthy of accepting that mission and gaining the brachot. Eisav was a master at honoring his father. Yaacov’s willingness to listen to his mother’s nevuah against all his own instincts put him on equal footing with Eisav in this arena.   

However, Yaacov still needed to undergo a phenomenal change. He needed to adopt the tools of cunning and trickery which Eisav was given in order to fight the Yetzer Hara. And this is not at all what Yaacov wanted to do. It was against his nature, a challenge to his essential middah of emet. The midrash tells us that Yaacov went to get the brachot with a broken heart, davening the whole time to be saved from falsehood. When he says to his mother, “Maybe my father will feel me and I will be like a deceiver in his eyes (Bereisheit 27:12),” the Gra points out that that maybe is the maybe of ‘halavai’, I wish it would happen. Yaacov was forced into this deception by his mother’s nevuah, but until the last second he was praying that something would go wrong, and he wouldn’t have to go through with it.  

He did not get his wish. He was able to ‘trick’ his father, but the trickery comes not through the goat skin on his arms, but through the new spiritual truth he is creating. Just before Yitzchak gives Yaacov the bracha, there is a fascinating pasuk in the Torah (Bereisheit 27:27). “And he (Yaacov) drew close, and he kissed him, and he (Yitzchak) smelled the smell of his clothes, and he blessed him, and he said, ‘See, the fragrance of my son is like the fragrance of the field which G-d blessed.” 

What was this fragrance  on Yaacov’s clothes, that affected Yitzchak so much?  The Midrash says (Bereisheit Rabbah 65), based on a play on words in the Hebrew, that Yitzchak smelled not Yaacov’s clothes, but his treachery, and even the treachery and teshuva of distant progeny of his in the future. And that was what earned him the bracha. Yitzchak “ra’ah,” he saw and he understood, that the continuation of his avodah would be through the son that was standing before him. This was the son who was committed to the mission, and who would battle his Yetzer Hara with cunning and trickery. This was the son who could plant in the field, as Yitzchak had planted (Bereisheit 26:12), the good deeds that could become the vessels for Hashem’s influence to fill the world.   

Yaacov, through his actions, had expanded himself.  He was ready and able to take over the role that Eisav scorned when he sold his birthright to Yaacov. This was the spiritual truth behind his words, “I am Eisav, your firstborn.” This was the reason that Yitzchak gave him the brachot, and agreed that they were binding. Since Yaacov had now taken on Eisav’s spiritual mission, including the role of fathering all 12 tribes, as well as the necessity of going into galut, he would need the brachot that were originally intended to help Eisav fulfill this role.  

R’ Leibele Eiger adds a final point. We know that each of the Avot had a different way of describing the Beit Hamikdash. Yitzchak described the Beit Hamikdah as a field. The sweet smell of the field which Yitzchak smelled on Yaacov was therefore the fragrance of the ketoret. One of the aspects of the ketoret  is that it includes chelbana, a spice that smells bad. The ketoret produces the sweetest smell by mixing good and bad together in service of Hashem. And R’ Leibele points out that this sublime fragrance is only possible after the spices have been crushed.  

Yaacov was forced to act deceptively, and it broke his heart. But he was acting to the best of his ability to serve Hashem. And in that act of breaking, he created a new self. Rashi says the fragrance that accompanied Yaacov into the Yitzchak’s room was the fragrance of Gan Eden. Sometimes, from our most broken places, we are able expand into the most exalted spaces.  

Chayei Sara

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Learning to Live Deep from Eliezer

Part One: Eliezer MiDamasek, The One Who Draws And Gives To Drink

In this week’s parsha, Eliezer is sent on a mission by Avraham to find a wife for Yitzchak, and in the process, we see something we don’t see very often in the Torah: long and seemingly repetitive dialogue. It’s not just that we read, in detail, Avraham’s instructions to Eliezer (8 pesukim), Eliezer’s prayer to Hashem for help (3 pesukim), Eliezer’s conversation with Rivka (9 pesukim) and Eliezer’s prayer of thanks (2 pesukim). We read it all again, in the 16 pesukim it takes Eliezer to repeat the whole story to Lot.  What can we understand from this uncharacteristic repetition? The midrash (see Rashi on Bereisheit 24:42) comes to an astonishing conclusion: Hashem loves the ordinary conversation of the servants of our forefathers, perhaps more than the Torah of their children.

What was so special about Eliezer and his conversations? What are we meant to learn from him? Yoma (28b) tells us that Eliezer’s name, Demasek, was an acronym for the words “doleh u’mashkeh” which mean to draw forth and give to drink. Eliezer’s talent was his ability to draw out what was hidden within Avraham’s words and actions, and then teach those lessons and that spirituality to others. You might think it was easy to learn from one of the greatest men than ever lived. But it was not as easy as it seemed. Avraham lived in the deepest way possible, but his actions all appeared simple. R’ Michal of Zlotchow says that when the angels came to visit Avraham, they wanted to observe this man they knew to be a tzaddik, to see why his every action was so precious to Hashem. They expected to see an angel on earth. What they saw instead was what appeared to be a perfectly normal person. In astonishment, they asked Avraham, “Where is Sara your wife?” (Bereisheit 18:9). They thought that perhaps they would be able to understand by watching Sara. But Avraham answered, “She is in the tent.” She is just as tznuah as I am, and you will not learn anything by simply observing her.

Despite how normal and simple Avraham’s actions appeared on the outside, the truth was there was tremendous depth to his every movement. The Torah tells us that “Avraham was old, ba bayamim,” which literally means, he came into his old age with his days (Bereisheit 24:1). What does this mean? We generally think of time as something that is continually slipping away. Moments happen, and then they are gone. Sometimes they live on in our memory. The truth is more complicated. It is the moments that we do not invest with eternal purpose that slip away into nothingness. But every moment we do invest in, by using it to fulfill our purpose in this world, or using it to connect to Hashem, to our neshama, and to the people and situations in our life, is a moment which gains an eternal existence. Moments we invest in spiritually are moments we get to keep eternally. The greatness of Avraham was that he brought every moment of every day with him into his eternal life. Not one moment was missing. Every moment was used for eternal purpose, and so every moment lasted eternally.

How did he do this? To explain our pasuk, that Avraham was old and came with his days, the Midrash Tanchuma turns to Tehillim 104. There, David Hamelech turns to the nature of his own soul to understand the nature of Hashem. The midrash tells us that this is what David realized: when an earthly king puts his image onto a form, the image becomes constrained to the size and shape of the form, but  this is not the case for Hashem. When Hashem puts His image on a form, His image is still greater than all the constraints of the form. David Hamelech turned to his own soul and recognized,“Hashem eloki, gedalta me’od,” this spark of Hashem that is within me, even though it is constrained in my body, is very, very big. My soul is bigger than my body. My neshama reaches up to the greatest heights.

And from this feeling, David understood that all of creation is the same way. There is nothing simple in this world. Every piece of the world is animated by a Divine spark, and that spark remains always much greater than the physical reality into which is has been placed. Everything in our world has tremendous spiritual depth, which means that every person, and every moment of every person’s life, has the potential for tremendous spiritual depth.

Eliezer was able to see and understand the greatness that lay behind every one of Avraham’s seemingly simple actions. He not only understood it, he put it into action. All of Eliezer’s conversations and tefillot consisted of things he learned from Avraham. It is through his actions and his words, which are clearly spelled out in the Torah, that we can get a glimpse of the greatness of Avraham, whose actions and thoughts are much more hidden.

Part Two: The Mission

Eliezer’s mission was to draw out the holy neshama of Rivka from the tremendous tumah of the house of Lavan. This may appear to be somewhat removed from our everyday life, but the Sfat Emet (Parshat Shelach) explains that each of us is tasked with a similar mission. We, too, are sent into a place of tumah, in our case this physical world, and asked to draw out of it a holy neshama, in our case our own neshama. Learning the secret of success for Eliezer gives us important information on how to succeed in our own mission.

So how did Eliezer do it? The midrash explains Eliezer’s shita, his life philosophy. Eliezer was a descendant of Cana’an, and as such had been cursed by Noach. He was doomed to a life of servitude. And yet . . . there was a tradition that Noach had given that curse as a tikkun. That there was a purpose to it. And so, instead of trying to escape his situation, Eliezer came to terms with his unique place in the world. He understood that he did not have a choice not to serve. But he did have a choice of who he would serve. His choice was that he refused to serve any random warlord who happened to come by. He chose to serve Avraham.

Once Eliezer made that choice, he threw himself into the project whole heartedly. He made himself a shaliach, a messenger, who was completely identified with his mission. He defined himself as “Avraham’s servant.” And this created a new reality. Avraham’s wealth was in his hand—not just his physical wealth, but his spiritual wealth. He grew in his mission, and took on the characteristics of his sender, so that we see Lavan addressing him as “Blessed to Hashem” (24:31). Through his unswerving devotion to his mission, Eliezer changed his essence from cursed to blessed.

Like Eliezer, when we take a real look at our unique place in this post-Gan Eden world, we have to face the reality that our situation is not perfect. We are in galut, and the gemara (Sotah 49a) tells us that in galut, each day’s curse is greater than the last.  Iyov (5:7) tells us, “Man was born to work.” There is no real “get out of work” card. And the reality is that we all serve something in our lives. But like Eliezer, we have a very real choice. We can choose who we serve.

The Sfat Emet tells us that each of us in this world is on a mission from Hashem. If we are on a mission, that means that the wealth and the power of the One who sent us is available to us, at least in part, when we give ourselves wholeheartedly to the mission. When we are real about who we are, and what our purpose in this world is, we are able to connect to our sender, and that opens up tremendous resources and blessings from above, that accompany us throughout our mission in this world.