Getting the Divine View on You
How to make worlds of a difference

And he said, Hear now my words: If there be a prophet among you, I the LORD will make myself known unto him in a vision, and will speak unto him in a dream.
My servant Moses is not so, who is faithful in all mine house.
With him will I speak mouth to mouth, even apparently, and not in dark speeches;
and the picture of the LORD shall he view           (Numbers/BaMidbar 12:6-8)

Several years ago, I gave my kids Cheerios for breakfast. It said on the front of the Cheerios box that on the back of this box is a three-dimensional Cheerios bumblebee. So I looked at the back of the box and saw a distorted, blurry thing. Have you ever looked at a 3-D book without the goggles? You see a mishmash of misprinted, distorted images. There were no goggles inside the box of Cheerios, but the instructions on the back said to put the picture up to your nose and slowly move it away from your face. Well, I was sitting there waiting for the kids to finish breakfast, so I figured, why not? I put the box up to my nose and slowly moved it away from my face. I didn’t get it right. So I put the box up to my nose again, and slowly moved it away. I noticed one of my daughters kicking her sister under the table, like, “Daddy’s gone crazy! We knew he was studying Kabbalah or something, but this is crazy. Why doesn’t he just eat the Cheerios instead of trying to stuff the box into his nose?”

I wasn’t going to give up, however, because it said that there’s a three-dimensional bumblebee on the package, and having paid for that box of Cheerios, I wanted to get the full experience. So again I put the Cheerios box up to my nose. I slowly pulled it away, and suddenly I saw it! I shouted, “Oh my gosh!” My kids jumped up and ran away from the table. Now my kids no longer eat Cheerios. They’re afraid it might affect them, too.

The profound lesson on that Cheerios box was that by changing our perceptual focus we can see something that was virtually invisible to us before. The way we see things really determines the way they look.

When Jacob was on his way to Egypt, G-d said to him, “Jacob, don’t worry. Joseph will close your eyes.”

The Zohar explains that when a person passes away, according to Jewish law, someone has to close the eyes of the deceased. So Jacob was told, in Egypt you’re going to pass away, but your beloved son Joseph will be the one to close your eyes.

The Zohar asks: Why do we have to close the eyes of the deceased? And the Zohar answers: Because the colors, the texture, the shapes of this world are in your eyes; in order to see the next world, someone has to close your eyes.

According to the Kabbalah, we do not see reality as it is. Rather, we see our perception of reality, which is the world we live in.

To better understand this, let’s borrow some terminology from the philosopher Immanuel Kant. Kant said that there are two aspects to truth: “noumena” are things as they are in themselves, the constituents of reality; “phenomena” are these things as we perceive them. And how we perceive reality can be very different from reality itself.

A familiar example of this discrepancy between reality and our perception is our sense that the world is stationary. Scientists assure us that our planet is whirling around the sun at a speed of 67,000 miles per hour, but my empirical reality testifies that I am totally stationary as I sit here at my computer desk, because the velocity sensors built into human anatomy are limited by gravity.

Similarly, sometimes you meet a person who you feel is worlds apart from you. And she really is: the world that you live in is not the same as the world that she lives in. That’s because the way you see reality is very different from the way she sees reality. And the way you see reality actually creates your world. This is what is meant by phenomena.

The Kabbalah teaches that there are three worlds of phenomena. They are referred to as the world of action, formation, and creation. They reflect reality as it appears to us, with our limited perspective. Noumena, reality as it is, makes up the world of atzilut, the world of emanation. As we ascend higher and higher through the three worlds, we get a broader perspective and come closer to discerning more and more what is true about reality but has been hidden. As we ascend higher and higher we come closer and closer to seeing reality from G-d’s perspective. Indeed, Moses was able see life from the highest vantage point humanly possible. Moses was able to get a glimpse of G-d’s take on life; G-d’s picture and perspective on life.

Therefore the revelation of the Torah that Moses received is knowledge that guides us in our world based on G-d’s perspective. Revelation begins where human experience ends. Experience can take me only to the outer limits of my own perspective. Revelation is information bestowed from a higher perspective. The very definition of revelation is knowledge bestowed from a Divine perspective.

To give a simple metaphor, revelation is like the traffic station on the radio. You are driving down route 83, and you wonder which is the quickest route to your destination. Is there a traffic jam ahead? Should you get off at the next exit and take an alternative route? Or take your chances with the traffic lights on the main thoroughfare? There is really no way for you to know; you cannot possibly see the next two miles of roadway. But the traffic helicopter hovering overhead sees everything. From its perspective, all the highways and traffic patterns are perfectly visible. So you tune into the traffic station, and you hear the clear message: “Traffic jam on route 83 between Kilmer and Havington. If you’re traveling north, exit at route 144.” Even the most deluxe, state-of-the-art automobile can never know what the helicopter knows, unless the helicopter communicates to it. That is revelation.

Our journey in life is all about perspectives. The goal of a Torah life is to empower us to achieve the greatest perspective, which is the highest world. From that world we will come the closest to seeing everything from the perspective of the source of everything. We will come the closest to getting G-d’s perspective and picture as did Moses.

That’s when the hidden will be found. That’s when G-d’s oneness and love will become obvious, and we will bubble over with joy and laughter at the realization of how it was there all the time—only our limited perspectives fooled us and hid this truth.

Rabbi David Aaron
Author of Endless Light, Seeing G-d, The Secret Life of G-d, Inviting G-d In, Living A Joyous Life, and The G-d-Powered Life

(print version)

It is a conversation I will remember forever. We were in the midst of basic tank training, enjoying a brief respite from the grueling pace of maneuvers and marches. Having completed basic infantry training followed by tank training school, where we learned the rudimentary skills necessary to function as crew members in a tank, we were now in tank field school, known as “Tza’map” (which stands for ‘Tzevet, Machlaka, Pelugah’, or Crew, Platoon, and Company training,) where we were learning how to put our newly acquired skills to the test in the field, within the context of a crew and the larger context of a company of tanks.

The tanks were encamped opposite a training area where each tank would practice maneuvers designed to train the crews in the art of tank warfare under different conditions. While each tank, one at a time went through the maneuver, the rest of the company’s tanks and crews waited their turn, giving us all a little down time.

Uri Faraj was not actually in the armored corps, he was in the armaments corps (Cheil Chimush) and was part of the ‘chulyah’, a unit attached to each tank battalion whose job it was to be on call for fixing things in the tanks that went beyond the expertise of a normal tank crew (like the laser or computer in the tank).

The guys in this unit were not exactly the elite of the Israeli army, and were often fellows whose family background was challenging, to say the least. Uri Farraj was one of those guys; responsible for the technical maintenance of the tank unit’s 105mm cannons, he used to like hanging out on our tank because one of the guys had a tape radio and Uri loved White Snake, which was our gunner’s (Pinny’s) favorite band. (To me it was all a lot of noise, but company is company…)

On this particular afternoon, Uri had finally gotten around to a question that had been on his mind for a while:

“What on earth are you doing here?”

“If I had grown up in America, the last place on earth I would be is stuck in the field waiting for a tank maneuver!”

We got into a deep discussion about Zionism and the two-thousand year old dream, Jewish pride, and even the concept of Milchemet Mitzvah, a war which is a mitzvah, representing the mitzvah to be willing to fight for the Jewish people when they are in danger. Somehow, the discussion veered to religion and mitzvoth, and eventually the topic of Shabbat came up.

Uri was fascinated by the fact that we could sit and listen to White Snake, and yet find Shabbat to be a meaningful experience. He had noticed that I never sat with the guys when they got together in the base club to watch TV on Friday night.

My response was that as much as I could try and explain the concept of Shabbat and what I found beautiful about a Friday night Shabbat experience, it was something that could not be explained; it needed to be experienced.

As it happened, my brother and I had an apartment in Jerusalem, and for the first time in a while we were both getting out of the army for Shabbat that weekend. (He was in the Paratroopers and it was rare that we were both out at the same time for Shabbat.)

Whenever we both got out we would always invite a lot of our American-born friends for Shabbat and we always had an incredible time.

“Why don’t you join us for Shabbat and come hang out with us?” I asked.

He wasn’t sure, as he was supposed to be with his girlfriend for Shabbat and hadn’t seen her in a while, but when I told him she was more than welcome to join us as there were a bunch of girls from various Yeshivot and from Bar Ilan who’d be staying next door, he got excited about it.

Our folks were still living in the States, and on our own, we used to have the most wonderful Friday night Onegs, with friends showing up throughout the evening. The singing, stories, and Torah usually lasted well into the wee hours of the morning on Shabbat, and I hoped this would be a transformative experience for Uri, who was clearly thirsty for meaning….

Little did I know that this was the last conversation I would ever have with Uri Faraj. In fact, it was the last conversation Uri ever had.

A few moments later he left our tank and wandered over to take a look at an interesting looking shell on the ground. One of the tank commanders had found a LAU anti-tank missile whose firing pin had been engaged and was missing the safety seal. (This unit had recently come down from Lebanon and this must have been a piece of ordinance they had missed when they were preparing the tanks for training.)

Curious, and unaware of how dangerous such a missile was, Uri picked it up to take a look and accidentally set off the spring mechanism in the trigger, firing the missile which was pointing directly at him. It took off half his skull and only by a miracle did a medic succeed in stabilizing him and saving his life long enough for him to end up in an intensive care unit, hooked up to life support machines.

Mercifully, six month later, he finally died, having never regained consciousness.

While that last conversation offered some measure of comfort to his parents and girlfriend who I got to meet in the hospital, I have long wondered about what that Shabbat might have been for Uri Faraj, and where that conversation might have led.

Uri Faraj may well have been on the verge of a second chance: the opportunity to re-explore the tradition of his family. But that opportunity eluded him. Or did it?

This week’s portion of Be’Ha’alotcha’ contains a fascinating mitzvah which represents, more than any other part of the Jewish experience, the opportunity for a second chance we so often wish we had: the story of Pesach Sheni.

The Jewish people, celebrating the first anniversary of their Exodus from Egypt, and nearing the point where they are (were it not for the sin of the spies) finally about to enter the land of Israel, are commanded to offer up their first Paschal sacrifice as a free people. (Bamidbar 9:1-5)

A small group of individuals, who are impure by virtue of having been in contact with a corpse (9:6), (therefore being unable to offer up the Paschal sacrifice) come before Moshe with a request:

“And they came near before Moshe… And the men said to him (to Moshe) we are impure by virtue of contact with a corpse. Why should we miss out and not offer up the (Paschal) sacrifice of G-d in its appropriate time amongst the people of Israel?” (9:6-7)

So Moshe tells them to wait while he asks G-d for a response. (9:8)

G-d’s response is not long in coming: from this request is born the mitzvah of Pesach Sheni, ‘The Second Pesach’.

Essentially, any individual who has become impure by virtue of direct contact with a dead body, or who is unavoidably distant from the Temple, thus missing the opportunity to offer up the Paschal lamb, can still make Pesach, one month later on the 14th day of Iyar, one month after the Eve of Pesach, (which is on the fourteenth of Nissan).

There is a beauty to this mitzvah, which seems to represent the idea that there is always a second chance. Yet there a number of questions that seem to arise both from the manner in which we received this mitzvah, as well as the particulars it involves.

First of all, why does this opportunity for a second chance revolve specifically around Pesach, and the Korban Pesach (the Paschal lamb)? We do not see a chance to make up a missed Sukkah experience, or for that matter Shabbat, so what is so special about Pesach? And more importantly, what is it about the nature of the Korban Pesach (the Paschal lamb), which makes it the mitzvah of choice to serve as a vehicle for this idea of a second chance?

For that matter, if this is such an important mitzvah, why did a group of individuals who were contaminated have to ask, in order for the Jewish people to receive this mitzvah? Why didn’t Moshe just receive this mitzvah from G-d like all the other mitzvoth?

It is also interesting to note that although the Torah does not tell us how these people came to be impure, the Talmud does. One of the two possibilities mentioned in the Talmud (Sukkah 25a) is that these men were carrying the coffin of Joseph, who before his death made his brothers swear that when the Jewish people left Egypt they would take his bones home with them for burial in Israel.

Is there a connection between the story of Joseph and this particular mitzvah?

(G-d ultimately caused this mitzvah to come to pass through the mitzvah of bringing Joseph’s body home for burial. It could easily have been Jews who became impure by coming into contact with corpses in say, the battle of Amalek, or the sin of the Golden calf…)

The previous Lubavitcher Rebbe, Rav Yosef Yitzchak Schneerson, in his Sichot Yom Yom (pg. 53) says that the message of Pesach Sheni is that nothing is lost, and that there is always a way to ‘fix’ or make up what seems to have been lost. We always have the opportunity to ‘fix’ the mistakes or missed opportunities of the past. And yet, aside from the afore-mentioned questions, the specific halachot of Pesach Sheni seem to belie this message.

For one thing the Torah specifically mentions (9: 14) that the mitzvah of Pesach Sheni applies as well to a new convert who ‘missed’ the opportunity to offer the Paschal sacrifice, (not yet converted to Judaism on Pesach the month before and therefore not yet obligated.)

But if this is so, then the mitzvah cannot merely be the opportunity to fix what has been seemingly missed or lost, as there was no opportunity for the not-yet-Jewish convert on Pesach and as such, no opportunity was missed.

And the same may be said for a minor who was not yet of age (bar mitzvah) on Pesach, and is now obligated (having turned thirteen) to sacrifice the Korban Pesach on Pesach Sheni. Why is this second chance considered to be the opportunity to make up what was missed, when the boy was not yet obligated on Pesach, and thus has nothing to make up?

Perhaps the understanding to this entire question lies in understanding how a convert and a minor who did not actually ‘miss’ an opportunity on Pesach (to offer the Korban Pesach) are nonetheless considered to be making up a lost opportunity. (See Maimonides Hilchot Korban Pesach 5:1).

With regards to the minor, the Talmud (Nedarim 17a) suggests that the verse describing the initial obligation to offer up the Paschal lamb (Shemot 12:3) expresses the mitzvah as: “ a lamb for each family” (“Seh’ Le’Beit Avot”) which includes the minors of that family who are part of the Biblical mitzvah. Thus, although a minor himself would not yet be obligated in the offering of the paschal; sacrifice, he has, in the event he was unable to participate, nonetheless missed an opportunity, which would mean that Pesach Sheni is indeed, even for him, an opportunity to make up for something missed.

And as for a convert, it is interesting to note that the language in the Talmud is “Ger She’nitgayer”, “A convert who converted.” (Pesachim 93a, and Maimonides Hilchot Korban Pesach 5:7) This is a strange usage, as one would expect it to say: ‘Goy She’Nitgayer’, ‘a Non-Jew who converted’.

Why does it say a convert who converted? Before he converted he was not yet a convert, so it should say ‘ a non-Jew who converted? (As, for example, an “Eved She’Nishtachrer”, ‘a slave who was freed’ or “Katan She’Higdil”, ‘a minor who grew up’.) If he has not yet converted why is he already referred to as a convert?

The Chidah (Rav Chaim David Azulai) explains that even before his conversion he is already called a convert, because the spark of holiness already burns deep within his soul. His conversion will ultimately be the result of an intense, burning desire that burned within him long before he successfully converted. Indeed, it is this intense desire which allows him to see through his desire to be Jewish, despite all the challenging obstacles that stand in his path.

And this, perhaps, is the essence of what Pesach Sheni is all about. It is no accident that this mitzvah comes about as a result of the query of a group of people who are technically exempt from the Paschal lamb. This desire to be a part of something bigger, this refusal to accept the given situation, is what creates this mitzvah in the first place.

Perhaps this is why this message of a ‘second chance’ is centered around Pesach. Because the process leading to the redemption from Egypt, and the entire Pesach story, actually begins with the Jewish people, after two hundred years of exile in Egypt, finally crying out to G-d.

Even when Pharaoh decrees (Shemot 1:22) that “Every boy shall be cast into the Nile”, it does not say that the Jewish people cried out to G-d.

Only in Shemot 2:23 with the death of Pharaoh, do the Jewish people finally cry out to G-d, at which point: “And G-d heard their anguish, and G-d remembered his covenant with Abraham….” (2:23-26). It is at this point that Moshe is chosen and the redemption of the Jewish people at long last begins.

Before the Jews can be redeemed, they first have to really want to be redeemed.

There is nothing in this world that exists without a will for it to exist. Everything we have built, and everything we receive from Hashem, all comes into being because someone somewhere wants it badly enough. If no one wanted something it simply would not exist. Things come into being through the mysterious power of Ratzon: desire, or will.

Conversely, anything that does not yet exist in the world is simply not wanted enough.

The reason we do not yet have a third Temple (Beit HaMikdash) is simply because we don’t want it enough. If the entire Jewish people (and even the majority of the Jewish people) wanted something badly enough, no force on earth would stand in the way of Hashem’s promise to fulfill such a desire. Indeed, this is the secret of the State of Israel.

After ten dark years of Nazi German rule, the Jewish people wanted a homeland so badly, that their desire ‘forced’ Hashem to fulfill his promise to bring us home.

Conversely,perhaps the reason we seem to be so far from peace on earth, and even from harmony amongst our selves, is that we simply don’t want it enough; maybe we would like to have peace, but are we obsessed with achieving it? Does it occupy our every thought?

The convert referred to here with regards to Pesach Sheni so wants to be included amongst the Jewish people, that he is already ‘missing’ an opportunity on Pesach, even though not yet obligated to offer the sacrifice.

And this mitzvah of Pesach Sheni, is brought about by the intense desire of a small group of Jews who so wanted to be a part of the Jewish people’s experience, they couldn’t bear the thought of not being included in the festivities and offerings of Pesach itself.

Indeed, this is perhaps why this message and special day centers on Pesach and the Paschal lamb. Ultimately, the message of the Pesach offering was that in order for G-d to take the Jewish people out of Egypt, they first had to be willing to take Egypt out of themselves. They had to be willing to tie up a lamb, the god of the Egyptians, who were still their masters, (given that the Jews had not yet left Egypt). In other words, Hashem wasn’t giving them freedom on a silver platter, they had to be willing to sacrifice for it; they had to want it badly enough.

And, this as well may be the reason this mitzvah came about through a group of Jews invalidated for the Paschal lamb by virtue of their having been occupied with bringing home the bones of Joseph (Yosef).

If ever there was an individual who represented the opportunity of a second chance, it was Joseph, who, having been on top of the world, the apple of his father’s eye and recipient of the special striped (multi-colored) cloak, suddenly finds himself a slave in the darkest hell on earth at the time, the lowest level of the caste system of ancient Egypt.

But Yosef does not let go of who he is, and never gives up on becoming who he was meant to be.

Perhaps this is the secret of this mitzvah. The Paschal lamb was really the first mitzvah the Jewish people were given as a people, which involved their choice. Indeed, the Midrash suggests that not all the Jews in Egypt chose to put the blood of that ancient Egyptian god on their doorpost, resulting in a significant portion of the Jewish people never leaving Egypt.

Pesach represents the ultimate ‘second chance’ which we experienced as a people so long ago. Two hundred years after throwing their brother into a pit and sitting down to lunch while his screams rang in their ears (Bereishit 37:24-25), the Jewish people, having experienced this same slavery first hand, are given a second chance. It is this opportunity, and their desire to be truly free, that changes the destiny of the entire world.

The question of this mitzvah is not only about where we are, but also where we really want to be. In fact, where we are really is all about where we want to be.

What do we, as a people, really want? Do we really want a Jewish State? Do we really want a place we can call home? We may pay lip service to an idea, but if we really wanted it so much we would long since have filled the skies with El Al planes going home to the land of Israel.

I will always wonder, whether something changed in Uri Faraj, in his last conscious moments here on earth; perhaps in some small way, a glimmer of what he might want, was enough to change who he really was.

We would do well to listen carefully to the lesson taught us so long ago by a group of individuals who may have technically been immersed in death, (carrying the bones of Joseph), but who so desired to be a part of the living choice of the Pesach experience that they ‘forced’ G-d’s hand, as it were, to grant them a second chance at creating the Pesach experience, a month later.

It was this same group of people, over three thousand years later, surrounded by the same death: of the mounds of bodies in the liberated camps, and the barbed wire fences of the DP camps, who so desired to be a part of a living choice of the creation of a Jewish State, that they as well ‘forced’ G-d’s hand, as it were, to grant them a second chance at creating a home for the Jewish people, after two thousand years of exile.

And what about us? Where are we, truly? What do we desire, and what will we choose? It is this question, which stands at the heart of the Pesach Sheni experience, which will determine the future destiny of each and every one of us, and of the entire Jewish people. Before the ‘what we choose to do’, we must first examine and consider what we really want. In the end, Hashem desperately wants to give to us; the only question is whether we really want what Hashem wants to give.

Shabbat Shalom,

Binny Freedman

(print version) 

Isn’t Humbleness Just Low Self-Esteem?

“Moses was a very humble man, more humble than anyone else on the face of the earth.” (Numbers 12:3)

Was Moses, indeed, humble? The man who courageously challenged the mighty Pharaoh the King of Egypt, who led an entire people out of slavery, the man who after seeing the golden calf smashed the very tablets written by the finger of G-d.

Judaism teaches that no character trait is absolutely negative, everything has a role. All we have to do is look at each trait with an open mind and determine its pluses and the minuses. When it comes to pride there is an aspect of it that comes from the godly grandeur of our soul and is therefore, truly humbleness and the source of powerful sacred self esteem. But there is an aspect of pride that comes from our ego which is haughtiness and self destructive; alienating us from our true inner self. This type of pride focuses on petty concerns and social status; it embodies a desire for honor and one-upmanship. This type of pride confuses us to think that as an individual we stand independent and apart from the greater community. However, according to Jewish mysticism our individual soul is really an aspect of the collective soul of the community. An individual is not an isolated being floating in outer space; disconnected from a greater context. Rather an individual is actually an individualistic expression of the national soul of his people. We find personal meaning and fulfillment only to the extent that we daily serve in our own unique way the betterment of our community and ultimately the world.

I think this is one of the common epiphanies for Jews when they visit Israel — their destined homeland. I recall the first time I toured the borders of Israel and heard heroic stories about young Israel soldiers who valiantly defended their country from invading enemies and sacrificed their lives for the Jewish People. These selfless soldiers gave up their individual life so that their nation could live on. I wondered– Is there such a reality called national life? Does a nation have a collective soul that encompasses our individual souls?

Jewish mysticism teaches that a nation is not simply the sum total of many individuals. Rather the nation is a whole that is greater than the sum of its parts. In fact, each soul is actually an individual expression of the whole nation born out of the collective soul of the nation. Therefore, even though each of us is an individual we are personally meaningful only because we are members of the national soul; shareholders in its national destiny.

Jewish mysticism also teaches that the national soul is a unique expression of the Universal soul which is G-d. Therefore, an individual soul is also an individualistic expression of the Universal soul—G-d. This is the deeper meaning of the belief that each of us is created in the image of G-d. Each of us is a unique expression and manifestation of G-d. G-d becomes manifest through the unique vantage points of every nation and every individual soul. Therefore there is no such thing as an individual soul that exists separate and independent of its nation’s soul and the Universal Soul–G-d.

Self-actualization is generally understood to mean that I actualize myself; I take care of myself, become fully me, use my talents to their utmost and succeed in my evolution towards individuality. My personal fulfillment does not necessarily have anything to do with anybody else. This definition of self-actualization does not require any national responsibility or commitment to G-d. But in truth there is no such thing as an individual soul existing independent and apart from the collective national soul or the collective universal soul. Therefore, true self-actualization can only be accomplished when it is concerned with facilitating the actualization of my nation’s destiny, helping to improve the world and serving to fulfill G-d’s purpose.

For example, if I, David Aaron, perceive myself as an independent entity; existing apart and separate of the Jewish people, Humanity and G-d then I am actually alienating myself from my true self. Since my true self is an individual expression of the collective soul of the Jewish People, the world and G-d then when I neglect the needs of my people, the needs of the world and the will of G-d– I neglect myself. If I really care about myself, then I would really care about my people, humanity and G-d. Therefore, selflessly and powerfully serving your people, the humanity and G-d is the only true way to self actualization. To be selfless is truly selfish and to be selfish is to lose your self.

We need to probe our inner psyche and determine whether the prideful thoughts and feelings we have about ourselves are coming from our ego or from our soul. If they are coming from the ego then they are haughty and self destructive– alienating us from our true self as it interfaces with our national self, international self and the ultimate self–G-d. But when these prideful feelings come from our soul then they are an expression of true humbleness; powerful assertions of who we are really are. They verify our connection to the collective soul of our people, the world and the universal soul-G-d. These apparently prideful feelings are actually humble confirmation that our spiritual self is an expression of the power and beauty of our people, the world and G-d. A spiritually healthy person intuits that s/he is radiant, powerful, significant and great. If a person does not deeply intuit this then s/he has become disconnected from G-d. Since the soul is an aspect and expression of G-d how can we think of ourselves as anything less than awesome. When people are spiritually healthy they intuit their godly greatness and are driven to do great acts for their community, the world and G-d.

Sometimes people take the wind out of their own sails and undermine the good that they could do by questioning the sincerity of their intentions, thinking ‘Hmm, look at me, who do I think I am, how egotistical of me to think this way about myself. To be humble I should step out of the spotlight; I should hide myself in a corner.’ Not only is there nothing wrong with confidently acknowledging our talents and strengths, but on the contrary there is something very wrong when we don’t acknowledge our talents and strength. If, for example, you have a talent for public speaking, then realize that your ‘gift of gab’ is a gift from G-d and you have a responsibility to humanity and G-d to use it. If you don’t use your G-d given talents then you are an ingrate. In fact, not using your talents is a sign that you actually think they are yours and not G-d’s. This attitude is actually a very subtle form of ego and haughtiness.

You need to understand the difference between the ego which separates you from G-d and the truth sense of mission and grandeur which places you in humble serve of G-d. G-d may want to reveal His wisdom, creativity, kindness, justice, compassion, peace, beauty through you and improve the world. Your drive and determination may be the grandeur of G-d that is seeking to become manifest in the world through you. So let your soul shine!

Rabbi David Aaron
Author of Endless Light, Seeing G-d, The Secret Life of G-d, Inviting G-d In, Living A Joyous Life, and The G-d-Powered Life

Sometimes, the meaning of life is all about getting the right perspective. Take the story of the sixth ladder company firefighters on duty on the morning of September 11th.

Minutes after the first plane hit the towers, they were rushing into 1 World Trade Center to try and reach the survivors on the floors above. On the twenty-seventh floor, they heard and felt the other tower collapse, and the captain, Bill Jonas, decided they needed to get back down. Clearly, they needed to get out; if one tower could collapse, then so could the other.

Somewhere around the 14th floor, they met a middle-aged woman named Josephine Harris. She had walked down from the 73rd floor and was totally exhausted.

Bill Butler, another of the firemen, folded her arm around his neck and kept moving.

“I could hear the clock ticking in the back of my head”, Captain Jonas said, as he told his men they had to keep moving. Leaving Mrs. Harris behind was out of the question, but she was clearly slowing them down. People kept passing them by and disappearing out of sight down the stairs.

Near the fourth floor, Mrs. Harris collapsed. Bill Butler implored her to keep moving, if not for her own sake, then for her children and grandchildren, but she was too exhausted to move on. Captain Jonas scoured the fourth floor for something they could use to carry her in, a portable chair or board, but was unsuccessful.

Finally, he returned to the stairwell. Picking her up, with each of her arms around the necks of two firemen, they began to move, when they suddenly felt an incredible rush of wind. Jonas urged everyone to move faster, and then the tower collapsed.

Dust, smoke, debris everywhere, and tremendous noise. Matt Komorowski, the last in line, was thrown down two flights, ending up in front of everyone else.

Caked in dust, covered in cuts and bruises, as the noise subsided, the men began to call out to each other, discovering, incredibly, that they were all still alive.

They tried to open the stairwell door, but it was full of debris and there was no point. They could not proceed below the second floor, for the same reason; the lobby had completely collapsed.

Not fully comprehending what had happened, Captain Jonas realized things were bad when, thirty minutes later, upon finally establishing radio contact with another fire unit and telling them they were in the North tower, the dispatcher responded by asking where the North tower was…. No one in the stairwells above the fourth floor at the time of the collapse is known to have survived, and no one still below the second floor at the same time survived either.

Desperate to save Mrs. Harris and hurry out of the building, she collapsed and saved them instead. Had they been a little quicker, they would most probably have been in the lobby with all the others who had passed them on the way, and had they been a little slower they would have been higher in the building….

Six firefighters heading down the stairs of a tortured building refused to give up on a woman they hoped they would carry to safety. But as it turned out, she was also carrying them.

There are many burdens we carry in this world. The challenge may well be in how we choose to carry them. This week’s portion, Naso, contains a case in point.

“Ki Avodat HaKodesh Aleihem Ba’Katef Yisau’” “For the holy (items of) service they shall carry upon the shoulder…” (Bamidbar 7:9)

There was a special mitzvah regarding the transport of The Holy Ark, which held the tablets of the Ten Commandments. The Ark was to be borne on the shoulders of the Levites, until it arrived at its destination.

Why was it so important that the Ark be carried upon their shoulders?

It is interesting to note that Maimonides includes this mitzvah as one of the 613 mitzvoth listed in his Sefer HaMitzvoth, (see Positive Commandment 34), where he describes and explains each of the 613 commandments in the Torah. This is especially interesting as Maimonides has a principle only to list those commandments, which are “Le’Dorot”, or forever, something that does not seem to apply to the carrying of the Ark. After all, once the Jewish people arrived in the land of Israel, and built the Temple, the Ark was given a permanent place and there was no longer a need to transport it. So why is this listed as a mitzvah which means it somehow still applies (or PG will apply) today?

Often, to really understand Maimonides’ point in the Sefer HaMitzvoth, it is worthwhile to see how the same mitzvah is presented in his compilation of Jewish law, the Yad HaChazakah.

In fact, Maimonides, in his Laws of the Temple Vessels (Klei’ HaMikdash 2:12), based on the afore-mentioned verse, delineates this commandment:

“Ba’Et She’Molichin HaAron Mi’Makom Le’Makom, Ein Molichin Oto’, Lo’ Al Ha’Be’hemah, Ve’Lo’ Al Ha’Agalot, Elah’ Mitzvah Le’Notlo Al Ha’Katef.

U’Le’fi She’Shachach David Ve’Naso’ Al Ha’Agalah, Nifratz Peretz be’Uzzah.

Elah Mitzvah LeNaso’ Al HaKatef, She’ne’e’mar: “Ki Avodat HaKodesh Aleihem Ba’Katef Yisa’u”.”

“When transporting the Ark from place to place, one does not transport it by setting it upon a beast of burden, nor on a wagon; rather it is a Mitzvah to take it upon the shoulder.

And because (King) David forgot (this injunction) and carried it upon a wagon, the debacle of the wrath that burst forth against Uzzah, occurred.

Rather, it is a mitzvah to carry it upon the shoulder, as it says (Bamidbar 7:9): “For the holy (items of) service they shall carry on the shoulder”.”

Strangely, Maimonides, normally a stickler for the details exactly as they appear in the Torah, here seems to deviate from the original commandment as it appears in the Torah. The Torah speaks of the mitzvah of carrying the Ark upon the shoulders, yet Maimonides includes an injunction, seemingly from nowhere, that forbids transporting the Ark on a wagon, or an animal. One would have thought an obligation to carry the Ark upon the shoulders, implies one should not transport it upon a wagon or a donkey.

Even more interesting, Maimonides does something in this particular law that he normally does not do, at least in the text of his legally focused Yad HaChazakah. He takes the trouble to recall the story of Uzzah, which occurred in the time of King David. One wonders, why the interest in this particular story? Normally, Maimonides simply states what the obligation is in Jewish law, without any stories or explanations.

Further, while normally very careful not to allow his text to become redundant or repetitive in any way, here Maimonides seems to repeat the mitzvah at the end of the paragraph, stating again what has already been made clear, that it is a mitzvah to carry it upon the shoulders; what is the need for this repetition? Is it simply for the sake of emphasis, or is there some deeper idea?

Perhaps Maimonides, in noting the story of Uzzah, is telling us that this story is the key to unlocking the nature of this mitzvah. After all, if Maimonides was simply looking for an example to support the obligation of carrying the Ark on the shoulders, he could simply have mentioned the verses showing the Priests carrying the Ark across the Jordan River into Israel in the book of Joshua….

So what exactly happened to Uzzah in the time of King David?

The book of Samuel (II; 6:5-10) shares a short but powerful vignette, which is troubling, to say the least:

The Holy Ark is finally being brought up to Jerusalem; two hundred years after the Jewish people conquered the land of Israel in the time of Joshua. King David, along with thirty thousand people, is accompanying the Ark on its journey amidst much dancing and celebration. The verse (Samuel II, 6:5) describes all the dancing and instruments playing, and the joy of the people at the opportunity to honor the Ark on its journey; a once in a lifetime opportunity.

Suddenly, as the ox-drawn wagon carrying the Ark rounds the bend, the oxen stray, and apparently, the Ark is on the verge of being tipped off the wagon. But Uzzah, close enough to the wagon to see the disaster in the making, stretches out his hand, grabbing the Ark just in time, and preventing its fall.

Seems like one of those great moments, right? You can almost hear the wide world of sports music in the background as the video tape is replayed on the evening news: the Ark is tipping, the horror on the faces of the spectators apparent as the scene unfolds so quickly, they are powerless to prevent a spiritual disaster. Then, suddenly, with an incredible leap, (shown in slow motion on the video replay…) Uzzah grabs the Ark just in time, saving the day. You can almost hear the crowd roar….

And you figure Uzzah must be a Jewish hero, right? Only G-d doesn’t seem to see it that way, because instantaneously, Hashem smites Uzzah, and he dies on the spot. After all, you don’t just grab the Holy Ark. You have to be purified, and charged with the mitzvah, and with the proper intent….

This course of events is so challenging, that King David himself (verses 8-10) seems to have difficulty understanding what happened. How could Hashem have punished Uzzah? After all, he seems to have been doing a good thing, in attempting to save the Ark!

Perhaps understanding what really transpired in the story of Uzzah will help us to better comprehend the message of the mitzvah regarding the transportation of the Ark.

There are really two issues here: Firstly, what was Uzzah’s mistake, but even more importantly, what was King David’s mistake? A careful look at the above-quoted text of Maimonides, suggests that he believed the real issue was not Uzzah, but rather King David himself:

“U’Le’fi She’Shachach David Ve’Naso’ Al Ha’Agalah, Nifratz Peretz be’Uzzah.” “And because (King) David forgot (this injunction) and carried it upon a wagon, the debacle of the wrath that burst forth against Uzzah, occurred.”

The problem in this story begins not with Uzzah’s reaction to the Ark tottering on the edge of the ox-cart, but rather with the fact that it is being transported on the ox cart to begin with!

What happened to the mitzvah of carrying the Ark on the shoulders of the Levites (or priests)? How could King David ‘forget’ that the Ark was to be carried aloft on the shoulders of the people?

Clearly, such an obvious oversight is indicative of a larger malaise affecting the heart of the Jewish people. What really was going on?

Recall that the same law of Maimonides points out that there are really two separate injunctions regarding the Ark’s transport. One was to carry it on the shoulders; the other is the prohibition against placing it on an animal or a wagon. One would have thought, in laying out these principles, to begin with the obligation of carrying it on the shoulders, and then point out that it was therefore forbidden to lay it upon a wagon. But Maimonides actually lists these two points in the opposite order, first listing the prohibition against transporting the Ark on an animal or a wagon. Perhaps because this is the principle from where it all begins.

What underlying issue is at the root of this prohibition against transporting the Ark on an animal or a wagon? It would seem there are two issues at play here: how much respect we have for the Ark and all it represents, and our perception of the need to carry the Ark in the first place.

When you think about it, we as a society, place a lot of emphasis on packaging. Sometimes this is actually negative, but it makes a point: how we package things often represents the value we place on those same things. For example, when you want to be sure your employees remember to come to a meeting, you leave them a sticky note on their computer screen. But no one sends out their wedding invitation on a sticky note; people spend a lot of time and effort on the way the invitation looks to demonstrate the importance of the event being described in the invitation.

Remember the Royal Wedding of Prince Charles and Diana? They didn’t ride out of the church on a scooter; they were in a magnificent, gold inlaid horse-drawn carriage. Because on that day, those two individuals were not just Charles and Diana, they represented an institution, and even an empire. And the people, seeing the way they traveled, received an important message. Indeed, they were actually experiencing a subconscious educational process. They were inculcating into their psyches that the institution of the British monarchy, and indeed the British Empire, was something to be respected and valued.

And that is the difference between taking the Ark up on our own shoulders, as a sign of respect and honor, and laying it down for the animals to carry. King David missed an opportunity to demonstrate how much the Ark, and the Torah it both carries and represents, is valued as an institution in Judaism.

This leaves us wondering how this rather important issue could be overlooked, unless there really was a problem in the people’s perception of and honor for the Ark and the Torah.

What if, after so many years of the Tablets being kept in a tent, while Kings were living in palaces, the people’s perception of Torah itself was being eroded? After nearly two hundred years of being in the land of Israel, the Ark still had no permanent place; rather it was moved from place to place, based on necessity. So how important could the Torah represented by the Ark really be?

And really, this is a problem many of us struggle with. We call ourselves the People of the Book. But how many of us spend enough time opening that book? How many Jews are there today who have never even opened the Book?

How do I treat my relationship with Torah? And how important is that Torah, really? If in my home the Jewish books are stuck in the dusty bookcase in the corner, while all eyes immediately focus on the well-lit piece of art that is the central focus of the living room wall, what am I really teaching my children, not by what I say, but much more impactful, by what I do?

If the Torah is just another book, then we are missing the whole point…

I remember, years ago in Yeshiva, a powerful moment that left a very strong impression on me. The Yeshiva I studied at had two Roshei Yeshiva, two heads of the institution, and observing how these two great Rabbis, two of the greatest Torah scholars of our generation, interacted and treated each other, was itself a lesson in ethics and humility. One year, the entire yeshiva, along with hundreds of alumni, were gathered together for a celebration in honor of Jerusalem Day. Rav Amital was speaking to a packed hall of over a thousand students, when he suddenly noticed Rav Lichtenstein standing at the back of the hall. For whatever the reason Rav Lichtenstein, had arrived late, and did not want to interrupt the flow of his speech, preferring to stand in the rear. Rav Amital, for his part, would not hear of an entire hall full of students sitting and listening, while their Rosh Yeshiva stood in the back. So he gestured to Rav Lichtenstein to feel free to come up front and sit down, at which point students began turning around to see who was standing in the back.

When they saw their Rosh Yeshiva standing up, the students in the rear immediately stood and Rav Lichtenstein, realizing the speech was already interrupted, walked to his seat at the front of the hall as quickly as he could. And as he walked down the aisle, waves upon waves of students rose from their seats as a sign of respect, not just for Rav Lichtenstein, but also for the three thousand year tradition he represented. There was no announcement, and no words were said, it was simply understood by all present, that when a Torah giant like that walked into a room, you could not help but rise in awe and respect. The experience of seeing a thousand students rise as one, without anybody saying a word, taught me what respect for Torah was all about.

This, then, is the message of the carrying of the Ark. Who we are as a people begins with what we hold dear, and what we truly value. The Ark was more than just a box for the tablets of the law; it represented the mission we have as a people in this world. And our ability to make a real difference in this world as a people begins with how we hold aloft the values, which represent our identity as a people.

If we are not clear on what our mission really is, and if we do not place its value at a premium, ultimately we will never be able to achieve our goal of utilizing the tapestry of ethics that is the Torah, to make the world a better place.

There is, however, a second idea hidden in the rubric of this story, and this mitzvah.

The real question at the heart of this issue may well be this; much like those firemen in the stairwell of the WorldTradeCenter, do we carry the Torah, or does the Torah carry us?

What was Uzzah’s mistake? Rav Kook points out that the verse says, “The oxen had strayed”. Uzzah reached for the Ark, but the problem was not with the Ark, it was with the oxen. He should have reached for the oxen, to try and right them in their path.

The Talmud tells us that one of the questions we will be asked one day in heaven, is

“Kava’ta Itim La’Torah?” “Did you set times for Torah (study)?”

Most people interpret this to mean, ‘did you set time aside in your day for the study of Torah?’ But Rav Kook had a very different way of looking at it. Translated literally, the question becomes: “Did you set the times to the Torah?” In other words, do we set the times according to the Torah, or do we set the Torah according to the times?

Given the challenges of living a life true to the values of the Torah in today’s world, it seems sometimes that we need to adjust things. Do we assume, however, that we need to change the recipe of Jewish tradition, or do we choose to assume that a three thousand year old tradition is not what needs fixing? Sometimes, we find ourselves letting the oxen dictate, which way the Torah wind will blow, and this too, stems from something that is missing in the way we perceive and respect the Torah and the traditions we have been given.

You see, before you can carry Torah on your shoulders, you first have to realize it doesn’t belong on an ox-cart.

Even more, the obligation to carry the Ark on our shoulders represents a theological challenge in and of itself. We may come to assume, by virtue of the fact that we are carrying it on our shoulders, that we are needed in order for the Ark to remain aloft. But of course, if the goal was simply for the Ark to be seen high above the crowd, G-d could simply have made it float! (As the Midrash suggests miraculously occurred when the Jews entered the land of Israel, and the Ark somehow floated high in the air, carrying the priests with it…)

Uzzah assumed that the Ark would fall, perhaps not having the faith that if the Ark was falling, the issue wasn’t the Ark but whether we were worthy to maintain it aloft. Perhaps this is part of the partnership we have with G-d in this world. Hashem wants us to participate, by carrying the Ark on our shoulders, while never forgetting that it is not we who carry the Torah, but the Torah that carries us.

All of which leads to one last point: clearly, carrying the ark on the shoulder wasn’t just a natural way to be sure it didn’t end up on an ox-cart. Rather, it was meant to be on the shoulder. Even while being carried from one place to another, the Ark had a place: the shoulders of the Jewish people.

Perhaps the shoulder represents that part of us that places something above all else. After all, the shoulders really hold up the head, the most important part of the body. In Hebrew we say “La’sim Katef’, ‘to put your shoulder to the task.

The shoulder represents responsibility, and how we carry that which we hold dear. When an item is sitting on your shoulders, it is not just that you are carrying it; it is sitting on you; you are supporting it. You become, in effect, its base… So the shoulder also represents the idea that the tradition we have remains valuable only as long as we actually value it.

Maimonides uses a number of different verbs for the word ‘carry’ in the halachah we have already mentioned. ’Molichin ; Le’Notlo ; Ve’Naso’: to transport , to take, and to carry. And yet the term used to describe the mitzvah, both in the Torah, as well as in Maimonides’ text, is ‘Laset’, to carry. This is reminiscent of the injunction not to carry G-d’s name in vain, in the Ten Commandments. (“Lo’ Tisah…”)

The third commandment is not just about blasphemy; it contains a much deeper challenge. We are, all of us, created in the image of G-d, and as such carry G-d’s name within us each and every day. The question is do we live up to that challenge? Every night we have the opportunity to ask ourselves – today, did I fulfill my purpose on this earth? Did the world become a better place for my having been here today? Or did I carry the name of G-d that is represented by every human being, in vain?

Perhaps the use of the same term here bespeaks a similar message. We have been blessed to receive an incredible gift that we call Torah. Thirty two hundred years ago, we were given a recipe for living up to all that we can be as a people, and making the world a better place. By carrying the Ark aloft, perhaps we are meant to consider the same idea: Am I living up to the promise that was born of that gift, so long ago?

Indeed, today we have the opportunity to experience just such a challenging moment every time we take our Torah scrolls out of or return them back to, the Ark. The laws of carrying a Torah scroll are nearly identical to the carrying of the Ark, including the obligation to carry the Torah scroll close to your heart…

Do we fully appreciate what a gift Torah really is, and are we at peace with the relationship we have with it?

Perhaps the reason so much emphasis is put on what place the Ark is in, or on, is because so much of what Torah represents, is what place it has in my life. If Torah is ‘a tree of life’, our challenge is whether we water it, and ourselves, enough…

All over the world, people are exploring and re-connecting with, their roots. Yet, there are so many Jews today who have never had the opportunity to discover what a rich and magnificent heritage we have as a people. Given how long and hard we have struggled for the right to maintain our relationship with that book we call Torah, we owe it to ourselves to consider what role it has in our lives, and whether we have made enough effort to explore the beauty it may hold for each one of us.

Shabbat Shalom,

Binny Freedman

A Love Letter from the Divine

After the miraculous Exodus from Egypt, the Jewish people traveled in the desert for 49 days until they reached Mount Sinai on the 6th day of the Hebrew month of Sivan. There they experienced the ultimate revelation and communion with G-d. They encountered G-d face to face, heard the voice of G-d and received the Torah and its commandments—the mitzvoth.

Whereas, Passover is the birthday of the Jewish people, this holiday, which is referred to as the holiday of Shavuot, can be likened to the Bar Mitzvah of the Jewish people. It is a time to celebrate the Mitzvot—the responsibilities implicit to the loving relationship we enjoy with G-d.

Recently a friend asked me if I would meet with his son, Sam, and help him prepare his Bar Mitzvah speech. I generally don’t teach thirteen-year-olds, but for a friend I made an exception. So I got together with Sam and I began to share with him some insights into the Torah portion he would be reading in the synagogue on Shabbat. I actually got really into it, seeing how carefully he was listening, nodding his head ever so often. So I started to go even deeper and began to tell him some of the mystical meanings behind the passages he would be publicly reading. I was really impressed, he seemed to be really understanding me. Well, after about an hour of all this deep talk, I said, “Sammy, do you have any questions?”

He said, “Yeah, just one. Why do I have to obey all these commandments, keep all these rules?”

Well, I felt pretty silly. Here I was going off the deep end when he doesn’t even know what his Bar Mitzvah meant.

I asked him, “Sammy, do you like football?”

“I love it! I play it all the time.”

“Do you know the rules?” I continued.

“Of course, you can’t play if you don’t know the rules.”

“Why not?”

“’Cuz then there would be no game. You couldn’t win or lose. There couldn’t be touch downs, no out of bounds, no violations, no penalties. Without the rules it would just be chaos and no fun.”

“Precisely, and that’s true about the game of life also. Without rules and regulations it would be chaos, no fun, no adventure, no challenge. You couldn’t win or lose. And even though we all know, ‘it’s not whether you win or lose but it’s how you play the game,’ without rules there is no way to evaluate ‘how you play the game.’ The Torah’s commandments are the game rules of life and G-d is the referee.”

In the end, Sammy got psyched for his Bar Mitzvah . On Shavuot we celebrate getting the game rules of life because if there are no game rules, there is no game. And on that day we rejoice because we became players in the game of life. Because if there is no right and wrong, then what difference does it make what I do? If there is nothing to violate, there is nothing to fulfill. I can’t even play a game of basketball without rules, let alone live my life! Without the Torah’s game rules for living, the world is just one big chaos and our choices are meaningless.

The Torah, however, is more than the rules of life. Torah is a living encounter with G-d. The revelation of G-d at Mt.Sinai wasn’t simply an opportunity for the Jewish people to receive G-d’s laws but experience G-d’s love. What happened at Mt.Sinai was a personal, face-to-face encounter with G-d. It wasn’t just about getting the laws that made the day important, it was about feeling the ecstasy of G-d’s intimacy with the Jewish people.

The experience at Mt.Sinai was not only a revelation of G-d’s truth, but more importantly, it was a revelation of G-d’s love. Torah was and continues to be G-d’s love letter. It is the greatest gift ever because it embodies G-d’s presence. When you learn the Torah you can actually feel G-d’s closeness to you. The Talmud teaches that when G-d gave the Torah to the Jewish people He said, “I am giving you My soul in writing.”

Imagine one day you receive a love letter. You are at work and eating lunch at the employee cafeteria, and someone drops a letter in front of you. You see that it’s a letter from the one you love. Do you rip open the envelope and start to speed-read through the letter? No, of course you don’t. You save this letter. You’re going to read it in a very special place because this letter deserves more.

Now imagine you’re in that special place. You open the letter carefully, you start to read your beloved’s words and you actually begin to hear her voice. And then you feel her presence.

If you’re anything like me, you’ll read the letter over and over again, because you know there’s much more to this letter. The first time you read it you get the simple meaning. But then you read it even more carefully. You notice that she tells you about the weather and then she starts talking about her mother. What’s the connection, you wonder. You then read the letter again and now you see that there are hints in this letter. You pay attention not only to what she says, but also to the way she’s structured her sentences. Then you go over it again because you realize that it’s even deeper than that. You look at how she even forms the very letters. There are secrets in the nuances of the actual shape of her letters. You then start looking for the deeper subtle meanings.

Once you’ve analyzed every aspect, you carefully refold the letter, place it in its envelope and tuck it away for safekeeping. You save this letter because you sense the presence of your beloved within these mere sheets of paper.

Now let’s imagine that someone else is reading that letter. Is that person going to feel the presence of someone else’s beloved? No. He’d just get the letter’s simple meaning, the information. But for you it would be different. You wouldn’t just be reading the letter; you’d get involved in it. And through your involvement with the words, nuances, and deeper meanings, you’d meet your beloved.

This, in essence, is learning Torah. Through our involvement with the text, we hear G-d’s voice, feel the Divine presence and experience G-d’s love and relive the revelation at Sinai each day of our lives.

Therefore, the Torah embodies not only a way of life but also a way to love. The wisdom and commandments of the Torah empower us to love each other and love G-d. Shavuot is a day to celebrate the laws in love and the love in law.

Rabbi David Aaron
Author of Endless Light, Seeing G-d, The Secret Life of G-d, Inviting G-d In, Living A Joyous Life, and The G-d-Powered Life

(print version)

Moses Mendelssohn, the grandfather of the well- known German composer, was far from being handsome. Along with a rather short stature, he had a grotesque hunchback.

One day he visited a merchant in Hamburg who had a lovely daughter named Frumtje. Moses fell helplessly in love with her. But Frumtje was repulsed by his misshapen appearance.

When it came time for him to leave, Moses gathered his courage and climbed the stairs to her room to take one last opportunity to speak with her. She was a vision of heavenly beauty, but it caused him deep sadness by her refusal to even look at him.

After several attempts at conversation, Moses shyly asked, “Do you believe marriages are made in heaven?”

“Yes” she answered, still looking at the floor. “And do you?”

“Yes, I do” he replied. “You see, in heaven at the birth of each boy, G-d announces which girl he will marry. When I was born, my future bride was pointed out to me. Then G-d added, ‘But your wife will be humpbacked.’

“Right then and there I called out, ‘Oh G-d, a humpbacked woman would be a tragedy. Please, give me the hump and let her be beautiful.’ “

Then Frumtje looked up into his eyes and was stirred by some deep memory. She reached out and gave Mendelssohn her hand and later became his devoted wife.

Sometimes, we have a sense that we have been there before. On our journey through life, we often experience the feeling that we are not traveling a new undiscovered path, but rather coming back to where we have somehow been.

Having left the festival of Pesach behind, the Jewish people finds itself eagerly anticipating the Festival of Shavuot, when we celebrate the giving of the Torah at Sinai over 3,000 years ago. And somehow, there is a feeling that we have been there before; that once, so long ago, we all stood together at the foot of a lonely, windswept mountain, deep in the heart of the desert, ready to receive… what?

The festival of Shavuot and indeed, the giving of the Torah itself is one of the strangest experiences in Judaism. The Torah shares no date for this festival, describing only the agricultural significance (the beginning of the harvest) of this celebration, leaving us to rely on tradition for the historical perspective.

Even stranger is the place where this momentous event occurs: deep in the heart of the desert. We don’t even know exactly where Mount Sinai is, and amazingly, we gave it away in the peace accord with Egypt and no one even noticed!

The giving of the Torah has no date, and no place.

And that is precisely the point. Torah is the recipe we are given to make the world a better place. It is the sum total of why we are here, and how we can make a difference. The Torah is essentially one long love- letter written by G-d, for us; all of us. It contains the secrets of how we can tap into who we are, and become all that we can be.

And of course, if the Torah is about discovering who I am; about being and becoming, then that can never be about a specific time, or place.

Nonetheless, we receive this beautiful treasure in the desert, because sometimes, in order to take a good look at who I am, and who I need to become, I need to find a little bit of desert.

So many experiences in Judaism are about getting beyond time and space. On Shabbat we step back from the week, and experience the joyful opportunity to take a good look at where we are, and where we are headed. Traditionally, we take a little time in the allegorical desert every morning, in prayer, to consider, again, where we really are, and where we hope to go.

But make no mistake about it. Judaism is not about staying in the desert. We don’t believe in staying up on the monastic mountain. The goal is clearly to find that place.

The Jewish people travel, ultimately, for 40 years, to arrive in the Land of Israel. To be a nation, you need a place you can call home.

In fact, one of the most basic rules in life, an essential piece of achieving one’s goals and getting organized, is that everything needs a place.

When something has a place, you can always find it when you need it. And so it will always be there to achieve its purpose in this world. This is true for files, household items; for everything in life.

And it is true for people as well. We all need our place in the world. So many people in this world are still searching, and have not yet found their place.

This is why the festival of Shavuot follows Pesach. If Pesach is about freedom, Shavuot is about what to do with it. Judaism has never believed in freedom for freedom’s sake. The Jewish notion is ‘freedom for’. And so, we arrive at Sinai, an unknown mountain deep in the heart of no-place, to discover why we got out of Egypt. We all have our own personal Egypt, and it is so hard to get beyond it. Often, it seems we can’t do it alone, and even if we could get out, then what? What would we do with our new freedom?

So the first time, G-d showed us how it works. And deep with in each of us is that collective sense that if we really try, we can succeed, because we have been there before. And of course, we don’t stay at Sinai, because Sinai isn’t the goal. The goal is what we choose to do with that newfound recipe. The challenge is to take that recipe and see if we can create a place that allows us to achieve our purpose here, in this world. For the Jewish people that place, ultimately, is the land of Israel, at peace with the world, maybe one day soon.

But first each of us has to find our own freedom, explore our own desert, and journey to discover, each in our own way, the place that will allow us to become all we can be.

May we all be blessed to experience the joy of discovering our place, and the power of the journey, together, soon.

Shabbat Shalom, best wishes for a happy and meaningful Shavuot,

Rav Binny Freedman

Prophecy 101:
Ego is a Non-Prophet Venture

This week we begin to read from the fourth of the five books of Moses. Although this book is referred to in English as the Book of Numbers, in Hebrew it is referred to as Bamidbar because of the opening verse; “And the Lord spoke to Moses in the wilderness (Bamidbar) of Sinai …”

The Midrash, Jewish Oral Tradition, derives a somewhat puzzling insight from the fact that G-d spoke to Moses in the wilderness :

Unless one makes himself hefker (open and ownerless) like a wilderness he cannot acquire wisdom and Torah. (Bamidbar Rabbah 1:7)

In other words, to be receptive to the revelatory word of G-d you must be like the wilderness completely open and ownerless – in a state of humility and surrender. Moses heard the word of G-d not only in the physical location of the wilderness but also because was he was in a “wilderness” state of mind.

Edging G-d Out

The creative experience reflects in some small measure the dynamics of prophecy. Indeed, all genuine artists have experienced God as the source of their creativity, whether or not they identified Him as such. The humble sense of being an open channel for a creative force that flows through the artist is a hint to prophecy.

Sometimes I write songs. Once I was sitting at my piano and started to play a beautiful song I had never heard before. I actually felt possessed; my fingers were moving without my telling them where to go. My wife walked into the room and asked, “What is this song?”

“I don’t know,” I replied. “I’m just trying to stay out of the way and surrender.”

Great artists have confided to friends that they have looked at their own works and wondered, “Where did this come from?” In such creative acts, the artist experiences that the painting or the song is coming through them, but not from them. They know that the power within them is not of them. The true source is somehow beyond them and they must surrender to be worthy. They may feel as if they are possessed and paint spontaneously for hours, feeling every stroke was not their own, feeling guided by a higher power. Hours go by and yet feel like minutes. And finally, they sit and stare with utter awe at the masterpiece before them. At such times they will feel joyously overwhelmed with humbleness and simply can’t sign their name to this work, because they know that indeed they didn’t create it. They were simply G-d’s paintbrush or pen. In such moments of illumination we experience G-d as the Source and Soul of our souls.

Bob Dylan was asked “How do you write your music?” And he said, “I just sit down to write and I know it is going to be alright.” In other words, something else beside the self seems to be at work in the creative process, and the artist becomes a vehicle for a greater creative spirit, an “I” beyond their own self. If you are self-conscious (which really means ego-conscious) and try to impose your ego on the creative process, you can’t create. In the Kabbalah, ego consciousness is a state called klipah, literally meaning “hard shell.” You become encased in a hard shell that separates you from the Divine. For example, if you are a pianist who is ego-conscious and you have a feeling when you are on stage — “there is the audience, there is me, this is my piano, these are my talents and this is my music” then it will never come together. You have to crack open that shell, let go and let G-d in. You have to become the music and let the Great Musician—G-d play through you, whether you admit it publicly or not. So the joy, the ecstasy of a person in a creative moment is really this strange kind of “G-d-consciousness,” rather that ego-consciousness. This experience hints to what the Kabbalah refers to as becoming a merkava, which literally means “chariot.” You feel like a vehicle for a higher spirit and you are humbled and grateful, not haughty or arrogant.

I asked a musician friend of mine why the use of alcohol and drugs seems to be so rampant in his world, even amongst the greatest stars. He explained it to me like this: When these great musicians are playing, they feel like they are their music. Something higher is playing through them and this gives them a feeling of sheer ecstasy and profound humbleness. But offstage, people claw and clamor for their autographs as if they were gods. “In my experience with all the people I have played with,” my friend said, “I felt what drove them nuts was they knew it wasn’t really them playing, but they wanted to believe it really was them. And this caused them a lot of inner turmoil and torment about their identity and self-worth.”

I understood the problem. If people become encased in their ego shells that are as thick as a brick, how can they break out and connect with G-d? They can’t. So something has to give. Something has got to loosen them up, and they think that drugs or alcohol can perhaps do that — a couple of drinks at first, then a couple of dozen drinks, to take away that ego-consciousness onstage. But that’s not connecting to the Great “I” –G-d. That’s just an ego getting drunk.

How to become a Prophet

In ancient times there were thousands of people who learned the Kabbalistic meditative techniques for entering higher states of consciousness and channeling prophetic visions or messages. An aspiring prophet, after rigorous ethical and spiritual preparations, would apprentice with an experienced prophet who would guide him step by step through the levels of consciousness. However, before a person could even begin to consider learning prophecy he would have to transcend his ego. One indication of this was the ability to hear both praise and insult equally without taking it personally. Such a person would show complete objectivity about his character. That is why a person in a state of prophecy would speak of himself in the third person, as if about someone else. Therefore, when Jacob called his sons to share his prophecy, he said, “Come together, and I will tell you what will happen in the course of time. Come and listen, sons of Jacob: listen to your father, Israel.” Moses would say, “And G-d spoke to Moses.” And Ezekiel starts with, “And the word of G-d came to Ezekiel.”

The Torah considers Moses to be the greatest of all the prophets. It quotes G-d as saying of Moses: “If there shall be prophets among you, in a vision shall I, G-d, make Myself known to him, in a dream shall I speak with him. Not so My servant Moses, in my entire household he is the trusted one. Mouth to mouth do I speak to him, in a clear vision and not in riddles.”

Moses sometimes reached such prophetic peaks that G-d would speak out of his very mouth. This is apparent in a number of places in the Book of Deuteronomy, where Moses talks about G-d in the third person and then suddenly reverts to the first person. Here is one such example: “It will be if you hearken to My commandments that I commanded you today, to love G-d, your God, and to serve Him with all your heart and with all your soul, then I shall provide rain for your land in its proper time… I will provide grass in your fields for your cattle and you will eat and you will be satisfied.” Obviously it is not Moses who will provide rain. At this point the G-d –the “Ultimate I” is speaking through him.

What was it about Moses that enabled him to reach such prophetic levels? The Torah tells us that “Moses was exceedingly humble, more than any person on the face of the earth.” This was made clear after he was wrongly criticized by his sister, Miriam, and brother, Aaron, and yet he did not react or become defensive. Although Moses had the ability to confront the pharaoh of Egypt, rebuke the entire nation of Israel, and even challenge G-d’s judgment of Israel, he kept silent when the issue was his own honor. Moses transcended his ego. He didn’t take insults personally and become defensive. He was not offended even when Eldad and Medad predicted that he would never see the Promised Land and would die in the desert. Joshua was infuriated by the disrespect o these men toward their leader, but Moses took the news calmly.

Joshua said, “My master Moses, imprison them!”

Moses replied, “I only wish that all of G-d’s people would have the gift of prophecy! Let G-d grant His spirit to them all!”

In fact, G-d is always speaking to us but are we willing to make ourselves like a wilderness –surrender our egos to be open? Are we ready to realize our ownership and acknowledging that everything we thought we own we really owe to Him?

Rabbi David Aaron
Author of Endless Light, Seeing G-d, The Secret Life of G-d, Inviting G-d In, Living A Joyous Life, and The G-d-Powered Life

A windswept hill, where the leaves rustle on the olive trees, and the ground lies silent… almost in silent memorial, to the sounds that echoed here forty-two years ago….

The view today is mostly obscured; where once the hill overlooked the Northern side of Jewish Jerusalem, from across the Jordanian border, today the homes and streets of Ramat Eshkol, a neighborhood that sprouted up after the Six Day War fill the landscape. And where once Jordanian guns trained on Israel, forcing civilians to seek refuge behind makeshift protection, toady children play soccer in a new school that sits just below the ridge.

But take a walk below the old Jordanian police academy, along the rows of trenches that snake their way across the hill, and close your eyes, and you can still hear the echoes of gunfire, and the cries of the soldiers that rang out here, on Ammunition Hill, in June of 1967.

In May of 1967, with Arab armies massed on her borders, and the entire Israeli army reserves mobilized, Israel was in a desperate situation. With all the able-bodied men called up to the front lines, Israel’s economy ground to a halt, as the Arab radio-waves filled with the calls for the young State’s destruction.

Outnumbered on all fronts, the pundits were predicting an imminent end to the experiment that saw the birth of a Jewish homeland after 2000 years of waiting.

Plans had actually been prepared in certain Western countries to absorb the expected, mass influx of Jewish refugees fleeing the imminent Arab-spawned Holocaust just twenty years after the world had seen six million Jews disappear in the ovens of Auschwitz and Treblinka.

With her back against the wall, this time Israel vowed it would be different. No longer a ragged band of fighters begging for a few guns to be smuggled through the sewers of Warsaw in 1942, this time Israel had an army with which to fight back. In the early dawn of June 5th, 1967, Israeli Air Force jets flew South, below enemy radar, in two waves, taking out 85% of Egypt’s air force on the ground in less than three hours.

In similar operations later that morning, the IAF achieved similar success with the Syrian Air Force, thus achieving total control of the skies, and essentially winning the war before it had even begun.

In the prelude to the war, a secret telegram (now public in recently released documents) was sent to by Israeli Prime Minister Levi Eshkol to then-young Crown-Prince Hussein of Jordan, begging him to refrain from getting involved in the brewing conflict.

But, whether due to Arab pressure or to insure his own position, Jordan ignored the request, instead unleashing a series of savage artillery barrages on Western civilian Jerusalem from six-inch guns positioned on that very same Ammunition hill.

By the second day of the war, after its lightning successes, Israel set its sites on the ultimate prize; the Old City of Jerusalem. For two thousand years, ever since the Romans had put torch to the Temple, the Jewish people had dreamed of coming home. Here at last, the day was finally at hand.

But the Old City of Jerusalem was a difficult nut to crack. It was decided by the Israeli High command that there would be no air or artillery support, due to the close quartered civilian population, as well as the holy places of three religions. For the same reason tanks would only be used to protect infantry but not to offer fire support.

It was therefore obvious that the only way such an infantry attack could hope to succeed was if the surrounding ridges which held the strategic high ground overlooking the Old city were first captured. A single battery of Jordanian guns from atop the Mount of Olives, Mount Scopus, Armon Hanatziv, and especially Ammunition Hill would rip the Israeli soldiers below to shreds, ending what might be Israel’s only chance to re-take the Old City before it even got out of the gate.

The most difficult nut to crack was Ammunition Hill; heavily fortified and manned by elite Jordanian troops, Israel knew this hill was the key to unlocking the way home to Jerusalem, the Jewish people’s long lost city of gold…

The operation began at 10pm, as an entire Battalion of paratroopers, supported by a full company of tanks set out to take the hill.

The hope was that the hill could be in Israeli hands by dawn so that the Israeli forces could continue from there along the eastern ridge line, allowing them to be at the gates of the Old City that evening.

Unfortunately, someone forgot to tell the Jordanian army about the plan.

The Israelis came under murderous fire at the bottom of the hill, and the tanks quickly became stuck in the heavily mined approach. Almost immediately, unable to negotiate the tank obstacles and barbed wire, the tanks were left behind and the paratroopers had to proceed alone.

Under murderous fire, they advanced into the trenches at the top of the hill, only to discover that the Jordanians had built special trenches wide enough for only one man at a time, which meant no one soldier could cover his comrade as they advanced.

On the spot, without hesitation, the soldiers in the front of the line in the trenches simply threw themselves to the ground when their ammo ran out, allowing the rest of the unit to run on top of them in order to advance.

And when heavy fire pinned them down from the police station, preventing them from moving forward, one by one, soldier after soldier understood that the only way to support the advance of the men in the trenches was to roll out of the trench into open ground and draw the enemy fire covering the rest of the unit’s advance and as each Israeli soldier was eventually cut down, another rose to take his place.

Incredibly, when the army picked apart the battle after the war it was determined that no orders had been given to these men, they simply understood the calling and made this decision all on their own.

But of all the stories on that day, (and books could be filled with the stories of heroism from that one battle), none stands out like the story of Yoav Tsuri.

At one point in the battle the bulk of what was left of the unit was caught in a murderous cross-fire (later dubbed the ‘Triangle of Fire’) from Jordanian machine gunners on one end, and a heavily fortified bunker on the other. As the Israelis were being cut to pieces, Tsuri, without any regard to his own well being simply charged the bunker on his own, jumping up on the roof of the bunker and taking it out with his grenades. On three separate occasions, Tzuri’s determination and complete lack of concern for his own safety, saved the day, until at last he was killed in his third such action.

Of the 260 men who took part in this battle, one of the costliest in Israeli Military history, 182 men fell that day, and when the guns finally fell silent at evening of the following day there were only eleven soldiers who remained standing without being killed or wounded.

If you walk across the silent battle-field of Ammunition Hill, you can see the glint of the sun off the golden walls of the Old City of Jerusalem, through the branches of the olive trees, 182 in all, each planted by the family of a boy who fell that day. And it hits you that in this place the Jewish people carried on the backs and shoulders of the paratroopers who died there, unlocked the gates to the city of Jerusalem.

So what do you do with this, some forty years later? What is so important about Jerusalem, that it has been called the heart of the Jewish people, and that would motivate so many, for so long to be wiling to give up so much, to be able to come home to this city?

It is interesting to note that this week we celebrate ‘Yom Yerushalayim’, Jerusalem Day, which marks the Hebrew anniversary (the 28th day of Iyar) of the day the Israeli army re-took the old city of Jerusalem in 1967. And given that this Hebrew date is exactly nine days before the festival of Shavuot, the anniversary of the giving of the Torah at Mount Sinai, it is worth noting that it always falls on the week before Shavuot. It is no accident that the celebration of Jerusalem Day has become a prelude to the celebration of receiving the Torah, and we need to understand this connection, as well as trying to understand how this is connected to the weekly Torah portion which also is always read the week before Shavuot.

The fourth book of the Torah, ,Bamidbar (Numbers), which we begin this week, is a book that begins with enormous potential. Having received the Torah at Sinai, and recovered from the debacle over the Golden calf, the Jewish people have successfully built a tabernacle (mishkan), (predecessor to the Temple) and the Kohanim or priestly class have received the basics of what they will need to do in the Temple (tabernacle or mishkan ),

Now, finally, the Jews are ready to receive their marching orders: after two hundred years of slavery, it is time for the family of Israel to return home, to the land of their ancestors, Avraham, Yitzchak and Ya’acov. In fact, given their position in the desert of Sinai they are but a few short days’ journey to the border of Israel.

And so G-d (Hashem) speaks to Moshe:

“Vayedaber Hashem el Moshe be’midbar Sinai, be’Ohel Moed, leimor…” “And G-d spoke to Moshe, in the desert of Sinai, at the Tent of Meeting saying:”

“Seu’ et rosh B’nei Yisrael…” “Count the heads of the children of Israel…” (Bamidbar (Numbers) 1:1-2)

What is this about? Why is G-d counting the Jewish people now? Why not just get them moving? And why is it so important to note exactly where they are? After all, we already know they are still in the desert, right? So why does the Torah have to repeat that fact? And why is it important to note that G-d is speaking to Moshe in the desert, specifically in the Ohel Moed, the Tent of Meeting? Isn’t G-d everywhere? And even if this is all about where Moshe is, why is that so important?

It is interesting to note that these two places, the desert and the tent of meeting, are almost diametrically opposed to each other. The desert is, in fact, the place that is really no-place. It is not somewhere one normally goes to, but rather the place one usually tries to get through. In fact, according to Jewish tradition, there is a special blessing one makes (the birkat HaGomel…) when successfully navigating (read: surviving or getting through) the desert. Indeed, it is no accident that the Torah is given to the Jewish people in the desert, the point being to realize that Torah is not about where you are, but rather about who you are. In fact, we don’t even know exactly where Mount Sinai is, and most probably gave it back to Egypt in 1982 without so much as a whimper.

Often, people go to the desert to get away, perhaps precisely because it is a place that is not really anyplace, free from the distractions places usually carry with them. The desert is a place that allows us to get back to who we really are; a place where we can escape the limitations and parameters that surround us and focus on who we always meant to be. Indeed, it may well be precisely for this reason that we receive the Torah in the desert; it requires a little ‘desert’ in your life to be able to receive Torah. And there is something to be said for the need to retreat into the desert in order to make time and room for Torah and to evaluate one’s focus and what one really wants to accomplish in life, and each and every day.

The past Lubavitcher Rebbe in his Likkutei Sichot, actually points out that the act of tefillah, praying every day is an opportunity to retreat a little bit from the world, and capture a little bit of desert before beginning the day.

The tent of meeting, on the other hand is not only a place; it is the place. It is the focus of all places and as a prelude to the temple, the Beit HaMikdash, it represents that holiest of places that will one day be for Judaism the focus of all places.

And if Mount Sinai is the mountain we do not really know, the Temple sits on MountMoriah, the Mountain everybody knows.

According to Jewish tradition it was on this mountain that Abraham brought his son, Isaac (Yitzchak) for the binding of Isaac, and according to Mystical tradition on this spot lays the rock known as the even yetzirah, from which the earth was formed.

And it is to this mountain, the TempleMount that every Jew faces when praying from all over the world. It is, indeed, on this Mountain that Judaism really began as an idea: in this place the first Jew was willing to give everything he held dear back to G-d. And the Tent of Meeting which represents this idea was still in the desert, where we really came of age as a people; in the desert we were willing as a new nation to receive what G-d wanted to give us.

And with these two juxtaposed backgrounds, the desert of Sinai and the Tent of Meeting, G-d wishes us to be counted as we set out to continue our journey to the land of Israel.

There are two details regarding this counting that are worth noting:

First, the word used here is “se’u” which while meaning to count (as in “Ki tissah” when you will count the people in the book of Exodus (Shemot), also means to carry. (As in “Lo’ tissah et shem Hashem la’shav: “Do not take (or carry) the name of G-d in vain, in the Ten Commandments.) There is another word which could have been used here, the word ‘lispor’ (as in “u’sfartem lachem” in the portion of Emor, which refers to the counting of the days of the Omer.) This is no accident. The counting of sefirah may well refer to a counting process where each unit (in the case of the Omer, each day) is an equal piece in a process; a day, after all, is a day; what makes each day special is what we do with it, and what context it fits into. But the counting of seu’ or carrying, may well relate to a process where each ‘unit’ or item counted is unique, and in infinity unto itself, whether it be the name of G-d each of us carries within us (the idea there being the mitzvah to be sure we know we carry Hashem’s name in all that we do and all that we are…) or each individual being counted who of course is a world unto him or her self.

Maybe this counting is really an opportunity to take stock of where and why we are going, and how we take with us the lessons of the desert and the goal of the Tent of Meeting on our journey to becoming a Nation in its own land.

Equally interesting however, is the fact that the Torah continues by telling us that this counting is of each male above the age of twenty, who is ‘going out to serve in the army’. Why is the counting here apparently only of the army?

The Malbim suggests this is for practical reasons; after all, the Jewish people are about to conquer a land, so they need to take stock of the army.

But Rashi seems to be saying something entirely different, pointing out here that this counting is a demonstration of Hashem’s love for us (and indeed this is consistent with Rashi’s comments in other occasions where we are counted such as at the beginning of the book of Exodus…). And if indeed being counted, and the opportunity to be counted is an indication that each of us makes a difference and each of us has a role to play, then why are only the soldiers being counted?

Perhaps there is a deeper idea here. An army is only valuable if it has a mission, and the success of any military mission, as with all missions in life is ultimately dependant on how much each and every soldier understands and believes in that same mission. And this, of course, is all about purpose. After all, why do the Jewish people even need an army? Couldn’t G-d just split a few seas, or mountains, and conquer the land before the Jews even get there?

The truth is, the entire process of conquering the land of Israel is less about the need for the land to be conquered, than it is about the need for us to be willing to conquer it.

And this is one of the great secrets of life. We only truly value that which we earn. When the Jewish people are in the desert, they receive everything: manna from heaven, Water by miracles, even clouds of glory that protect them, and the unwavering knowledge that Hashem is with them every minute of every day.

But when Hashem is so present, it is hard to find room for anyone else; if Hashem is there, then where am I? Ultimately we are created and put in this world for a purpose, and life is all about the search to discover what that purpose is, and how to live up to it. So the Jews have to leave the desert, and when they do, the miracles will (gradually) stop, and they will have to be willing to fight, because things that are worth while are worth fighting for. Maybe that is why it is the army being counted here, because up until now the mission has been an idea; now the Jewish people have to be wiling to make it a reality.

All of which bring us back to our original question: why the need for a particular hill in a particular city, in a specific land?

The idea of connecting to an actual place is all about translating purpose into reality. Ultimately, the reason we are all here, is to make this world a better place, and the way in which we are supposed to do that is by becoming a light; a model of what human beings can achieve when the world they create is funneled by truth and justice, ethics and a desire for peace, with all men.

And to be that role model, to be seen and known we need a land; a nation is not a nation unless it has a land.

But when a people becomes connected to a land, there is a danger; because they can become so immersed in conquering that land, and so caught up in building it, that they forget what it was all about. Which is why at the center of that land, there has to be a city; a very special city. And in the center of that city there is a hilltop; not really a mountain, just a hilltop. It is not even the tallest hill in the area, and it would certainly stretch the imagination to call it a mountain, because the point of it all is to realize that the message is not because it is the tallest mountain; it simply represents an idea that needs to be heard and a message that needs to be seen.

An in the center of that hilltop , where long ago a father was willing to give his son, his only beloved son, stood a Temple meant to remind us that while we are so busy building and giving we need to remember what all that building is for.

Much like the Shabbat is our anchor in time, where one day a week we pause and remember what the week’s work is really all about, the Temple, or Beit HaMikdash, Is our anchor in space where we remember what all that we do is really about.

Forty-two years ago, a lone battalion of paratroopers understood they were not just fighting a battle as part of an army; they were willing to give everything for a mission four thousand years in the making, for the entire world.

May we be blessed soon, to enjoy the shade and the fruit of the olive trees without any more of the terrible price we had to pay to plant them.

Shabbat Shalom, and looking forward to seeing you all one day soon, in Yerushalayim,

Rav Binny Freedman

Rabbi David Aaron shares personal reflections of Yom Yerushalayim

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