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26 JUDAISM

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Chayei Sarah: Has Judaism become too easy?

BY RABBI MOSHE TARAGIN

A few years ago, an Orthodox woman penned a New York Times article advocating the virtues of Shabbat observance to a general, non-Jewish public. The author portrayed Shabbat as a twenty-four-hour oasis of serenity within our noisy and boisterous modern world. Shabbat provided down time to reconnect with our inner self, our families, and our community. Unplugging from a wired and hyper-stimulated culture, it preserves our sanity and our emotional well-being. Portraying Shabbat as a solution to the maladies of modernity, allowed even a non-Jewish audience to appreciate its beauty.

Though the author was portraying Shabbat experience, she could just as easily have been describing many other aspects of religion. Thankfully, religion and religious practice have become easier and more comfortable than in the past. On a practical level, it has never been easier to practice religion but, even more significantly, we have framed religion as an experience which benefits us and improves our lives. We embrace religion because it delivers meaning and purpose to our lives and because it imbues us with values and vision. We endorse religion and pitch it to others because we it crafts the best version of ourselves.

There is a different way to view religion. When Avraham dispatches his servant to secure a wife for Yitzchak, he requests an oath from his servant to faithfully execute the mission. To convey his seriousness Avraham places his servant’s hand upon his leg near the area of his brit milah. At the brittle age of ninety-nine Avraham had submitted to an extremely painful surgery without the benefits of anesthesia. By placing his servant’s hand close to his scar, Avraham associates the oath and the mission with his painful suffering.

His milah was painful, but it was also transformative and foundational to his identity. Anchoring the oath to this arduous experience lent gravitas to the oath and urgency to the mission.

A parallel scene unfolded thousands of years later involving Rebbi Akiva, one of the greatest Talmudic scholars. Born into ignorance, he spent the first forty years of his life as an illiterate peasant. One day he passed a waterway and witnessed the rushing water sculpting surrounding stones. Surprised that soft water could mold solid stone, he extrapolated that Torah study and religious observance, which are each extremely demanding, would powerfully forge his identity. Rabbi Akiva didn’t flinch in the face of religious challenge, but embraced it, knowing that the impact of an experience is always directly related to the degree of difficulty and hardship. The more we strain and struggle in religion the more deeply it shapes our identity.

Avraham and Rabbi Akiva didn’t view religion as beneficial or enjoyable, but as challenging and demanding. As my revered teacher, Rabbi Aharon Lichtenstein formulated “ religion demands having shoulders strong enough to bear the weight of religion without being crushed by it”. Religion is meant to be pleasant and agreeable, but also to be heavy and burdensome. It is crucial to delicately calibrate between these opposing perspectives of religion. Too easy, and religion becomes superficial and doesn’t touch our souls. Too heavy and religion suffocates life and crushes our spirit.

How did we get to the point that we predominately view religion as easy and beneficial, rather than as a strenuous challenge to serve a higher being? How did religion become soft, less heavy, and, by extension, less transformative?

A WORLD OF COMFORT

Firstly, religion has been adapted to our modern world of convenience. Science, technology, and capitalism have all improved our living conditions, vastly upgrading our quality of life. Life used to be difficult, but it has become significantly more comfortable and enjoyable. Without adapting our attitude about religion, it may have become completely severed from our reality. By altering our perspective and even our religious language we preserved its relevance, but we also emulsified religion, smoothing out its rough edges and eliminating any prickly thorns. This transformation of religion may have been necessary to update it to our new world of comfort, but, like every adaptation, it carried steep and unforeseen costs.

Shabbat observance is a perfect example of how religion has become more “silky”, based on the general improvements in our quality of life. Previous generations endured austere shabbat experiences with limited physical pleasure. Their shabbat home environment was cold and dark, their food was cold, and their mobility was limited. Due to electricity, modern heating, shabbat clocks, and ubiquitous eiruvs, our shabbat experience has become luxurious, with almost no drop off from our general weekday routine. Shabbat is a perfect microcosm for how religious practice has become more comfortable, matching the staggering improvements in our quality of life.

The improvements to Shabbat are obviously positive and necessary developments, but they threaten the spiritual flavor and tone of Shabbat. Shabbat is more than just family time and more than just a day to relax, play board games and reconnect over coffee. It is a day to shutdown and recall creation, Exodus and Jewish covenant. Without actual shutdown it is difficult to latch on to those large and seminal ideas.

MOVING FROM THE HOLOCAUST

Additionally, there is a historical element behind this shift in how we frame religion. Two major Jewish historical events of the 20th century contributed to this reconfiguration of religion. The post-Holocaust world was a gloomy world of death and darkness. In the aftermath of this apocalypse, Hashem appeared very distant and very imposing. Many were left with lingering questions about a G-d who could allow mass genocide against His chosen people. Many who couldn’t relate to this frightening G-d left religion entirely. For those who remained, religious life felt heavy and imposing. The popular Yiddish phrase “shver zu zein a yid” or “it is difficult to be a Jew” captured the pervasive mood impression that religion was overbearing. Judaism was in dire need of an attitudinal overhaul.

Gradually, a younger and more religiously confident generation, which hadn’t suffered the agony of the Holocaust began to define Hashem in more welcoming and cheery terms. He was no longer seen as austere and forbidding, but as user-friendly and loving. The emotional core of religion shifted from fear and trembling to joy and celebration. Hashem became less intimidating, less demanding, and more accommodating and helpful. Hashem went from being our Father in heaven to being our Grandfather in heaven. No one is afraid of their grandfather.

This shift was absolutely necessary to restore faith and rebuild religious experience in the wake of the Holocaust, but it created a lopsided view of Hashem and an imbalanced attitude toward religion. Religion has become a platform of opportunity rather than a regimen of expectation and duty.

THE SUN SHINES IN ISRAEL

Our return to the modern state of israel has also reworked our image of Hashem. The tables of history have turned and, for the first time in thousands of years, we sense that Hashem is smiling upon us rather than hiding from us. Living through euphoric miracles we can’t help but feel that we are partnering with Hashem in crafting modern history. This sense of partnership has bred optimism, lending a cheery confidence to religion. Eighty years after the Holocaust and seventy-five years into statehood, religion is broadcast in a very different frequency. The sun has risen above Jewish history and its bright rays have made religion glow.

All these developments are fortunate and have fastened religion to our ever-changing world. These changes have made religion more vibrant, more joyful, and more popular than ever. However, we mustn’t let the overall balance go awry. Judaism isn’t just bagels and lox and lovely family gatherings. It is a stretch to reach heaven, a thrust to encounter the Other and journey beyond our world. In our efforts to affix religion to our new world we cannot ground it and eliminate its struggle, its power, or its glory.

The writer is a rabbi at Yeshivat Har Etzion/ Gush, a hesder yeshiva. He has smicha and a BA in computer science from Yeshiva University, as well as a master’s degree in English literature from the City University of New York.

17 NOVEMBER 2022 TO ADVERTISE CALL 020 3906 8488

JUDAISM 27 Aseres Hadibros: Engrave Them on Your Soul

BY RABBI SHMUEL REICHMAN

The Aseres Hadibros are an expression of the oneness of Torah and the root of our connection to Hashem in this world. As we mentioned in our previous article, there is a powerful connection between the specific commandments on each side as well. Each individual dibrah on the right parallels the corresponding dibrah on the left. Together, they make up a unified whole of connection to both Hashem and one’s fellow man. While we already explained the unique connection between the first four pairs of dibros, we still need to understand the deep and unique connection between the last pair.

KIBUD AV VA’EIM AND LO SACHMOD

Before comparing the last two dibros, we must first address an apparent problem with one of them. Kibud av va’eim, the commandment to honor one’s parents, is the fifth commandment, the last of those on the right side of the Luchos. However, the right side of the Luchos is reserved for mitzvos bein adam laMakom, and while it may not always seem so, parents are human too. Why, then, is the mitzvah of honoring one’s parents included on the right side of the Luchos?

The right side of the Luchos contains the mitzvos bein adam laMakom, but the deeper theme of the right side is mitzvos between man and his source (bein adam la’Makor). The first four are bein Adam laMakom, between man and his ultimate source, while the fifth, kibud av va’eim, is between man and his more immediate source, his parents. This juxtaposition reveals a deep connection between these mitzvos: The first step toward tracing oneself back to Hashem is recognizing that I am not my own creator, that I have a source. Kibud av va’eim is the first step toward doing so. Recognizing our parents as our source is the first step in tracing ourselves back to our ancestors, then to Avraham, then to Noach, eventually all the way back to Adam HaRishon, until finally we get back to Hashem Himself. In doing so, we trace our individual existence back to Hashem’s creation of the world itself. Kibud av va’eim is therefore the perfect transition between bein adam laMakom and bein adam le’chaveiro, as this mitzvah serves as the springboard for the connection between you and Hashem. Recognizing that someone created us helps train us to source everything in our lives back to Hashem.

This is deeply connected to the concept of hakaras ha’tov. While literally translated as recognizing the good, hakaras ha’tov actually refers to one’s ability to recognize where things come from, sourcing things back to their original root. The mitzvah of kibud av va’eim is essentially the paradigmatic mitzvah of hakaras ha’tov, recognizing where one’s existence comes from.

After clarifying why kibud av va’eim is on the right side of the Luchos, we must now explain its connection to the prohibition against jealousy — lo sachmod. While some consider the prohibition of lo sachmod to only be transgressed when one acts upon their thoughts of jealousy, many consider even the thoughts and feelings of jealousy themselves as a violation of this prohibition. (According to the Sefer Hachinuch and several other opinions, even thoughts of jealousy violate the prohibition of lo sachmod, even if one does not act on these thoughts (38, 416). Even the Rambam (Mishneh Torah, Gezeilah 1:9), who suggests that one only violates the prohibition of lo sachmod if they act on their thoughts and force the owner to give or sell them that which they covet, still thinks that the act is simply a way to quantify the degree to which one had the illicit thoughts and desires of jealousy. In other words, the act is a retroactive revelation of how bad the jealousy truly was.) How is it possible for us to avoid these thoughts? Given the assumption that we have free will over our thoughts, how are we expected to overcome the urge of jealousy?

Each one of us is entrusted with a unique mission in this world, and Hashem gives each of us the unique talents, skills, and drives that we need in order to fulfill that mission. Hashem is our Source, and therefore the Source of everything we have; every aspect of our life was designed specifically for us. When we understand that every single aspect of our life is given to us in order to help us fulfill our unique purpose, what another person has becomes irrelevant, and jealousy becomes nonsensical. Nothing that somebody else has is necessary for your mission, and you are the only person who is able to fulfill your unique purpose. Hashem not only gave you your mission but also gave you all the tools you need to achieve your purpose in this world. Instilling this understanding in ourselves allows us to live without any feelings of jealousy, as our full focus becomes directed toward maximizing our time in this world to fulfill our unique potential. Aside from being jealous of other people’s possessions or circumstances, there is a tendency to be jealous of other people’s successes and achievements. However, the same principle applies here: nobody else’s successes affect ours, nor should it diminish our self-worth. We are all part of one nation, one people, one team. There is no room for jealousy when we are all working toward a shared mission; on the contrary, we should celebrate each other’s victories as our own! For example, one’s ear would never be jealous of their nose, as they are both parts of the same body. At root, they want what is best for the body, for the collective self. If we viewed ourselves as limbs of the body of Klal Yisrael, we would never be jealous of our fellow Jew. This is what kibud av va’eim teaches us: the importance of tracing everything in our life back to its source, to Hashem. When we realize that our entire existence in this world, and all of the circumstances and challenges that we face come from Hashem, there is no place for jealousy, as Hashem has given each of us the exact tools we need to succeed in our mission.

ENGRAVE THEM ON YOUR HEART

When we picture the Luchos, we instinctively conjure up an image of two rounded tablets. However, the Gemara explicitly states that the Luchos were cubic or rectangular. If so, why does almost every shul depict the Luchos with two rounded tops, as an almost heart-shaped figure? (There are, of course, practical suggestions, including those who suggest that this custom is, in fact, a mistake and is based on non-Jewish artwork.)

Perhaps the depth behind this is that the Luchos are intrinsically connected to the heart. The Aseres Hadibros are the heart of the Torah, and we are told to engrave them into our hearts, “Kasvem al luach libecha” (Mishlei 7:3).

This idea touches upon the unique nature of the Luchos and how they were written. There are four possible ways to record an idea in writing: • The first is to use an adhesive, such as glue, paste, or tape, to attach the message to the medium. This is the weakest form of writing, as the message remains separate from the medium and can easily be erased or removed. • The second is to use ink on paper. In this case, the message is not as easily removed, as the message is more connected to the medium itself. However, the ink still remains on the surface of the paper, separate from the medium (the paper). It is the very contrast between the ink and the blank paper that allows you to understand the message. • The third is to engrave the message into the medium itself. As such, the message becomes part of the medium and cannot be erased. • However, there is a deeper form of writing, which is to bore the message completely through the medium, whereby the message becomes one with the medium itself.

This fourth level is how the Luchos were written. The pasuk says that the letters of the Luchos were engraved through the stone and could miraculously be read both on the front and the back of the tablets (Shemos 32:15). Chazal discuss the miraculous way in which letters such as the samech and mem-sofis both had inner pieces that floated in the air, disconnected from any other part of the stone.

This is the deep message of the Luchos. We must engrave their words onto our hearts; we must become one with the medium; we must become one with these mitzvos. We cannot simply perform the mitzvos; we must become the mitzvos. May we be inspired to fully embrace the inner depth of the Aseres Hadibros and merit to fulfill the directive of “Kasvem al luach libecha.”

Rabbi Shmuel Reichman is a bestselling author, international speaker, and the CEO of Self-Mastery Academy. He has lectured internationally on topics of Torah thought, Jewish medical ethics, psychology, and leadership. His bestselling book, The Journey to Your Ultimate Self, serves as an inspiring gateway into deeper Jewish thought. He is also a business, executive, and leadership coach, with a unique approach based on Torah values. After obtaining his BA from Yeshiva University, he received Semicha from Yeshiva University’s RIETS, a master’s degree in education from Azrieli Graduate School, and a master’s degree in Jewish Thought from Bernard Revel Graduate School. He then spent a year studying at Harvard as an Ivy Plus Scholar. He currently lives in Chicago with his wife and son where he is pursuing a PhD at the University of Chicago. To enjoy more of Rabbi Reichman’s content, to contact him, or to learn more about his services, visit his website: ShmuelReichman.com