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The Ultimate Mitzvah - Loving Your Fellow Jew

Thu, 25 May 2006 19:47:43 +0000

The emotion of love has been the subject of poets and romantics for centuries. We need not enter into any analysis of that topic, but, as it relates to loving a fellow Jew, some kind of specific definition is obviously necessary.

There are 613 mitzvos in the Torah. One is to feel the hunger of the poor, and therefore to give charity. Another is to feel the discomfort of a stranger, and therefore to show him hospitality. Not to be cruel, even to an animal, is another mitzvah. These commandments, though differing in their details are basically all expressions of concern, compassion and love. But the commandment of "Ahavas Yisroel" -- to love your fellow Jew -- seems to imply something beyond the above mentioned mitzvos. Because all of those are commandments relating to a specific act. What does the commandment to love a fellow Jew add to the commandments to be kind, generous, and compassionate? It adds the emphasis of loving EVERY Jew, and that the love itself is a mitzvah.

The Alter Rebbe, the first Lubavitcher Rebbe, said that to love another person means to find something in the other person that is similar to something in oneself. There are those parts of our lives and our existence that give us our individuality. These are the things that make each person different from another. And there are times when we must focus on our particular responsibility, our particular message in life. But the mitzvah of loving your fellow means being able to focus on those things that, rather than separating us, actually make us one. Once we discover that one thing which is universal to us all, we are in a position to love our fellow.

"A Jew who sins and violates his Jewishness remains a Jew," says the Torah. A Jew is not created out of virtue. One doesn’t become a Jew by doing mitzvos or good deeds. Faults, sins and misconduct do not stop one from being a Jew. A Jew remains a Jew no matter what. And, on the other hand, no matter how much good a Jew does, he remains a Jew (and not an angel). We see then that the state of being Jewish precedes any choices we are going to make. Long before we decide to put on tefillin, keep kosher, keep Shabbos or go to the mikvah, we are already Jewish. No matter what decisions we come to later in life, our Jewishness doesn’t change, and it is not diminished.

What all Jews have in common is the part of G-d that He breathes into each person, the neshama (soul). Appreciating one’s neshama allows a person to open himself up to every neshama in the world; this appreciation is a giant step toward loving every Jew. Because G-d has placed a part of Himself in every Jew, we are capable of loving every Jew. That which makes one person Jewish is exactly the same as that which makes every other Jew Jewish. If one loves that part of himself, then for the same reason he can love every other Jew. That is enough to make one person’s heart miss a beat because of something that is happening to another.

The Alter Rebbe wrote that one’s view of another person depends on how we see ourselves. If what is emphasized makes one different -- namely, the human, physical condition -- then one is incapable of loving. Not only can’t he love every Jew, he can’t love anybody. Because the most important thing to him is what makes him different, that which separates him from everybody. Focusing on differences separates people. The only way to be capable of loving is by making unimportant those things that make one different and separate. What must be primary is that which is shared with everybody else -- the neshama, the soul.

In a similar vein:

Chassidus teaches that when a person has a problem in his spiritual growth and development, he should discuss it with someone else. He and the other person sit together and discuss a G-dly problem, so there are two G-dly souls against one animal soul (the animating force of the body) -- the cause of the problem. At first glance this is difficult to comprehend. If you have two people, and therefore two G-dly souls, shouldn’t you also have two animal souls? How can we possibly assert that the G-dly souls outnumber the animal?

However, when two G-dly souls get together they cooperate on a project. Two animal souls do not cooperate. It’s against their nature to cooperate. An animal soul means a selfish soul. A selfish soul may want to sin, but it has no interest in helping anybody else sin. It gets no pleasure from anybody else’s sins. Therefore, one animal soul will not join another animal soul in its sinfulness. But, a G-dly soul is naturally concerned and sympathetic to another G-dly soul. That is the nature of G-dly souls. So if one’s animal being, human being, ego, is most important, then this person is separated from everybody else in the world. Nobody shares ego concerns, and if those are the things that are important to the person, then he’s all alone. Or, as the Alter Rebbe said, he is incapable of loving -- unless it’s for an ulterior motive. If, on the other hand, what is important is one’s Jewishness, that feeling opens the person up to every other Jew. When the soul which we all have in common, is emphasized, then we become one people, and it’s literally possible to love every Jew.

How do we go about loving every Jew? In practical terms it means seeing through the differences that seem to separate one Jew from another. One can see beyond differences in culture and language. When two Jews meet in an airport, some place in the middle of Europe, and one doesn’t speak Hebrew while the other doesn’t speak English, still there’s a feeling of kinship even though there’s no way to communicate. One thing which often does confuse us, and sets up a barrier between Jews, is degrees of observance. The person who considers himself perfectly righteous and holy might feel that he has nothing in common with one whom he considers to be a sinful person. The sinful person, or the unlearned person, might feel that he has nothing in common with the scholarly saint.

This difference between Jews is one that the Baal Shem Tov came to dispel in his teachings. The Baal Shem Tov taught two things. First, love your fellow Jew even if you’ve never seen him. You don’t have to share any experiences, you don’t have to share anything at all beyond the fact that you’re Jewish. That in itself should be enough to create a bridge and a bond between one Jew and another.

The second teaching is that you have to love the wicked along with the righteous. Since we love a Jew because he’s Jewish, not because he’s righteous, then we love the Jew who is wicked, as well. The Baal Shem Tov said that "Love your fellow Jew as you love yourself," means to love the righteous and the wicked. The Alter Rebbe explained this concept further by saying that when the Baal Shem Tov said "the righteous and the wicked," he didn’t mean that you certainly love the righteous, but you should also love the wicked along with the righteous. What he meant was that you love a Jew, period. You love your fellow Jew, and that’s all that needs to be said.

In practical terms, it means that you must relate to every Jew regardless of his behavior, personality, standing in society. But is that love? There is a connection that a fellow Jew feels for another Jew regardless of how the other person behaves. And no matter how strongly you disagree with the other’s behavior, you cannot dismiss that other person, because he’s your fellow Jew. To illustrate the point, you find that people who dress in the orthodox style, who happen to venture outside of their community, make other people very uncomfortable. But many people dress in very strange ways. You see Arabs of different religious orders in Israel who dress outlandishly. And yet, they walk up and down the streets of Jerusalem, and nobody pays any attention. But, should a Jew dressed in Chassidic garb, with a fur hat and long silk coat walk into a non-religious section, he gets angry stares. Why? Because he’s dressed funny! Why is his dress any more funny or strange than the dress of the Arab muhla. It’s not. It’s just that the Arab is a stranger, and therefore he can dress however he wants.

When a Jew dresses strangely then every Jew cares. Even though a fellow Jew doesn’t eat the same food or even act and believe the same, yet, if he dresses differently it makes us uncomfortable. Because he’s a fellow Jew and Jews are not strangers to each other. The true bedrock of loving a fellow Jew is that one Jew cannot disassociate himself from another, no matter how much he would like to.

A story in the Gemara about the great sage Hillel will help clarify the above point. A man came to Hillel and said that he wanted to be taught the whole Torah while standing on one foot. Hillel summed it all up for him by saying. "What is hateful to you, do not do to others. That is the whole Torah, the rest is commentary."

Hillel’s statement doesn’t appear anywhere in the Torah or Scriptures. The commentaries say that basically Hillel was referring to the mitzvah of "loving your fellow Jew as much as you love yourself." But, if that’s the mitzvah he was referring to, why didn’t he just say it? Why did Hillel make up this original statement? If a person is impatient, and needs to be told something quickly, then what is said should be something definitive. Hillel gave the man a very vague answer, which needed a great deal of thought before being put into practice.

The Tzemach Tzedek, the third Lubavitcher Rebbe, explained that what Hillel was really saying was very clearly defined and practical. A person can admit his own faults, and see them very clearly, and even talk about them publicly. Yet, if another person would point out those weaknesses, the first person would be insulted and very hurt. Why can one honestly admit to a fault within himself, yet that same person becomes offended when it is pointed out to him?

The difference is that when one sees his own faults it is within a certain context. Having assured himself of being a worthwhile creature, a person can proceed to search out his faults. Even talking about them to others doesn’t do any damage. But when somebody else sees the faults, it’s not necessarily within that framework of already knowing that the person is a worthwhile human being. We are concerned that any personality flaw suggests total insignificance. We fear criticism only because we’re afraid it might lead to rejection. Were it not for that, we would be very comfortable hearing and accepting criticism. We can’t honestly deny every criticism we hear; they’re all true to some degree. It doesn’t do any damage to the ego to admit that we’re not the smartest or the prettiest, or the strongest or most talented. That which hurts, that which is hateful, is to have our faults pointed out by someone who is not necessarily convinced that we are worthwhile human beings.

When Hillel said to this man, "What is hateful to you, don’t do to others," he was being very specific. He was talking about that thing which is hateful. Not "whatever" is hateful, but that which is hateful to you do not do to others. "That thing" is seeing another person’s fault, without first recognizing his worth. That’s what we hate and what we shouldn’t do to others.

What Hillel was doing for this man was summing up all of the Torah in one mitzvah, the mitzvah of "loving a fellow Jew as much as you love yourself." Since the man was very impatient, and seemingly not very ambitious, if Hillel had told him "love your fellow Jew as much as you love yourself," he would have thought it was impossible, too demanding. So Hillel translated it for him into practical terms.

You can’t measure the amount you love yourself. In self-love, before you see your own faults you already know that you are important, significant. No matter what your body and human personality turn out to be, your neshama is already valuable. And with that knowledge and security you can look at your faults and not be hurt. That’s how you love yourself: you consider yourself worthwhile despite your faults; you must know that your fellow Jew is worthwhile, too. No matter how the other Jew behaves, there is something very valuable about this person -- the very fact that he is a Jew.

The Lubavitcher Rebbe once said, that when talking to another Jew, you have to realize that every Jew is an only child to G-d, the King of Kings. Therefore, when you talk to another Jew, you have to keep in mind whose child this is, even if he doesn’t behave like the child of the King of Kings, you have to remember who his Father is.

G-d created the world very carefully and thoughtfully. Everything we see and hear is of meaning to us. If G-d allows us to see the faults of another person, He is showing an opportunity to fulfill the purpose for which we were created. When we see another person’s faults, our first reaction has to be, "What are we being told?" Seeing the other person’s faults can mean that he will not improve his behavior unless we help him, because that’s the way G-d set it up. Because, if G-d is letting you see this fault, it must be your job to help him fix it. The second possibility is that the fault is in you, and you’re seeing it reflected in the other person. A fault in another person should elicit the reaction, "What’s that got to do with me? Why do I need to see this?" The other person’s fault offers us the opportunity to improve, to show us something in ourselves that we are not seeing. Therefore, we are indebted to the other person even if his fault consists of hurting us. This person is the messenger through whom this enlightenment is coming and there is no need to be hateful.

The ultimate part in love of a fellow Jew is that every Jew has a Divine soul, and regardless of how he behaves, that soul remains. Where do we see the evidence of this G-dly soul? Love of a fellow Jew, taken to its fullest expression, is the ability to discover evidence, signs of the presence of a Divine soul, even in a person who does not, at first glance, seem to have any soul at all.

In pursuing the mitzvah of loving your fellow Jew, we start with the awareness that every Jew is a little piece of G-d, and that if that piece of G-d is not evident in the person’s life, then it is your job to reveal it. To help that person discover his own G-dliness. Bringing ourselves together, being able to see past the externals and faults, to be aware of the neshama of a Jew, is what heals the wound of Exile, and brings Moshiach.

This article was transcribed from a talk by Rabbi Friedman.

Rabbi Manis Friedman is the author of Doesn't Anyone Blush Anymore (Harper Collins). He lectures throughout the world on Chassidic philosophy and its application to daily living.

Coming Home

Thu, 25 May 2006 19:46:46 +0000

Most of the Jewish people are so scattered and removed from each other that they hardly ever find a common language, or even any language that makes sense to them as Jews. This is what is called assimilation, which is basically the loss of their common heritage. We therefore have to try to reach some deeper levels of the soul, many of them bordering on the unconscious, to help us get back to talking together, to having some kind of a common language.

Jews can hardly be categorized as a nation (even though there is now an emerging Israeli nation); we cannot be considered a religion in the ordinary sense of a religion with a message which we think should become general, which we want to sell to others. Altogether, we are a very different sort of entity.

To clarify what we are, we may start by saying that we are a family. Just a family -- a large one, not entirely a biological one, but basically a family. Now a family tie, sociologically speaking, is a far more basic tie than either that of a nation or a religion. To be sure, the family tie is a very primitive way of binding people, but it is probably the most stable one, and the most resistant to outside change and influence.

The concept of the Jews as a family defines us, not only sociologically, but also, in a manner of speaking, theologically. In fact, we do not only behave like a family -- feeling like a family, and incidentally fighting and hating each other within the family -- it’s even dangerous for a stranger to intervene. Because any outside pressure only reinforces the unity and the feeling of the family. We can be separated and estranged from each other, but at a certain level, we come together again as a family; that is, we feel the unity in just the way we conduct ourselves, in the way that even when we do deceive ourselves about the meaning of it, we continue to behave in a certain manner.

Although at times we may think that we have nothing in common, as happens in every normal family, we still have all kinds of ties and links that are enormously hard for us to explain. What is more, we somehow find ourselves at ease with each other, comfortable within our own family. Understandably, too, we feel a certain amount of safety in being together and we find it easier to make connections within the family. But of course, brothers and sisters tend to grow estranged. They move to different countries, adopt different accents, ways of life, ways of behavior. Nevertheless there is this united element, very primitive, very hard to define, but undeniably very much in existence.

One can go so far as to say that Judaism, as a religion, is in many ways simply the ways of our particular family. It is the way we do certain things. We walk and talk with G-d and man, like everyone else. But we have our own way of doing it. And, as in any other family, we try sometimes, when we are young, to run away, to fight our parents. Later on, we find ourselves resembling them more and more. This particular way, which is called Judaism, is in many respects, the way that we as a family move together, pray, dress, eat, do a variety of things. We have our own approach to all sorts of matters. For example, in our family we don’t eat certain things. This doesn’t mean that we have a special claim of any kind, saying "we are the best family there is." But as in any group of people, we may have this feeling, and nobody can blame us. Telling myself that "my father is different, my brother is different," is still a very human preference.

At a much deeper level, the notion that our people are really our family, brothers, sisters, connected by kin as well as lifestyle, is called in the Bible "The House of Jacob," or "The House of Israel." It has the flavor of a family or tribe, very much enlarged, but still a tribe, with common goals, and somehow united even if the unity is obscured by a great variety of individual expression. The connections are so deep that we are usually unconscious of them, but they are there, and sometimes it is as though we feel that the clan is calling and then to our surprise, we join.

This family feeling is possibly one of the main reasons why Judaism as a religion was never very active in proselytizing -- just as a family would never go out into the streets to grab people to join the family. It doesn’t mean that Jews feel superior or inferior. It’s simply that from the very beginning, it had its own pattern and way of living. Even when members of such a family are out of the family house, when they are wandering far away, they follow the life style, theologically, sociologically, behavioristically. Of course, members of the family can be severely chastised and rifts can occur between individuals and groups, but there is really no way of leaving the family. You can even hate it, but you cannot be separated from it. After some time, people, younger or older, come to the conclusion that in fact, they can’t get away from it. And therefore, it is far better that they try to find the ways in which they are connected. Because the connection is beyond choice. It is a matter of being born with it. And it is far better to get to know where you came from and who you are.

For some of our people it’s almost like the story of the duckling who was hatched by a hen. Often enough, our ducklings grow up in a different atmosphere. They are taught to think and act in ways which are entirely alien. Jews have adopted a lot of other cultures, national identities and sometimes religions. Sometimes there is a very wonderful recognition and return. Frequently, it comes as a very unpleasant discovery that I am somehow different, that my medium is a different medium. When I do indeed find water, I will swim in it, even though those that raised me taught me not to. Altogether, finding somehow one’s family is a familiar theme in literature, and in life. Knowingly or unknowingly, each person begins to discover it. If the discovery comes soon enough, the person is not only able to acknowledge the fact that he belongs somewhere, but also to make his life, in a way, more sensible. Paradoxically, freedom comes with the acceptance of a definite framework from which one cannot move away.

To be sure, a family is usually a biological unit; the Jewish family is and isn’t a biological unit. We speak about ourselves as being the children of Abraham, or the children of Jacob. But in fact, our real legacy isn’t a biological one at all. Our tribe is a very different kind of tribe. To quote an old source, when we speak about the father of our family, the mother of our family, we say that the father of our family is G-d, that the mother of our family is that which is called the communal spirit of Israel. This is not just a mystical theological statement. This is the way our family is constructed, it determines how the family behaves and feels.

When we speak about G-d our father, it is not just an image, it is a feeling of integral belonging to the source of the family. This makes for a stronger family of course, but nevertheless, we continue to behave like an ordinary family. Like all children, we pass through periods of admiring father and periods of fighting with father, even hating father. We can never come to the point at which we deny the existence of a father, our father. Of course, some children may express this denial as a mark of revolt and various members of the family may react in different ways. Sometimes, members of the family are very angry at such blasphemy. Sometimes, they just wait for the young blood to boil down a little. But always, whether one hates or loves, whether one is an ardent believer or a convinced heretic, one remains his father’s child.

This basic connection is what is called the Jewish religion; being a member of that family. We have our own history, but that is not the most important part of it. Most central is our relationship to the father and mother of the tribal entity to which all of us belong in one away or another. This is what makes sense to those who have remained.

There are widely dissimilar parts, a great variety of members in our rather large, distressed and sometimes not so glorious family. How much are we aware of each other’s existence? We often try, and some of us keep trying very hard, to ignore, to deny, and even to throw out of ourselves any kind of belonging to this family. On the other hand, there are many of our people who are consciously reentering into the family fold. And not necessarily is it a seeking for "G-d". It is often a result of long wandering and far reaching explorations, and the feeling that we cannot always describe, of coming home.

One can point to more beautiful mansions and more exciting sites. But they cannot very much duplicate the home. For like any personal roaming and wandering of individuals separated from their family, the desperate attempt to be independent only leads to a discovery that somewhere one must try to come back and find the truth of being home.

The real point of a Jewish person, then, is the recognition of, "I do belong" whether I want to or not. It is the deepest and most important part of my being, and one that I can’t cover over with opinions about language, culture, nation or religion. Ultimately, I do belong to the family. The deeper I go within myself, the more important the past becomes. I can reject this past and I can even cut it off from myself entirely, playing roles and trying to imitate others, but that does not change what I am. And, then, if I ever want to find out more about it, I follow the long way home. It is not an easy way, but it has its compensations and its own truth.

When animals brought up in a zoo are released, they sometimes do not even know whether they are wolves or deer. They have to find out who they are, what they are. It’s a great discovery to learn, "I am that," and to explore the right way of behavior of one’s own kind. Such is the destiny of a Jewish person who has been estranged. He may find helpers or he may not. He may almost instinctively move into his natural habitat or he may have all kinds of strange resistance’s that will interfere forever with his normal behavior, so that it can possibly be only corrected in a later generation. Whatever happens, he is at least coming to grips with the problem.

Basically, it is the situation of the person who wakes up and finds out that even though he grew up somewhere in young Midwest America, he really belongs to this very old family, with those strange parents, those sometimes
lovely, sometimes ugly, brothers and sisters. He has to get accustomed to this idea, and then find out what to do about it.

Rabbi Adin Even Yisroel directs the Israel Institute for Talmudic Publications and a new Yeshiva in Moscow. He is the author of the monumental modern Hebrew (and now also in English) translation of the Talmud. Rabbi Even Yisroel, a recipient of the Israel Prize, is regarded as one of the greatest scholars in the Jewish World.

This article reprinted from Nefesh - The Jewish Soul Magazine, Vol. 3.; No. 1, 1993.

What is the Temple?

Thu, 25 May 2006 18:22:31 +0000

The Holy Temple, a.k.a. the Beit Hamikdash, was the football-stadium-sized, multi-level, indoor-outdoor structure that was the nucleus of Judaism, its most sacred site. The problem with the word “temple” is that Indiana Jones got to it. Today, whenever I say “temple,” I guarantee you’ll picture jungle, torches, hieroglyphics and dark foreboding stone entranceways. Tzvi freeman explains what the real Temple was all about.

A. The Holy Temple, a.k.a. the Beit Hamikdash (pronounced BAYt hah-MIK-dahsh), was the football-stadium-sized, multi-level, indoor-outdoor structure that was the nucleus of Judaism, its most sacred site. It stood atop Jerusalem’s Mt. Moriah.

The First Beit Hamikdash was built by King Solomon in the year 825 BCE and destroyed by the Babylonian king Nebuchadnezzar in the year 423 BCE. The Second Beit Hamikdash was built in the year 355 BCE by Jewish returnees from the Persian Exile, led by Ezra and Nechemiah. In the year 37 CE, King Herod completed dramatic renovations to the dilapidated Temple, but marauding armies of the Roman Empire destroyed it in 70 CE, when the current Exile—the Roman Exile—began.

B. Very little architectural data about the First Beit Hamikdash has survived, unlike the Second, about which much was recorded. Both consisted of a tall, majestic, ornate and geometric hall surrounded by sweeping, stepped courtyards and castle-like stone walls. The outermost walls described a rectangle from a bird’s-eye view, within which were the stepped courtyards and the hall in the upper center.

Within its wide courtyards were vast outdoor floor spaces for the thousands of pilgrims attending the tri-annual holiday services (Pesach, Shavuot and Sukkot), a mighty altar where thousands of animals and birds were humanely sacrificed, and storage and staff facilities for the hundreds of on-duty Kohanim and Levi’im.

The hall housed a small incense altar, a ceremonial bread rack, a menorah, and the Holy of Holies—the small square room at the back of the hall formed by a wall-to-wall cloth partition, behind which was stored the Ark of the Covenant. The Holy of Holies was a space so ethereal that the laws of physics were suspended within its confines. It was only entered by the High Priest, the most spiritual human being, on Yom Kippur, the most spiritual day of the year.

C. The Temple’s centrality to Jewish existence is reflected in the fact that many mitzvot are Temple-related: daily and weekly sacrifices, holidays and holiday sacrifices, personal, voluntary and obligatory sacrifices, agricultural tithes, qualifying criteria for the Kohanim and Levi’im, Temple rituals, and the dos and don’ts for all of the above—we’re talking around 180 mitzvot.

What was/is the significance of the Temple?

1. The Confused Temple

The problem with the word “temple” is that Indiana Jones got to it. Today, whenever I say “temple,” I guarantee you’ll picture jungle, torches, hieroglyphics, dark foreboding stone entranceways; jungle, dark foreboding stone entranceways overgrown with jungle illuminated by torches and inscribed with hieroglyphics; jungle, terrifying supernatural forces and more jungle. And don’t forget rats, skulls, firepits and the occasional mummy. And jungle.

2. The Real Temple

With the jungle of pop-culture temple jingoism slashed and burned out of the way, let’s talk G-d’s take on temples.

Today, when you want spirituality, you look inside yourself or at the world around you, and go to a rabbi to tell you what it is you’re looking at. Spirituality is wherever you want to find it. Once upon a time, though, spirituality was sparsely scattered here and there, and concentrated in one physical place. When you wanted to get spiritual, you went to that place: the Temple.

The Holy Temple was the place where G-d’s presence throughout the universe could be physically sensed. When the Temple stood, G-d was real to everyone. You didn’t have to look anywhere to find Him—you just traveled to Jerusalem and connected to Him at His Temple. The Temple was a symbol of G-d: majestic, grand and awe-inspiring because G-d is majestic, grand and awe-inspiring.

It was a shrine to G-d and all the things that “G-d” means: responsibility, morality, ethics, love, compassion, humility. It was a place where one found spirituality: the Kohanim silently serving in awe of G-d beyond words, the Levi’im singing boisterous songs of love for G-d, the pilgrims fine-tuning their relationship with G-d, the sights, the sounds.

You didn’t have to be Jewish to go to the Temple—kings and peasants from every country and culture traveled long distances just to experience it all. The Temple was the single-most important structure in society, offering structure to society. Then it got destroyed.

3. The Final Temple

With the destruction of the Second Temple, G-d changed His mode of interaction with the universe. Until the destruction, the Temple was the window to G-d; spirituality had a physical home in Jerusalem. The Kohanim offered the daily sacrifices, the daily routines went uninterrupted, daily personal prayer was redundant.

With the destruction, G-d destroyed the physical Temple and made it a spiritual place. He took that window and placed it within us. Instead of traveling to Jerusalem, G-d wanted us to find Him in our inner Jerusalem.

Now, our bodies are our Temples, our souls are our windows, our minds are our Kohanim and our animal instincts are our sacrifices. We cannot offer physical sacrifices three times a day, but we can pray three times a day. We cannot attend Temple services three times a day, but we can tap into our souls three times a day. We cannot atone for our shortcomings by sacrificing animals, but we can sacrifice our inner animals—our hormones, our lusts, our desires, our beastly compulsions. We cannot find G-d in Jerusalem; we must find Him in us.

This was G-d’s Master Plan. By exchanging a sweeping, dramatic outdoor concert of public spirituality for an internal, personal, private experience, G-d was bringing Himself even closer to humanity, laying the groundwork for the Third and final Temple—an age that will synthesize G-d’s presence inside our hearts and minds and in the world around us in a totally new reality: the Era of Moshiach.

Reprinted from AskMoses.com

Mourning for Jerusalem

Tue, 23 May 2006 14:46:02 +0000

We live in our modern times, some 2000 years distant from the destruction of Jerusalem, the Holy Temple and the exile of our people from our land. It is almost impossible for ...

We live in our modern times, some 2000 years distant from the destruction of Jerusalem, the Holy Temple and the exile of our people from our land. It is almost impossible for us to feel any real sorrow or bitterness over these tragedies that have occurred so distant from us. Not only is the distance in time very great, but also the distance in our realization of what it was to live as free people in our own land with our Temple.

When a tragedy befalls a person, he feels the pain in a natural process, without reflection and contemplation. If a close loved one was injured or killed, immediately he feels a sorrow, a pain and a lacking. If he loses a precious item, or it was stolen, he also feels a loss. These feelings of loss and sorrow come in a totally natural manner that does not require any contemplation or meditation. The reason is that the relationship and meaning of the person (or item) was apparent and evident to him, and now the realization of the loss is felt automatically.

This is not the case, however, with us in relation to the Temple, to Jerusalem and to our long exile. In some ways, we have returned to our homeland, albeit, we are not completely in charge of our destiny and we still must fight our enemies. Jerusalem is for all practical matters, back in our hands, although we dare not set our feet in East Jerusalem. But the Temple is another matter: it is close, yet far from us. Close in that we may see the ancient site; far in that nothing is done to insure its being rebuilt.

So for many, if not most of us, feelings of bitterness and mourning are difficult to conjure up even during the period of national mourning, between the Seventeenth of Tamuz and the Ninth (Tisha) of Av.

Yet, if we really understood the grandeur that existed during the times of Israel's Golden period we would feel different. During the times of the splendor of the Holy Temple which was the center of the world's spiritual wellsprings, all who visited it left spiritually elated. The manifestations of G-dliness were readily apparent to all, regardless of young or old, wise or dull. If we understood what we lost, we would rent our garments and cry for that which is really lacking.

The Temple was the central focus of the Jewish people who would leave their homes three times a year to travel to Jerusalem for the three pilgrimage festivals. There all the Jewish People would have a spiritual and national rejuvenation that elevated them above all other nations of the world. The land of Israel was the richest and strongest in the world; not just monetary wealth, but in wisdom. Many were the nations whose people flocked to learn our wisdom, and many were the gentiles that brought sacrifices to the Temple.

Today, we are so distant from all of that glory and grandeur that we have immersed ourselves in a material quest for satisfaction. Yet we can never truly feel one hundred percent happy as long as we are spiritually deprived. Our souls are empty and our stomachs full, our bodies are satisfied and our spirits are low.

When the Temple was destroyed and we were exiled, many were the people who took upon themselves personal mourning habits such as refraining from wine and meat. The rabbis of those generations realized that living like this was not beneficial. Understanding the need for mourning for the Temple, Jerusalem, and the exile, customs were instituted that would keep us aware of our lacking. Yet excessive mourning was also viewed as counter-productive to a healthy life.

Many of the customs that we have today stem from our recognition that the Temple, Jerusalem, and the exile have formed an undeniable part of our life. It was not fitting that we should reach a state of unbounded happiness, for as long as the Temple is not rebuilt, we are incomplete and in mourning for it. Therefore certain customs developed to reduce the level of happiness a drop so that we should never reach a level of immoderate happiness. Most of these are based on the verse in Psalms 137:5, "if I forget thee, O Jerusalem, …If I not prefer Jerusalem above my greatest joy."

One of the most well know customs is that at weddings, a glass is broken during the wedding services. This custom stems from the mourning of the Temple and Jerusalem. Whereas today a glass is not a very expensive item, we must realize that in the olden times, it was a very expensive item. By breaking this expensive item, all assembled were saddened, albeit slightly, but this was sufficient to meet the requirements that happiness should not be excessive.

Another custom is to place ashes on the forehead of the groom. This is to remind the groom, on his wedding day, the day of his greatest joy, that he must still remember the Temple is in ashes. This also is sufficient to reduce his level of happiness to an acceptable level.

Likewise, at an engagement party, it is the custom to break a plate. This plate is normally broken by the two mothers. Again, this is a remembrance of the Temple.

In other types of gala meals, the custom is to hold back one festive dish. By not using all of our resources we are holding back from an excessive celebration which would not be in keeping with out our Temple. Also when we set the table, we do not use all of our beautiful dishes, we omit one of our beautiful serving dishes (or the like) from the table as to express our lack of desire to have a complete joy in respect for the Temple.

When we eat, we do not do so while listening to an orchestra. This is also considered an excessive expression of joy. Even unrestrained laughter and merriment is banned.

When we build a house or remodel or redecorate our existing home, we leave a patch of wall unfinished. This is normally near the door. The size is about 18" x 18". This is to remind us that we can not truly enjoy our lives until the Temple is rebuilt.

Mourning over the Temple is considered a proper thing for all. He who mourns over the destruction of the Temple, the rabbis teach us, will merit to see its rebuilding. May we all be included in the rebuilding of the Temple.

This article first appeared in The Jewish Magazine

Jews & non-Jews: Dual Roles in Preparing the World for Moshiach

Mon, 22 May 2006 19:20:47 +0000

In this age of egalitarian and liberal thinking, how can Jews still promote what is to many intellectuals a shameful and vainglorious sentiment of being the chosen nation? How can Jews preach to the world that they are better than everyone else?

Understanding the concept of chosen nation as arrogant behavior on the part of the Jews is a gross misrepresentation. On the contrary: it is a humbling motif. The Jews were not merely chosen as G-d's special people, as if the Almighty was playing favorites. They were chosen for a mission. And that mission was to spread the knowledge of the creator and His expectations of man to all nations. Thus, G-d's choosing the Jewish people was a calling that would forever remind them that alone they are insufficient. If the Jews wanted to believe for even a moment that so long as they served G-d justly and lovingly, G-d would be satisfied, He made the purpose of their being on this earth to tell the other nations that they are important, too. G-d is not satisfied with the contribution of the Jews alone, but desires the service and participation of all nations.

This is what being chosen means and the responsibility it entails. Can anyone think of a greater humbling device than a nation whose whole existence is dedicated to teaching the other nations that G-d loves and needs them, too?

It is for this reason that Judaism discourages Gentile converts. It is not because Jews feel they are part of an elite club and no outsiders are allowed. Quite the contrary! Judaism does not invite converts because it is a fallacy to believe that one need be a Jew in order to enjoy closeness to G-d or lead a fulfilled life. The way G-d created each and every one of us is the way in which He wanted us to serve Him. For a Gentile to believe that he must be Jewish in order to "upgrade" his existence is not only erroneous, but it can be extremely damaging. By becoming a Jew, he might neglect to make the contributions to society in the way in which he was meant to do! The world needs him the way he is, which is why G-d created him that way. What G-d does expect, however, is that he develop his inner potential for what he is within the divine scheme of things, to his greatest potential. In this way, Jews and Gentiles alike can benefit from what he makes of himself within the parameters of G-d's will.

What is it about the human mind that it cannot accept differences as a blessing, but a curse? Why is it that even when one speaks of "tolerating" differences, the tolerance is spoken of as a necessary evil?

To our great misfortune, we live in an age which not only does not appreciate differences, but actively seeks to obliterate them. On the contrary, equality in today's society seems to mean that there must be an indistinguishable, homogenous mass where all things are equal by virtue of their being similar. Pluralism and multiculturalism are difficult to achieve. While most decent societies promote the concept, those who have to live being different still feel like outcasts. This is due to two factors.

This first is a weakness of identity on the part of the minority groups. At the end of the day if an individual is not strong about what he is, what he represents, and why it is important that he continue, then even in the most tolerant of societies he will want to acculturate and he like everyone else.

The other reason for the failure of true multiculturalism is that modern society does not like differences. In Judaism the word holy actually means "distinct" or "removed." Something is holy by virtue of it being dissimilar to something else. Thus, a human being becomes holy when he acts differently than animals. Instead of eating whenever, however, and whatever he likes, a Jew eats kosher food, and not by sticking his head into a bowl. When a person does eat without human etiquette, we say that he behaves like an animal. Human beings are holy by virtue of their being different.

Similarly, G-d is holy because He is not like man. He has no body, limitations, or other corporal description. Shabbat is holy because it is different than the other days of the week. To treat it like any other day of the week is to deny its holiness. Judaism teaches man to be sensitive and appreciative of differences.

But in modern society, man is increasingly obliterating all differences. New-age thought teaches that all men are Gods. Stores are open seven days a week so that there is no day of rest. Men and women are encouraged to believe that aside from physiological variations, there are no real differences. And science today has taught man that for all practical purposes he is no different than other animals.

It can be appreciated that with this kind of thinking rampant, the differences between nations and peoples are also being obliterated. The Jewish people are gradually disintegrating through intermarriage, and many young people even feel repulsed by parents who try to encourage them to marry within the faith. They do not believe that they are different and are frightened of the very thought.

One of the reasons people are reluctant to accept or admit to existing differences is because many nations have been downtrodden and abused because they were different, by other nations who felt themselves to be superior. But if one can encourage a world-view that acknowledges every nation's, indeed every person's, ability to benefit from diversity and multiformity, that cannot happen. It is only arrogance that allows us to believe that we are sufficient on our own.

The belief that from everything in this world something positive can be extracted, even those things that appear negative at first, has always been a cornerstone of Judaism. One of the greatest examples of the implementation of this outlook on life was Maimonides. In his celebrated philosophical treatise, Guide to the Perplexed, Maimonides writes that what people usually refer to as "the evil inclination" is not essentially evil. Rather, it is an impulse, an undirected impulse. He saw the evil inclination as an intensity of energy so potent that it could overtake man's sense of forward direction and goodness, and lead him astray. But energy is precisely what man requires to rise to the challenge of worthy achievement. So, instead of viewing man's propensity for evil as negative and distancing oneself from it, one should look to manipulate and cultivate it-put a harness on it and thrive on its immense energy.

Hasidism developed this concept further by describing man's evil inclination as "the animalistic soul," in contradistinction to the good and "G-dly soul." While the good soul may be G-dly, it is not as energetic or as driven as the animal soul, which, like its name implies, possesses the raw power of a beast. Using the analogy of an ox, which the Talmud says "can churn out and plough much wheat" so long as it is harnessed, man must use his intellectual faculties to saddle his animal soul. If he is successful, it will be the animal soul dragging the G-dly soul to the service of G-d, and not the reverse.

Maimonides saw a divine purpose in Christianity and Islam. He wrote how both of these religions had brought the knowledge of G-d and the Messiah to distant isles so that there is now a universal familiarity with the concept of the messianic era. Where before in the history of religious debate has any theologian of universal renown written of the divine purpose played by other religions? Maimonides saw in every historical occurrence a way forward toward a better time that would be shared and enjoyed by all peoples.

It was also Maimonides who wrote in his celebrated Laws of Repentance that every individual should always picture the world as if on a scale, teetering between guilty and virtuous. If the individual should do one positive act, he saves the entire world; one wrong move, and the world has had it. One should never underestimate the power of a single good deed, and never overlook every individual's ability to bring salvation to mankind, Jew and Gentile alike.

Of course, all of the ideas laid out thusfar can only work within a sound, moral framework. Otherwise, who is to say that the thief, the bigot, or the Nazi don't make a positive contribution to their environments. Ultimately, it is the Almighty alone Who can determine which contributions lead to the enhancement of society and which to its collapse. It was He who created all nations ethnically different, and it is He alone Who knows what serves the public good.

The world cannot be run at human whim. It needs an ultimate plan and a regulator who can determine whether it is progressing or regressing. This is the role of the Torah, the divine law, which puts each of one's contributions into perspective. It teaches that while contributions of compassion and justice by all peoples lead to the betterment of civilization, murder and bigotry lead to its destruction.

It also teaches that different people have different roles. Jews have the commandments of the Torah to observe. Non Jews have the seven Noachide laws to observe, among which are the prohibitions of theft, murder, adultery, cruelty to animals, blasphemy, and the precept to establish courts of justice. The same Torah teaches that the failure of the non Jew to keep his commandments is equally as detrimental as the failure of the Jew to keep his. Both are indispensable. Both need not assume the other's role to be deemed worthy. Through the contributions of both the world maintains a healthy balance and equanimity.

This idea of dual roles in creation is exclusive to Judaism. No other group is so adamant of the inexclusive right of one group to the truth. The only one with a copyright on truth is the Almighty, and He spelled out different routes for different groups to attain it. He even set out different avenues for men and women to realize their full potential and made it clear that it is harmful for women to choose men for their role model. He went as far as giving women specific commandments that would serve to enhance their precious gifts of femininity.

For the entire world to be just male, or just female, would be insufferable. The same would apply if the entire world had been only Jews or Gentiles, or if all people looked the same or had only the same ideas. By using each other as role models of what we should be in place of learning from each other's virtue, we deny the world the perfection it could attain through diversity.

What the world needs in order to achieve a higher degree of perfection is Jewish Jews and non-Jewish non Jews, meaning that each group should adhere to the disparate codes of conduct designated for them by the Almighty.

This is the beginning of a messianic world, a world in which contention, jealousy, and war can never play a part for each nation. Each individual would see G-d's wisdom in creation and, by extension, the perfection that exists in the whole of creation. A messianic world is one where all the people of the earth, while retaining their intrinsic identities, come together to create a better world. This is radically different from the homogeny usually found within the doctrines of secularist utopian states. Marx and Stalin had visions of the workers of the world uniting to create a fairer, more just world. Hitler tried to achieve the same utopia through other means. But both argued for a single race, a single class. It seems that perfecting the world always seems to necessitate everyone becoming the same. The result of those doctrines, though, was a far cry from utopia. They ended with Auschwitz and the Ghulag Archipelago.

The reason is simple. The epoch of the Messiah is a time when the unity of G-d will be seen in our world. The world that G-d created will once again be reclaimed as His. But in Judaism, unity never means homogeneity. Rather, unity means taking different parts and demonstrating how they all comprise a greater whole. Unity in marriage is not when a husband puts on his wife's dress, or when a wife tries to please her husband by joining him in a night out with the boys. Rather, unity in marriage means that people who are essentially different, as different as male and female, come together and through loving one another prove that essentially they are one. Thus, when they have a child together, their unity is demonstrated in the form of a single, indivisible, entity, which makes for an incredible equation of unity: 1 + 1 = 1.

This is the equation that sums up the messianic era. Many different l's, in the form of nations, people, and ideas focusing together to serve and reunify the ultimate 1-G-d Almighty, creator of heaven and earth, whose infinite power and essence is reflected in the great diversity in creation, which all emanates from Him. The manifestation of that unity is the goal of the messianic era.