My Father's Machzor By Zusha Greenberg Daily Thought · 2004. 9. 14. · My Father's Machzor By...

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Chabad.org Magazine | Yom Kippur 5764 | 1

Yom Kippur 5765 September 24, 2004

Story: My Father's Machzor By Zusha Greenberg In 1951, my father, Rabbi Moshe Greenberg, was 20 years old and a prisoner in a Soviet labor camp in Siberia. That Yom Kippur, he faithfully prayed all the day's prayers. All, that is, except for Kol Nidrei Voices: Whose Prayer Is It, Anyway? By Nechemia Schusterman My friend expressed his deep frustration at his inability to find a meaningful way to express himself to G-d. He had looked into different "brands" of Judaism, yet there seemed to be no "perfect match," none that fit his spiritual needs Essay: Three Mistranslations Based on the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe Teshuvah, tefillah and tzedakah commonly translate as "repentance," "prayer" and "charity." But these English words fail to express the full significance of these concepts, and even convey the very opposite of their true import Living: Mikveh By Tzvi Freeman The most important institution of Jewish life, next to the home, is the mikveh and its cycle of union and separation between husband and wife. Because precious things only stay beautiful when you follow the manufacturer's instructions... Seasons of the Soul: Once A Year: A Yom Kippur Anthology Compiled by Yanki Tauber It is a courtroom decked in white, a fast day and a festival, the holiest day of the year but also a time that is beyond holiness. If we can't explain Yom Kippur, let's talk about it... Parshah: The Book of Jonah And he said to them; "Take me up, and cast me into the sea, so shall the sea be calm for you; for I know that for my sake this great tempest is upon you..."

And the shipmaster approached [Jonah] and said to him: "Why do you sleep? Arise, and call upon your G-d!"

--Jonah 1:6

Daily Thought

Inner Voice

There is an outer world and there is an inner world. As deep as you penetrate, as high as you reach.

The outer world is made of things. Inside the things are words.

Words are still an external world. Inside the words are stories.

The story is outer. The thought is inner.

Thoughts are outer. Inside lies a spark.

And on.

The outer we can touch and come to know.

The inner, we must wait still for it to speak to us.

As it did at Sinai.

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My Father's Machzor

By Zusha Greenberg

On Yom Kippur of 1951, my father, Rabbi Moshe Greenberg, faithfully prayed all the Yom Kippur prayers. All, that is, except one that is

often regarded as the most solemn of the holy day's prayers, the Kol Nidrei.

He was twenty years old and a prisoner in a Soviet labor camp in Siberia. His crime was trying to escape from Russia.

He dreamed of leaving the country and reaching the land of Israel. But he was caught and sentenced to twenty-five years of hard labor. He was separated from his parents and two sisters. His brother was already a prisoner in another camp for a similar "crime."

There were about 1,000 men in my father's camp, all laboring on the construction of an electrical power station. About twenty of the prisoners were Jews.

As the summer drew to a close, the Jewish prisoners yearned to observe the upcoming High Holidays. They knew they would lack a shofar (ram's horn), Torah scroll and tallitot (prayer shawls), but they hoped they could find a machzor, a High Holiday prayer book.

My father spotted a man from the "outside," an engineer who worked

for the camp on certain projects. He believed the engineer might be a Jew.

So he waited for an opportunity to approach the engineer. "Kenstu meer efsher helfen?" he whispered to the man in Yiddish ("Perhaps you can help me?").

At that time, most Russian Jews were fluent in Yiddish. He saw the flicker of comprehension in the engineer's eyes.

"Can you bring a machzor for me, for the Jews here?" my father asked. The engineer hesitated. Such a transaction would endanger both of their lives. Even so, the engineer agreed to try.

A few days passed. "Any developments?" my father asked.

"Good news and bad news," the engineer replied. He had located a machzor with difficulty, but it was the only machzor belonging to his girlfriend's father, and the man was furious when his daughter asked him to give it up. Maybe she told him why she wanted it, maybe not.

My father would not relent, however. Perhaps, he suggested, the man would lend him the book and he could copy it and return it in time for Rosh Hashanah.

The engineer smuggled the machzor into the camp and passed it to my father.

To copy it, my father built a large wooden box and crawled into it for a few hours each day. There, hidden from view, he copied the prayer book,

line by line, into a notebook. After a month, he had copied the entire machzor. But there was one page missing -- the one containing Kol Nidrei, the very first prayer recited on Yom Kipper.

My father returned the book, and autumn arrived. The Jewish prisoners learned the dates of the

impending holidays from letters from home and, on the holiday, they bribed the guards, probably with cigarettes, to allow them to gather in the barrack for services.

With his handwritten prayer book, my father served as hazzan (cantor) and recited each prayer, repeated by

Story

Photo: Chabad Library

The Machzor Rabbi Moshe Greenberg copied by hand in a labor camp in Omsk, Siberia in

1951

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others in low solemn voices. Seven days later, they met for Kol Nidrei services. But despite their efforts, none of the worshippers could recall all of the words of that prayer form memory.

After nearly seven years in jail, my father, along with all political prisoners, were released, owing to the death of Joseph Stalin. The only item my father took with him was his machzor.

He was reunited with his family near Moscow and later married. I was an infant when, in 1967, fifteen years after his release from prison, my family was allowed to immigrate to Israel. The machzor came with us.

My father, who still lives in Bnei Brak, Israel, doesn't like to recall those painful years in Siberia. But on the

rare occasions that I hear him tell a story from those times, he tearfully states that he had never participated in services as meaningful as those in prison.

In 1973, he visited the Lubavitcher Rebbe in New York and presented the machzor to him as a gift.

A few months ago, I visited the Rebbe's library and found my father's machzor. I looked at the worn book with its fragile pages and Hebrew letters written in haste and with such respect and determination. I copied it -- on a copying machine.

This Yom Kippur, as I lead the services at the Chabad Jewish Center of Solon, Ohio, I will have with me the copy of my father's machzor, with the Kol Nidrei prayer still missing.

My father couldn't recite Kol Nidrei during his years in prison. This year I will ask my congregation, and all of us, to say it for him and anyone else who may not have the opportunity to do so.

Rabbi Zushe Greenberg is the spiritual

leader of Chabad Center of Solon

Whose Prayer Is It, Anyway?

By Nechemia Schusterman

The other day I was sitting with a friend -- a prominent editor of a local newspaper -- sipping a cup of coffee and philosophizing about sacred

matters like the afterlife, kaddish for a loved one, and prayer.

The conversation grew animated and quite emotional as my friend expressed his deep frustration at his inability to find a fitting setting and a meaningful way in which to express himself to G-d. He had looked into

different "brands" of Judaism and the different styles within them, yet there seemed to be no "perfect match," none that fit his spiritual needs.

My immediate response was, "You know, I feel sad for you." I truly did. Because anyone who has had the opportunity to pray -- to really pray -- knows that there is nothing like it in the world. One's mundane, everyday concerns fall away; one literally enters a spiritual bath and comes out feeling refreshed and invigorated with a new energy to take on the world, freed from the physical, mental, emotional, financial and other constraints that

inhibit our true and total happiness. Decompression for both body and soul.

But what my friend felt was inhibited. What he really wanted, he explained, was to be able to pick and choose prayers, and make up his own prayers, to tailor the prayer experience that would be the most meaningful for him. As an afterthought I asked him, "What is your favorite prayer?"

He answered that it is "Hin'ni He'Ani Mima'as...", the prayer sung by the cantor just prior to Mussaf on Rosh

My Father, Rabbi Moshe Greenberg

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Hashanah and Yom Kippur. (The source of this prayer is not decisively known, but many attribute it to the great Tosafist, Rabbi Yaakov ben Meir, known as "Rabbeinu Tam.")

In this moving prayer, the cantor essentially pronounces his lack of worthiness to lead the congregation in the upcoming Mussaf prayer. It includes many powerful self-deprecating statements meant to humble the leader before the congregation, such as "Behold, I am deficient in meritorious deeds, trembling and awe-stricken, standing before the One enthroned upon the praises of Israel... Accept my prayer as if it were that of a man advanced in years, whose conduct in youth is unblemished and whose voice is sweet..."

I pointed out to my friend that his choice was most ironic. "Your frustration with prayer is that you are not getting anything meaningful out of it," I said, "yet your favorite prayer is one in which the petitioner beseeches G-d to accept the prayer that he is not worthy to lead; a prayer essentially saying that prayer is not about you. The freedom and exhilaration offered by prayer lies precisely in the humility it evokes -- in the realization that prayer is not about the person praying feeling good about it, but about entering into communion with G-d. Only then does one reach, albeit inadvertently, the freedom, liberation and hope that prayer incorporates."

This was an insight which I had not fully appreciated until we had this

conversation, although, as a concept, I had certainly studied it in yeshivah. My "secular" editor friend taught me a lesson that I had never been able to understand fully my entire Torah-educated life: prayer is not about me and my '”eeling good"; it is about G-d and my connection with Him.

The conclusion of the Hin'ni prayer is most compelling: "May it be your will, O G-d... that the angels bring my prayer before the throne of Your Glory and spread it before you, for the sake of all the righteous …Blessed are You, who hears prayer."

It does not say, "May it be Your will, O G-d, that I walk away from this prayer feeling fulfilled, uplifted and unburdened." That is a by-product of a successful prayer experience. That is not a right, it is an earned reward.

There is a famous story from the Chassidic masters in which a disciple of a rebbe is charged with the awesome responsibility of blowing the shofar on Rosh Hashanah. Now, in all congregations this is a tremendous honor and responsibility, but in the mystical circles this is an enormous task as it involved months of self-preparation and intense study of the mystical meanings and ramifications of each sound emitted by the shofar.

Needless to say, the disciple spent several intense weeks of purifying himself and poring over kabalistic texts to be fully prepared. He made

notes that he intended to have with him at the shofar blowing.

Alas, the great moment arrived and the trembling chassid reached into his pocket to extract his notes when he realized that the paper on which he had jotted them down was gone.

His rebbe and the entire crowd were all huddled under their tallitot waiting for this overwhelming moment when humans and G-d merge in spiritual ecstasy as they listen to the supra-human sound of the shofar. There was no time to begin searching for the lost paper. With a broken heart he blew the shofar, all the while feeling

that he must have truly not been worthy of the sacred task and therefore this tragedy had befallen him.

After the service he approached his rebbe, crying bitterly and apologizing profusely for having let him and the

whole community down. Much to his amazement, there was a glowing smile on the rebbe's face. "The sounds of the shofar," the rebbe explained, "are like keys, each individual note a key that opens another gate in the path to the most inner chambers of G-d.

"I asked you to be the shofar blower, as I knew you had the ability to study and prepare and utilize each key and usher the congregation through each

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gate of the heavenly palace until the royal chambers would be reached.

"However," continued the Rebbe, "there is a master key, a key that opens all doors. That is the key of a 'broken, humble and subdued heart.' That is the key that you were using when you blew the shofar, and thanks to your efforts, the shofar blowing accomplished its goal in the most efficient manner possible."

Besides being a nice story, to me this highlights the point that my teachers attempted to convey to me, and which my friend succeeded in doing. It says that prayer is not mine. It is not there for me to enjoy and derive instant pleasure. It is G-d's, and He rewards

us with a "fringe benefit" of a feeling of fulfillment and relief and hope. However, this depends on the way in which we enter prayer. Is it about me or Him?

My editor friend himself answered his own question. The whole premise of not finding a place of prayer or a specific prayer that "does it for him" was misguided. Indeed, prayer has all of these liberating qualities, but they are born out of intense humility and lack of expectation for the self. True prayer is about divestment of self and unification with G-d, and this unification gives us the G-dlike quality of tranquility and fulfillment. Not the other way around.

Indeed the Talmudic word for prayer is avodah, translated literally as "work." It is a job to pray right. And it is a reward to connect through prayer and receive it's therapeutic properties.

May G-d bless us all that we be written and inscribed for a happy, healthy and successful new year full of meaningful prayer. Find a shul, find a prayer, and this year let us all connect.

Rabbi Nechemia Schusterman is

director of Chabad of Peabody,

Massachusetts

Three Mistranslations

Based on the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe

The "Ten Days of Awe," which begin with Rosh Hashanah and culminate in Yom Kippur, are

characterized by heightened activity in three areas of our lives: teshuvah, tefillah and tzedakah, commonly translated as "repentance," "prayer" and "charity" respectively.

The Lubavitcher Rebbe points out, however, that these three English words are poor conveyers of the true meaning of these three acitions. In fact, not only do "repentance," "prayer" and "charity" fail to express the full significance of teshuvah, tefillah and tzedakah, the three

mistranslations represent ideals and concepts which are, in many ways, the very opposite of their true import in a Jew's outlook and experience.

Return to Self

"Repentance" means regret and rejection of the past. The penitent is one who opens a new phase in his life -- one that is divorced from his former sinful state. Teshuvah, however, is the Hebrew word for "return."

The baal teshuvah (literally, "master of return") is a person who rediscovers, and recovers, his past. "Repentance" is an apt term for a world-outlook which views man as basically (or at least partially) evil, and so attributes his failings and misdeeds to

something that is inherent in human nature. Accordingly, the penitent is a person who succeeds in changing himself, in overcoming and repenting the negative in himself; he rejects his past, abandoning his original state for a purer and holier existence. The Torah, however, views reality in completely different terms. The soul of man is originally, essentially and inherently good. For man to act wrongly is an aberration, an event that is utterly inconsistent with his true self. A person sins only when his inner will is suppressed and distorted; it is an irrational act, stemming from a state of mental, emotional and spiritual confusion. To do teshuvah is to regain one's senses, to return to one's quintessential will and reestablish it as the master of one's life.

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"Repentance" involves a drastic transformation of self which few can aspire to truly achieve. But no individual can possibly be too far gone to do teshuvah. Teshuvah, after all, is the return to one's true I.

From this derives another important difference: while "repentance" is a prescription for sinners, teshuvah is a constant in every person's life. Although teshuvah is the way to rectify past wrongs, this does not define its function. The most pious and virtuous individual must also be constantly doing teshuvah: forever delving into and retrieving yet deeper strata of self, forever seeking to actualize yet a more lofty potential of the soul.

Ascending Heart

"Prayer" and "tefillah" flow in opposite directions: prayer is "top down," while tefillah is a "from the bottom up" movement.

The directional difference reflects basic differences in what these two words mean and imply. To "pray" is to beseech, to beg for what one lacks. In other words, there is something which you need or want and are unable to obtain on your own, and there is someone else -- wealthier, wiser, more powerful -- who can grant your request. So you appeal to him, asking for what is beyond your reach to be bestowed from "above." One who lacks nothing, it follows, has no need for prayer.

The literal rendering of the Hebrew word tefillah is "attachment." Tefillah is our striving to refresh our attachment to our creator. Every soul is intrinsically connected with G-d, a bond which it retains after entering into the body and assuming a physical existence. But the needs and mundane distractions that come with the physical state tend to cloud our vision, distort our priorities and undermine our connection with the Almighty and our commitment to the purpose of our creation. So, three times a day, we realign the focus of our lives. Through tefillah we communicate with our creator, expressing and augmenting our soul's eternal attachment to its divine source.

In tefillah we also request our needs of the Almighty. In doing so, we recognize and acknowledge that our physical lives are not divorced from our spiritual selves and are not distinct and apart of our relationship with G-d. On the contrary, our earthly life fuels and enhances that relationship: when utilized and oriented to develop the world in accordance with G-d's will, not only does the physical not obscure our attachment with G-d but it is the key to the intensification and deepening of that connection.

Thus, to pray for our daily bread is part of, but not the essence of tefillah. Tefillah is much more than an expression of the desire to be the passive recipient of a grant bestowed

from above. It is the upward flow of the soul's yearning to cleave to its maker, a flow that carries up with it the physical self and its needs, refining and elevating them by making them part of the soul’s connection with its Source.

The Honest Banker

Tzedakah is not "charity" -- the word means "justice." One who gives "charity" is a great guy: out of the goodness of his generous and compassionate heart, he gives some of his hard-earned money to a poor, penniless soul.

The Jew, however, knows that the money is not his. The resources in his possession have merely been placed in his trust, on the understanding that he will put them to proper use. If his fellow needs to be fed, and he has been blessed with the means to feed him, then he is merely forwarding the funds as per the depositor's instructions. To fail to do so would be a violation of the trust which the Almighty placed in him. To give is simply a matter of basic honesty and justice.

From an address by the Lubavitcher

Rebbe; translation/adaptation Yanki

Tauber

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Mikveh

By Tzvi Freeman

There is nothing more holy in this world, nothing more precious to its Creator, than the union of a man and a woman. It is, after all, the

fountain of life. What could be more precious than life -- other than the source from which life comes?

And it is holy -- because the first, pristine creation of a human being was as male and female as a single whole. That is the way we exist in G-d's mind. And so, none of us can achieve wholeness until we regain that original oneness in both body and soul.

Precious things are kept in sealed boxes. Roses hide behind the thorns. There are clothes you wear to work or play, but there are also treasures in your wardrobe so beautiful, of such value, that they come out only at special times, under specific conditions. The union of a man and a woman is so precious that if it is treated casually, without conditions or boundaries, it becomes ugly and even destructive.

Which all goes to explain why in the Jewish way of life there is a cycle of union and separation between husband and wife. And why the most important institution of Jewish life, next to the home, is the mikveh that stands at the vortex of that cycle. Because precious things only stay

beautiful when you follow the manufacturer's instructions.

Enhancing Marriage

There is a very practical reason, as well, to keeping these rules: They keep things sparkling. After all, even swimming with tiger sharks can get pretty dull if it's the daily fare. On the other hand, a plain stone, if it's withheld for a while, becomes a coveted jewel. Modesty and the period of separation inject that flavor of the forbidden into a relationship.

Consistently, couples report their relationships rejuvenated when they start living by the rules of separation and mikveh. Perhaps that's why mikveh parking lots have become so crowded in the past few decades as more and more young couples make it a part of their lives -- some who have no other formal Jewish observance.

A Spa for the Soul

Today's mikveh looks more like a fashionable spa than a ritualarium. Luxurious bath and powder rooms, complete with commode, bathtub and vanity have become the standard. Fresh towels, disposable slippers, a comfortable robe, soap, shampoo, nail clippers and all the other essentials necessary are usually provided.

Many women talk about the immersion in the mikveh as a spiritual high, a state in which nothing stands between you and your G-d; a return to the innocence of birth; a sanctification of all that is feminine. In fact, it's not just your soul and body that become spiritually uplifted -- it's your entire family and home.

Your Child's Soul

There are three partners in the conception of every child: the mother, the father and the One Above.

The Talmud explains that the mother and father create the body, and One Above provides the breath of life. The Kabbalists take this a step further: also the spiritual self is a product of the tree-way partnership. For the G-dly soul is too lofty, too holy, to be contained within a physical body without

protection. Just as an astronaut needs a spacesuit and a deep-sea diver needs an armored diving suit, so the soul needs an outfit that will allow it to survive and communicate with the body and the outside world. That survival suit is provided by the mother and father. It is fashioned according to their thoughts and conduct before and during conception, their modesty and their adherence to the rules of separation and immersion.

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All the good deeds and thoughts a person accomplishes in a lifetime are through the medium of that "suit." Even the life and blessings that a person receives from Above must come through it. The soul itself may be pure and luminous, but if its suit doesn¹t match, that light will have great difficulty breaking through.

That is why the Kabbalists say that the spiritual state of the world depends on the sanctity of our relations as men and women.

Where to Begin

The best way to learn about the mikveh is to consult your local rebbetzin or mikveh attendant. Men

can talk with a rabbi. Visit www.mikvah.org for more information and essays, as well as a worldwide directory and photographs and virtual tours of mikvehs around the world.

This article is part of a series by Tzvi

Freeman on the Rebbe's Ten Point

Mitzvah Campaign

Once A Year: A Yom Kippur Anthology

Compiled by Yanki Tauber

The enigma of Yom Kippur: It is a courtroom decked in white, a fast day and a festival, the holiest day of the year but also a time that is beyond holiness. It is day

designated for repentance, but also a place in which the very concept of "sin" is non-existent. It occurs once a year, but it is also the "one of the year" -- the singular essence of the year's every day.

If we cannot explain Yom Kippur, let's talk about it -- in the sixteen stories and essays assembled here.

Insights:

Day One by Yanki Tauber

How to Change the Past by Yanki Tauber

At-onement by Tzvi Freeman

Vistas by Jay Litvin

Stories:

Kano by David Ben-Dor

The Paper Chicken Rabbi S. Y. Zevin

Forgiveness by Jay Litvin

Kol Nidrei by Yanki Tauber

The Yom Kippur Drunk by Yanki Tauber

The Cantonists' Minyan by Tuvia Bolton

The Shofar and the Wall by Moshe Tzvi Segal

My Father's Machzor by Zusha Greenberg

Essays:

The 120-Day Version of the Human Story from the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe

The Dynamics of Teshuvah by J. Emmanuel Shochet

The Four Meanings of Sin from the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe

Reverse Biology from the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe

Three Mistranslations from the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe

Uncle Irv by Jay Litvin

Presented here is a sampling of articles. For the full anthology see http://www.chabad.org/magazine/article.asp?AID=87941

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Day One

By Yanki Tauber

How many are we?

There's our animal self, which hungers and lusts and bares its fangs when its turf is challenged; our emotional self, which loves and fears, exults and agonizes; our intellectual self, which perceives and analyzes and contemplates the other selves with smug detachment; our spiritual self, which strives and yearns, worships and venerates. There's the self you were at the age of 8, and the self you're going to be at 80. There's the self I was last Tuesday, when I woke up in a foul mood, snapped at my kids, cowered before my boss, stabbed my co-workers in the back and hung up the phone on my mother-in-law; there's the self I'm going to be tomorrow, when I'll be loving to my family, respectful but firm with my boss, and kind, fair and considerate to everyone else.

How can we possibly imagine that in the conglomerate of cells, organs and limbs we call our "body", extending across the rises and furrows of the terrain we call "time", there resides a single and singular "I"?

But somehow we are convinced of this. We can't identify it or describe it, nor do our day-to-day lives reflect it. But we know that it's there. Which means that it is; otherwise, where would this knowledge spring from?

A single "I" means that our animal, emotional, intellectual and spiritual selves have a common source and a common goal. It means that all the moments of our lives are interlinked: what we are today and what we will do tomorrow is the sum and result of what we were and did yesterday and the day before. A single "I" means that the past is redeemable. A single "I" means that we can achieve harmony in our lives.

The Torah refers to the day of Yom Kippur as achat bashanah, "once a year." But the Hebrew words achat bashanah also translate as "the one of the year." Yom Kippur, explain the Chassidic masters, is the day that our intrinsic oneness rises to the surface.

For 364 days a year, the fragments of our life and personality lie dispersed throughout the chambers of our soul and strewn across the expanses of space and time. On Yom Kippur, we are empowered to unite them with their source and point them towards their goal.

By Yanki Tauber; based on the

teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe.

How to Change the Past

By Yanki Tauber

"I shouldn't have..." "If only I'd known..." Whether it's an outright wrong, an unwise decision or a missed opportunity, we humans tend to harp on the past, often to the detriment, or even paralysis, of our present

endeavors and future potentials.

Some would advise us to let bygones be bygones and get on with our lives. We are physical beings, and the laws of physics (at least as they

stand now) dictate that time runs in one direction only. So why not simply put the past behind us, especially since the past is behind us whether we put it there or not?

It's advice we do not take. We continue to feel responsible for what was, continue to attempt to rewrite our histories, continue to regard our past as something that somehow still "belongs" to us. Something in

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our nature refuses to let go, refuses to reconcile itself with the one-directional flow of time.

Yes, we are physical beings; but there is something in us that transcends the physical. Man is an amalgam of matter and spirit, a marriage of body and soul. It is our spiritual self that persists in the belief that the past can be redeemed. It is our connection with the spiritual essence of our lives that grants us the capacity for teshuvah--the capacity to "return" and retroactively transform the significance of past actions and experiences.

What is this "spiritual essence" with which we seek connection? And how does it enable us to literally change the past?

Not just man, but every object, force and phenomenon has both a "body" and a "soul". A thing's body is its physical mass, its quantifiable dimensions, its "hard facts. A thing's soul is its deeper significance--the truths it expresses, the function it performs, the purpose it serves.

By way of example, let us consider the following two actions: in a dark alleyway, a knife-wielding gangster attacks a member of a rival gang; a hundred yards away, a surgeon bends over a sedated patient lying on the operating table. The "body" of these two actions are quite

similar: one human being takes hold of a sharp metal object and slices open the belly of a second human being. But an examination of the "soul" of these two events--the desires that motivate them, the feelings that suffuse them, the aims they seek to achieve--reveals them to be vastly different deeds.

In other words, man is a spiritual creature in that he imparts significance to his deeds and experiences. Things don't just happen--they happen for a reason, they mean something, they further a certain objective. The same event can therefore mean different things to different people; by the same token, two very different events may serve the same purpose and elicit identical feelings, imbuing them with kindred souls despite the dissimilarity of their bodies.

The body of our lives is wholly subject to the tyranny of time--the "hard facts" cannot be undone. A missed flight cannot be unmissed; a harsh word uttered to a loved one cannot be unspoken. But the soul of these events can be changed. Here we can literally travel back in time to redefine the significance of what occurred.

You oversleep, miss that flight, and never show up for that important meeting. The initial significance of that event: your boss is furious, your career suffers a serious setback, your self-esteem plummets. But you refuse to "put the past behind you."

You dwell on what happened. You ask yourself: What does it mean? What does it tell me about myself? You realize that you don't really care for your job, that your true calling lies elsewhere. You resolve to make a fresh start, in a less profitable but more fulfilling endeavor. You have reached back in time to transform that slumbered hour into a wake-up call.

Or you have an argument, lose your cool, and speak those unforgivable words. The next morning you're friends again, agreeing to "forget what happened." But you don't forget. You're horrified by the degree of your insensitivity; you agonize over the distance that your words have placed between the two of you. Your horror and agony make you realize how sensitive you truly are to each other, how much you desire the closeness of the one you love. You have reached back in time to transform a source of distance and disharmony into a catalyst for greater intimacy and love.

On the material surface of our lives, time's rule is absolute. But on its spiritual inside, the past is but another vista of life, open to exploration and development with the transformative power of teshuvah.

By Yanki Tauber; based on the

teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe.

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Vistas

By Jay Litvin

People think that teshuvah (repentance) is only for sinners. But even the perfectly righteous individual must do teshuvah -- i.e., "return" to elevate his perfect past to the level of his more perfect present

Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi

You stand in this moment. Many such moments lay behind you. Many more, G-d willing, before you. In each of these moments there is, there was, there will always be a choice. A decision of importance or one concerning a simple day-to-day task. A choice between disciplining your child or accepting his or her behavior as a natural part of development. A choice on how to spend ten dollars or an evening, whether or not to respond to a comment, ask a question or think a thought.

At a certain point you have lived long enough to have made many choices and to be able to see the consequences they have wrought. From this vantage point, elevated by maturity, you now see that every choice you made was made in ignorance. You recognize that the full impact of each choice was not seen at the time, and had it been, then perhaps another choice would have been made, or the same choice, but with much more trepidation, less spontaneity, and a total absence of frivolity.

The remorse this awareness brings drives you to seek audience with the Heavenly Court. An audience to seek forgiveness not for your sins, but for the decisions you made in wisdom, with consideration, with moral righteousness; for the actions you were so sure at the time were right. Only now, when you have lived long enough to see their consequences, when you are old enough to view them through a lens ground from experience and the wisdom and understanding that only experience can yield, did you see how very foolhardy you have been.

Children are the best example. Loving parents do for their child what they believe to be best. Their actions are considered, discussed, wrestled with. Expert advice is sought, no expense spared, every opportunity cultivated. And yet, as the years pass and your child grows, as his or her personality and character begin to emerge, as he or she faces life, succeeds, fails, rejoices and despairs, we, as parents, see the imperfections of our children, and our own failings. With our spouse, we sit late at night at the kitchen table, sipping our coffee, and talk of the things we could have, should have done. In great detail, we are able to trace each flaw and imperfection in our children to a choice that we made,

an action we took, an opportunity we let slip by. And after we are done blaming ourselves and each other, ultimately we conclude that we did the best that we could. And in a strange way, this is the final dismay.

If you bothered to examine in similar

detail the other choices you've made, you would come to the same conclusion. Each was flawed and limited and in its wake created consequences you could not foresee. Then, even though your mistakes and limitations could be excused by lack of knowledge, you would still desire to stand before the Heavenly Court and ask forgiveness. For these consequences, as unintentional as they may have been, are now very real and exist with a life of their own.

After you've lived enough years, you know that the future is as soon as yesterday and that ten or twenty years from now exists today. You know that just as you are asking forgiveness today for the consequences of actions taken ten or twenty years ago, so ten or twenty years from now you will be standing asking forgiveness for the actions you took today.

Even your repentance is limited. For you can only repent for what you

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know, and your knowledge is meager. Ten or twenty years from now you will remember standing before the Heavenly Court today, and it will appear almost childlike. Because ten or twenty years from now, you will see even more of the aftermath of your actions. And you will desire to once again seek atonement for them knowing that every newly realized consequence requires its own repentance.

And now, knowing this, you arrive at the decision that stands before you today: Your aspirations and what you do with them. Your child and how you treat him. Your wife. Husband. Work. Bank account. Friend. Neighbor. Mitzvah. Temptation. Vacation. Anger. Love. And all the rest.

You stand in fear and trepidation. You know that today's choice will create a future reality that you cannot possibly know. You are about to release an arrow from the bow and you are already responsible for whatever target it hits, whether you aimed at it or not.

Poised to act, you have an image of yourself standing twenty years from now; prepared to release the arrow, you are already looking back, repenting your ignorance, the narrowness of your vision, the lowliness of your vista, the targets your arrow will strike as its flight continues past any destination you

aim for. Yet the moment of choice has arrived. The time of action. The imperative of doing.

What do you do?

How can you possibly make a move? With the weight of this awareness, will you ever laugh again, be spontaneous, frivolous, fun loving, joyful?

Yet, miraculously, you act. You release the arrow. You laugh. You sing and you dance. Because ultimately, through your years, you have learned that G-d loves you. You are joyous precisely because there is a Heavenly Court before which you can stand and receive forgiveness and understanding and love. You laugh precisely because you know that behind the imperative of doing the very best you can is the futility of doing anything more than you can. You breathe deeply and release a smile because you know that G-d wants no more from you than you are able to do and has already given you everything you need with which to do it. You dance because this is your freedom: to dance your part in G-ds creation with grace and courage and faith. And you sing knowing that you are only one voice in the chorus, and that the symphony is endless, ultimately perfect, yet paradoxically, dependent on you.

And finally you realize that the failings and limitations, errors and

miscalculations, even the consequences that cause the blood to rush to your face in shame are also a part of your limited perspective, your narrow vision, your lowly vista. For if you could climb high enough you would see that the reason the Heavenly Court grants its forgiveness is that ultimately there is nothing to forgive.

From the highest plateau you would see that you are dancing your part perfectly. You always have. And you always will.

Jay Litvin was born in Chicago in

1944. He moved to Israel in 1993 to

serve as medical liaison for Chabad's

Children of Chernobyl program, and

took a leading role in airlifting

children from the areas contaminated

by the Chernobyl nuclear disaster; he

also founded and directed Chabad's

Terror Victims program in Israel. Jay

passed away in April of 2004 after a

valiant four-year battle with Non-

Hodgkin's Lymphoma, and is

survived by his wife, Sharon, and

their seven children.

About the artist: Sarah Kranz has

been illustrating magazines,

webzines and books (including five

children's books) since graduating

from the Istituto Europeo di Design,

Milan, in 1996. Her clients have

included The New York Times and

Money Marketing Magazine of London

Kano

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By David Ben-Dor

Do you know where Kano is? Look it up on the map of Nigeria in West Africa. 1963. Fall. But who in that climate of eternal heat, on the border of the Sahara Desert, knows whether it is fall or spring? Only the vultures are circling above, settling on the low, thatched roofs, waiting to come down into the courtyard for a morsel of abandoned meat. The plane leaves only in three days. And I still have to make my rounds in the market of this Moslem town, where everybody but me prostrates himself whenever one of their chieftains rides past in flowing robes on a coal black horse. The sun is hidden by clouds of sand blowing in from the Sahara, restricting vision to a few yards. It is still early in the afternoon and suddenly I remember. G-d in heaven! It is Yom Kippur. How on earth did I get stuck in this forsaken place? Why couldn't I have waited for another week to make my tour to sell those tires? I had completely forgotten. There I was, at the colonial rest house, watching the fan on the ceiling turn round and round; thinking about atonement...

I got up, walked into the British manager's office, and asked him, "Mr. Walker, could you please tell me if there are any Jews in Kano?"

"Jews?"

"Yes, sir, Jews."

"Well, now let me see. There is Mr. Rokach, but he doesn't want anybody to know that he's Jewish. Then there is Mr. Sidki, but for some reason his store is closed today."

"Where does Mr. Sidki live?"

"He lives above his store."

"Could you tell me where his store is?"

"Of course, sir. Walk down the main street and you will find the house on second corner to your right. It is the only two-story house on the street. You can't miss it."

I started walking. The sand blew into my face. I hardly saw the people in street, but I finally reached the house. The shutters of the store were rolled down. Everything was closed and quiet. I started banging

on the shutters with my fist, and suddenly a window on the first floor was opened.

"Who's there?" a man asked from above.

"Shalom aleichem," I said.

"Aleichem shalom, baruch haba. Come up the stairs behind the building. We are all waiting for you."

I didn't understand. They were all waiting for me? I never had met the man. Until an hour ago I didn't know that there were Jews in Kano. What made him say that? Slowly, lost in thought, I climbed the stairs. When they opened the door, I beheld nine men with tallitot (prayer shawls) on their shoulders, all greeting me "baruch haba", welcome.

Now I knew why they had all been waiting for me. I was the tenth man to complete the minyan, the prayer quorum.

From B'Or Ha'Torah Journal: Science, Art and Modern Life in the Light of Torah

Kol Nidrei

As told by Yanki Tauber

The disciples of Rabbi Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev noticed that something was amiss.

Yom Kippur, the most awesome day of the year, was approaching, and it was only natural that every G-d-fearing Jew's steps should grow more measured, his mind more focused, his manner graver. But this was something else. A heavy

foreboding clouded their master's features; his eyes had grown red from weeping, and an uncharacteristic sigh would often escape his lips. The Rebbe must know something we do not, they whispered. Perhaps he sees a

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terrible calamity decreed for the coming year, G-d forbid.

Several days before Yom Kippur, Rabbi Levi Yitzchak summoned his gabbai (secretary). Much to the gabbai's amazement, the Rebbe had business on his mind.

"Lately, the number of people coming to request that I pray for them on the Holy Day has been steadily increasing," said the Rebbe. "It's time we set a fixed price for the kvitlach. I think we should ask for two groschen for each name written in a kvitel."

When a chassid gives his rebbe the piece of paper (kvitel) on which his name and the names of his loved ones are inscribed for the rebbe to mention in his prayers, he always includes a sum of money, known as the pidyon nefesh (redemption of the soul), as a gift to the rebbe. As a rule, the sum is left to the petitioners discretion, which was why Rabbi Levi Yitzchak's gabbai was quite surprised by what the Rebbe was proposing.

So notices were put up in the synagogue and the market place, and soon the entire town had heard of the new rules: the Rebbe was demanding two groschen for each name.

Immediately after the morning prayers on the day preceding Yom Kippur, Rabbi Levi Yitzchak began receiving the kvitlach-bearers. A sense of urgency was felt throughout the town---the Rebbe's strange stipulation, coupled with his ominous behavior of the last few

weeks, fed the feeling that it was of utmost importance to be included in the Rebbe's list. Two groschen was not such a great sum, but for an impoverished peddler or tailor with a dozen children to register, it was no small expense. Still, not a soul stayed behind. This year, no one was taking any chances.

All day the Rebbe sat, his faithful gabbai at his door, and received kvitlach. Soon his desk was covered with folded pieces of paper and copper coins. There were those who tried to bargain with the gabbai, but the Rebbe's instructions had been clear: no exceptions.

Around mid-day, a woman approached the gabbai and begged for an exemption. "I am a poor widow with an only child, without a single groschen in my purse. How can I pay four groschen so that my child and I may be inscribed in the book of life? Please, have mercy on me and my fatherless child, and allow me to add our names to the Rebbe's list. I promise to pay the entire sum as soon as I have the money."

"What can I do?" said the gabbai. "The Rebbe has told me that there are to be no exceptions."

"Let me ask the Rebbe," said the widow. "Certainly he will not turn me down."

The gabbai relented, but the Rebbe was unyielding. "I'm sorry," he said to the woman, "but these are the rules. Two groschen per name."

The widow left, heartbroken, but resolved to attain a year of life for herself and her child. One way or another, she would get the money.

Hours passed. The last of the petitioners had already left, and the hour of Kol Nidrei, the solemn prayer which opens the Yom Kippur service, was fast approaching. The gabbai had cleared the table, counting the coins and locking them away, and packing the kvitlach in the special parcels which the Rebbe would keep with him during his prayers. Everyone was already in the synagogue, garbed in their snow-white kittelen and wrapped in their talitot, awaiting the Rebbe. Still Rabbi Levi Yitzchak lingered, his eyes casting expectant glances at the window.

Then, a small, shawled figure was seen hurrying along the deserted street. It was the widow, a folded piece of paper and a few coins in her hand. "Thank G-d the Rebbe is still home," she cried. "Here is my kvitel, Rebbe. Please pray for me and for my only child that we may be inscribed in the book of life."

"But you only have two groschen here," protested Rabbi Levi Yitzchak, peering at the coppers she had placed on the table. "So you can only write one name in your kvitel."

"Holy Rebbe," cried the woman, "I have been running about all day, borrowing from everyone that I know. This is all I was able to come up with. Please pray for us both! I promise to pay the rest within a week."

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"I'm sorry," insisted the Rebbe, "the price is two groschen per name. Which name do you want in your kvitel?"

With trembling fingers the woman took her kvitel and crossed out her own name. "Pray for my Shloimehleh, Rebbe," she said, her eyes brimming with tears, "that he should have a year of life, health and happiness."

Upon hearing these words, the Rebbe's eyes came alive with a fiery light. Grasping the widow's two groschen in one fist, and her kvitel in the other, he raised them triumphantly to heaven and cried: "Father in Heaven! Look! Look what a mortal mother is prepared to do for her child! And You---shall it be said, G-d forbid, that You are less a parent to Your children?! Can You look this woman in the eye and

refuse to grant Your own children a year of life, health and happiness?!"

"Come," said Rabbi Levi Yitzchak to his gabbai and to the widow, "let us go to Kol Nidrei."

Yanki Tauber is content editor of

Chabad.org

The Shofar and the Wall

Rabbi Moshe Segal

Editor's note: The Holy Temple in Jerusalem was twice destroyed -- by the Romans in the year 69 CE, and by the Babylonians on the same date in 423 BCE. One wall remains standing as a living symbol of the Jewish people's ownership over the land of Israel and the city of Jerusalem -- the Kotel HaMaaravi or "Western Wall."

What follows is an excerpt (translated from the Hebrew) from the memoir of Rabbi Moshe Segal (1904-1985), a Lubavitcher Chassid who was active in the struggle to free the Holy Land from British rule.

In those years, the area in front of the Kotel did not look as it does today. Only a narrow alley separated the Kotel and the Arab houses on its other side. The British Government forbade us to place an Ark, tables or benches in the alley; even a small stool could not be brought to the Kotel. The British also instituted the following ordinances, designed to humble the Jews at the

holiest place of their faith: it is forbidden to pray out loud, lest one upset the Arab residents; it is forbidden to read from the Torah (those praying at the Kotel had to go to one of the synagogues in the Jewish quarter to conduct the Torah reading); it is forbidden to sound the shofar on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. The British Government placed policemen at the Kotel to enforce these rules.

On Yom Kippur of that year [1930] I was praying at the Kotel. During the brief intermission between the musaf and minchah prayers, I overheard people whispering to each other: "Where will we go to hear the shofar? It'll be impossible to blow here. There are as many policemen as people praying..." The Police Commander himself was there, to make sure that the Jews will not, G-d forbid, sound the single blast that closes the fast.

I listened to these whisperings, and thought to myself: Can we possibly forgo the sounding of the shofar that accompanies our proclamation of the sovereignty of G-d? Can we possibly forgo the sounding of the shofar, which symbolizes the redemption of Israel? True, the sounding of the shofar at the close of Yom Kippur is only a custom, but "A Jewish custom is Torah"! I approached Rabbi Yitzchak Horenstein, who served as the

Rabbi of our "congregation," and said to him: "Give me a shofar."

"What for?"

"I'll blow."

"What are you talking about? Don't you see the police?"

"I'll blow."

The Rabbi abruptly turned away from me, but not before he cast a glance at the prayer stand at the left end of the alley. I understood: the

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shofar was in the stand. When the hour of the blowing approached, I walked over to the stand and leaned against it.

I opened the drawer and slipped the shofar into my shirt. I had the shofar, but what if they saw me before I had a chance to blow it? I was still unmarried at the time, and following the Ashkenazic custom, did not wear a tallit. I turned to person praying at my side, and asked him for his tallit. My request must have seemed strange to him, but the Jews are a kind people, especially at the holiest moments of the holiest day, and he handed me his tallit without a word.

I wrapped myself in the tallit. At that moment, I felt that I had created my own private domain. All around me, a foreign government prevails, ruling over the people of Israel even on their holiest day and at their holiest place, and we are not free to serve our G-d; but under this tallit is another domain. Here I am under no dominion save that of my Father in

Heaven; here I shall do as He commands me, and no force on earth will stop me.

When the closing verses of the neillah prayer -- "Hear O Israel," "Blessed be the name" and "The L-rd is G-d" -- were proclaimed, I took the shofar and blew a long, resounding blast. Everything happened very quickly. Many hands grabbed me. I removed the tallit from over my head, and before me stood the Police Commander, who ordered my arrest.

I was taken to the kishla, the prison in the Old City, and an Arab policeman was appointed to watch over me. Many hours passed; I was given no food or water to break my fast. At midnight, the policeman received an order to release me, and he let me out without a word.

I then learned that when the chief rabbi of the Holy Land, Rabbi Avraham Yitzchak Kook, heard of my arrest, he immediately contacted the secretary of High Commissioner

of Palestine, and asked that I be released. When his request was refused, he stated that he would not break his fast until I was freed. The High Commissioner resisted for many hours, but finally, out of respect for the Rabbi, he had no choice but to set me free.

For the next eighteen years, until the Arab conquest of the Old City in 1948, the shofar was sounded at the Kotel every Yom Kippur. The British well understood the significance of this blast; they knew that it will ultimately demolish their reign over our land as the walls of Jericho crumbled before the shofar of Joshua, and they did everything in their power to prevent it. But every Yom Kippur, the shofar was sounded by men who know they would be arrested for their part in staking our claim on the holiest of our possessions.

From the Hebrew by Yanki Tauber

The 120-Day Version Of The Human Story

Based on the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe, Rabbi Menachem M. Schneerson

Come see the doings of G-d, His fearsome plot on the children of man

Psalms 66:5

On the 7th of Sivan, Moses went up onto the mountain.... On the 17th of

Tammuz the Tablets were broken. On the 18th he burned the [Golden] Calf and judged the transgressors. On the 19th he went up for forty days and pleaded for mercy. On the 1st of Elul he went up to receive the Second Tablets, and was there for forty days. On the 10th of Tishrei G-d restored His goodwill with the Jewish people gladly and wholeheartedly, saying to Moses "I have forgiven, as you ask", and gave him the Second Tablets.

Rashi, Exodus 32:1 and 33:11

A single drop of sea-water, analyzed in the laboratory, will reveal the characteristics of billions of her sisters; indeed, it will tell you much about every drop in every ocean on earth.

The same is true of history. On the one hand, each period is unique, each year, day and moment distinct in content and character. And yet,

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as we often recognize, the story of an individual life may tell the story of a century, and the events of a single generation may embody those of an entire era. On the surface, time may more resemble the disparate terrain of land than it does the uniform face of the sea; but once you strip away the externalities of background and circumstance, a drop in the ocean of time will reflect vast tracts of its waters and, ultimately, its entire expanse.

We, who travel the terrestrial surface of time, know it as a succession of events and experiences. We traverse its rises and slumps, its deserts and wetlands, its smooth and rocky passes. To us, the universal nature of the moment lies buried deep beneath its more immediate significance; to us, the moment yields not the totality of life and history, only those specific elements and facets thereof which it embodies.

But there are also vistas of a more inclusive nature, landscapes of such diversity and impact that they are virtual mini-worlds of their own. There are stretches in the journey of an individual or a people in which the all-reflectiveness of the moment rises to the surface, in which a series of events offer a condensed version of the entire universe of time.

One such potent stretch of time was a 120-day period in the years 2448-9 from Creation (1313 bce). The events of this period, experienced

by the Jewish people soon after their birth as a nation, choreograph the very essence of the human story--the basis, the proccess, and the end-goal of life on earth. The hundred and twenty days from Sivan 6, 2448 to Tishrei 10, 2449 contained it all: the underpinnings of creation, the saga of human struggle, and the ultimate triumph which arises from the imperfections and failings of man.

The Events

On Sivan 6, 2448, the entire people of Israel gathered at Mount Sinai to receive the Torah from the Almighty. There, they experienced the revelation of G-d and heard the Ten Commandments which encapsulate the entire Torah. The following morning Moses ascended the mountain, where he communed with G-d for forty days and forty nights and received the Torah proper, the more detailed rendition of G-ds communication to humanity.

At the end of Moses' (first) forty days on Mount Sinai, G-d gave him two tablets of stone, the handiwork of G-d, upon which the Ten Commandments were engraved by the finger of G-d. But in the camp below, the Jewish people were already abandoning their newly made covenant with G-d. Reverting to the paganism of Egypt, they made a calf of gold and, amidst feasting and hedonistic disport, proclaimed it the god of Israel.

G-d said to Moses: Descend, for your people, which you have

brought up from the land of Egypt, have been corrupted; they have quickly turned from the path that I have commanded them...

And Moses turned and went down from the mountain, with the two Tablets of Testimony in his hand... And when Moses approached the camp and saw the calf and the dancing ... he threw the tablets from his hands and shattered them at the foot of the mountain.

It was the 17th of Tammuz.

Moses destroyed the idol and rehabilitated the errant nation. He then returned to Sinai for a second forty days, to plead before G-d for the forgiveness of Israel. G-d acquiesced, and agreed to provide a second set of tablets to replace those which had been broken in the wake of Israel's sin. These tablets, however, were not to be the handiwork of G-d, but of human construction:

And G-d said to Moses: Carve yourself two tablets of stone, like the first; and I shall inscribe upon them the words that were on the first tablets which you have broken... Come up in the morning to Mt. Sinai, and present yourself there to Me on the top of the mountain.

Moses ascended Sinai for his third and final forty days atop the mountain on the 1st of Elul. G-d had already forgiven Israel's sin, and now a new and invigorated relationship between Him and His people was to be rebuilt on the ruins

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of the old. On Tishrei 10, we received our second set of the Ten Commandments, inscribed by G-d upon the tablets carved by Moses hand.

Thus, we have three forty-day periods, and three corresponding states of Torah: the First Tablets, the Broken Tablets, and the Second Tablets. These embody the foundation of our existence, the challenge of life, and the ultimate achievement of man.

The Plot

Our sages point out that the opening verse of the Torah's account of creation, Bereishit bara Elokim... (In the beginning G-d created the heavens and earth...) begins with the letter bet, the second letter of the Hebrew alef-bet. This is to teach us that there is an alef that comes before the bet of the created existence; that creation is not an end in itself, but comes to serve a principle which precedes it in sequence and substance.

The pre-Genesis alef is the alef of Anochi Hashem Elokecha... (I Am the L-rd your G-d...)--the first letter of the Ten Commandments. Torah is G-d's preconception of what life on earth should be like; the basis and raison detre of creation is that we develop ourselves and our environment to this ideal.

But G-d wanted more. More than the realization of His original blueprint for existence, more than the falling into place of a pre-

programmed perfection. More than a First Tablets world that is wholly the handiwork of G-d.

A created entity, by definition, has nothing that is truly its own: all the tools, potentials and possibilities it possesses have been given to it by its Creator. But G-d desired that the human experience should yield a profit beyond what is projected--or even warranted--by His initial investment in us. So He created us with the vulnerabilities of the human condition.

He created us with the freedom to choose, and thus with the potential for failure. When we act rightly and constructively, we are behaving according to plan and realizing the potential invested within us by our Creator. But when we choose to act wrongly and destructively, we enter into a state of being that is not part of the plan of Torah--indeed, it is the antithesis of what Torah prescribes; yet this state of being is the springboard for teshuvah (return)--the power to rise from the ruins of our fall to a new dimension of perfection, a perfection unenvisionable by our untarnished past.

This is how Chassidic teaching explains G-d's creation of the possibility of evil. This is His fearsome plot upon the children of man. The soul of man is a spark of G-dliness, inherently and utterly good; in and of itself, it is in no way susceptible to corruption. Its human frailties are nothing less than a

contrived plot, imposed upon it in total contrast to its essential nature.

If the First Tablets are the Divine vision of creation, the Broken Tablets are our all-too-familiar world--a world that tolerates imperfection, failure, even outright evil. It is a world whose First Tablets have been shattered--a world gone awry of its foundation and its true self, a world wrenched out of sync with its inherent goodness.

The Broken Tablets are a plot contrived by the Author of existence to allow the possibility for a Second Tablets. Every failing, every decline, can be exploited and redirected as a positive force. Every breakdown of the soul's First Tablets perfection is an opportunity for man to carve for yourself a second set, in which the Divine script is chiseled upon the tablets of human initiative and creation. A second set which includes an entire vista of potentials that were beyond the scope of the first, wholly Divine set.

G-d said to Moses: Do not be distressed over the First Tablets, which contained only the Ten Commandments. In the Second Tablets I am giving you also Halachah, Midrash and Agadah.

Had Israel not sinned with the Golden Calf, our sages conclude, they would have received only the Five Books of Moses and the book of Joshua. For as the verse says, Much wisdom comes through much grief.

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Remembered and Enacted

These hundred and twenty days have left a lasting imprint on our experience of time. For the Jewish calendar does far more than measure and mark time; in the words of the Book of Esther, These days are remembered and enacted. The festivals and commemorative dates that mark our annual journey through time are opportunities to reenact the events and achievements which they remember.

Every Shavuot, we once again experience the revelation at Sinai and our acquisition of the blueprint and foundation of our lives. Every year on the 17th of Tammuz we once again deal with the setbacks and breakdowns epitomized by the events of the day. The month of Elul and the first ten days Tishrei, corresponding to Moses' third 40-day stay on Mount Sinai, are, as they were then, days of goodwill between G-d and man--days in which the Almighty is that much more accessible to all who seek Him.

And Yom Kippur, the holiest and most potent day of the year, marks the climax of the 120-day saga. Ever since the day that G-d gave the Second Tablets to the people of Israel, this day is a fountainhead of teshuvah: the source of our capacity to reclaim the deficiencies of the past as fuel and momentum for the attainment of new, unprecedented heights; the source of our capacity to exact a profit from G-d's volatile and risky investment in human life.

Based on the teachings of the

Lubavitcher Rebbe; adapted by Yanki

Tauber

The Dynamics Of Teshuvah

By J. Immanuel Schochet

"Rebbe, I am a sinner. I would like to return, to do teshuvah!" Rabbi Israel of Ryzhin looked at the man before him. He did not understand what the man wanted. "So why don't you do teshuvah?" "Rebbe, I do not know how!" R. Israel retorted: "How did you know to sin?" The remorseful sinner answered simply. "I acted, and then I realized that I had sinned." "Well," said the Rebbe, "the same applies to teshuvah, repent and the rest will follow of itself!"

Torah: The Ground Rules

Revelation is the foundation of religion. Revelation constitutes the basic premises of religion:

(a) There is the Revealer. G-d exists. He is real. (b) G-d speaks to man. G-d not only exists, He also cares. He is a personal G-d.

There is hashgachah (Divine Providence). Because G-d cares, like a loving and concerned parent cares for his child, He reveals to us what we should know about reality. He guides us and teaches us the way wherein we are to walk and the acts that we must do.

This is Torah, the "Tree of Life to those who hold fast to it." G-d's word, the Revelation, is called Torah. For Torah means instruction: It instructs and reveals that which was hidden, unknown. It teaches man to walk in the right path. It counsels him how to return to his Master. Revelation, the Torah in all its immensity of 248 commandments and 365

prohibitions, is realistic. It is not alien to man and physical reality. It is not superimposed from without.

It is not hidden from you nor far off. It is not in the heavens that you should say: Who shall go up for us to the heavens? Neither is it beyond the sea that you should say, Who shall go over the sea for us? It is very close to you, in your mouth and in your heart that you may do it (Deuteronomy 30:11-14).

Torah is not attached to the world. It precedes and transcends the world. It is the blueprint for Creation. "The Holy One, blessed be He, looked into the Torah and created the world" (Zohar II:161a).

The universe, man, all that exists, was created, fashioned and made on the basis of, and suited to, the contents and requirements of Torah. This allows for the possibility, and

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thus the demand, that man- every one of us - can live up to the obligations and ideals of Torah. (As our sages tell us "The Holy One, blessed be He, does not impose burdensome precepts upon His creatures; He comes to man according to his own strength .. according to the ability of each individual").

We are bound up with Torah in a reciprocal relationship. As Torah is the blueprint for the universe, the universe reflects all components of Torah. And as it is with the macrocosm, so it is with the microcosm, with man. The human body and the human soul reflect the 613 precepts: 248 organs corresponding to the 248 commandments; 365 veins corresponding to the 365 prohibitions.

Observance of the positive precepts animates the relative organs, attaches them to Divinity and elicits for them Divine illumination, vitality and energy. Observance of the prohibitions protects the relative veins and vessels against contamination, against influences alien to their nature and purpose.

The Nature of Sin

Revelation, Torah, the life based upon it, constitutes morality, virtue, goodness.

What constitutes sin?

On the simple level, sin means breaking the law, violating the Torah by acts of omission or commission.

Our duties are spelled out clearly. The law is defined. To ignore the letter or the spirit of the law, let alone to contravene it, that is sin.

On a deeper level, the meaning of sin is indicated in its Hebrew terminology. The general term for it is aveirah. It is of the root avar - to pass or cross over, to pass beyond. Aveirah means a trespass, a transgression, a stepping across the limits and boundaries of propriety to the "other side."

More specific words are chet, aavon, pesha. Chet is of a root meaning to miss, to bear a loss. Aavon is of a root meaning to bend, twist, pervert. Pesha is of a root meaning to rebel. Technically, legalistically, chet refers to inadvertent sins; aavon to conscious misdeeds; and pesha to malicious acts of rebellion.

Sin, thus, is a move away from Divinity, away from truth. "Your sins separate you from your G-d" (Isaiah 59:2) who is truly "your life." It separates us from Torah, our lifeline, that which attaches us to the source of our life and all blessings.

To neglect the commandments is to deprive ourselves of the illumination and vitality which their observance draws upon us, to forfeit an opportunity, to render ourselves deficient: chata'im, at a loss. To violate the prohibitions is to defile the body, to blemish the soul, to cause evil to become attached.

Sin offers man temporary gains, but it is altogether irrational, self-

defeating. Attractive and sweet at the outset, but bitter in the end. Thus, "The Holy One, blessed be He, and the Torah are astounded: How is it possible that a person will sin?!" (Zohar III:13b and 16a)

Thus our Sages teach "No person will commit a sin unless a spirit of folly has entered into him." Sin is an act of ignorance or foolishness. Invariably it can be traced to lack of knowledge, to negligence or carelessness. If premeditated, let alone an act of willful rebellion, it is outright stupidity. Either way, it is rooted in heedlessness, in shortsightedness, in failure to think. It follows upon a blinding obsession with the here and now, egocentricity, self-righteousness.

The Principle of Teshuvah

The folly of sin derives from man's physical nature.

What is man? A composite of body and soul.

The soul is spiritual. By its very nature it reaches out to, and strives for, spirituality.

The body is material, and thus attracted to the allurements of its own elements, of matter.

Yet these two are combined. The soul is removed from its "supernal peak" to be vested in the lowly body.

This "descent" is for the purpose of an "ascent": to elevate and sublimate the physicality of the body

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and the matter to which it is related in its lifetime. There is tension between body and soul, between matter (and the natural or animalistic life-force that animates and sustains it), and the neshamah, the sublime soul and spirit of man. But they are not irreconcilable.

The body per se is neither evil nor impure. It is potentiality: not-yet-holy, even as it is not-yet-profane. Man's actions, the actions and behavior of the body-soul compound, determine its fall into the chambers of defilement or its ascent to be absorbed in holiness.

To succeed in elevating and sublimating the body and its share in this world is an elevation for the soul as well. It is precisely the exposure to temptation, the risks of worldliness, the possibility of alternatives and the incumbent free will of man, that allow for achievement, for ultimate self-realization.

"The body of man is a wick, and the light (soul) is kindled above it......"The light on a man's head must have oil, that is, good deeds" (Zohar III:187a).

The wick by itself is useless if not lit. The flame cannot burn in a vacuum; it cannot produce light nor cling to the wick without oil. Torah and mitzvot, good deeds, unite the wick and the flame, the body and the soul, to actualize inherent potentiality, to produce a meaningful entity.

The neshamah, the soul, a spark of G-dliness within us, fills us with practically unlimited potential. Man is granted the power to make of himself whatever he likes, in effect to determine his destiny.

The veracity of mundane temptation, however, is no less real. "Sin crouches at the door" (Genesis 4:7). Torah confronts this fact: "There is no man so righteous on earth that he does good and never sins" (Ecclesiastes 7:20).

If sin was final, the history of mankind would have begun and ended with Adam. The Creator took this into account. The original intent was to create the world on the basis of strict justice. As G-d foresaw that such a world could not endure, He caused the attribute of mercy to precede the attribute of justice and allied them.

"When the Holy One, blessed be He, created the world, He consulted the Torah about creating man. She said to Him: 'The man You want to create will sin before You, he will provoke You to anger. If you will deal with him commensurate to his deeds, neither the world nor man will be able to exist before you!' G-d then replied to the Torah: 'Is it for nothing that I am called the Compassionate and Gracious G-d, long-suffering?'"

Thus, before creating the world, the Holy One, blessed be He, created teshuvah (repentance), and said to it: "I am about to create man in the world, but on condition that when they turn to you because of their

sins, you shall be ready to erase their sins and to atone for them!"

Teshuvah thus is forever close at hand, and when man returns from his sins, this teshuvah returns to the Holy One, blessed be He, and He atones for all - all judgments are suppressed and sweetened, and man is purified from his sins. How is he purified from his sins? By ascending with this teshuvah in proper manner. Rabbi Isaac said: When he returns before the Supreme King and prays from the depths of his heart, as it is written: "From the depths I call unto You, oh G-d!"

Torah, the rules and regulations for life, preceded the world and served as its blueprint. These rules demand strict adherence. "But for the Torah, heaven and earth cannot endure, as it is said: 'If not for My covenant by day and by night, I had not appointed the ordinances of heaven and earth.'"

Sin means to defeat the purpose of Creation, to deprive creation of all meaning. This must result in the world's reversion to nothingness. Thus the need for the attribute of mercy, of compassion.

Mercy means to recognize the legitimacy of justice, yet to show compassion, to forgive nonetheless. Mercy means to recognize the valid demands of the law, but also to temper these demands by considering the fact that "the drive of man's heart is evil yet from his youth." It offers another chance.

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This is the principle of teshuvah.

The Power of Teshuvah

As for the wicked man, if he should return from all his sins that he committed and guard all my decrees, and do justice and righteousness, he shall surely live, he shall not die. All his transgressions which he committed will not be remembered against him....Do I then desire the death of the wicked, says G-d, the Eternal G-d, is it not rather his return from his ways, that he may live?

(Ezekiel 18)

"Teshuvah is a principle indispensable to religion, indispensable to the existence of individuals believing in the Torah. For it is impossible for man not to sin and err - either by erroneously adopting an opinion or moral quality which in truth is not commendable, or else by being overcome by passion and anger. If man were to believe that this fracture can never be remedied, he would persist in his error and perhaps even add to his disobedience.

"The belief in teshuvah, however, leads him to improvement, to come to a state that is better, nearer to perfection, than that which obtained before he sinned. That is why the Torah prescribes many actions that are meant to establish this correct and very useful principle of teshuvah" (Moreh Nevuchim, III:36).

Without teshuvah the world could not endure. Without teshuvah man

could not but despair, crushed by the burden of his errors. Torah is the foundation of the universe, it assures and sustains its existence. Teshuvah insures its survival.

The power of teshuvah is overawing. There is absolutely nothing that stands in the way of teshuvah. The thread of teshuvah is woven throughout the whole tapestry of Torah, of our tradition. It is not simply a mitzvah, one of 613 channels to tie us to G-d. It is a general, all-comprehensive principle, the backbone of religion.

There is no sin that cannot be mended and remedied by teshuvah. Teshuvah removes a burdensome past and opens the door to a new future. It means renewal, rebirth. The ba'al teshuvah becomes a different, new, person. It is much more than correction, more than rectification. Teshuvah elevates to a status even higher than the one prior to all sin. Even the perfectly righteous are surpassed by the ba'al teshuvah.

Sin is time-consuming. It is an evolutionary process. Man does not fall at once, suddenly. He is trapped by one wrong act or attitude, often seemingly innocuous, which leads to another. When failing to recognize and stop this process, a chain reaction is set into motion and leads to the mire of evil.

Teshuvah, however, even in the worst of cases, is immediate. "Ba'alei teshuvah are meritorious. For in the span of... one instant they draw close to the Holy One, blessed

be He, more so than the perfectly righteous who draw near..... over the span of many years!" (Zohar I:126a-b).

As teshuvah is not part of a gradual process and development, it is not subject to any order, to the "bureaucracy" of a normative procedure. It is a jump, a leap. A momentary decision to tear oneself away. One turn. One thought. And thus it affects even law, justice. The Talmud rules that when someone betrothes a woman on condition that "I am a tzaddik, a righteous person without sin," the betrothal is valid and binding even if he was known to be absolutely wicked. How so? Because at that very moment of proposal he may have meditated teshuvah in his mind!

The single thought, the momentary meditation of teshuvah, is sufficient to move man from the greatest depths to the greatest heights.

Just one thought, indeed; for the essence of teshuvah is in the mind, in the heart. It is a mental decision, an act of consciousness, awareness, commitment.

The Nature of Teshuvah

Where does the enormous potency of teshuvah come from? How can it erase the past, change the present, mold the future - recreate, as it were?

The power of teshuvah derives from its transcendent nature. Like Torah, teshuvah preceded the Creation. It is not part of the world, of Creation,

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of a creative process. It is beyond time, beyond space, rooted in infinity. In the sphere of infinity, past and present fade into oblivion.

Teshuvah is in the heart, in the mind. One thought of teshuvah is enough. For thought, the mind, is not restricted by the limitations of the body. The mind can traverse the universe in seconds. And the mind - machshavah, thought - is man, the essence of man. Man is where his thoughts are.

Fasting, self-mortification, may be means through which man expresses remorse. They may be acts of purification, of self-cleansing. But they do not constitute teshuvah. Teshuvat hamishkal, penance commensurate to the sin, "to balance the scales," is important. So is teshuvat hageder, the voluntary erection of protective "fences" to avoid trespassing. Empirical reality may dictate such modes of behavior corresponding to certain forms of weakness. However, these deal with symptoms only. They relate to specific acts that constitute the external manifestation of sin. They do not touch sin itself. They do not tackle the root and source from which sin grows. That root and source is in the mind, in the heart: ignorance, carelessness, neglect, wrong attitudes, egocentricity, self-justification.

Just as sin is rooted in man's will and mind, so must teshuvah be rooted in man's will and mind. "He who sets his heart on becoming purified (from ritual defilement) becomes pure as soon as he has

immersed himself (in the waters of a mikveh), though nothing new has befallen his body. So, too, it is with one who sets his heart on cleansing himself from the impurities that beset man's soul - namely, wrongful thoughts and false convictions: as soon as he consents in his heart to withdraw from those counsels and brings his soul into the waters of reason, he is pure" (Maimonides).

The tragedy of sin is not so much the transgression itself, to succumb to temptation, for "there is no man on earth... that he never sins." The real tragedy, the ultimate sin, is the failure to judge oneself, the failure to do teshuvah, "he has left off to contemplate to do good....does not abhor evil."

Better one self-reproach in the heart of man than numerous lashings. As the bacteria, poisonous and infectious, are eliminated, their symptoms and outgrowths will disappear as well. And as sins cease, sinners will be no more. Thus teshuvah, the teshuvah that deals with the essence of sin, brings healing into the world.

This is not to understate the external symptoms of sin. For with every transgression "man acquires a kateigar, a prosecutor, against himself." The act of sin assumes reality. It clings to man, it attaches itself to him - leading him further astray in this world only to accuse him later in the hereafter.

On the other hand, everything in Creation is categorized in terms of matter and form (body and soul).

The act of sin, its external manifestation, is the matter (the body) of sin, which creates the kateigar. The underlying thought, the intent, the will or passion that generated the transgression, is the form (the soul) that animates and sustains that body.

Self-mortification attacks that body and may destroy that matter. But only a change of heart, conscious remorse, is able to confront its form, its soul. Only the elimination of the thought, intent and desire that caused the sin, will eliminate the soul of the kateigar. And when deprived of its soul, the kateigar ceases to exist.

Thus "rend your heart and not your garments, and return unto G-d, your G-d, for He is gracious and compassionate, long-suffering and abounding in kindness....." When rending the heart in teshuvah there is no need to rend one's garments.

The Disposition of the Ba'al Teshuvah

Teshuvah is essentially in the heart, in the mind. It is related to the faculty of binah, understanding.

There cannot be teshuvah without a consciousness of reality: understanding what is required. Recognition of one's status. Introspection. Searing soul-searching. Honest self-evaluation that opens the eyes of the mind and causes a profound sense of embarrassment: How could I have acted so foolishly? How could I have been so blind and dumb in the face

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of the Al-mighty, the Omnipresent "Who in His goodness renews each day, continuously, the work of Creation?" How could I forsake the Ultimate, the Absolute, for some transient illusion? As the prophet laments: "My people have committed two evils: they have forsaken Me, the Fountain of Living Waters, to hew for themselves cisterns, broken cisterns that hold no water!"

Teshuvah is directly related to bushah - shame, embarrassment. The Hebrew word teshuvah contains the letters of boshet; transposing the letters of shuvah (return), offers the word bushah (shame). For bushah is an indication of teshuva.

Bushah, a sense of shame, flows from an illuminating grasp of reality. It is the proof of true regret over, and of a break with, the past. It is identical with teshuvah. To achieve that level is assurance of forgiveness: He who commits a sin and is ashamed of it all his sins are forgiven him!

It takes understanding to do teshuvah: "His heart shall understand, and he will return, and it shall be healed for him." That is why first we pray: "...bestow upon us wisdom, understanding and knowledge," and only then: "bring us back to You in complete teshuvah."

Wisdom, understanding, knowledge, are prerequisites for teshuvah. It takes knowledge to separate right from wrong. Only the wise know to distinguish between holy and

profane, between pure and impure. Thus teshuvah is identical with binah.

The ba'al teshuvah becomes aware that sin is a partition between G-d and man. Sin disturbs the balance of the universe, sundering its unity. "He who transgresses the precepts of the Torah causes a defect, as it were, above; a defect below; a defect in himself; a defect to all worlds."

The word teshuvah can be read as tashuv-hey - returning, restoring the hey. For when man sins he causes the letter hey to be removed from the Divine Name. The Divine Name, the manifestation of G-dliness, is no longer whole. The hey has been severed, leaving the other three letters to spell hoy, the Biblical exclamation for woe.

"Woe to them that call evil good, and good evil... woe to them that they are wise in their own eyes..." (Isaiah 5:20).

In turn, "he who does teshuvah causes the hey to be restored... and the redemption depends on this." Teshuvah restores the hey, recompletes the Holy Name, re-establishes unity, frees the soul. "Teshuvah corrects everything - it rectifies above, rectifies below, rectifies the penitent, rectifies the whole universe."

The bushah of teshuvah relates only initially to the past. It develops further into an awareness of personal insignificance in the presence of Divine Majesty. On this

higher level it signifies bitul ha-yesh (total self-negation). It diverts one's sights from concern with self to concern with the Ultimate. Thus it ignites a consuming desire to be restored to and absorbed in the Divine Presence: "My soul thirsts for G-d, for the living G-d - when shall I come and be seen in the Presence of G-d..." "Oh G-d, You are my G-d, I

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My Father's Machzor By Zusha Greenberg Daily Thought · 2004. 9. 14. · My Father's Machzor By...

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