Less is More
Many years ago, when I was in college, I was over at the Chabad house for Shabbos. The rebbetzen and I were talking about food and health, when suddenly she jumped up and said she needed to show me a new product she was using. She returned with a bottle of some kind of juice. “Do you know what this is?” she asked eagerly. I recognized the bottle from my father’s house, because my father always had the latest health products. It was a bottle of “noni juice,” which was purported to have amazing health properties. But, there was something funny about the label on the bottle. On the noni juice labels I had seen in the past, there was a picture of a muscular, shirtless Hawaiian man chugging a big glass of noni juice. On this bottle that the rebbetzen had in her hand, the picture was almost exactly the same, except – the man had a colorful Hawaiian shirt on! “Wait a minute! Why does that guy have a shirt on?” I asked. “Oh,” she replied, “it’s because we requested that the company change the picture to a guy with a shirt so that it would be permitted for us to buy it. It would be forbidden for us to buy any product with a shirtless man on the label.” “But what’s wrong with a having no shirt?” I asked. “Isn’t the human body holy? Are you saying there’s something wrong with the human body?” “Not at all,” she replied. “The point of spirituality is to make you more sensitive. A lot of secular culture is extremely stimulating, having a desensitizing effect. By keeping bodies covered, we enhance our sensitivity to the sacredness of the human form.” You may or may not agree with the Chabad standards of tzniyut (modesty), but her underlying point is true: The more we get, the less sensitive we become to what we already have – hence the tendency to always want MORE. This is so obvious with children. We want the best for them. We want to give them everything. And yet, the more we give, often the more they want. Giving them more and more doesn’t always satisfy them more; it can create spoilage. So, it turns out, if we want to give them more, we sometimes have to give them less. Parshat Eikev וְהָיָ֣ה עֵ֣קֶב תִּשְׁמְע֗וּן אֵ֤ת הַמִּשְׁפָּטִים֙ הָאֵ֔לֶּה וּשְׁמַרְתֶּ֥ם וַעֲשִׂיתֶ֖ם אֹתָ֑ם וְשָׁמַר֩ יְהֹוָ֨ה אֱלֹהֶ֜יךָ לְךָ֗ אֶֽת־הַבְּרִית֙ וְאֶת־הַחֶ֔סֶד אֲשֶׁ֥ר נִשְׁבַּ֖ע לַאֲבֹתֶֽיךָ׃ V'hayah eikev tishma’un – It shall be a reward if you listen to these rules and guard them and do them, then Existence your Divinity will guard for you the covenant and the kindness was sworn to your ancestors… - Devarim (Deuteronomy) 7:12, Parshat Eikev The sentence contains a strange idiom – the word עֵקֶב eikev really means “heel,” but it is understood here to mean “reward” or “because” or “consequence.” This is probably related to the English idiom when we say that something “follows on the heels” of another thing. When Reb Menachem Mendel of Lubavitch (b. 1789) was little boy, his grandfather would teach him Torah. One time, when they were studying a portion about Abraham, they came to this verse: עֵ֕קֶב אֲשֶׁר־שָׁמַ֥ע אַבְרָהָ֖ם בְּקֹלִ֑י “Eikev asher shama Avraham b’koli- Because (eikev) Abraham listened to my voice…” - Bereisheet (Genesis) 26:5 Menachem Mendel’s grandfather asked him to explain it. The child said, “Abraham heard God’s Voice even with his eikev – even with his heel!” The grandfather, Reb Shneur Zalman, was ecstatic with his answer and said, “In fact we find this same idea in another verse- “V’hayah eikev tishma’un- It will be the reward if you listen...’ This verse tells us we should strive to become so sensitive that even our eikev – our heel – should ‘listen,’ meaning that we should sense the holiness that permeates all creation even with the most insensitive part of our bodies.” How do we do that? We must be our own parent – we must restrict ourselves. The most astonishing thing I think I’ve ever seen was on television, several days after a huge earthquake in Haiti. A man was searching day and night for his wife who was buried somewhere under a collapsed building. After something like five days, a voice was heard from beneath the rubble. Men dug furiously toward the voice. Soon they pulled out this man’s wife. She had been buried, no space to move, no food or water for several days. What did she do? She sang hymns! As they pulled her out, she was moving and singing. She was clapping her hands, crying “Hallelujah!” I couldn’t believe it. Incomprehensible. But there it was: she was singing in gratitude for her life, for the sunlight, for being able to move. That’s sensitivity. This is the whole point of all of those traditional spiritual practices that restrict you in some way, such as fasting. Their message is: don’t keep going in the direction of “more.” Go in the direction of less, even if just for a small period of time. This is the potential gift of suffering. וַֽיְעַנְּךָ֮ וַיַּרְעִבֶ֒ךָ֒ ... לְמַ֣עַן הוֹדִֽיעֲךָ֗ כִּ֠י לֹ֣א עַל־הַלֶּ֤חֶם לְבַדּוֹ֙ יִחְיֶ֣ה הָֽאָדָ֔ם כִּ֛י עַל־כׇּל־מוֹצָ֥א פִֽי־יְהֹוָ֖ה יִחְיֶ֥ה הָאָדָֽם׃ “You were afflicted and hungered… so that you would know – ki lo al halekhem levado yikhyeh ha’adam- not by bread alone does a person live, but by everything that comes out of the Divine mouth does a person live!” - Devarim (Deuteronomy) 8:3, Parshat Eikev In other words, to truly live, you have to feel your most basic needs. You have to hunger a little. Otherwise, you won’t appreciate your life and sustenance as a gift, as coming from the “Divine mouth.” And, while fasting and other traditional restrictions can be useful aids, you can actually practice this in a small but powerful way every time you are about to eat: Rather than just digging in, take a moment. Delay the first bite. Appreciate. Say a brakha (blessing) – either the traditional one or something in your own words. When you are finished, don’t just get up and go. Take a moment. As it says only a few verses later: וְאָכַלְתָּ֖ וְשָׂבָ֑עְתָּ וּבֵֽרַכְתָּ֙ אֶת־יְהֹוָ֣ה אֱלֹהֶ֔יךָ עַל־הָאָ֥רֶץ הַטֹּבָ֖ה אֲשֶׁ֥ר נָֽתַן־לָֽךְ׃ “You shall eat, and you shall be satisfied, and you shall bless Existence, your Divinity, for the good land which is given to you…”
Absolute Certainty of the Eye As a symbol for awareness, ayin ע represents this sensitivity, but it also means “eye,” and so also implies “seeing” what is true for yourself, rather than relying on hearsay; ע ayin is a move from the maps of the thinking mind to direct perception. On the deepest level this is not merely the perception of what is happening “out there,” but the perception of perception itself; it is the knowing that we are that perception, that we are the ע ayin, the eye that opens in the universe. The infamous and much hated Rabbi, Menahem Mendel of Kotzk, once visited his little home town where he grew up. While he was there he made a point of seeing his first, early childhood teacher who had taught him the alef-beis, whom he loved very much. Before he returned home, he happened to run into another teacher of his. “I see that you visit your preschool teacher, but you don’t visit me? What have I done to offend you?” asked the teacher. “You taught me things that can be refuted,” replied the Kotzker, “because according to one interpretation they can mean this, and according to another they can mean that. But my first teacher taught me things which cannot be refuted, and so they have remained with me; that is why I owe him special reverence.” We tend to live in the maps of our minds and take for granted the direct perception represented by ע ayin; the mind tends to dwell upon that which it does not know for sure. That’s because it is the job of the mind to figure out, to conjecture, to approximate, to guess; that is how we are able to navigate life and make decisions. But this useful tendency often becomes a compulsive habit, usurping awareness away from what we actually do know. Eventually, we can come to give no attention at all to what we do know, and instead invest our guesses, conjectures and approximations with a reality they don’t really possess; this is called “living in one’s head.” Nowadays, people often feel most strongly and defend most passionately (and attack most violently in defense of) things they don’t really know for sure. What is it that we do know for sure? Turn your attention from involvement with your thoughts and “see” what is actually happening, right now. This is the path of ע ayin – simply noticing and therefore knowing what is actually present in your experience. When you do, there may be a feeling of disorientation or fear. What if thoughts are just thoughts? What will happen if you let go of all that mind generated drama and attend to what is present, to what you actually know for sure? The ego is uncomfortable with this, because ego is the sense of identity that is built out of our thoughts and feelings. Let go of your thoughts and feelings, and the ego can feel threatened. הָלַ֣ךְ חֲשֵׁכִ֗ים וְאֵ֥ין נֹ֙גַהּ֙ ל֔וֹ יִבְטַח֙ בְּשֵׁ֣ם יְהוָ֔ה וְיִשָּׁעֵ֖ן בֵּאלֹהָֽיו Though one walks in darkness and has no glow, let them trust in the Name of the Divine, and rely on their Divinity… - Isaiah 50:10 The haftora hints that there is an aspect of our consciousness that is forever in a state of not-knowing: ayn nogah lo – has no glow. It doesn’t say that one has no “light” but rather one doesn’t even have any “glow” at all. One absolutely halakh hasheikhim – walks in darkness. But if we can be totally clear about not being clear, if we can truly understand and know on the deepest level that all of our mind’s judgments are guesses and approximations, then we also transcend the ego; we transcend our separate self-sense that thrives on belief in our own thoughts and denial of the darkness. Then, in that surrender to not-knowing, a new way of being emerges: יִבְטַח֙ בְּשֵׁ֣ם יְהוָ֔ה וְיִשָּׁעֵ֖ן בֵּאלֹהָֽיו Yivtakh b’shem Hashem v’yisha’ein Elohav – trust in the Name of the Divine and rely on Divinity… That is the letting go – the letting of Mystery be Mystery. Then, we can realize: there is something we can know, if we would only turn toward It: we are consciousness, we are the ע ayin, the awareness that is aware of however this moment presents itself, Now.
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Rejection of Rejection
During my summer between fifth and sixth grade, my parents schlepped me back and forth to a day camp. But, for one night, the day camp became a sleepaway camp – the sleepover began with a dance in the barn, after which we spent the night in our sleeping bags out in a huge field. In the barn, I danced with a particular girl for most of the night. I guess I thought this girl liked me, so during the sleeping-bags-in-the-field part, I kept trying to sneak out of the “boys area” and into the “girls area” so I could go see her. At some point a counselor caught me. “Brian, stop bothering the girls!” “No you don’t understand,” I pleaded, “They want me to be here!” Suddenly, that girl and several of her friends cried out in unison, “No we don’t!” Rejection! Sometimes we think we are wanted, but we are not. That’s just the truth. The person who thinks that they are wanted despite all protestations is an egomaniac. Kids can be like egomaniacs sometimes, and at some point, the delusion is toppled: “No, you really are annoying the hell out of me and I want you to STOP!” But these kinds of hurtful childhood experiences can also create another kind of misperception into adulthood: a self-image that you have nothing to offer, that people don’t need or want you. I remember once being in a situation where I wanted to help someone, but I wasn’t being asked for help. In my post-rejection psychology, I didn’t offer anything, because I thought that if my help was wanted, I would be asked. As time went on, however, I could see that I would never be asked – not because my help wasn’t wanted, but because the person wasn’t comfortable asking. So, I gathered my will against my personality, offered my help directly, and it was promptly accepted; so easy. Parshat Va’etkhanan אֶעְבְּרָה־נָּ֗א וְאֶרְאֶה֙ אֶת־הָאָ֣רֶץ הַטּוֹבָ֔ה אֲשֶׁ֖ר בְּעֵ֣בֶר הַיַּרְדֵּ֑ן … וָאֶתְחַנַּ֖ן אֶל־יְהוָ֑ה בָּעֵ֥ת הַהִ֖וא לֵאמֹֽר׃ “I pleaded with the Divine at that time, saying… ‘Please let me cross and see the good land on the other side of the Jordan!’” - Devarim (Deuteronomy) 3:23-25, Parshat Va’etkhanan The parshah begins with Moses telling the Children of Israel about how he pleaded (וָאֶתְחַנַּןva’etkhanan) with God to let him enter the Promised Land. But, God doesn’t let him: רַב־לָ֔ךְ אַל־תּ֗וֹסֶף דַּבֵּ֥ר אֵלַ֛י ע֖וֹד בַּדָּבָ֥ר הַזֶּֽה׃ “Too much of you! Do not increase your words to me about this thing!” -3:23 Moses, the beloved prophet who “knows God face to face” is rejected. But does Moses develop a bad self-image and stop doing his job? Not at all – he immediately goes on teaching them Torah: וְעַתָּ֣ה יִשְׂרָאֵ֗ל שְׁמַ֤ע V’atah Yisrael sh’ma – And now Israel, listen! - 4:1 Sometimes our offers are accepted, and sometimes they are rejected. But if we shut down when we are rejected and stop offering, we may miss what we are called upon to do. And furthermore, what’s wrong with being rejected anyway? If rejection feels bad, it is because there is a self-image that is feeding off the desire to be appreciated. That ego, that separate self-sense, is natural, but ultimately it is a burden. When the ego is bruised, take that as medicine. Accept the pain – let it burn away the ego’s substance. Ultimately, the pain will be liberating, and in that liberation there can be a seeing of who we are beyond the self-image – which is to say, we can see that we actually are the seeing – we are the miracle of awareness itself; we are the “eye” that opens in the universe. Furthermore, this “eye” is not merely our own awareness; it is the awareness of Reality Itself; it is the Divine incarnating as us and seeing through our own eyes. This activity of seeking and discovering is the path of ע ayin, the letter which literally means “eye.” This path has two aspects – first, there is a seeking, motivated by the drive to find fulfillment, to find oneness, to find peace, to come home. This ultimately leads to the second part – the realization that the Divine we seek is not separate from the awareness that we are. This field of awareness at the root of our being is represented by the second sefirah of Hokhmah. On the Integral Tree, ע ayin is connected to Hokhmah, representing the process of awareness becoming aware of itself. The Greatness That You Are אֲדֹנָ֣י יֱהֹוִ֗ה אַתָּ֤ה הַֽחִלּ֙וֹתָ֙ לְהַרְא֣וֹת אֶֽת־עַבְדְּךָ֔ אֶ֨ת־גׇּדְלְךָ֔ וָאֶתְחַנַּ֖ן אֶל־יְהוָ֑ה בָּעֵ֥ת הַהִ֖וא לֵאמֹֽר׃ “I pleaded with the Divine at that time, saying: ‘My Divine Lord, you have begun to reveal to your servant Your Greatness…’ - Devarim (Deuteronomy) 3:23-25, Parshat Va’etkhanan וָאֶתְחַנַּן Va’etkhanan, “I pleaded” – comes from חֵן hein, which means “grace.” To “plead” is to beg for Grace. What “Grace” is Moses praying for? The revelation of Gadol, God’s “Greatness.” Gadol begins with ג gimel, the letter that represents wholeness, completeness, fulness. But this “Greatness” is not something separate from you; it is the basic quality of your own innermost being. It is “great” in the sense that it is far more spacious than anything within your experience; it is the Wholeness of the space within which all experience arises – the space of awareness itself, of Hokhmah. הוּא הָיָה אוֹמֵר, חָבִיב אָדָם שֶׁנִּבְרָא בְצֶלֶם He used to say, ‘Beloved are human beings, for they are created in the Divine Image…’ - Pirkei Avot, 3:14 This Divine “image” is the Greatness, the ג gimel, of your own awareness, or Hokhmah. Rabbi Akiva calls us “beloved” because of this gift. Then he says, חִבָּה יְתֵרָה נוֹדַעַת לוֹ שֶׁנִּבְרָא בְצֶלֶם It is an even greater love that our Divine Image is made known to us… In other words, though our Divine Greatness is a wonderful gift, it doesn’t do us much good unless we can see it – unless we experience the Infinite directly. This is the path of ע ayin, the seeking and finding of the ג gimel of Hokhmah, the Wholeness of awareness. This is the greatest gift, the Supreme Grace, because it is the revelation of our own being, something that can never be taken away. But, this Divine Greatness is not really hidden; it is just that our awareness tends to look at everything except Itself, so it can be difficult to notice… No Rathering Once I was on a family vacation in Rome. At one point, we had split up into two different cabs, and I was in a cab with my father-in-law. He turned to me and said, “So, Brian – are you enjoying yourself or would you rather be at some ashram in India?” I replied, “Well, I don’t really put energy into rather-ing things.” He was silent for a moment, and then said, “I get that. That’s good. I’m going to eliminate ‘rather’ from my vocabulary!” What does it mean to not “rather” something? It doesn’t mean that you can’t make good judgements. It doesn’t mean that you don’t take yourself out of an undesirable situation, or that you don’t help to make things better for yourself or others; it just means that whatever your experience is, in whatever situation you find yourself in, you don’t put mental and emotional energy into wishing things were different. You first of all accept the moment as it is, and then do whatever you do from this place of openness and surrender. It is important to understand that the practice of “not rathering” is not really a character trait; it is not something that you add on to your personality, but rather it is a quality of Presence – a quality inherent within Hokhmah, within your field of awareness that is underneath your personality, beyond your thoughts, infinitely more vast than your feelings. And, while your thoughts and feelings are always flowing and changing, awareness is the background against which your thoughts and feelings are happening. So, when you shift from feeling that “I am this personality, I am these thoughts and feelings,” into knowing yourself as the field of Presence within which your thoughts and feelings are happening, then it is very natural not to rather anything, because awareness itself is never preferring one thing over another thing; it is simply open to whatever there is to perceive in the present moment – that’s why it has the quality of Wholeness, represented by ג gimel. וָאֶתְחַנַּ֖ן אֶל־יְהוָ֑ה בָּעֵ֥ת – I implored Hashem at that time… Moses is saying, “I implored that I should be at some other time, at a time other than now. I don’t want to be here, I want to get to the Promised Land!” But God tells Moses that he should look and see the Promised Land from afar: עֲלֵ֣ה רֹ֣אשׁ הַפִּסְגָּ֗ה וְשָׂ֥א עֵינֶ֛יךָ “Ascend to the top of the cliff and raise up your eyes…” - 3:27 The expression for “ascend to the top of the cliff” beginsעֲלֵ֣ה רֹ֣אש alei rosh, which literally means, “Raise up the head.” Meaning, get out of your head! Don’t be so identified with your own opinions, with your emotional reactions and so on. How do you do that? וְשָׂ֥א עֵינֶ֛יךָ v’sa einekha – and raise up your eyes – meaning, instead of putting energy into judging, into “rather-ing,” simply see what is happening in this moment. Be the witnessing Presence within which your present experience is unfolding. In seeing what is present, you will come to know: the “Promised Land” is, in fact, “where” you already are; it is not what you see from afar, but is which is seeing. But what if this realization of the Promised Land continues to seem far off? Ox and Field A disciple of Rabbi Yitzhak Meir of Ger came to the rebbe with a complaint: “I’ve been trying for twenty years, and still I don’t feel like I’m getting anywhere! If a craftsman practiced their craft for twenty years, they would either be much better at their craft, or at the very least they would be able to do it much more quickly. But with me, I’ve been praying and praying, and I don’t feel any closer than when I began.” “It is taught in Elijah’s name,” replied the rebbe, “that a person should take Torah upon themselves as an ox takes the yoke. You see, the ox leaves its stall in the morning, goes to the field, plows, and his led back home. This happens day after day. Nothing changes with regard to the ox, but the ploughed field bears the harvest.” On the spiritual path there can be times of tremendous transformation, but there can also be times of plateau, times when it seems we are plugging away without much result, and that can feel frustrating. At such times, it is good to express our frustration through prayer, just like Moses did: וָאֶתְחַנַּ֖ן אֶל־יְהוָ֑ה בָּעֵ֥ת הַהִ֖וא לֵאמֹֽר׃ I pleaded with the Divine at that time, saying… Just like the hassid who complained to his rebbe, Moses is saying, “I’ve been leading this people toward the land for forty years – please let me at least enter along with them!” The “land” is a metaphor – in relation to our spiritual path, it represents the fruit of the practice – that sense of coming home into the Oneness, coming home into the present, the ג gimel. When we feel the angst of separateness, when we feel like an ox that goes on day after day with the same old routine, don’t hold back – cry out in prayer! This is the first phase of ע ayin, the phase of seeking. This crying out in prayer helps come to the second phase, hinted by God’s response to Moses: רַב־לָ֔ךְ אַל־תּ֗וֹסֶף דַּבֵּ֥ר אֵלַ֛י ע֖וֹד בַּדָּבָ֥ר הַזֶּֽה׃ “Too much of you! Do not increase your words to me about this thing!” That separate self-sense, the “me” that thinks and speaks and acts, is the “ox.” The truth is, the ox will always be an ox. At some point, we need to give up on all this “me” – Rav lakh! Too much of you! – and discover the aspect of our being that is silence – Al tosef daber! Do not increase your words! In that silence we can discover the deeper aspect of our being – the ג gimel – the Wholeness of that vast, boundless “field” of Hokhmah. This is not to deny or devalue the “ox” in any way; we need the ox. We need to organize our lives and set aside time for practice, in addition to all the practical necessities of life. But just as the ox cannot become the field, just as Moses cannot enter the land but must die outside the land, so too we must let go of this self-ness and recognize the aspect of ourselves that is beyond the ox. The truth is, on the deepest level, we already are the field. עֲלֵ֣ה רֹ֣אשׁ הַפִּסְגָּ֗ה וְשָׂ֥א עֵינֶ֛יךָ “Ascend to the top of the cliff and raise up your eyes…” Moses climbs up the cliff and sees the “land” from afar, and there he dies. Similarly, we can understand the goal with our minds, but that is only a “seeing from afar.” To truly enter the “land,” we must discover what is beyond the ox-self. Alei rosh – elevate the head – recognize that beneath all the content, you are the seeing, totally transcendent of your thoughts, feelings, and experiences. How do you do that? וְשָׂא עֵינֶיךָ v’sa einekha – raise up your eyes – “see” whatever is arising in your awareness, right now; be the transcendent space within which this moment unfolds. In this way, prayer leads to silence, and you can make that shift from being the “ox” to being the “field” – from being the “seeker” to being the “finder” – the finder of the vast field of silent Presence, the ע ayin seeing the ג gimel of the Hokhmah. A rabbi once asked Menachem Mendel of Vorki, “Where did you learn the art of silence?” Menachem Mendel was about to respond, but then he changed his mind and said nothing. A Good Eye There is another dimension to the path of ע ayin, which is what the tradition calls having a “good eye.” It means seeing the good in others, rather than dwelling on the negative. When we discover that the Wholeness (ג gimel) we seek is none other than our own innermost being (Hokhmah), the outer consequence is that we are freed from that egoic drive to judge others in a negative way: וֶהֱוֵי דָן אֶת כָּל הָאָדָם לְכַף זְכוּת – Judge every person toward the pan of merit… - Pirkei Avot 1: 6 Once there was a rabbi who wanted to start a yeshivah – an institution for Jewish learning. After many years of planning and raising funds, his vision was finally realized – the new Torah school was built in a beautiful area out in the country, on the bank of a river. Many young people came to live and to learn, and the rabbi was gratified to see his goal and passion manifested. On days with good weather, he would often go outside with the students to the river’s edge to daven Minkhah – to pray the afternoon prayer. One day, while they were all outside praying, he noticed that the building across the river (which seemed to have been abandoned) was being renovated and readied for something. Day after day he watched as workers came to refurbish the old building, and he could see that there seemed to be a woman in charge of the enterprise because she was there every day, busily involved with whatever was going on. Eventually the building seemed to open for business, because he saw men coming and going at all hours of the day and night. He wondered, what could be going on over there? Then he found out – the new business was a brothel, and the women he had seen was the head of the brothel. He was so upset – his Torah school was right across from a brothel! How terrible! He feared that his boys would be tempted into going over there; he was angry that his life’s work was being contaminated with such sinfulness and he was filled with scorn for the woman who was responsible. Nevertheless, he refused to change his practice of bringing the students out to daven by the river. It was Spring, and the weather had just become warm and beautiful. One time, while they were all praying, he noticed that the woman had also come outside. He glared at her across the river, and he saw her looking back at him. He was filled with rage and cursed her in his heart. This became a pattern – every day during those pleasant months, the rabbi and the students would go outside to daven, and every day he would see the women. He would try to ignore her, but he was driven by his irritation to look at her, and every time he did, he saw her looking back at him. Soon after, it happened that the rabbi had a heart attack and died. When he came to Olam HaBa, the “World to Come,” he was told that he would not be able to enter right away, but would have to spend some time in Gehinnom (Jewish Hell) first to cleanse himself from the spiritual impurities caused by all his anger and cursing of the brothel owner. So, he willingly descended into Gehinnom. After what felt like an eternity of torment, he was finally cleansed enough to be allowed into the World to Come. He was ushered into Paradise – a beautiful, peaceful place of lush gardens, in which the Divine Presence was palpably felt – and led to a small, modest dwelling, which was to be his heavenly home. It wasn’t much, but he accepted it with gratitude. As he approached his dwelling, he looked around and noticed that there was an immense palace next door. “Wow” he thought, “That must be the abode of some great tzaddik (saint).” “Actually,” said his angelic escort, “That’s the house of the brothel owner across the river; she happened to die the same day you did.” “What?” shouted the rabbi, “There must be some mistake! I mean, I realize I wasn’t perfect, I shouldn’t have gotten so angry at her, but still – I was studying Torah all day, and she was running a brothel!” “Actually,” said the angel, “She studied much more Torah than you did.” “Really? How could that be?” “All those days that you stared at her from across the river, you seethed with anger thinking, ‘What a horrible person she is! Look what a terrible sin she has done, building that brothel and seducing people into sin!’ “But as she stared back at you, she was thinking, ‘What a sweet holy soul that is! Look at what a great mitzvah he has done, starting that yeshivah and nourishing so many with a Torah education!’ Over time, her holy thoughts of blessing toward you infiltrated the rest of her life, until she was almost constantly blessing you in her heart. Whereas in your case, your destructive thoughts of anger and cursing infiltrated the rest of your life, so even when you were studying Torah externally, internally you were filled with scorn…” There is a beautiful Mishna that expresses the essence of this story: רַבִּי חֲנִינָא בֶן תְּרַדְיוֹן אוֹמֵר, שְׁנַיִם שֶׁיּוֹשְׁבִין וְאֵין בֵּינֵיהֶן דִּבְרֵי תוֹרָה, הֲרֵי זֶה מוֹשַׁב לֵצִים, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר (תהלים א) וּבְמוֹשַׁב לֵצִים לֹא יָשָׁב : אֲבָל שְׁנַיִם שֶׁיּוֹשְׁבִין וְיֵשׁ בֵּינֵיהֶם דִּבְרֵי תוֹרָה, שְׁכִינָה שְׁרוּיָה בֵינֵיהֶם R. Hananiah ben Tradion said: If two sit together and there are no words of Torah between them, then this is a session of scorners, as it is said: “And in the seat of the scornful he does not sit…” (Psalms 1:1); But, if two sit together and there are words of Torah between them, then the Shekhinah abides among them… - Pirkei Avot 3:3 At first, this mishna might seem extreme; is it saying that if two people are talking and they don’t discuss Torah, then they are “scorners?” But if we look at it from the opposite direction, it is actually telling us what “Torah” really is. If “scorn” is the opposite of Torah, then the opposite of “scorn” is Torah! In other words, when we speak from a sense of love and blessing, when we see others with an ע ayin tovah, a “good eye” – we speak words of Torah. Furthermore, the words we speak form the structure of perception through which we see things – the “window” through which the ע ayin sees, so to speak. Just as the thoughts of the characters in the story formed the abodes for their souls in the afterlife, so too we construct our perception, our inner “dwelling” through our thoughts and words. This is why Binah, the third sefirah of the Tree of Life which represents the activity of thinking, is sometimes referred to as the “Palace.” But, if our thoughts have such power, why are we so careless with them? In the story, the rabbi is a scholar of Torah – how could he make such a mistake? We seem to make the mistake of wrong thinking because we’re not aware of our choice. We get taken over by an impulse and our minds start running; we get swept away by our thoughts. If we want to gain sovereignty over our own minds, then our thinking needs to be balanced by not thinking; thought needs to be balanced by space, Binah needs to be balanced by Hokhmah. In this space of no-thought, we can more easily see others through the “eyes” of Hesed, of lovingkindness. This is why, on the Integral Tree, the path of ע ayin connects Hokhmah and Hesed, connecting spacious awareness with loveingkindness. There is a hint in the parshah, which may be the first place in any text that Hokhmah and Binah are mentioned: …רְאֵ֣ה לִמַּ֣דְתִּי אֶתְכֶ֗ם חֻקִּים֙ וּמִשְׁפָּטִ֔ים See, I have taught you ethical rules and spiritual practices… וּשְׁמַרְתֶּם֮ וַעֲשִׂיתֶם֒ כִּ֣י הִ֤וא חָכְמַתְכֶם֙ וּבִ֣ינַתְכֶ֔ם לְעֵינֵ֖י הָעַמִּ֑ים אֲשֶׁ֣ר יִשְׁמְע֗וּן אֵ֚ת כָּל־הַחֻקִּ֣ים הָאֵ֔לֶּה וְאָמְר֗וּ רַ֚ק עַם־חָכָ֣ם וְנָב֔וֹן הַגּ֥וֹי הַגָּד֖וֹל הַזֶּֽה׃ Guard them and do them, for She is your Wisdom (Hokhmatkhem) and Understanding (Binatkhem)in the eyes of the peoples that will hear all of these practices and say, “Surely this great nation is a people of Wisdom (Hokham) and Understanding (N’Vonam).” - Devarim (Deuteronomy) 4:5-6 Parshat Va’etkhanan These passages begin with a description of the Teaching (“She,” Torah) as hukim and mishpatim. Mishpatim refers to universal ethical laws such as “don’t steal,” and “don’t slander” and the like; they are laws that anyone might arrive at through contemplation of right and wrong. Hukim literally means “decrees” and has come to mean the particularistic ritual laws of the tradition, practices that may seem strange and arbitrary from the outside, such as kashrut and Shabbat, but have an inner transformational wisdom to them that you can experience only through practicing them. (That is why I translated hukimas “spiritual practices.”) These two elements – ethical behavior and spiritual practices – form the foundation of the spiritual path; neither can replace the other, because it is through spiritual practice that we sensitize ourselves to seeing beyond the narrow view of ego. Without widening our view beyond ego, we can’t see right and wrong clearly; we will always see things in terms of our preconceptions and prejudices. Again, this is why Hokhmah and Binah are both so important. Through meditation and prayer (hukim), we transcend the thinking mind so that we can get free from our preconceptions and prejudices and see reality more clearly. From this clear place, we can contemplate (Binah) the right paths we should take with our behaviors (mishpatim). Thus, hukim and mishpatim are the expressions of Hokhmah and Binah. The text then mentions another pair of concepts: שְׁמַרְתֶּם וַעֲשִׂיתֶם – Sh’martem va’asitem – Guard them and do them. In order for the Teaching to become fully integrated into our lives, we need not only try to practice the Teaching, but we must also “guard” Her. This means keeping Her forward in our minds; it means making Her into our highest value. Again, this is only possible in an authentic way if we balance our thoughts about the Teaching with space from thought, because it is through the space of Hokhmah that we can experience the Oneness of Being in a direct way; thus, the Divine becomes not merely a concept, but a lived Reality. Finally, the text mentions two different modes of perception: לְעֵינֵ֖י הָעַמִּ֑ים אֲשֶׁ֣ר יִשְׁמְע֗וּן – l’einei ha’amim asher yishm’un – in the eyes of the peoples that will hear… “In the eyes” and “will hear” refers to the senses of both “seeing” and “hearing.” Both of these are themselves metaphors. “Seeing” represents direct perception because when we look around, we have a sense of what is going on instantaneously; we don’t have to think about it. Thus, “seeing” and ע ayin are connected to Hokhmah on the Integral Tree. “Hearing,” on the other hand, refers not to hearing sounds, but to hearing words, and so relies on the thinking process – Binah. We need both; we need to see what is plainly in front of us in the present, and we need to use thought to chart a path into the future – Hokhmah and Binah together. Binah and Hokhmah are also the starting point and end point of the two phases of ע ayin. Binah is thought, which allows us to judge and decide. On the path of ע ayin, thought is that which allows us to be dissatisfied with how things are and motivates us to seek and to cry out in prayer for something better. This leads to the second phase, in which our seeking, represented by ע ayin, looks back upon Hokhmah, upon awareness itself, and finds there the Wholeness and Peace it longs for, represented by ג gimel…
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The Fox and the Scorpion
Have you ever had the experience of being in conflict with someone, and then realizing that the same conflict has happened a thousand times before, in different forms? It is as if the conflict is a virus, a replicating pattern. It has no real life of its own; it is just a dead, repetitive, automatic story that lives off your life energy, playing itself out again and again. Once there was a scorpion who was looking for a way to get to the other side of a river. As he searched up and down the banks, he came upon a fox who was about to swim across. “Please let me swim on your back!” implored the scorpion. “No way!” replied the fox, “You’ll sting me!” “Why would I do that?” argued the scorpion, “If I stung you, we would both drown.” After thinking about it, the fox agreed. The scorpion climbed up on his back, and the fox began to swim across. But, when they were about half way across the river, the scorpion stung the fox. As the poison began its work, the fox started to sink. “Why did you do it?” said the fox, “Now we’ll both drown!” “I couldn’t help myself,” said the scorpion, “It is in my nature.” Is it in your nature to always react in the same old ways, perpetuating the same old conflicts? Or is there a way out? There is a way out, but it can be difficult because the old patterns are usually motivated by the desire to escape pain. Something happens that triggers a painful emotion, and we may lash out unconsciously or passive aggressively in an attempt to vent the pain and punish the one who caused it. But, it doesn’t work, because it just perpetuates a dynamic that guarantees the cycle will continue – that is, until we wake up to realizing that there is another way; this means seeing the pattern, and choosing to stop feeding it. This usually involves feeling the triggered pain on purpose, without doing anything about it – just being with it. You might think that a lot of meditation can help you “just be with it,” and that is true, but it can also sometimes create a hinderance. Meditation can give you beautiful and blissful experiences, and if you get attached to those experiences, then the pain that life brings can sometimes be even harder to endure. I often hear people lament about having to come down from the “lofty mountain” of the spirit to deal with the pain of life. It reminds me of a passage I read in one of Ram Dass’ books, where he talks about coming down from a spiritual high and literally “seeing” a tidal wave coming toward him – a tidal wave made out of all the broken relationships, tedious responsibilities, unconscious expectations – the whole mess. It is natural to resist the pain of that tidal wave, and yet, what are we really resisting? What are we holding on to? I remember going to the dentist when I was maybe seven years old, and he gave me nitrous oxide while he filled a cavity. It gave me the experience of feeling like I was floating in a warm ocean, breathing under water, in total bliss. At some point, he shut off the nitrous oxide, and I pleaded, “No! A little bit more!” I remember his response: “All good things must come to an end.” If we want to live free from our conditioned patterns, we must be willing to move with the changing moment; we must be willing to not cling to anything. And yet, the patterns are so strong – how can we stand up to them and recognize that we need not be controlled by them? The moment is like water, ever changing, ever shifting, and nothing is permanent – nothing in the outer world, and nothing in our inner world of consciousness; this truth is expressed in the letter מ mem. And yet, there is something solid to stand on; there is a foundation from which we can live on purpose, free from conditioned patterns. That support is available as our own deepest nature; and our nature is not separate from our Source and Destination. This truth is expressed by the letter ס samekh, which means “support.” Parshat Devarim Devarim means “words,” referring to the words spoken by Moses to the Children of Israel as this last book of the Torah opens. They too stand by a river, the Jordan, while Moses recounts the story of their highest moment, when they stood at Mt. Sinai and heard the Divine speak to them. But rather than dwell on the details of that experience, Moses simply says this: יְהֹוָ֧ה אֱלֹהֵ֛ינוּ דִּבֶּ֥ר אֵלֵ֖ינוּ בְּחֹרֵ֣ב לֵאמֹ֑ר רַב־לָכֶ֥ם שֶׁ֖בֶת בָּהָ֥ר הַזֶּֽה׃ Hashem, our Divinity spoke to us at Horeb, saying: “It is too much already for you to still be dwelling by this mountain!”
In other words, don't be the scorpion, trapped in your conditioned patterns – life is change. The world is turning, and you must turn with it; you cannot stay forever in an experience from the past. … וּסְע֣וּ לָכֶ֗ם וּבֹ֨אוּ הַ֥ר הָֽאֱמֹרִי֮ Journey for yourselves and come to the mountain of the Amorites… The journey is “for yourselves” – it is for your own happiness and fulfillment that you must not cling to your idea of happiness and fulfillment! …and come to the mountain of the Amorites. The word for “Amorites” has the same letters as the verb “to speak” – אמר aleph-mem-reish. The hint here is that you must leave the “mountain” where you hear God’s “speech” so that you can come to a new mountain, where there will be new “speech.” Don’t cling to the old speech; it is dead. Then it goes on to say: וְאֶל־כׇּל־שְׁכֵנָיו֒ בָּעֲרָבָ֥ה בָהָ֛ר וּבַשְּׁפֵלָ֥ה וּבַנֶּ֖גֶב וּבְח֣וֹף הַיָּ֑ם …and to all who dwell in the plains, in the hill country, the lowlands, the desert, and the seacoast… The point is not only the next “mountain” experience you will come to. There is also the “plain” – the aravah – the ordinary, daily work of life, a mixture (ערב erev) of many different kinds of experiences. This is related to the letter ק koof, which is about finding holiness in the ordinary. Then there is the “lowland” – the sh’felah – times of sadness, of tragedy, of failure – all part of the Divine, all part of Reality. This is נ nun, the impermanence of all forms, a bitter but necessary medicine for the distortions of the ego. Then there is the “desert” – the negev – times when your life and work don’t seem to be yielding anything good, and you must nevertheless persevere. This is when we need the letter ז zayin, which is about focus, and the sefirah of Netzakh, which is persistence, to train us to stay focused and committed to our goals. Then there is the “seacoast” – the hof hayam – like when the children of Israel stood at the Sea of Reeds, with the Egyptian army behind them. These are times when the outcome is unknown, when we are tempted to fear and despair. This is when we need כ kaf, which is the quality of courage, and י yod, which is trust, for taking the leap into the unknown. Finally, it says you will come all the way to HaNahar HaGadol – the “Great River!” The Great River is at the end of the journey, because if you can learn to work with life in all of its manifestations, you will see that life is itself the Great River. God incarnates in the forms of your mind and your body to take a little journey on the Great River, and this moment is the arena within which we are learning how to journey. Our task is to remember that the Divine is our own deepest identity, and rely on That, rest in That. We may fall again and again from the sense of stability that comes from knowing our deepest nature, but as it says, סוֹמֵךְ לְכָל־הַנֹּפְ֒לִים Somekh L’khol HaNoflim – the Divine supports all who have fallen! (Psalm 145) And, as we come to rely more and more strongly on that inner support of the Divine that is not separate from our own nature, we can also be a useful support for others as well… The Lifeguard I have a memory of being very young, maybe three or four, and my parents (probably mistakenly) took me to some kind of vacation resort. We were by the pool, and I saw someone running. I had heard that running wasn’t allowed, so I went up to the lifeguard in his tall chair and yelled up to him: “Is it true that there’s no running allowed around the pool?” “That’s right,” he said. “Okay,” I answered, and proceeded to dart off past him. In an instant, he tossed his whistle up in the air, caught it in his mouth, and emitted a piercing whistle blast that caught me in my tracks. I froze. “Don’t you run,” he said. I had been thinking about the other person I saw running, and my brain hadn’t applied the rule to myself. How similar it is with remembering not to “run” away with our own thoughts and feelings… It is relatively easy to see when someone else is trapped by their thoughts and feelings. We see someone being defensive, angry, or complaining, or blaming, and it’s easy to diagnose. But when we become annoyed with that person for getting caught, how easy it is to get caught ourselves; we resist the resistance of others, and can’t see that we ourselves are resisting. But the truth is, if we wish to be an effective support for others in their wakefulness, the most important thing is not to necessarily to give advice or feedback (though sometimes that is appropriate); the most important thing is to embody wakefulness ourselves. After all, there is a synergy between people; awakening begets more awakening, and unconsciousness usually begets more unconsciousness. So, in the moment that we perceive the ego of someone else and forget to be aware of our own, we must remember: there is only one time to be awake, and that time is always now. This can be difficult because now is constant; we tend to be unconscious of things that are constant, like our breathing, for example. How can we maintain constant connection with the inner ס samekh and receive the support we need for being awake? The key is to use that which is not constant to remind us of the constant, to use time and change to stay awake to the Changeless and the Timeless. The Circle and the Spiral וֶהֱוֵי זָהִיר בְּמִצְוָה קַלָּה כְבַחֲמוּרָה Be careful with a light mitzvah as with a grave one…
There are lesser and greater mitzvot; obviously, the mitzvah to light a Shabbat candle is not as great as the mitzvah to not murder someone, for example. And, yet, this mishna is saying we should be just as careful with the lesser ones as with the greater ones. How can this be? If we should be just as careful with the lesser ones as with greater ones, doesn’t that destroy the whole idea that are lesser ones and greater ones? The word for “careful” is זָהִיר zahir, which can also mean “watchful” or “attentive.” Understood this way, it is not saying that it is just as important to observe the lesser mitzvot as the greater ones; it is saying that no matter what mitzvah you are doing, you should be just as zahir – you should be just as attentive, just as present. And furthermore, it is our awareness of the very fact that not all mitzvot are equal that reminds us: even though the mitzvot are not all equal, we can bring equal Presence to them all. Furthermore, as different as the various mitzvot are, even more varied are our moments in life; you cannot compare a moment of childbirth or a moment of death to a moment of putting toothpaste on your toothbrush. And yet, the message is: הֱוֵי זָהִיר hevei zahir – be present in all moments, great and small. And, use your awareness of the great and small to remind you: the moment to be zahir is always this moment. לֹֽא־תַכִּ֨ירוּ פָנִ֜ים בַּמִּשְׁפָּ֗ט כַּקָּטֹ֤ן כַּגָּדֹל֙ תִּשְׁמָע֔וּן Don’t show favoritism in judgment; like the lesser as the greater, you shall listen.
In this verse from the parshah, Moses is telling the Israelites how the judges should behave: they shouldn’t show favoritism, but they should judge fairly, not giving preference to either the poor and powerless or to the great and powerful. But on a metaphorical level, כַּקָּטֹן כַּגָּדֹל֙ kakaton kagadol – regardless of whether the moment is mundane and insignificant or crucially important, תִּשְׁמָע֔וּן tishma’un – listen! Be fully present. The marriage between the constant and the changing is embodied in the shape of the ס samekh, which is like a circle. In the plain sense, the circle implies equality, sameness; this is the practice of being conscious in all moments and situations equally. But, the circle can also be a spiral, which is moving ever upward; this is the both the hierarchy of less and more important moments to which we can practice bringing the same, “circle” awareness. The spiral also represents our own evolutionary movement, the blossoming of our potential to live more and more wakefully, to recognize the Divine more and more clearly in all things, in all moments, great and small. When Rabbi Yitzhak Mer of Ger was a boy, someone said to him: “My boy, I will give you a gulden if you can tell me where God lives.” The boy replied, “I will give you two gulden if you can tell me where He doesn’t!”
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The Window
One summer, my son attended a band camp in Danville, California. Since the drive was 45 minutes each way from our home in Oakland, I just stayed out in Danville all day and worked in my car rather than drive back and forth twice. Danville is quite a bit hotter than Oakland, and there are fewer trees as well, so it was a challenge to find a shady place to park. The first day, I drove around for long while before finding a tiny tree that could at least partially shade my car. I parked there and rolled down the windows. That was fine for the first couple hours, but then it started getting really hot. So, I rolled up the windows, turned on the car, put on the air conditioner and continued to work. After some time, I was surprised by how ineffective the air conditioner was. Then, I was startled by a noise coming from the backseat. I twisted around to see what was going on and realized – I had neglected to roll up the back windows! No wonder it wasn’t getting any cooler; all the cold air was blowing into the car and right back out the window. Spiritual life can be like that too sometimes. You might be trying to “cool down” your anger or impulsiveness, or maybe you need to “heat up” your enthusiasm for welcoming whatever appears in the moment. And yet, even with the best intentions, transformation might elusive. In that case, it is possible that you have “left the window open” – all your best intentions are blowing right out the window! Meaning, there is not yet a continuity of intention; during prayer or study or meditation, our intention might be clear, but when we get into challenging situations, our intention can vanish. This is very common, as building the inner structures to hold the intention continuously takes time and practice; in fact, this is the main function of spiritual practice. Parshat Matot In my view, it is good to use a variety of modalities of practice for “rolling up the window” and building the inner structures necessary for having a continuity of intention. One of those modalities is the practice of regularly stating your intentions, or kavanot, out loud. אִישׁ֩ כִּֽי־יִדֹּ֨ר נֶ֜דֶר לַֽיהוָ֗ה אֽוֹ־הִשָּׁ֤בַע שְׁבֻעָה֙ לֶאְסֹ֤ר אִסָּר֙ עַל־נַפְשׁ֔וֹ לֹ֥א יַחֵ֖ל דְּבָר֑וֹ כְּכָל־הַיֹּצֵ֥א מִפִּ֖יו יַעֲשֶֽׂה׃ If a person vows a vow to the Divine or swears an oath to forbid something to one’s soul, they shall not empty their word; everything that comes from their mouth, so shall they do…
On the surface, this verse is reminding us to have integrity; if you say you are going to do something, do it. But the verse can also be understood as a promise – if you say that you will do something, saying it will help you do it! This is because verbally saying your intention – and repeating it often – is a powerful way to “shut the window” – meaning, it is a way to keep yourself focused on the intention, so that it doesn’t dissipate in the face of distractions. Just because you have an intention one moment, that doesn’t mean your brain will constantly be connected to that intention, especially if the intention goes against old habits. For that, you need to create a new pattern in your nervous system so that the intention doesn’t discipate as life unfolds in real time. The qualities of נ nun are actually both the source of the problem and the solution! Nun נ represents impermanence, and we can see this impermanence clearly in the fluidity of our own states of consciousness; it is easy for an intention that is solid and strong in one moment to simply vanish in another. But, nun נ is also faithfulness and return; we can overcome the impermanence of our states of consciousness by returning again and again to our intentions, and this is aided by repeating our intentions out loud. Furthermore, the fact of impermanence also applies to the old habits and distractions we are attempting to overcome! They too are temporary, and when we faithfully return to our deepest intentions, distractions and habits can simply fall away over time. Contrary to the old saying, “some things never change,” even the most deeply ingrained parts of our personalities can change, if we learn to stop feeding them. Letting Go of Letting Go – נ Nun and מ Mem And yet, we must also recognize – even if we are able to fully stay connected to our intentions, this is no guarantee that the purpose of our intentions will be realized. This is the other side of the equation; on one hand, it is good for our intentions to have clear continuity over time. On the other hand, we must not be attached to a particular outcome, and instead recognize that Reality is ultimately beyond our control. אִישׁ֩ כִּֽי־יִדֹּ֨ר נֶ֜דֶר לַֽיהוָ֗ה אֽוֹ־הִשָּׁ֤בַע שְׁבֻעָה֙ לֶאְסֹ֤ר אִסָּר֙ עַל־נַפְשׁ֔וֹ לֹ֥א יַחֵ֖ל דְּבָר֑וֹ כְּכָל־הַיֹּצֵ֥א מִפִּ֖יו יַעֲשֶֽׂה׃ If a person vows a vow to the Divine or swears an oath to forbid something to one’s soul, they shall not empty their word; everything that comes from their mouth, so shall they do…
When we have an intention to do something or not do something, there is usually a reason for the intention – an intention for the intention. In other words, the point is not necessarily the act itself, but the result that you intend through the act. For example, let’s say you get up in the morning and go to work – not because you necessarily like your work, but because you want to earn some money. And furthermore, you want to earn some money not because you like the money itself, but because you want to use the money to buy food, and you want to buy the food to cook a meal for someone. But then, let’s say that when you cook the meal, the person who eats it has a terrible allergic reaction to the food and gets sick, G-d forbid. So now there is a contradiction between your intention and your action; that’s called “making a mistake.” So, on this level, the Torah is saying that there should be a unity between your intention and your action – lo yakhel d’varo – don’t make your intentions mere empty words by doing things or not doing things that bring about the opposite result. Instead, be conscious, be attentive, be careful and do your best to act with wisdom. But wait a minute, you might say. That’s good and well, but in the example, the food allergy isn’t something you could have known about in advance; it was a mistake. That’s the whole nature of mistakes – we don’t intend them; they happen by accident. And while it is true and good to be as conscious and wise as we can, it is also true that we are going to make mistakes, because ultimately, we are not in control of what happens. This brings us to the next section: וְאִם־הֵנִ֨יא אָבִ֣יהָ אֹתָהּ֮ בְּי֣וֹם שׇׁמְעוֹ כׇּל־נְדָרֶ֗יהָ וֶֽאֱסָרֶיהָ אֲשֶׁר־אָסְרָה עַל־נַפְשָׁ֖הּ לֹ֣א יָק֑וּם וַֽיהֹוָה֙ יִֽסְלַח־לָ֔הּ כִּי־הֵנִ֥יא אָבִ֖יהָ אֹתָֽהּ׃ But if her father restrains her on the day he hears, all of her vows and all of her oaths that she swore to forbid something to herself shall not stand; and the Divine will forgive her, since her father restrained her…
In this verse, if a child vows to do something or swears not to do something, and her father hears about it and prevents her from fulfilling her oath, Hashem yislakh lah – God “forgives” her, because her father had restrained her; it wasn’t in her control. Who is this “child” the Torah talks about? It is us; we may act with a certain intention, but the “parent” can prevent that intention from happening. And who is the parent? It is Reality Itself – it is the Truth of what is – That which we call the Divine. And so, this is the paradox: on one hand, we should be as conscious and careful as we can with our actions – כְּכָל־הַיֹּצֵ֥א מִפִּ֖יו יַעֲשֶֽׂה k’khol hayotzei mipiv, ya’aseh – we should make sure we do our best to bring about the results that we intend. But on the other hand, we must know that we have absolutely no control whatsoever over what happens. So, don’t beat yourself up over your mistakes; that would just be the ego clinging to a particular self-image. Instead, surrender to the Truth and know that Hashem yislakh lah – you are forgiven because you weren’t really in control in the first place. This is the path of מ mem, of letting go and forgiveness – which is necessary in order to enter the path of נ nun – being faithful to return to the Divine after we make mistakes that damage or destroy our outer structures of support, or our own positive self-image. These both point to the ego death that is the essence of the path of נ nun, and is hinted at by Tisha b’Av, the day which commemorates the destruction of the Temple. But how do we do that? How can we come to truly forgive ourselves? Ultimately there is only one way, and that is that we have to forgive everyone else! לֹֽא־תִקֹּ֤ם וְלֹֽא־תִטֹּר֙ אֶת־בְּנֵ֣י עַמֶּ֔ךָ וְאָֽהַבְתָּ֥ לְרֵעֲךָ֖ כָּמ֑וֹךָ אֲנִ֖י יְהֹוָֽה׃ You shall not take vengeance or bear a grudge against the children of your people; love your neighbor as yourself: I am the Divine.
This is the mitzvah of נ nun: Do not take revenge or hold onto a grudge. Only when we truly let go of our negativity toward others and the past can we experience the renewal and peace that comes on the other side of loss. Parshat Matot …אֵ֜לֶּה מַסְעֵ֣י בְנֵֽי־יִשְׂרָאֵ֗ל אֲשֶׁ֥ר יָצְא֛וּ מֵאֶ֥רֶץ מִצְרַ֖יִם These are the journeys of the Children of Israel who went out from the land of Egypt…
This verse opens the origin story of the Children of Israel, beginning with the Exodus from Egypt and recounting all the places they visited and battles they engaged up to that point. It then goes on to instruct what they should do once they enter the land – how they should conquer the land, how they should divide the land between the tribes, and so on. As the final reading of fourth book of the Torah, leading into the last book of the Torah, Parshat Matot functions to give context and define the identity of the Children of Israel: “This is where you come from, this is where you’re going, and this is what you have to do…” Identity and story are important; they are what give us direction, definition and purpose. And yet, in the Mishna, we find a passage that seems to contradict this principle: עֲקַבְיָא בֶן מַהֲלַלְאֵל אוֹמֵר ... דַּע מֵאַיִן בָּאתָ, וּלְאָן אַתָּה הוֹלֵךְ, ... מֵאַיִן בָּאתָ, מִטִּפָּה סְרוּחָה, וּלְאָן אַתָּה הוֹלֵךְ, לִמְקוֹם עָפָר רִמָּה וְתוֹלֵעָה... Akavyah, son of Mahalalel said: “... Know from where you come, and where you are going... From where do you come? From a putrid drop. Where are you going? To a place of dust, worms and maggots...”
While this passage seems to begin with the same premise, advising to “know from where you come and where you are going,” the answers it gives seem to have the opposite effect from the parshah; there is no special identity, no collective story of being liberated from slavery and becoming a holy people, no goal of promised land, just the harsh biological facts: you’re going to a “place of dust, worms and maggots.” The first passage tells us who we are; it tells us we are something; the second knocks down our stories; it tells us we are nothing. There are two Hebrew words that are sometimes translated as “nothing” – they are, אַיִן ayin and הֶבֶלhevel, with opposite implications. Ayin אַיִן is actually the spiritual goal: to realize the dimension of our own being that is “no-thing-ness” beyond all form. This is the open space of awareness itself, boundless and free. We can see this in the letters themselves: Ayin is composed of א alef, י yod and נ nun. נ Nun, as we know, means that all things are impermanent; all things come and go. But, behind this impermanence is the י yod, the simple awareness, of the א aleph, the Oneness. The Maggid of Metzritch taught that as great as the creation of the universe is Yesh me’Ayin, Something from Nothing, even greater is our task: to transform the Something back to the Nothing –Ayin me’Yesh! Meaning: right now, as you read these words, the words are a something. You perceive the something, but what is it that perceives? The awareness that perceives is literally no-thing; it is that which perceives all particular things – all sensations, all sensory perceptions, all feelings, all thoughts. This is the Ayin inherent in our own being, as well as the underlying Presence of Existence, also called the Divine Presence, inherent in all things. These two are not even separate, because everything we perceive arises within and is made out of nothing but awareness, and the awareness that we are is the awareness of Existence Itself, looking through our eyes, hearing through our ears. The other word for “nothing,” which has a negative implication, is hevel. Hevel could be translated as nothingness, futility, emptiness, or vanity. We can see this in the letters as well: ה hei, ב bet, and לlamed. The letters hint at the process of learning (ל lamed, “learn”) that whatever we build (ב bet,“house”) is passing like the wind (ה hei, which has the sound of breath). This is expressed in the verse: הֲבֵ֤ל הֲבָלִים֙ אָמַ֣ר קֹהֶ֔לֶת הֲבֵ֥ל הֲבָלִ֖ים הַכֹּ֥ל הָֽבֶל׃ Havel havalim – vanity of vanities – said Kohelet – vanity of vanities, all is vanity! - Kohelet (Ecclesiastes) 1:2 This famous opening line from Ecclesiastes springs from King Solomon’s disillusionment with all his experiences and accomplishments. He had everything, and could do anything he wanted – and yet, all was nothingness; everything comes and goes, a time for this and a time for that, nothing is really new, nothing really satisfies. The same word is used in the haftora: כֹּ֣ה אָמַ֣ר יְהוָ֗ה מַה־מָּצְא֨וּ אֲבוֹתֵיכֶ֥ם בִּי֙ עָ֔וֶל כִּ֥י רָחֲק֖וּ מֵעָלָ֑י וַיֵּֽלְכ֛וּ אַחֲרֵ֥י הַהֶ֖בֶל וַיֶּהְבָּֽלוּ׃ Thus says the Divine: What did your ancestors find in Me that was wrong, that they distanced themselves from Me and went after nothingness (hevel), and became nothingness? - Jeremiah 2:4 Both of these passages point to our human condition: we tend to make much of the hevel, running after this and away from that, but it is all for naught; we are going to “place of dust, worms and maggots.” Still, as the haftora implores, there is a way that leads to the Divine, that leads to Wholeness, beyond all the hevel. There is a way that leads beyond the hevel, to Ayin. As the last line of Ecclesiastes says: ס֥וֹף דָּבָ֖ר הַכֹּ֣ל נִשְׁמָ֑ע אֶת־הָאֱלֹהִ֤ים יְרָא֙ וְאֶת־מִצְוֺתָ֣יו שְׁמ֔וֹר כִּי־זֶ֖ה כָּל־הָאָדָֽם׃ The end of the matter, when all is perceived: Be in awe of the Divine and guard the mitzvot! For this is the Whole Person.
Be in awe of the Divine – that is, know the Ayin that underlies everything, the Ayin that is perceiving, right now. Guard the mitzvot – that is, don’t act from the motive of running after or away from the hevel, act for the sake of the Divine – the Ayin from which all springs and to which all will return. After we do all of that, after we fully confront the hevel and reorient towards the Ayin, then we can return to the Yesh, the Somethingness, and affirm our identity and purpose: …אֵ֜לֶּה מַסְעֵ֣י בְנֵֽי־יִשְׂרָאֵ֗ל אֲשֶׁ֥ר יָצְא֛וּ מֵאֶ֥רֶץ מִצְרַ֖יִם These are the journeys of the Children of Israel who went out from the land of Egypt… The Divine has brought you to this moment to realize your inner freedom and has given you the only important choice there is, in this moment: to turn from the hevel of ego to the underlying Ayin of your deepest nature, right now. This is the path of נ nun. Once there was a rabbi who was davening (praying) with great intensity toward the end of Yom Kippur, when he suddenly became overwhelmed with the realization of how attached to vanity, to hevel, he had become. “Ribono Shel Olam! Master of the universe!” he cried out, “I am nothing! I am nothing!” When the hazzan (the cantor) saw him do this, he too became inspired and cried out as well: “Ribono Shel Olam! I am nothing! I am nothing!” The truth was infectious. Suddenly, a poor congregant, Shmully the shoemaker, also became deeply moved and exclaimed as well: “Ribono Shel Olam! I am nothing! I am nothing!” When the hazzan saw Shmully’s enthusiasm, he turned to the rabbi with incredulity: “Look who thinks he’s nothing!”
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