Printed fromChabadBasel.com
ב"ה

Rabbi's weekly Blog

I feel it is an honor to belong to this people

The people of Israel in the Land of Israel are coping with great courage. I hear from my parents and my siblings, who find themselves in shelters several times a day, one consistent request: just don’t stop in the middle - we are ready to keep getting up at night and running to the shelters in order to finish this.

The last time I personally heard a siren was when I was 14, during the First Gulf War. But those who have been living with this reality for years - they are true heroes.
I feel it is an honor to belong to this people.

Shabbat Shalom and Chodesh Tov,
Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

The Hebrew language is wonderful and unique

The Hebrew language is wonderful and unique in many respects. One of its special features is the ability to play with the meaning of words through vowelization (nikud). In other words, the same word, the same letters, with different vowel points, can give the word a different meaning. Sometimes the meaning is simply different, sometimes even opposite—yet still connected, because often there is a relationship between the different meanings of the same word.

For example, the Hebrew word לרצות (lirtzot) can be understood either in the sense of desire/wanting (ratzon) or in the sense of appeasing (ritzui). On the surface, the one who wants and the one who appeases seem quite different, but if we look more deeply, we see that there is a profound connection between them.

The word משכן (Mishkan) appears in the Torah with the meaning of a place that contains the dwelling of the Creator, as He Himself commanded: “And they shall make Me a sanctuary, and I will dwell among them.” However, with different vowelization—if we place a cholam above the letter כ—the word משכן can be read as something that is taken as collateral, which in full spelling would be משכון (mashkon).

On the first verse of Parashat Pekudei, “These are the accounts of the Mishkan, the Mishkan of testimony,” Rashi comments on the repetition of the word “Mishkan, Mishkan.” Rashi explains that the word Mishkan here alludes to mashkon—a pledge or collateral—hinting to the two Temples that were taken as collateral twice, each one at the time of its destruction.

At first glance, this might seem like a beautiful play on words: once Mishkan and once Mashkon. How lovely the Holy Tongue is—here we have a hint to the destruction of the Temple embedded in the word itself. But Rashi likely was not merely searching for clever wordplay. If he includes something in his commentary on the Torah, it must contain a profound and essential message.

On Shabbat Parashat Vayakhel–Pekudei in the year 1972, the Rebbe delivered a remarkable discourse on this Rashi. I truly recommend reading or listening to the entire talk (it exists in many languages, presented by different lecturers. Search online for “Project Likkutei Sichot,” and in the archive look for Volume 11, Pekudei II). Among other things, the Rebbe focused on the shift in the meaning of the word Mishkan and explained that Rashi is conveying a very significant message—one that is relevant to each and every one of us. The meaning of a pledge (mashkon) is that the object itself has not been destroyed. It has not disappeared. It has merely been taken as collateral, to be returned in its full state at the proper time.

Yes, the physical Temple was indeed burned and destroyed. But its essence—being the dwelling place of God in this world and the gateway connecting the physical and the spiritual, between the Holy One and His creations, between this world and the higher worlds—remains. As our forefather Jacob said: “This is none other than the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven.” That essence was neither burned nor destroyed; it was taken as collateral, as Rashi says here: “a hint to the Temple that was taken as a pledge in two destructions.”

Still, what did happen to the gate of heaven when the Temple was destroyed?

In Tractate Berakhot we read: “Rabbi Elazar said: From the day the Temple was destroyed, the gates of prayer were closed.” Does this mean that our prayers have no meaning? Does it mean that we no longer have a way to elevate our prayers above?

To my understanding, when a gate is locked, one simply needs to knock harder so that someone will hear and come to open it. When the gate of heaven was open, prayers passed through more easily. When it is closed, perhaps we must put a bit more effort into our prayer so that it can rise above the gate—or be heard even through its closed doors. And perhaps this is the explanation for the continuation of Rabbi Elazar’s statement: “Even though the gates of prayer were closed, the gates of tears were not closed.”

On the eve of the month of redemption, I wish and pray that the saying of the Talmud will be fulfilled in our days: “In Nisan they were redeemed, and in Nisan they will be redeemed in the future.”

Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

 

I looked for an anchor

I looked for an anchor within the historic days we are living through—not only during the past week, but throughout this recent period, and especially since Simchat Torah 5784. The transition from a terrible hester panim—a divine concealment so horrifying that we never dreamed something like it could happen again after the Holocaust—to a state of ga’on Yaakov, where Jews gather together and stand up for their lives to fight their enemies. Amid all these turbulent events, I searched for an anchor—something that would frame the moment, that would provide a point through which one could look and understand everything.

This week, I found it.

When Alexander Grodetsky, 95 years old, presented the Rebbe’s emissary in Russia, Rabbi Berel Lazar, with a miniature yet fully kosher Megillat Esther about 200 years old—a scroll that his great-grandfather had given him. His great-grandfather was born in 1870, long before the Soviet Revolution and long before the many upheavals that the world in general, and the Jewish world in particular, have undergone. This tiny megillah had been somewhere in an attic in Russia all those years, serving as an anchor for an old man who had seen much and knew where everything had begun.

The Baal Shem Tov explained the Mishnah’s statement: “One who reads the Megillah backwards has not fulfilled his obligation.” The simple meaning is that the Megillah must be read according to the order of events—and therefore according to the order of the chapters. The Baal Shem Tov added: “One who reads the Megillah as though it were an event that happened back then—in the past—has not fulfilled his obligation.” For all the stories of the Torah, and the Megillah in particular, are not merely historical narratives; they are also—and primarily—contemporary stories.

The megillah that Sasha Grodetsky gave to the Chief Rabbi of Russia this week seemed to cry out: I am not “back then”! True, I come from the past—but I am not the past. The megillah was written long before we knew what the internet or smartphones were, and certainly long before artificial intelligence. Yet it is far more current, relevant, and filled with a stable and clear message for our times than its new competitors. A scroll written with quill and ink on parchment comes from the past—and brings clarity to the future.

When we blotted out the memory of Amalek on the morning of last Shabbat at Chabad House, we did not know that Khamenei would also be erased. And when we said in the Torah reading, “May He who blessed the soldiers of Israel on land, in the air, and at sea bless them,” we did not know that they had already locked the crosshairs onto Ahmadinejad. But we did know how to say, at the close of Shabbat during Havdalah, the verse written in the Megillah: “For the Jews there was light and joy, gladness and honor.” And we added: “So may it be for us—Kos yeshuot esa u’veshem Hashem ekra—I will raise the cup of salvations and call upon the name of the Lord.”

Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Zalman Wishedski

Looking for older posts? See the sidebar for the Archive.