In Control

Parshas Pinchas

Posted on July 23, 2024 (5784) By Rabbi Yochanan Zweig | Series: Rabbi Zweig on the Parsha| Level: Intermediate Beginner

“On the seventeenth of Tammuz the Tablets were broken” (Ta’anis 26a)

 

Five calamities occurred on the seventeenth of Tammuz. The first of these calamities is recorded in the Torah. Upon descending the mountain after having received the Decalogue, Moshe witnessed Bnei Yisroel celebrating the creation of the golden calf and he shattered the Tablets[1]. The verse describes the Tablets as “charus” – “engraved[2].”

 

The Mishna states that the word “charus” can also be read as “cheirus” – “freedom”, for only the study of Torah brings true freedom[3]. Therefore, the breaking of the Tablets reflects a loss of freedom for the Jewish people[4]. What is the difference between the secular definition of freedom and that of the Torah? How do we reconcile the “pshat”, the straightforward reading of the text as “charus” – “engraved”, with the “derush”, the homiletic interpretation as “cheirus” – “freedom”?

 

Freedom is often defined as our right or privilege to act or express ourselves without coercion in whichever manner we desire. The Torah’s definition of freedom is cognizant of the fact that very often we behave in a manner which hides under the guise of freedom of expression, yet in reality we are submitting to coercive forces. Whether our actions are influenced by societal pressures or by our physical or emotional desires, these actions cannot be described as completely free from coercion. We ourselves are aware of the destructive nature of our actions but are helpless to overcome the deceptions of societal acceptance and self-gratification. The pursuit of Torah not only empowers the individual with the ability to overcome any coercive forces, but also removes the conflict that exists in the decision-making process, synthesizing the individual’s visceral sense to behave appropriately with his desires. Being bound by restrictions does not imply a lack of freedom; restrictions are not only ultimately for our benefit, but they prevent us from taking actions which we truly wish to avoid.

 

The words of the Decalogue symbolize spirituality and the Tablets themselves, that which is physical. Had the Decalogue been described as ink which is scripted upon parchment, this would imply imposition of the words upon the Tablets. Chazal teach us that Hashem miraculously caused the letters of the Decalogue to suspend themselves within the Tablets. The Tablets wrapped themselves around the words, conforming to them[5]. This reflects the complimentary nature of the physical and the spiritual which can coexist without any conflict.

 

We all have a natural tendency to behave in an appropriate manner. The Torah removes the impediments that mask our true feelings, breaking through the misconceptions and misguided value system which society creates for us.

 

Peace Without Conjunctions

Parshas Pinchas

Posted on July 23, 2024 (5784) By Rabbi Naftali Reich | Series: Legacy | Level: Beginner

Peace is the ultimate blessing of the Jewish people. When we are at peace, we have everything. When we are not at peace, we have nothing. Indeed, the concluding statement of the Talmud is that Hashem found peace to be the only vessel capable of preserving the blessings of the Jewish people.

 

But how is all this peace meant to come about?

 

In this week’s Torah portion, we read that Hashem sealed a covenant of peace with Pinchas, the grandson of Aaron, as a reward for his zealous defense of the Torah. For all future generations, the priestly descendants of Pinchas would be the guardians of the peace. By serving as role models and arbiters, they would spread peace among the Jewish people.

 

The commentators draw our attention to an unusual aspect of the lettering in these verses. A close look into the Torah scroll at the word for peace, shalom, reveals that the third letter, the vav, is broken across the middle. Why is this so?

 

The commentators explain that there are two distinctly different levels of peace. On a more prosaic level, peace exists when people reach an accommodation for reasons of expediency. It may be that they are working together in order to reach a common goal by putting aside their differences and concentrating fully on their objective. Or else, they may simply find themselves living together in close proximity and therefore find it necessary to tolerate each other. This is a no more than a superficial peace imposed from without, a marriage of convenience.

 

There is, however, a higher form of peace which comes when distinct and separate individuals develop a profound sensitivity to each other’s thoughts and feelings, when they learn to become perfect complements to each other. Far more than an expedient accommodation, this peace results from the bonding of two individuals into one organic whole. It is a marriage of love.

 

Ideally, the first form of peace leads to the second. What starts as a marriage of convenience blossoms into a marriage of love.

 

The different forms of peace are reflected in the Hebrew word shalom, peace, which is formed by adding the letter vav to the word shalem, complete. In the Hebrew language, the vav serves as a conjunction, a point of connection between two disconnected entities. There is a peace which is based on the vav, a conjunction of the disconnected. In its pure form, however, peace derives from a sense of completion or wholeness, a sense of perfect harmony and fusion. In its pure form, it jettisons the vav and becomes shalem, complete.

 

One of the missions of the priestly caste is to promote peace among the Jewish people, but a simple peace of accommodation is not enough. The ultimate goal must be to create a harmonious fusion among the Jewish people so that they become one organic whole.

 

Therefore, the letter vav in the word shalom is broken, to indicate that peace founded on a conjunction is inadequate. Pure peace is shalem, complete.

 

An elderly sage brought his wife to the doctor.

 

“What seems to be the problem?” asked the doctor.

 

“Well,” said the sage, “whenever we walk more than a short distance, we feel very fatigued and often experience shortness of breath.”

 

“Indeed?” said the doctor. “Are you telling me that both of you have the same symptoms?”

 

“Oh no,” said the sage. “I feel perfectly fine. It is my wife who is ill. But when she becomes fatigued and out of breath, I feel as if I am suffering as well.”

 

In our own lives, we all yearn for the gift of peace which will allow us to savor life’s blessings.

 

But what sort of peace do we seek? A peace of accommodation and expediency may give us some respite from the hurly-burly of existence, but in the end, it is superficial. Deep down, we are still at odds with the world around us. All we will have accomplished in doing is putting a lid on it. Our true goal should be to achieve a deeper peace, a peace that connects us with our people, our world, our Creator, a peace that enriches us with the transcendent serenity that comes from the sense of being complete.