Yom Kippur: The 'Tiyumes Completeness' on the Head of a 'Ben Torah'... • Special Shiur for Sukkos

00:02 Hello to all our viewers and listeners. We have already entered the year 5782, with the festival of Sukkos approaching. Today we’ll look at a particular hiddur in the Four Species and see what it teaches each of us in our service of Hashem. If you’ve been to a Four Species market, you’ve surely noticed some young married men or yeshiva students putting the palm fronds through the wringer and pulling apart the lulav leaves until they’re barely recognizable. Sometimes they even use a magnifying glass to make sure the tip of the lulav hasn’t split, G-d forbid, even the slightest bit—hoping there’ll still be something left of the lulav after they’re done with it. To their credit, of course, fortunate are they who take such pains over beautifying a mitzvah; that is a mark of piety. But sometimes this hiddur in matters between a person and Hashem comes at the expense of matters between one person and another, when the merchants lose their lulavim. Interestingly, this insistence is especially common among Torah scholars, who represent the type of Jew described as “having Torah.” But the connection between the analogy and what it represents is interesting. In what the analogy represents, there are, without the evil eye, very many Torah scholars. Yet in the analogy, a lulav that is completely closed, whose central leaf hasn’t split even slightly, is very hard to find. Why is it so hard to find? Why don’t we find the equivalent among Torah scholars? Perhaps we need to remind ourselves: “Tear your hearts, not your lulavim.” So let’s see what the halachic definition of this hiddur actually is. There is indeed a particular concern about the middle leaf: its two halves must not separate. I’ll read what the Alter Rebbe says. In section 645, paragraph 9, he begins by explaining how the lulav grows, with a leaf on each side of the spine, parallel to one another. He then says that each leaf is naturally folded in two, joined along its back and open at the front. If the other leaves of the lulav separate, that is not a serious problem. But if

03:40 the leaf—what we’ve said applies to the other leaves of the lulav, he says in paragraph 10, apart from the uppermost middle leaf. But the uppermost middle leaf, which rises above all the other leaves and is called the head of the lulav, is normally folded like the other lulav leaves. If it was not folded from the time it grew, it is invalid. So first we see the requirement that it be folded. Then he says: “The invalidity of the upper leaf is not a matter of beautifying the lulav, but of the verse, ‘And you shall take’—a taking that is complete and whole. This is the leaf that is the main part of the lulav, the one a person sees at first glance, and it is normally folded on every lulav. If it has separated in two”—if the middle leaf has separated in two—“it is visibly no longer whole and complete at the point of the split.” So he says that this is a problem. We need to understand what lies behind the fact that Hakadosh Boruch Hu chose, for the Four Species, a species whose leaves are folded in two. The other three species have leaves, but they aren’t folded. Each leaf stands on its own. Here, every leaf of the lulav is folded—and where is it joined? Along its back, specifically. We also need to understand what is so disastrous if the upper leaf splits even slightly. Nothing is missing from the body of the lulav. In fact, we see greater stringency here than with the esrog. Even the esrog, the choicest of the species, is not treated so strictly by Torah law or halachah: only if the pitam is removed is it invalid. Why? Because the pitam is part of the body of the esrog, and if it is completely removed, a hole remains. Then something is missing, and that is a different matter. But the Alter Rebbe says explicitly in section 648, paragraph 17: “If nothing was removed from the thickness of the pitam where it is attached to the esrog, then even if the entire height of the pitam was removed, provided some height remains where it joins the esrog, it is kosher.” Of course, we take care that the pitam should not

06:31 be removed; that is very important. But according to halachah, it is kosher. With a lulav, by contrast, if the upper leaf separates, it is indeed invalid only if it separates along its entire length; if it separates only partway, it is kosher. Nevertheless, the Alter Rebbe continues: “All this is after the fact. But ideally, the preferred way to perform the mitzvah is to seek a lulav whose upper leaf has not separated at all.” Interesting. There is a startling halachah concerning the esrog. In section 648, paragraphs 13 and 14, concerning the body of the esrog—not the pitam, but the body—even if it has cracked on both sides along its entire length, if any part remains uncracked on each side, it is kosher. Why? Because nothing is missing; it is only a crack. Yet with the lulav, even though nothing is missing and its tip has not been cut off, if only the upper leaf has separated, he says it is acceptable after the fact. Ideally, the upper leaf should not have separated at all. Why such insistence? Isn’t there a clear hint here that it is specifically the Torah scholar—the lulav represents those who have Torah—from whom complete wholeness is demanded? So much so that if even a slight split is visible at first glance, it is a sign that his outlook lacks that wholeness. What is the explanation? It is known from Chassidus that the symbol of pure faith is oneness, the opposite of duality. Where there is duality, it alludes to heresy, which recognizes two authorities, G-d forbid. But absolute singularity exists only in abstract infinity—like the ocean, which is all water, with no individual drops distinguishable at all. It is one mass of water. But oneness is not singularity. Oneness is the ability to unite two opposites: to recognize that although the universe exists, with all its multiplicity, details, and details within details, and appears to be something apart from Hakadosh Boruch Hu, nevertheless “there is nothing else besides Him.” That is also the meaning of “one” according to

09:33 the mystical intentions: the alef represents the Master of the Universe; the ches represents the seven heavens and the earth; and the daled represents the four directions of the world. Yet all of this is one. If there is no world at all, that is singularity. Oneness means uniting two opposites. Now, just as this applies to G-dliness in the world, so it also applies to the human soul. Anyone who has studied Tanya knows that the two intellectual faculties at the head of the soul, at its very tip, are what a person encounters at first glance: chochmah and binah. Chochmah is the flash of a single point with no details—the seed of an idea. Binah builds out the idea from many details. They depend on each other. In the words of the Zohar, they are “two companions who never part,” because neither can exist without the other. Without the flash of chochmah, binah has nothing to develop. Without binah, the spark of that flash will dissipate. Yet despite being “two companions who never part,” they are opposites in their essence. That is to say, this is the allusion: there are two leaves here, as in the lulav. Interestingly, in the physical brain, chochmah and binah are represented by its two hemispheres, its two halves. The right hemisphere is chochmah and the left is binah. Now, what is at the back? The third faculty of the brain. And where is it located? At the back of the head. That is daas. There is your allusion: each leaf of the lulav is folded in two, chochmah and binah, joined at the back, at daas. Daas unites chochmah and binah. Then, when there is “And you shall know this day,” and through daas a person contemplates the greatness of the Creator deeply, using chochmah and binah, what results? “And Adam knew Chavah.” There is a birth. What is born? The six emotional attributes. “The mother of children rejoices.” Binah gives birth to the six attributes. Now, if we take the six attributes, each of which contains subsidiary qualities, that gives us six times six, as in kindness within kindness and might within kindness. So, six times

12:59 Six is 36, and they are in the heart. Thirty-six, heart; thirty-six, heart. What produces this? The joining of the two halves of the leaf, Chochmah and Binah, at their backs, through daas. Now, in light of this, we can understand why there is such insistence that, G-d forbid, there be no split in one’s worldview. Contemplation is meant to rule out the very notion of duality: as though, besides the Creator, there is also a world which, although subject to the Creator, has an independent identity—like a ruler and a palace. A palace cannot exist without a ruler. But once the ruler has finished building the palace, the palace stands on its own. That is a form of faith, but it is the faith of the descendants of Noach, not the faith of Judaism. Judaism says that such an approach is not outright denial, because a denier does not believe in G-d at all. But it is called a crack in one’s worldview. I believe in the Creator, and there is the Creator plus a world. So in one’s outlook, at the very head of that outlook, one must be very careful that there is no crack. It must be “My dove, My perfect one.” The Midrash says: “My twin.” This is the tiyomes, which is both whole and a twin—the two halves of the leaf. It shows that there is no such thing as a separate world. The world is one with Hakadosh Boruch Hu, as it says of Avraham Avinu: “He called there in the name of Hashem, G-d of the world.” The Alter Rebbe points out that it does not say “G-d of the world,” which would mean that there is a world and a boss above it, but “G-d-world.” The world’s entire identity is the G-dliness within it. That must be the true outlook of a Torah scholar: at the very pinnacle of faith, at its most fundamental foundation, there must not be even the slightest crack. Because if there is a crack there, the concern is that one crack will lead to another. The crack keeps widening, and eventually serious problems can result, to the point that the lulav becomes invalid. Now, that was about ruling out the crack created by splitting the Creator’s existence from the world’s existence in our understanding of faith. But it will also affect the other leaves

16:14 below the middle leaf, so that they, too, will not split. A split at the top of the lulav can cause a split lower down as well. But if the split at the top is ruled out, that also rules out other possible splits. For example, ruling out a separation between the revealed dimension of Torah and the inner dimension of Torah. There are many G-d-fearing, observant Jews, great Torah scholars, who say: There is the revealed Torah, there is the Oral Torah, and there is the hidden dimension. That is not for us. We study only the revealed Torah. Ruling out the split means seeing, within every halachah of the revealed Torah, the Kabbalistic soul inside that halachah. It means knowing that every spiritual, Kabbalistic idea must accord with halachah; otherwise, that proves that this interpretation of the hidden dimension is distorted. If someone uses the teachings of the hidden dimension of Torah and ends up with a conclusion that does not accord with halachah, that is called revealing interpretations of the inner dimension of Torah, revealing interpretations of the Torah’s secrets, but not in accordance with halachah. He really is studying the hidden dimension of Torah. But of this it is said, “The hidden things belong to Hashem our G-d.” There must be unity between the revealed and inner dimensions. For example, to illustrate: There is a halachah given to Moshe at Sinai concerning the dimensions of a sukkah. The minimum is two walls and a handbreadth. Why? That is the halachah given to Moshe at Sinai. Then Kabbalah comes and says: Wow, there is a profound idea here. Why specifically two walls and a handbreadth? Because the whole idea of the sukkah comes after the awe and self-nullification of the Days of Awe. After “His left hand is under my head”—the left side, the fear—comes the Divine embrace: “And His right hand embraces me.” And when someone embraces... Look how beautiful this is. There is the upper arm, the forearm, and the handbreadth of the hand embracing the person. It is no accident that it is two walls and a handbreadth. Someone asked me: If so, why do those who are meticulous make a sukkah with four walls? Because that is an embrace with both arms. He has him completely enclosed. But there is a spiritual meaning behind this halachah. Another wonderful thing I saw in the name of the Rebbe’s father,

19:24 Rabbi Levi Yitzchak—may his merit protect us—is that he once said a sukkah is a segulah for observing all the Torah and mitzvos, without transgressing either “do not add” or “do not subtract.” How? There is a verse in the Prophets that says: “A sukkah will provide shade by day and shelter from torrent and rain.” Its plain meaning is clear: a sukkah protects from rain. But he interprets it this way: the numerical value of “torrent” is one less than 248. There are 248 positive mitzvos. If you subtract, you get “torrent”: reish, mem, zayin. If you add to 248, you get 249, the numerical value of “rain.” The sukkah surrounds a person, enclosing him within the 248, so that he neither adds nor subtracts. You see an ordinary, straightforward verse talking about rain, and it turns out to contain wonderful ideas. That is what it means to make sure there is no split between the revealed Torah and the inner, mystical dimension of Torah—to know that they are intertwined. There is another separation that must be ruled out, one that can arise specifically in a Torah-observant Jew. There can be a separation between faith and understanding. He believes with all his heart—he believes—but in his understanding he does not know Hashem so well. What does it mean to connect the two in both directions? First, to ground faith so that it penetrates the intellect as well, so that the intellect understands and acknowledges that there is nothing besides Him. Second, to bring the certainty, the sense that it is simply obvious, that exists in faith into intellectual contemplation. There is yet another separation we must rule out: the separation between the G-dly soul and the animal soul. There are G-d-fearing, observant Jews who, when a person is in the study hall, are working with the G-dly soul. In practice, he is cleaving to Hakadosh Boruch Hu. But what about the animal soul? He does not deal with it at all. He does not even believe it can be refined, because it is a donkey. So he says to the animal soul within him, “Stay here with the donkey, while I and the lad go over there and bow down.” What about the animal soul? He has not dealt

22:17 with it. Chassidus comes and says that the goal is for the third soul, the intellectual soul—which is not G-dly, but is not animal either—to come and unite them. It internalizes the G-dly soul’s faith in an intellectual framework and brings it down into the animal soul’s awareness, so that it, too, will love Hashem: “With all your heart”—with both your inclinations. The two halves of the leaf must be joined at their backs through daas. And this is expressed outwardly, too, in external matters. Ruling out the separation of religion and state. There are many observant Jews who fulfill every clause of the Shulchan Aruch with great care. But when it comes to matters that require shaping the conduct of the state according to the directives of halachah, such a person says: Why are you mixing in politics? Does halachah tell us whether to make a peace agreement or not, whether to return territories or not? That is not a halachic matter. Leave it to the politicians. That means there is a crack in his worldview between Torah and the world. One last thing is also about ruling out a split: being careful that there is no split between Hashem’s will and a person’s interest in reward. In other words, there are Jews who are Torah scholars and observe everything they should, but their approach is that man desires a palace for himself in the higher realms. All my service of Hashem really is service of Hashem. But ultimately, its purpose is for me to attain perfection, to delight in Hashem in Gan Eden. That is a holy goal, but it is my interest. What does Hakadosh Boruch Hu want? Hakadosh Boruch Hu desired a dwelling for Himself in the lower realms. Just the opposite. Hakadosh Boruch Hu says: I have enough in the higher realms above—angels. I created the physical world so that the soul would descend into physicality, into a body, among people who are distant from Yiddishkeit, and bring the Divine light there. “All the inhabitants of the world will recognize and know that to You every knee shall bow, every tongue shall swear”

25:13 Any wording. If a person makes a separation, he says: “No, Hakadosh Boruch Hu wants a dwelling in the lower realms; let Him make Himself a dwelling in the lower realms. I’m looking after my own Gan Eden.” Where does the difference between the two show up? It’s very simple. We’ve spoken about this before. If another Jew needs help, someone who is concerned only with his own Gan Eden has no time for it. Every moment is precious to him: he could gain another piece of the wild ox and the Leviathan, and another glass of the wine preserved in Gan Eden. That other fellow has a problem? Let him watch what he’s doing. But if someone cares that Hakadosh Boruch Hu desired a dwelling for Himself, then until [unclear], he is concerned that G-dliness reach every corner, every Jew, at every time and every hour. And this whole approach brings about the unity of all the leaves. Interestingly, with the lulav, it isn’t only the topmost tip that is closed; all the leaves are closed, so it becomes like a single stick. There are many leaves in the world. When they open up, you see all kinds of branches, all kinds of different values. But they all have to unite into one lulav. Hakadosh Boruch Hu desired a dwelling for Himself in the lower realms, so that the whole heart should be devoted only to Him. That makes all the mitzvos into one solid whole, like the stick of the lulav. But where does it say that all the mitzvos have to be made into one whole? Maybe there are 613 values? Hakadosh Boruch Hu wants 613 different values, each standing on its own. In discussions of ideas and values, there is an expression: “The beginning of Your word is truth.” Does that mean the beginning of Your word is truth and the rest of Your words are not? “The beginning of Your word”—at the beginning, there is something that is the head of all those things, the central point.

27:51 Hakadosh Boruch Hu desired a dwelling for Himself in the lower realms. That is the backbone that unites all the mitzvos. This idea runs through them all like a thread. That is also what the verse says: “The fear of Hashem is pure, enduring forever. The judgments of Hashem are true.” When? When “they are righteous together.” What does that mean? Are there judgments of Hashem that aren’t true? Rather, there is an issue we encounter many times: there are verses that seem to express contradictory ideas. One teaching of our Sages says, “Study is not the main thing, but action.” A second teaching says, “Torah study is equal to them all.” So which one decides the matter? Is Torah the main thing, or are deeds the main thing? As long as you cannot make them “righteous together”—show why both teachings are needed, explain that there is no contradiction because one applies in this situation and the other in another—you haven’t grasped the truth. You’ve grasped one side, the one that suits you. Someone who loves Torah will say, “Torah study is equal to them all.” What about mitzvos and good deeds? He says, “Leave that to the people who do acts of kindness. I’m all Torah.” “One thing I have asked of Hashem: to dwell in the house of Hashem all the days of my life.” Someone who favors good deeds says, “Study is not the main thing, but action.” But there has to be a “beginning of Your word is truth” that unites the entire lulav into one whole. Now, interestingly, among the Four Species, through the lulav—through the unity of the lulav’s leaves—not only is the lulav itself united, not only are all the leaves of the Torah, all its verses and details, united within the Torah itself, but through this he also merits to unite Jews who are not Torah scholars: the hadassim and the aravos. Interestingly, they are attached to the lulav, bound together with it. We say, “May they all become one single band.” What’s interesting is: why doesn’t the esrog enter this union of the Jewish people? If the entire Jewish people must unite, and that is why we bind the lulav, the three species are joined together—the lulav, the hadas, and the aravah—whereas

31:03 the esrog remains outside the binding. Why is that? According to the straightforward meaning, it isn’t a question. The verse says, “And you shall take for yourselves on the first day the fruit of a beautiful tree,” and it does not go straight on to say “and palm branches.” “The fruit of a beautiful tree.” Period. “Palm branches, branches of a leafy tree, and willows of the brook.” So the hadassim and aravos are joined by the word “and” to the palm branches. But the esrog is mentioned separately in the verse, and therefore we keep it separate. But there is an inner dimension here as well. As we said before, the lulav represents the Torah scholar. The numerical value of lulav is sixty-eight, which is the numerical value of binah, the supernal mother. Binah is the level of one who has Torah and contemplates it. Binah gives birth to the six times six, which is thirty-six. “Binah is the heart,” says the Zohar: through contemplation, these matters descend into the heart. So when he waves the lulav upward, it is as though he is striving toward the point. That is why it has a pointed tip: it strives toward the point, as though making a hole in the clouds of glory to draw down G-dly light from there to us. And it descends in a straight line, the middle line. What is the middle line? Among the sefiros, chochmah is on the right, binah on the left, and daas in the middle. There is netzach on the right, hod on the left, and tiferes in the middle. There is chesed on the right, gevurah on the left, and tiferes in the middle; netzach on the right, hod on the left, and yesod in the middle. The three sefiros of the middle line are daas, tiferes, and yesod. Their initials spell dati, “religious.” A truly religious person has to know how to bring the extremes together. And that is expressed by joining the hadassim and aravos to the lulav. Why did the Torah command us to bind them together? So let’s return to the well-known Midrash. The lulav we’ve been discussing until now is the Torah scholar. Especially according to the Rebbe’s explanation, when we say that he “has no good deeds,” it does not mean he is not observant. If someone is learned but not observant, that isn’t Torah at all. Rather, it means that his strength, his enthusiasm,

34:17 his passion in life is Torah. He also performs mitzvos, but “he has no good deeds.” He does have good deeds, but they are not what defines him. “He has Torah,” so he is the lulav: the Torah scholar, the man of Torah and halachah. What are the hadassim? “He has good deeds but no Torah.” If he has no Torah, how does he have good deeds? It means that his strength and devotion are not primarily in Torah. He learns Daf Yomi, he learns Tanya, yes, but his main strength is Ahavas Yisroel, kindness—the attribute of chesed. The hadas alludes to the emotional attributes. Chesed, gevurah, and tiferes are the emotional attributes. They allude to Avraham, Yitzchak, and Yaakov. And, by way of a play on words, one could say that this is why the hadas is called “a branch of a tree of the fathers.” Only three are called “fathers”—although “fathers” is spelled with an aleph and the verse’s word for “leafy” is spelled with an ayin. The hadas teaches us about warmhearted Jews. He has love, he has enthusiasm; on the other side, he also has anger. A desecration of Hashem’s name deeply shakes his heart. He is a person of feeling. What are the aravos? According to the explanation of the Chabad Rebbeim, it does not simply mean someone who doesn’t know Torah and doesn’t keep mitzvos—just some person like that. People say, “Nisht fun unz”—“not one of us.” No. The Rebbe would say: aravos are Jews who keep Torah and mitzvos. He also learns in a class between Minchah and Maariv with Yankel. But what does “he has no Torah” mean? He lacks a sense of taste, a geshmak, in learning. He doesn’t have a head for it. He learns—but how? With kabbolas ol. Hashem said to learn, so he learns. He finds no pleasure in it. He does good deeds, but without emotion. He doesn’t have that feeling. So what is he actually doing? Serving with kabbolas ol. By the way, this is the special quality of the aravah: it is very pleasing Above. A Jew who, despite having no understanding or grasp, takes no pleasure in learning, who doesn’t

36:56 An intellectual, and he doesn’t even have a feeling of enthusiasm. He does everything: “Yes, sir.” He acts out of kabbolas ol, accepting the yoke of Heaven. Now, there’s a major insight here. You might think that the Torah scholar is immersed in Torah and follows the straight path of halachah. But what happens with the emotions, represented by the hadassim? By the way, all of this exists within each person. Within each person. We don’t need different types of Jews. Every Jew has his own understanding—that’s the lulav. He has emotions, good, chassidic feelings. And he also has kabbolas ol, the determination of the aravah: various customs and things he feels he must observe. But sometimes it can happen that emotional intuition—the hadas—sweeps a person along, seemingly for chassidic reasons, and gives him an inspiring religious experience. Yet emotions don’t always take the limits of halachah into account. A person can get carried away doing mivtzoim on Friday with great enthusiasm. He feels for every Jew: another Jew, another one to bring closer. But the time for candle lighting has already arrived. In the end, he drives back into town in the mivtzoim vehicle after candle lighting, and that’s already becoming a halachic problem. “But how could I leave a Jew? There were still a few more Jews. Should I give up on them?” Meanwhile, though, you’re violating halachah. Sometimes emotion puts itself above halachah. The same goes for the aravah side. Simple Jews can be very determined. There are ancestral customs; they were told to do things a certain way, and that’s what they do. But sometimes a custom is observed at the wrong time or in the wrong place. There’s a custom to say Tehillim on Shabbos Mevarchim. He sticks to it determinedly: there’s no question of not saying Tehillim. But they said to do it early in the morning—not to sleep until ten and then arrive at shul bleary-eyed, saying Tehillim instead of davening with the congregation, as required

39:39 by halachah. “But I—I was explicitly told to say Tehillim on Shabbos Mevarchim. I have to do it at twelve o’clock.” Yes. So he has determination, the stubbornness of kabbolas ol, but it doesn’t always accord with halachah. That’s why Judaism says: emotion, the hadassim, is very important. The determination of kabbolas ol is very important. But they must stay close to the lulav, to halachah, and not be separated from it. That is unity. Otherwise, a situation can arise of “Do not stray after your hearts”—what your feelings tell you—“and after your eyes”—what seems right to you—“after which you go astray.” That can lead to deviations in Judaism. It has to be “Hashem your G-d is truth.” Bring it all together. How does the verse put it? “Then I will be whole and cleansed of great transgression.” “I will be whole” means being complete. With the lulav, “you shall take” it whole; the hadas and aravah, too, must be fully in line with the Torah’s path of halachah. So people ask: What about the esrog? It’s interesting. The esrog alludes to the tzaddik. The tzaddik is above the Torah scholar. He has everything: Torah and good deeds. He is the esrog. We don’t need to bind him to the lulav. Why? Because his entire being is devoted to the Creator. All his desires have their source in holiness and Torah. He doesn’t need to be tied to Torah; everything he does follows Torah and halachah. But there’s a custom specifically in Chabad: not only do we take the esrog and lulav and hold them close together, we also tilt the esrog so that its upper part is close to the lulav. It isn’t bound to it with a ring, but I tilt the esrog toward the lulav. What does that suggest? Sometimes you come across a sicha, a maamar, or a custom of the tzaddik, and it seems

42:38 on the face of it not to accord with halachah. Don’t say, “Aha, he’s above halachah.” The Torah tells you to study the Rebbe’s sicha, maamar, or custom in a way that brings it into accord with halachah. Then you know you’ve truly understood what he said. Because if you conclude that the esrog isn’t connected to the lulav, you haven’t understood the esrog. When you bring all these things together, you create a perfect unity of all the faculties of the soul, beginning with understanding, whose tip reaches toward the higher Divine wisdom. That prevents a split between different values in one’s outlook. It keeps emotion close to halachah, and ensures that kabbolas ol, too, is not merely blind acceptance but is guided by halachah. To the point that when it comes to the tzaddik’s teachings, it cannot be that he intended something that doesn’t accord with halachah. Rather, just as the Gemara establishes circumstances that reconcile the words of the Mishnah with accepted halachah, so must we understand his words. Only then do you know that you’ve understood the esrog properly. And then you fulfill the mitzvah of all four species inside the sukkah, which surrounds the entire Jew from head to toe. In this merit, we receive a good, sweet year and a good note, and we reach Hoshana Rabbah and then Simchas Torah, when even our feet dance with the Torah. A gut Yom Tov, in a year of Geulah, very soon indeed.