Yarchei Kallah 5765, Kfar Chabad

00:00 Welcome, in Hashem’s name, to this day of Yarchei Kallah. We are gathering in connection with, and in honor of, the eve of the yahrzeit of the Rebbe’s father, Rabbi Levi Yitzchak. This involves honoring one’s father, learning Torah, and studying its inner dimension. Above all, it is about hastening the true and complete Geulah. So it is very fitting to begin with the Rebbe’s words: to study together a sicha and letters of the Rebbe on Moshiach and Geulah, on a subject connected with the Geulah and the anticipation of it. We will try to understand the plain meaning of a letter from the Rebbe printed in Likkutei Sichos, volume 28. We will see how, from that letter and other sichos of the Rebbe, we can understand that there are several aspects, levels, and ways of anticipating and hoping for the Geulah—of awaiting salvation. Broadly speaking, this is a distinctive letter from the Rebbe; there is [unclear] in it, really [unclear]. The Rebbe writes that we must wait for the Geulah. The Rebbe gives several reasons for this, or several details about it. And the Rebbe writes not only that we must wait for the Geulah, but that by waiting for it, we hasten it. In other words, when Jews anticipate and await salvation more, they hasten the future Geulah. Some years pass, and in 5746 the Rebbe speaks about the great emphasis being placed on talking about Moshiach and waiting for Moshiach. The Rebbe says, “A scholar pointed out to me”—a Jew had pointed out to the Rebbe—that the idea of waiting for Moshiach has sources. There is a source in the Chida and a source in the Radak. The Rebbe accepted these sources and spoke about them at a farbrengen. And a few months—rather, a few days—later, the Rebbe asked that this be publicized. The Rebbe even suggested that everyone write a chain letter: each person should personally write to ten Jews, those ten should write to another ten Jews, and ask them

02:42 to spread and publicize the idea that we must wait for Moshiach. We must wait for the Geulah, as the Chida writes in a full explanation. This is very important: the very fact that Jews hope for Moshiach itself hastens and speeds the Geulah. There are also wonderful words in the Radak, as the Rebbe says. Some years later, in one of the sichos on Sukkos, the Rebbe says that his emphasis on Moshiach has no basis. To such an extent that not only does it have no real source, but he also did not see it in his father or in his father-in-law. It is something of his own: this idea that one must cry out, be consumed with longing, ask for Moshiach, and live with anticipation of the Geulah. This seems puzzling. If we look across the years, in a letter from 5720 the Rebbe writes and explains that we must wait for Moshiach, and that waiting for Moshiach itself hastens his coming. As it says, by waiting for him, we hasten the coming of Moshiach. And the Rebbe brings sources for this from Nigleh, Kabbalah, and Chassidus. About twenty years later, in 5746, the Rebbe suddenly says that, apparently, a source is needed for this idea we have been discussing—that we must wait for Moshiach. What is the source? “A scholar pointed out to me.” There is the Rema, the Chida, the Radak—there are many sources—but it is presented as “a scholar pointed out to me.” It sounds as though something new has now emerged, and the Rebbe is making a great point of it and publicizing it. What? We already have the earlier explanation. What is new here? And the greatest wonder is that some years later the Rebbe says that this emphasis of his—that we must wait, hope, and live with the idea of bringing the Geulah at every moment—is something new. So new that, as he put it, “I didn’t see it in my father-in-law; I didn’t see it in my father.” What does that mean? It is not something

04:42 new. It is already written in black and white in this letter, and the letter reflects many sichos and maamarim in which the Rebbe explains how important it is for a Jew to live with the Geulah and ask for it. What is going on here? Apparently, we must conclude that there are different ways of doing this. What does it mean to anticipate the Geulah? Different ways? What does it mean to wait for Moshiach? We will try to understand these different ways and the nature of each one from the Rebbe’s words, and to understand the differences between them. What does it mean to wait for Moshiach? Perhaps there is also a practical difference between these ways: how should a Jew—what? What is it? What? It seems from the Rebbe’s words that the way one anticipates Moshiach, and the nature of that anticipation, make a difference not only in themselves, but also in how a Jew conducts himself, how he reaches that point, or what results from it. To understand the different ways, we have no choice but to study the texts themselves: what the Rebbe writes and says, and what is written in the Radak and the Chida. We need to study them carefully and understand their plain meaning. Then we can see that there are, in fact, several different ways. Before we study the letter, we need to introduce two passages of Gemara. The Rebbe mentions them in his notes, but let us go through them. One is in Tractate Shabbos. The Gemara says that when a person is brought to judgment—when, G-d forbid, a person passes on to the World of Truth—he is judged. There is a set of questions asked of every person who arrives there. What do they ask him? They ask him the most important things. First: “Did you conduct your business faithfully?” You did not steal; did you conduct your business faithfully? “Did you set fixed times for Torah study? Did you engage in having children?” Then they ask him, “Did you anticipate salvation?” Did you anticipate salvation? Did you wait for the Geulah? That is one of the questions

06:46 a person is asked when he goes up Above. Then they ask him, “Did you delve into wisdom? Did you understand one thing from another?” And after all that, when he answers yes to the questions and everything seems fine, they say to him: “Did you have fear of Hashem? Did you have yiras Shamayim?” If so, everything is good; if not, none of it is good. So one of the questions is, “Did you anticipate salvation?” Rashi comments on this: “Did you anticipate salvation?” He stops at those words and gives a two-word explanation: “The words of the prophets.” That is what Rashi says. What does “Did you anticipate salvation?” mean? You anticipated the words of the prophets. What is Rashi’s meaning? What is he saying here? Perhaps if we look at someone who disagrees with Rashi, we will understand what Rashi means. There is an interpretation by the Ran. The Ran has Chiddushei HaRan, and there is the Ran’s commentary on the Rif, and there is also a work called Shitah LaRan. It is called just that, Shitah LaRan. He cites Rashi’s explanation, “the words of the prophets,” and says that more explanation is needed. Rashi’s plain explanation is not enough for him. He says: Rashi writes that anticipating salvation means anticipating the words of the prophets. Why is that not enough? Because, says the Ran—and I am putting this in my own words, not reading the Ran here—a person might wait for salvation knowing that what the prophets say is true. If the prophets, the Torah, Moshe, say that Moshiach will come, then he knows it will certainly happen. He looks forward to it. It will certainly happen. But there is someone who not only expects Moshiach to come someday; he expects Moshiach to come in his own lifetime. He wants to see Moshiach; he wants to live through the Geulah. So what does “Did you anticipate salvation?” mean? Did you anticipate salvation? They ask him: “Did you anticipate salvation in your lifetime?” According to Rashi, it means that he anticipates the words of the prophets. That is certainly important too, because someone who does not have what Rashi describes—

08:39 If someone does not believe what is written in the Prophets, in Moshe Rabbeinu, and throughout the Torah—all the books are full of the fact that Moshiach will come—then he is missing something very fundamental. He is missing one of the principles of faith. But when a person is asked Above, says the Ran, “Did you anticipate the Geulah?” he is not being asked whether he believed Moshiach would come someday. There is a person who did not anticipate the Geulah; as far as he is concerned, there is no Moshiach for the Jewish people. Fine, things are good as they are today. There is a person who does not know that Moshiach will come. Someone who does not expect Moshiach at all, who thinks he will never come, is missing one of the principles of faith. But the Ran says that a Jew is asked whether he waited for the Geulah. He is not asked whether he waited for Moshiach to come someday. The question is not whether you believed in the principles of faith or, G-d forbid, did not believe in them. Did you anticipate the Geulah in your lifetime? Did you wait for Moshiach to come in your time? We can see from the Ran that this is how he understood Rashi. The Ran understood Rashi’s explanation of “Did you anticipate the Geulah?” as referring to the words of the Prophets. A person who goes Above is asked: Did you believe what the Prophets wrote, that Moshiach will come? But the Ran did not want to accept that, because, he said, the question is “Did you anticipate the Geulah?” It does not say, “Did you believe in the Geulah?” It does not say, “Did you know the Geulah would come?” It says, “Did you anticipate the Geulah?” You looked forward to it. What does that mean? You looked forward to it in your lifetime. So we have the Ran and Rashi. There is another Gemara, in Sanhedrin. There is a well-known verse mentioned in many places in Chassidus; many maamarim in Chassidus discuss it. I do not know how many times, when people learn the passage, they do not open the whole verse. This is what it says, in Chavakuk: “For the vision is yet for the appointed time; it speaks of the end and will not deceive. If it tarries, wait for it, for it will surely come; it will not be late.” Everyone knows how to say it: “If it tarries, wait for it.” If it tarries, wait

10:40 for it. Even if it tarries, nevertheless wait for it. In other words, a Jew knows that even though—“If it tarries, wait for it.” This is the work demanded of a Jew: he must know that even though he does not see the Geulah and he sees greater darkness, he should wait for it. On the contrary, wait even more. [unclear] the darkness: “If it tarries, wait for it.” The Gemara—this is actually a Gemara in Sanhedrin—explains it. Everyone knows: “Even if it tarries, wait for it.” That is what the verse says: “If it tarries, wait for it.” It is a verse in Chavakuk. The Rebbe mentions it here in the letters and so on. The Gemara in Sanhedrin asks: What does “If it tarries, wait for it” mean? Do not say, “I am no longer waiting.” Because you see that Moshiach has not come, you stop waiting. No: wait for him. The Gemara says: You are waiting, but perhaps Hakadosh Boruch Hu is not waiting? The Gemara brings a verse showing that Hakadosh Boruch Hu is also waiting. The Gemara in Sanhedrin asks: You are waiting, Hakadosh Boruch Hu is waiting—what is holding it back? Why, then, has Moshiach not come? The Gemara answers: The attribute of judgment holds it back. The Gemara asks: If the attribute of judgment holds it back, why are we waiting? How can we wait? If that is what holds it back, what are you waiting for? You want it, and Hakadosh Boruch Hu wants it. As the Gemara says elsewhere: “We want it and You want it; what holds us back? The leaven in the dough.” The Gemara asks the same thing here: Why do we wait? It answers: To receive a reward, as it says, “Fortunate are all who wait for Him.” “Fortunate are all who wait for Him”—fortunate is the person who waits for Hashem. So “Even if it tarries, wait for it” is a verse in Chavakuk that the Rebbe brings here as a source for the need to wait for the Geulah. There are other interpretations of “If it tarries, wait for it”: wait for calamity, G-d forbid. But according to the Gemara in Sanhedrin,

12:30 “If it tarries, wait for it”—the instruction to “wait for it”—means anticipating the Geulah. This is Chavakuk’s instruction: even if it tarries, wait for it. Why do we wait? To receive a reward. How do we understand that simply? What does “to receive a reward” mean in its plain sense? A Jew waits for the Geulah—like, for example, a Jew who gives a lot of tzedakah so that Hakadosh Boruch Hu will help him. A Jew waits for the Geulah and will receive a reward for it. Why do we wait? To receive a reward. That is what the Mishnah says. It says, “Fortunate are all who wait for Him.” That is the simple meaning of the Gemara’s words. Here, in this letter, the Rebbe explains the Gemara differently. So those are the two Gemaras we mentioned: the Gemara in Shabbos, “Did you anticipate the Geulah?”, with the explanations of the Ran and Rashi; and the Gemara in Sanhedrin, which says, “Even if it tarries, wait for it.” Why do we wait? To receive a reward. If we look at the letter, we see that the Rebbe explains three aspects of anticipating the Geulah in this letter itself. Why must a Jew anticipate the Geulah? Or not only why—what is the nature of a Jew’s waiting for the Geulah? What is happening here? A Jew is waiting for Moshiach. What does that mean? So the Rebbe says, first, in the opening passage—perhaps we should read the letter: “And in the familiar wording, ‘Even if he tarries, I await him every day that he will come,’ as it says, ‘If it tarries, wait for it.’” The first thing the Rebbe brings is a verse. What does that mean? There is an instruction from the prophet Chavakuk, commanding you to wait for the Geulah. So the first reason the Rebbe gives for why a Jew must anticipate Moshiach is that it is the prophet’s instruction. As we said, the Rebbe’s source is actually the Gemara in Sanhedrin, which interprets the verse as an obligation to wait for Moshiach. So the first instruction—why must a Jew wait for Moshiach, or what does it mean to wait for Moshiach?—is to fulfill the prophets’ command to wait

14:31 for him. As it says, “If it tarries, wait for it.” That is the first point: fulfilling the command. The second is something else. The Rebbe says, “And based on what the Sages said, we may say that waiting for him itself hastens Moshiach’s arrival and brings his emergence sooner[?].” The second point, says the Rebbe, is that a Jew does not wait for Moshiach only to fulfill Hashem’s command. By waiting and anticipating the Geulah, he hastens its arrival. It is not simply that Moshiach comes and he is waiting for him. The waiting itself, the very hope, the very anticipation, the very longing for the Geulah, hastens and speeds up the Geulah. Why? How does a Jew’s waiting for Moshiach hasten the Geulah? Suppose someone is waiting for a lottery drawing, for example. If he waits really hard, will that make the drawing happen sooner? When its time comes, it comes. So the Rebbe says there is an explanation according to the revealed teachings of Torah, and in a moment we will also see the Rebbe’s explanation of the plain meaning of the Gemara in Sanhedrin: anticipation of the Geulah, the very act of waiting for it, causes it to come sooner. Why? The Rebbe gives this reasoning: We know the verse, “In its time, I will hasten it,” and the Gemara says: “If they do not merit it—in its time; if they merit it—I will hasten it.” When Jews become more deserving, more worthy of the Geulah, doing more mitzvos, they become more deserving of the Geulah. So if a Jew waits for Moshiach, he does more mitzvos. He does things that will bring the Geulah. He gives tzedakah, he learns Torah, he spreads Yiddishkeit; he is constantly working to do more and more so that “they merit it” will apply. If they merit it, “I will hasten it.” So waiting is not only fulfilling a command of Hashem. Waiting, hoping, and anticipating the Geulah move a Jew to hasten the Geulah. And according to

16:38 The Rebbe says this in a footnote, the note beginning “For this they wait”: “Accordingly, the statement in Sanhedrin, ‘They wait to receive their reward,’ will be better understood.” The Rebbe does not quote the words “Why do they wait?” The Gemara asks: Why do they wait? If the attribute of judgment is indeed holding things back, why wait? The Rebbe does not cite that question. The Rebbe keeps using the phrase “wait to receive a reward,” but “will be better understood” is difficult. What does “wait to receive a reward” mean here? Why does a Jew wait for Moshiach—to receive benefits from Hakadosh Boruch Hu? What does “wait” mean? He will not receive Moshiach; he will receive benefits. According to the explanation the Rebbe adds here, a Jew waits for Moshiach not only to fulfill Hashem’s command, but in order to bring the Geulah sooner. The Rebbe says: That is the meaning of the Gemara’s words, “They wait to receive a reward.” It does not mean receiving benefits from Hashem in the future—whether in the World to Come, in Gan Eden, or in this world—as a reward for waiting for the Geulah or fulfilling the command to “look forward to salvation.” Rather, they wait to receive a reward. What reward? According to the Rebbe’s explanation, what reward do they receive for waiting? The hastening of the Geulah. That is what “receiving a reward” means. The Gemara asks: Why do they wait? It answers: To receive a reward, because through their waiting they will receive the reward for waiting. And what is that reward? Bringing the Geulah. So the Gemara says: The attribute of judgment holds it back, and they wait, because their waiting corrects what the attribute of judgment is holding back and hastens the Geulah. That is what we have here. The Rebbe does not say, “Accordingly, the question will be resolved”; he says, “Accordingly, it will be better understood.” In a moment we will understand what “better understood” means. It means something more. There is “the question will be resolved,” there is “an explanation,” and there is “it will be better understood.” Here there is

18:23 something even better. But I am not clear about the word “particularly”: is it elaborating on the question or on the answer? I can read the Rebbe’s “particularly” in two ways. One possibility is that it elaborates on the question, making the question even stronger. How can the Gemara say that they wait to receive a reward? A Jew waits for Moshiach, and then he receives benefits from Hakadosh Boruch Hu. After all, our Sages said that Hakadosh Boruch Hu acts measure for measure. They said that Hakadosh Boruch Hu repays a person in accordance with what he does. He repays him here: the person waits for Moshiach, and Hakadosh Boruch Hu gives him benefits. So that makes the question stronger. On this reading, “particularly” intensifies the question about the passage in Sanhedrin. That is one possibility. A second possibility, perhaps more correct—I am not certain—is that “particularly” is part of the answer concerning the Gemara in Sanhedrin. The Rebbe is saying that this idea particularly fits the meaning of the Gemara: a Jew waits for Moshiach, and thereby brings Moshiach sooner. All the more so, since Hakadosh Boruch Hu repays measure for measure, it makes even more sense that the reward for waiting for Moshiach is bringing the Geulah sooner and hastening it. Let me explain again. One could say that “particularly” is part of the argument that gives rise to the question about the Gemara in Sanhedrin. Or one could say that with “particularly,” the Rebbe means to explain further why the reward there does not mean other benefits, but, as the Rebbe explains, bringing the Geulah sooner. This fits particularly well because Hakadosh Boruch Hu repays measure for measure. So it fits even better that “receiving a reward” means bringing about the Geulah sooner. That is the second explanation in the letter. So we have had two explanations in the letter. Do you remember? The first explanation of why a Jew waits for Moshiach is that he is fulfilling the prophet’s command, “Wait for him”—“Though he tarry, wait for him.” And the

20:22 second explanation is that he waits for Moshiach in order to hasten the coming of the Geulah. How does he hasten it? By doing more and more mitzvos, adding to the merits, and thereby bringing it sooner. “I will hasten it”—that is the second explanation. The Rebbe then gives a third explanation: “And there is more to add to this,” another explanation based on our Sages’ interpretation. Earlier, the Rebbe quotes the phrase “No eye has seen, O G-d, besides You, what He will do for the one who waits for Him.” That is also a verse in Yeshayahu, a verse very familiar from Chassidus. The whole verse goes like this: “They had not heard, they had not listened; no eye has seen, O G-d, besides You, what He will do for the one who waits for Him.” A famous verse. Do you know it? Earlier we had the famous phrase “Though he tarry, wait for him,” a verse in Chavakuk. We also have “No eye has seen, O G-d, besides You, what He will do for the one who waits for Him.” Here the Rebbe quotes the words “O G-d, besides You, what He will do for the one who waits for Him.” What does “what He will do for the one who waits for Him” mean? Someone who waits for G-d receives from G-d; consequently, someone who waits for the Geulah receives the Geulah. That is the straightforward meaning. We already gave that straightforward explanation in the second approach: hope and anticipation spur a person to perform mitzvos and hasten the Geulah. The Rebbe brings a new interpretation from the Zohar. What does the Zohar say about “O G-d, besides You, what He will do for the one who waits for Him”? In the notes, the Rebbe cites Hemshech 5666, from “VeAvraham Zakein” onward. There are four or five maamarim there based on this Zohar. What does the Zohar say? What does “the one who waits for Him” mean? What does it mean to wait for Hashem? The Zohar says it does not simply mean someone sitting and waiting. “The one who waits for Him” refers to “those who press into matters of wisdom”: those who push themselves and toil over the words of wisdom, “examining them closely and waiting to know the matter clearly.” They seek the truth within those words of wisdom “and come to know their Master.” They know their Creator; they receive the revelation of G-dliness of which it is said, “No eye has seen, O G-d, besides You.” That is not an intellectual understanding. That is what the Zohar says. The Rebbe Rashab explains this at length in Hemshech 5666, which the Rebbe cites below. The idea is that a Jew studies Torah through effort, searching, waiting, and lingering over it. Over several maamarim there, he explains several approaches. What would a Jew gain if, seemingly, he could receive everything as a direct light? Why must it come through questions? What is the advantage of difficulties? Is the difficulty itself the advantage, or is it the refinement of the kelipah, or is the idea that by grappling with concealment one reaches the essential concealment of the Ein Sof? There are many levels discussed in Hemshech 5666. By the way, we are now at the beginning of the year 5666, the year of Hemshech 5666, one hundred years later. So there ought to be a special strength now in matters connected with Hemshech 5666. Actually, it already begins with the first [unclear]. There is a great deal there about those who “press into matters of wisdom.” What does that mean? Here, in the farbrengens there, the Rebbe explains it based on the content of the maamar. The Rebbe explains in the second paragraph on page 360, the second paragraph of the letter: What does “those who press into matters of wisdom” mean? They endeavor, or toil, to clarify the truth of those matters of wisdom until they know their Creator. That is what the Zohar means by “those who press into matters of wisdom.” I am not sure whether it means the words of wisdom or words concerning wisdom, so to speak. There is wisdom itself. I do not know whether the idea is that wisdom itself is the concealment—perhaps because it says, “Wisdom is the beginning,” and the beginning of the order of hishtalshelus is wisdom, which is the concealment—or whether wisdom is the revelation, while its “words” are malchus, words that conceal the wisdom. At any rate, it is something that conceals G-dliness. And what does “O G-d, besides You, what He will do” mean?

22:28 “O G-d, besides You.” This is not logic. That is what the Zohar says. The Rebbe Rashab explains it at length in Hemshech 5666, which the Rebbe cites here below. The idea is that a Jew studies Torah through effort, searching, waiting, and lingering over it. There he explains several maamarim, with several approaches in each maamar. What does it accomplish for a Jew to connect—seemingly, he could receive everything as direct light? Why must it come by way of a question? What is the advantage of difficulties? Is the difficulty itself the advantage, or is it the refinement of the kelipah? Or is the idea that through grappling with concealment, one reaches the essential concealment of the Ein Sof? There are several levels of explanation in Hemshech 5666. Incidentally, we are now at the beginning of the year 5666 of Hemshech 5666, one hundred years later. So there should be a special strength now in matters connected with Hemshech 5666. In fact, it already begins now, on the first of [unclear]. So there is a great deal there about “those who press themselves to understand matters of wisdom.” What does that mean? The Rebbe explains it here, based on the content of the maamar, in the second paragraph on page 360—the second paragraph of the letter. What does “those who press themselves to understand matters of wisdom” mean? That they strive, or labor, to clarify the true meaning of matters of wisdom, until they know their Creator. That is what the Zohar says: “Those who press themselves to understand matters of wisdom.” I don’t know whether the meaning here is the words of wisdom or the words that are about wisdom. There is wisdom itself. I don’t know whether the idea is that wisdom itself is the concealment—perhaps because it says, “The beginning is wisdom”: the beginning of the order of hishtalshelus is wisdom, and that is the concealment. Or perhaps wisdom is the revelation, while “the words of wisdom” refers to malchus—the words that conceal the wisdom. In any case, it is something that conceals G-dliness. And what does “O G-d, besides You, what He will do” mean?

24:14 “For the one who waits for Him” refers to those who wait, linger, make an effort, and labor to discover and clarify what is really hidden: what lies behind the concealment, or what causes the concealment? What causes the tzimtzum of G-dliness? What causes the exile? What causes G-dliness to be hidden? That is the meaning of “those who press into the words of wisdom.” And the Rebbe says this: What does it mean in our avodah? It refers to overcoming darkness. The Rebbe speaks of two kinds of darkness. The first darkness a person must overcome—and there is an order here to how things must be done—is the darkness within. What is the darkness within? His mind, the feelings in his heart. Then comes the darkness outside, the darkness of the world. You cannot drive away the darkness, overcome the darkness in the world, as long as you have not filled your mind with chochmah and binah and your heart with genuine love and awe. How else could you truly overcome the darkness? So “those who press into the words of wisdom” means struggling with the inner darkness and struggling with the outer darkness. First, the Rebbe gives three levels: nullifying it—nullifying the darkness. Beyond that, turning it into an aid. An aid, the Gemara says, has no substance of its own; it only helps. Until the darkness itself shines. That is what is called “those who press into the words of wisdom.” What will He do “for the one who waits for Him”? Someone who struggles with the darkness of exile, with the darkness and the concealment of G-dliness—then he knows, then the meaning is clear: “No eye has seen it, O G-d, besides You: what He will do for the one who waits for Him.” It follows that the Geulah comes. That is how the Rebbe explains it. In other words, let’s say it in Hebrew, rather than the language of the Zohar, which is written in Aramaic. Let’s say in Hebrew what the third approach in the letter means: a Jew’s waiting for Moshiach is not only because of Hashem’s command. So he waits for Moshiach,

25:58 sits and waits. Nor is it only that, because he wants to reach the time of Moshiach, he does mitzvos, and those mitzvos will bring about a state of being worthy, and then being worthy will bring the Geulah quickly. Rather, for a Jew, waiting for Moshiach means struggling with the inner darkness, struggling with the darkness of the exile outside, turning darkness into light, nullifying darkness, making darkness assist the revelation. In other words, what does it mean to wait for the Geulah? To confront the darkness of exile. Then we say, “What G-d will do for the one who waits for Him.” This is based on the Zohar and discussed at length on page 66. What is the difference between the second and third approaches? There is the obvious difference, which you see right away. In the second approach, a Jew’s waiting for Moshiach is expressed through doing good. What does it mean to wait for the Geulah? To add goodness, to add light. In the third approach, what does it mean to wait for the Geulah? To confront the darkness of exile—the inner darkness of the mind and the feelings, and the darkness of the world. To confront, nullify, overcome, or make use of the darkness of exile and illuminate it. That is the obvious distinction between the two approaches: in the first, waiting for the Geulah takes the form of doing good; in the second—yes, in the second—it takes the form of confronting the darkness and turning darkness into light. But on a deeper level, there is a very great difference between the second and third approaches. In the second approach, waiting—I mean waiting in the sense of anticipating—the expectation of salvation, the hope for salvation, and the work he does to bring the Geulah closer are two separate kinds of avodah. One causes the other and helps bring it about. That is, in the first approach, what he really wants is the Geulah. How do you bring the Geulah? He wants it, so: do something. Put on tefillin, keep Shabbos, say Birchas Hamazon. Love every Jew. Ahavas Yisroel brings the redeemer. You

28:28 want one thing? What do you say? You want to get there? You do all sorts of things that will get you there. But in essence—and the second thing, doing mitzvos, helps you bring the Geulah—but no, they are two separate things. In the third approach, waiting for Moshiach means confronting the darkness of the world. It is not that you wait for the Geulah, for the revelation of G-dliness in the Geulah, and someone tells you, “Go drive away the darkness, and then you’ll receive the Geulah.” No. Confronting the darkness is itself the waiting. That is “what He will do for the one who waits for Him.” The moment a Jew confronts the darkness, “what He will do for the one who waits for Him.” And if you look closely at the three approaches in the letter, there are four distinctions among them, with practical implications as well. In their essence, we have described three approaches. The first approach in the letter is: Why wait for Moshiach? Because Hashem commanded it. The prophet said, “Wait for him,” so you wait for Moshiach. The second approach is an incentive to fulfill mitzvos. That is, a Jew’s waiting for Moshiach motivates him to keep Torah and mitzvos. In the third approach, waiting for Moshiach means turning the darkness of exile into light. Those are the differences in their essence. The second distinction is what feeling a person has while anticipating Moshiach in each approach. In the first approach, many different feelings could lead him to fulfill it. How does a Jew fulfill the command to “wait for him”? For example, he can contemplate how bad exile is, how negative it is. He might look at the destruction of Gush Katif, for example, and that makes him anticipate the Geulah. Or a Jew sees that he is settled comfortably—“you shall eat and be satisfied,” “lest you build houses and dwell in them”—and he has no anticipation of the Geulah. So he can go to a hospital, G-d forbid,

30:27 and see Jews suffering. That awakens anticipation in him. He fulfills the command: “Wait for him.” He waits for the Geulah. One person might contemplate the pain of the Shechinah in exile. Another contemplates the troubles of the Jewish people. Another contemplates something else. A person might even do this to make himself wait for the Geulah: he eats something good and feels that he has forgotten he needs to wait for Moshiach, so he remembers his bank overdraft, and that itself makes him wait for Moshiach. He remembers his bank overdraft and fulfills the command according to the first approach. The feeling might be an awareness of what is lacking in exile, or it might come from the other side: a Jew contemplates the very good things there will be in the Geulah, the wonderful things. Moshiach will come. A little child sees candies on the trees. An adult sees quiet, peace, nachas, and makes a whole life out of it. There will be prosperity, materially and spiritually, in every respect. “He will bless your bread and your water, and I will remove illness from your midst”—materially. So he waits for the Geulah. But that is not the point here. It can take many forms. The main thing is to fulfill the command: “Wait for him”; wait for the Geulah. In the Rebbe’s second explanation here, a person cannot simply contemplate the virtues of the Geulah or the troubles of exile. That will not fulfill the second definition. To fulfill the second definition of anticipating the Geulah, he needs something more. What? He needs to learn Chassidus, or even mussar, or at least aggadah or the words of our Sages, about how bringing the Geulah depends on fulfilling mitzvos. If he only contemplates the destruction of Gush Katif to arouse a desire for Moshiach, he cannot reach the second approach. He needs something additional. He needs something more to fulfill the second approach. In general, one needs to know that if

32:17 There is a commandment to wait for Moshiach in the first sense. A person cannot just say, “There is a commandment to wait for Moshiach, so I’m waiting for Moshiach.” He isn’t waiting for Moshiach. It’s like the question the Maggid asked: How can one be commanded to love Hashem? The commandment is to work on it, to contemplate it. There is even a teaching from Reb Yitzchak of Komarna, cited in several places in the Rebbe’s notes, which says that when a Jew contemplates something that leads to love of Hashem, he isn’t merely preparing to fulfill the mitzvah. That is the mitzvah itself. One might have said that when a Jew studies Chassidus and contemplates it in order to reach love of Hashem, he is preparing to fulfill the mitzvah, and later, when his heart burns with love of Hashem, he will fulfill it. No. Reb Yitzchak of Komarna says the contemplation itself fulfills the mitzvah. Likewise, we could say that a person who engages in various forms of contemplation in order to wait for the Geulah is fulfilling the prophet’s command, “Wait for him.” But to fulfill the first approach in the letter, he can contemplate how lowly golus is, or the desecration of Hashem’s name in the world as long as Moshiach has not come, or his own difficulties in serving Hashem—and he waits for Moshiach. For the second approach, that is not enough. To reach the approach the Rebbe describes, he must study the teachings of our Sages and Chassidus and see that the Geulah comes through adding in Torah and mitzvos. And not just study it: he must study it in a way that brings him to such anticipation of the Geulah that it strengthens his observance of Torah and mitzvos. If he merely waits for the Geulah but does not add in Torah and mitzvos because of his anticipation of salvation, he has not reached the second approach. But for the third approach, even that is not enough. Without studying Chassidus, one cannot fulfill the third approach. If a Jew does not study Chassidus, and does not study Chassidus

34:04 in a way that changes him—so that what he yearns for is G-dliness, the revelation of G-dliness, and the banishment of the spiritual darkness in the world and within himself—then it is not simply that studying Chassidus helps him put the third approach into practice. In the third approach the Rebbe describes here, his anticipation of the Geulah leads him to engage specifically in matters of wisdom: he banishes darkness in order to reveal G-dliness in the world. But to have that very kind of anticipation, one that expresses itself specifically in matters of wisdom, he needs to study Chassidus. He needs to study maamarim and sichos and many other subjects, so that he develops this inner anticipation, which leads him to engage specifically in matters of wisdom. So, the second distinction we mentioned is: What does he feel as he waits? And does he need to study for that—what does he need to study? In the first approach, he can go about the world and fulfill the commandment to wait for the Geulah. In the second, he needs to study how observing Torah and mitzvos brings the Geulah. In the third, which the Rebbe explains here, he needs to study Chassidus so that he waits for him specifically in matters of wisdom, fighting the darkness of the world. There is another practical difference: What are the results of this anticipation? What happens when a Jew waits for the Geulah? In the first approach, a Jew waited for the Geulah. What did that accomplish? He fulfilled Hashem’s command. The prophet says, “Wait for him.” The Gemara in Sanhedrin cites this regarding waiting for the Geulah. You waited for the Geulah; you fulfilled Hashem’s command. That is all. There are no further goals here. In the second approach, besides fulfilling Hashem’s command, you also increase your observance of many other mitzvos. The result is not only that you fulfill Hashem’s command by waiting for the Geulah itself. You observe Shabbos more carefully. You—as it says in Igeres Hakodesh, there are dozens of things

35:53 connected with bringing the Geulah: tzedakah, teshuvah, prayer, purity. The Rebbe’s Igeres Hakodesh, and the Rebbe’s letters too, connect many things with it. So the result of anticipating salvation is not only fulfilling Hashem’s command by waiting for the Geulah. It also has many results in the observance of mitzvos and the study of Torah, and in bringing more and more light into the world. That is one result. The second result of the second approach is something we will not know yet. What is that result? Hastening the coming of the Geulah. When will we know how much we hastened it? When Moshiach comes, you will know whether you hastened his coming by seconds, minutes, days or years. The additional result of the second approach—anticipating salvation in order to hasten Moshiach’s coming—is something we will know when Moshiach comes. A person who lives with this constantly, whose anticipation of salvation moves him to add in Torah and mitzvos—when will he know whether his anticipation had that result? Did all his actions hasten Moshiach’s coming? Certainly they did. But by how much? Seconds? Minutes? Days? Years? He will know when Moshiach comes. Until then, that result remains hidden. In the third approach, [unclear], there is a completely different result. Anticipating salvation is itself the battle against the darkness of golus. It is itself the transformation of the darkness of golus into light, the removal of that darkness. What is the result? It does not come only when Moshiach arrives. When does it come? If, right now, because he anticipates salvation, he has driven out some particular desire of his animal soul as part of banishing the darkness of golus, he has brought Geulah into the world right now. The immediate result is that there is one more corner of his body, one more corner of his emotions,

37:47 one more corner of his mind, one more corner of the world, one more group of Jews, from which he has banished the darkness of golus. Or more than that: he has turned the darkness into something that assists G-dliness. Or more than that: he has transformed the darkness of golus into G-dly light. So the result is immediate. In the first approach, you fulfill Hashem’s command. In the second, you have not only fulfilled Hashem’s command; it also helps you fulfill other mitzvos, but we will know the result as far as the Geulah is concerned only then. In the third approach, at every moment that a person anticipates salvation in this way—and as we said, this is not just saying, “I anticipate salvation.” It isn’t a slogan. It is a form of avodah that requires a great deal of study of Chassidus in order to live with it. So every second brings a result. This calls for further study. There are various sichos of the Rebbe; for example, there is a sicha in volume 8, Parshas Metzora, in which the Rebbe discusses two ways our avodah is connected with bringing the Geulah. Is it one thing or two separate things? And we need to examine whether these correspond to the two points in the letter. We won’t go into that here. If there is time, or afterward, we can discuss it at a farbrengen. There are many sichos of the Rebbe connected with these two points, but all this makes the questions even stronger. We understood from the letter that there are three ways of defining anticipation of salvation. The Jewish people must not merely believe in Moshiach, or [unclear]; they must live with it. A Jew must anticipate it because of the command “Wait for him,” as explained in the Gemara in Sanhedrin; also because adding in Torah and mitzvos hastens the coming of the redeemer; and also so that every moment he acts with this anticipation of salvation, he banishes the darkness of golus and brings light into the world.

39:29 Why, in 5746, did the Rebbe suddenly need to explain why he was giving classes about the coming of Moshiach? And the Rebbe found a basis for it in earlier sages: there is the Chida, there is the Radak, there are explanations. The Rebbe himself writes in a letter and offers tremendous new insights—three aspects of anticipating the Geulah. What makes it even harder to understand is that a few years later, the Rebbe says he has no explanation for this, and that he did not see it with his father or with the Rebbe Rashab. This matter of anticipating the Geulah is something of his own. What is going on here? We already have three explanations, any one of which a person could live with for a lifetime. Even the first idea—that a Jew wants to fulfill Hashem’s command to await the Geulah. So why does the Rebbe need to explain himself? What is the point? First, let’s look at it simply, on the plain level. Afterward, perhaps we’ll look at it more—on the plain level. If we look at the Chida in Midbar Kedemos, under the entry “Kivui,” and at the Radak, we see that this is not about a Jew waiting for Moshiach and that leading to further results. As though, because he is waiting for Moshiach, he fights the exile; because he is waiting for Moshiach, he does more mitzvos. The Chida says: we have no merit. In the Chida, he discusses “May You speedily cause the scion of David Your servant to flourish.” A Jew says every day in davening, “May You speedily cause the scion of David Your servant to flourish, and raise his glory through Your salvation.” Why? Because—why? Because “we have hoped for Your salvation all day long.” Not as we would ordinarily understand it. Without the Chida, the plain meaning is: Why do we ask for this? Why do we want it? We say to Hashem: We ask You to bring Moshiach. Why do we ask? Because, Hashem, You should know that we wait for it all day long. That is the simple meaning. “May You speedily cause the scion of David Your servant to flourish”

41:36 “Heal us, Hashem, and we shall be healed.” We daven. Why do we ask for that? “Healer of the sick of His people Israel.” Why do we ask? We have a problem. “Bless this year for us”—bless us with a livelihood, because we have a problem at the bank. And “May there be no hope for informers”: we ask because we have a problem with the kelipos. “Builder of Jerusalem”—but why do we want Moshiach? So, you have to wait. We wait for it all the time; we want the Geulah. Why should You bring us the Geulah? What can we present to You? Have we transformed the world? Have we made a dwelling place for Hashem in the lower realms? Are we so meticulous in our mitzvos? Why do we ask for the Geulah? The Chida says: Although we have no merit, because we await the Geulah, bring us the Geulah. The very act of awaiting the Geulah is the reason to bring us the Geulah. In other words, it is not that hoping for the Geulah causes a person to—it does affect a person, but that is not what we are talking about here. No, the point of the insight is: we have no merit. We have many merits, but Jews in exile have reached such a level of bittul that all those merits count for nothing. A Jew asks Hakadosh Boruch Hu, “May You speedily cause the scion of David Your servant to flourish.” Why? Because we await Moshiach. Because through this hope, we will receive the reward of the Geulah. And seemingly, the Radak is saying something along the same lines. I am citing two sources here, the Radak and the Chida. What does the Radak say? Why await the Geulah? The Radak does not say: Await the Geulah because it will help you keep Torah and mitzvos. Await the Geulah because it will give you strength, or strength to fight the exile. Know that there was a time when Jews did not await the rebuilding of the Beis Hamikdash, and they were punished. So await the Geulah. Awaiting the Geulah is itself the goal. “And therefore the elders and prophets instituted that Israel should pray with their mouths three—”

43:40 Three times every day: “Return Your Shechinah to Zion.” Pray constantly and live with the Geulah. Not because it will help you be more meticulous in keeping Shabbos or give more tzedakah. Await the Geulah. That is what the Radak says. That is, seemingly, what they have in common. There are many differences between the Radak and the Chida, but what these two have in common differs from what we learned in the letter. In the letter, we learned that awaiting the Geulah leads to further results: it leads to an increase in Torah and mitzvos; it leads a Jew to fight the exile. So hope for the Geulah serves something else. Or perhaps it is not merely a means—it brings vitality to something else. Fighting the exile is an expression of awaiting the Geulah. Here they say: Fight the exile, but there is something else as well. Wait. “We have hoped for Your salvation all day long.” Daven for the Geulah; await the Geulah. That, quite simply, is the new point here. In 5746, the Rebbe asked of us another level in the avodah of anticipating the Geulah: to anticipate the Geulah, to anticipate the Geulah as something in its own right. That is why he cited a sage—this appears in Midbar Kedemos, and there is such a Radak. It is a new idea, an additional level beyond the three levels mentioned in the letter. To understand the difference between what is written in the letter and what is written in the sicha, let’s first examine the distinction within that level itself, within what the Rebbe says in 5746: the difference between Midbar Kedemos and the Radak. Let’s look at their words. I’ll offer you two possibilities. What does it mean to await the Geulah? What does it mean to anticipate salvation, or to say, “We have hoped for Your salvation all day long”? One possibility is that a Jew waits for Moshiach. He waits, simply living all the time with the thought: When will it come? When will the Geulah come? A second possibility is that he is constantly crying out and davening to Hashem: Bring us the Geulah. He cries out to Hashem to bring him the Geulah. If we look at these two sources, the words of the Chida and the words of the Radak,

45:47 they are two entirely different approaches. Let’s look at the Radak. In the Radak, the emphasis is not so much on the feeling of what he calls hope. It is all davening. A Jew needs to daven, “How long?”—to ask, to daven, and to anticipate the Geulah. Of course, that does not mean only that when he picks up a siddur and reaches one part out of the nineteen blessings of Shemoneh Esrei, he cries out, “We have hoped for Your salvation all day long.” No, no. In the morning, when he says Modeh Ani, it is really “How long, Hashem?” When he washes his hands, it is “How long, Hashem?” When he goes out on mivtzoim, it is “How long, Hashem?” When he says Shema before bed, it is “How long, Hashem?” When he speaks with his children, it is “How long, Hashem?” When he speaks with the people he is close to, he is constantly crying out, “How long, Hashem?” He simply cries it out in different ways. Even when he eats, when he bentches, he is constantly davening and saying, “How long, Hashem?” He constantly lives with a prayer for the Geulah. That is what the Radak says: “that Israel should pray with their mouths.” They daven all the time. And if we look there at the punishment—what was the punishment? I have to finish. Ah, yes. Huh? Really? How much time is that? Give me the exact time. Finish—finish the point, or finish the—finish the point; I need a few more minutes. Finish the point. Huh? We can stop. The question is whether... Yes. What? In the middle. In the Radak, it is a matter of davening, of “How long?”, of crying out to Hashem. In the Chida, he does daven to Hashem. [unclear] But he wants a reason why Hashem should give him the Geulah: “Because we have hoped for Your salvation all day long.” In other words, the emphasis is not so much on davening to Hashem. He does daven to Hashem, but he is described as having no merits. The anticipation

47:47 Waiting for the Geulah is something in its own right. It is not just a matter of prayer; it is a feeling of anticipation, of constantly hoping for the Geulah. We see this in the Chida. What does the Chida mean? One could force an interpretation—but, G-d forbid, I don’t want to force one. It isn’t clear to me. Perhaps we could say that this is the first definition given in that letter: to wait. Why wait? What does “wait” mean? Wait for what? What will waiting do for you? Is it so that you will do more in your service of Hashem? No. We don’t have formulas. Is it so that you will pray? No. What does it mean to wait? In the letter, the first definition of anticipating the Geulah is fulfilling Hashem’s command to wait. “Wait for it,” it says in Chavakuk: “Though it tarries, wait for it.” So wait. Fulfill the command. But the first difficulty with this is: if so, why does the Rebbe look for this in the Chida? If it is a matter of fulfilling a command, say that it is a verse in the Prophets. After all, the Rebbe himself cites the verse and the Gemara in Sanhedrin, which explains that it is a command to wait. So why bring in the Chida? It seems to me that there is some new point in “For Your salvation we have hoped all day.” The Gemara in Sanhedrin explains “wait for it,” the verse in Chavakuk. Some do explain the verse differently: “Wait for it” means wait for the calamity. But the Gemara in Sanhedrin interprets it as “wait for the Geulah.” So why is the explanation in [unclear] needed? What does the Chida have to do with this, and why the lengthy explanation that the Chida was an authority in both the revealed Torah and Chassidus? What is going on here? That is one difficulty. The second difficulty is that, in the first approach, the command does not bring the Geulah. The command is “wait for it”; a person has to wait. Here they are saying that the waiting itself brings the Geulah. The very fact that a Jew waits brings the Geulah. A Jew waits for Moshiach. That is why it says this

49:43 in the Chida. Why? Will Hakadosh Boruch Hu bring us miracles for no reason? Because we are waiting. That is why Hakadosh Boruch Hu will bring us the Geulah. But why, really? Because we fulfilled Hashem’s command? Then it is not necessarily the command to wait for the Geulah. Someone who gives a lot of tzedakah, or fulfills the mitzvah of Torah study, also does so—as the Alter Rebbe says in Igeres Hakodesh, there are many mitzvos whose purpose is to bring the Geulah. So what is the great new point here? It would be one more command of Hashem that you fulfill, though waiting is built into its very content. Perhaps this is what the Rebbe means when he says that waiting here means living with the Geulah, living with Moshiach. You can say, “I live with Moshiach.” You can even write it on the wall of your house: “I live with Moshiach.” But living with Moshiach means that a Jew waits for the Geulah. What does it mean to wait for the Geulah? In simple, practical terms, it means learning Chassidus. Someone who learns Chassidus. And it does not only give him vitality in Torah and mitzvos. It gives him a yearning for the Geulah, a yearning for the revelation of G-dliness. “G-d acts for one who waits for Him.” He waits for Hashem’s salvation not only because it will lead him to other results. Waiting for the Geulah is itself the goal. It is not an incentive toward something else. In all the previous approaches, there is another goal. In the first approach, for example, the goal is to fulfill Hashem’s command. How do you fulfill His command? By waiting for the Geulah. The second approach is a little higher: the goal is not only to fulfill that particular command, but to fulfill all the mitzvos with vitality. How do you get a Jew to fulfill Torah and mitzvos with vitality? Wait for Moshiach, and then you will fulfill all of Torah and mitzvos with vitality. In the third approach, you go further: you fight the darkness of

51:46 the animal soul; you fight the darkness of the world. How do you fight? Because you are waiting for the Geulah. In the fourth approach, that of the Radak, you want Hakadosh Boruch Hu to bring Moshiach. That is your goal—Moshiach is your goal. So you pray all the time, constantly praying to bring the Geulah. In the approach of Midbar Kedemos, the meaning is that, for a Jew, this is itself the goal: “For Your salvation we have hoped all day.” There may be a sicha of the Rebbe’s at [unclear] of [unclear]. It is very interesting that the Rebbe speaks there about two sides. Perhaps that will explain the difference between the Radak and Midbar Kedemos. The Rebbe spoke there at [unclear] of [unclear]. The Rebbe cried a great deal during that sicha. It is a famous sicha; it is shown often. “Zuntik zucht, montik zucht, dinstik zucht”—on Sunday he searches, on Monday he searches, on Tuesday he searches. The Rebbe speaks about a Jew, using the analogy that Hakadosh Boruch Hu does not bring the Geulah because the father wants his son to look for him, and the son looks for his father. And the Rebbe cried: “Zuntik zucht, montik zucht, dinstik zucht.” On Sunday he looks for his father. On Monday he looks for his father, and the Geulah still has not come. And the Rebbe cried. There are two things in that sicha. On the one hand, there is the explanation that searching—searching for Hashem—is itself important. Waiting for the Geulah expresses the fact that a Jew is looking for Hakadosh Boruch Hu, looking for the revelation of G-dliness in the world. That is one thing. There is a second thing he is looking for, but I think these are the two sides of the distinction. With the Radak, it is “How long?” A Jew prays to Hashem: I want the Geulah already. With Midbar Kedemos, the search itself is the purpose: that a Jew should search. What he should yearn for is the revelation of G-dliness in the world. That is Geulah—the revelation of G-dliness in the world. That is what he yearns for: that Hakadosh Boruch Hu should have a dwelling place down here, that Hakadosh Boruch Hu should have a home, that there should be Geulah. It is the search itself,

53:41 not the results it brings. In a way, I would even say these are two sides that somewhat contradict each other. That is why the Rebbe cried at that farbrengen. It was not only crying from pain. There is also this aspect of crying: enough—we want the other side already, the Geulah. Not just waiting for the Geulah, not just anticipating the Geulah. This is explained a great deal in Chabad, [unclear]. Perhaps it goes deeper. It is explained further in the Rebbe’s maamar “Ve’atah Tetzaveh,” the last maamar the Rebbe distributed. There he says that it pains a Jew that there is no revelation of G-dliness in the world. If you look in chapter 41 of Tanya, the Alter Rebbe speaks about beinonim, who are not tzaddikim and who still have an animal soul. A beinoni would be fooling himself if he said that the revelation of G-dliness in the world matters to him, that a dwelling place for Hashem in the lower realms matters to him. What can a beinoni say? That there is no revelation of G-dliness. That comes naturally. But to say that the revelation of G-dliness in the world matters to him—he needs to say it, but it is not a genuine intention, says the Alter Rebbe. And suddenly, here in “Ve’atah Tetzaveh,” what does the Rebbe want? What does the Rebbe want—that a Jew should be in pain? That he should be broken because, in the state of galus, there really is no revelation of G-dliness in the world? This is something else, another level of anticipating the Geulah. But this level, the Rebbe says, has no rationale. [unclear] It has no rationale. This level of pain, of anticipating the Geulah, is not an incentive toward something else; it is anticipation of the Geulah itself. This is how a Jew should live within galus. It is something that has no rationale. The first idea is to wait for the Geulah because it is Hashem’s command. Everyone can relate to that. The second idea is to wait for the Geulah so that it will motivate him to fulfill Torah and mitzvos. The third idea

55:26 When a Jew waits for the Geulah, he fights the darkness of exile. The fourth level is prayer and crying out to Hashem with tears. The fifth level is that it matters to a Jew, in his very essence, that G-dliness is not revealed in the world. That is what it means to await the Geulah, and that is the Rebbe’s insight. Perhaps we can organize this a little in our minds and give it a mnemonic, as people do, to remember the five levels. We could use something familiar from Chassidus: NaRaN ChaY—nefesh, ruach, neshamah, chayah, yechidah. What is nefesh? Nefesh is connected to action: a Jew observes Torah and mitzvos in practice. Ruach is the middos, the emotions—love and awe. Neshamah is the intellect. Chayah is transcendent, and yechidah is the essence of the soul. Perhaps these correspond to the five levels. On the first level, he awaits the Geulah because he was commanded to do so in practice. Hakadosh Boruch Hu said to await the Geulah, so he awaits it. How does he do that? By contemplating the darkness of exile, or by contemplating the great qualities of the Beis Hamikdash? It does not matter which; he then awaits the Geulah. The very act of awaiting it fulfills a command. The second level is ruach. This is the spirit of observing Torah and mitzvos—the emotions. For him to have love and awe, his observance of Torah and mitzvos needs feeling and an anticipation of the Geulah. That gives his Torah and mitzvos vitality, spirit and emotion. The third level is that, in essence, he is fighting the darkness of exile. In other words, the substance of his avodah is a battle against exile. This corresponds to neshamah. The fourth level, as the Radak writes, is prayer—like the Alter Rebbe’s prayer—and corresponds to chayah. In other words, it is not about himself. He prays to Hashem; he goes beyond himself, asking Hashem to bring the Geulah at every moment, as though all day long. The fifth level is that the matter

57:08 of awaiting the Geulah touches a Jew personally. This is a revelation of the essence of the soul, as the Rebbe explains at length in Ve’atah Tetzaveh. And I want to say one thing: perhaps this is the meaning of Rashi’s words, “Did you await salvation?”—the words of the prophets. The Ran understands Rashi as follows: What do “the words of the prophets” mean in “Did you await salvation?” That you should await the fulfillment of the prophets’ words. Rashi says that “Did you await salvation?” means something like—look at it this way—awaiting salvation as the prophets themselves longed for it. Not all the levels: it is not merely that you awaited salvation because things were bad for you, but that you awaited salvation as in the words of the prophets. Perhaps that is the meaning. This is only a possibility, not necessarily the explanation, but it would seem that these levels of awaiting salvation are found in the Rebbe’s letters and sichos. [unclear] May it be Hashem’s will that, even in the middle of this gathering, there will truly be someone here who awaits salvation on any one of these five levels. In that merit, may Hakadosh Boruch Hu bring us salvation and the building of the Beis Hamikdash speedily in our days, amen.

00:00 Yes, the concept of lights and vessels is well known in Chassidus. In fact, the life-force of all the worlds passes through the lights and vessels of the higher worlds. This concept of lights and vessels exists at every level. But what is the difference between lights and vessels in holiness and in kelipah? In other words, there are lights and vessels in holiness, and we will see the concept of lights and vessels in kelipah too. Where is the distinction? What distinguishes holiness from kelipah in the relationship between lights and vessels? What is the test for knowing which realm a level belongs to? At what point can we say that a level belongs to holiness because of a certain relationship between the vessel and the light, and at what point do we say that we are no longer dealing with holiness because that relationship has changed? The difference between lights and vessels is really contained in the words themselves. The light is the inner content, the life-force of the thing—the Divine life-force that gives life to the created beings and the worlds. The vessel is the power of limitation: it limits and constricts the light so that created beings can receive it. Think of an ordinary vessel: a person takes a cup and drinks something. What matters, the inner content, is what he wants to drink. The vessel gives him a way to hold it, a way to connect with it. In Likkutei Tanya, the Alter Rebbe discusses the relationship between lights and vessels in a maamar. This is the first time it appears in Chassidus. The example is brought many times, but this is the first source that presents the relationship between light and vessel. The Alter Rebbe cites the Mishnah in Shabbos, in the chapter Hamatznia: “One who carries out food in a vessel, when the food is less than the required measure, is exempt even for the vessel, because the vessel is subordinate to it.” In other words, we see that the vessel is not counted as a thing in its own right, even though the person

02:21 carries out a vessel. Since what he wants is the contents of the vessel, and liability for carrying on Shabbos requires a minimum measure, he is exempt even for the vessel when the food inside does not reach that measure: the vessel is subordinate to it. Here we see that the vessel is nullified to the light. The Alter Rebbe uses several expressions. He says that the vessel is subordinate to it, that the vessel is nullified, and concludes that it is in a state of actual nullification relative to the light. These are three expressions the Alter Rebbe uses for the vessel’s relationship to the light. The vessel can be subordinate, it can be nullified, or it can be in a state of actual nullification relative to the light. It seems these are not just different words; they express different degrees of the vessel’s nullification to the light. To clarify this further, since the Alter Rebbe brings an example from tractate Shabbos concerning the vessel’s relationship to the light, let us bring another example from Shabbos. On page 5b: “Rava asked: If a nut is in a vessel, and the vessel is floating on water, do we go by the nut, which is at rest, or do we go by the vessel, which is not at rest? The question remains unresolved.” We know that to be liable for carrying on Shabbos, there must be both a lifting and a placing down. The object must come to rest. So Rava asks: if a person places a vessel by itself on water, the vessel does not come to rest. There has been no placing down, and he will not be liable. But what if the person carried out a nut in a vessel? The nut is at rest; it has been placed down inside the vessel. But the vessel is not at rest. If we go by the nut, there has been a placing down. If we go by the vessel, there has not. The question remains unresolved. How should we understand this uncertainty? I saw a book, the responsa Eretz Tzvi,

04:36 whose works are in the revealed dimension of Torah, though he himself was a very Chassidic Jew. He is known as the gaon of Kozhiglov. He became the rosh yeshivah of Yeshivas Chachmei Lublin after Rabbi Meir Shapiro. In his books, he explains that Rava’s question here concerns the degree to which the vessel is nullified to the light. That is what he says; he uses that very expression. What does it mean for the vessel to be nullified to the light? We might say that although the nut is primary—let us call it the light—the inner content is what matters to the person, he nevertheless needs the vessel, because without it he cannot use the nut. So the vessel matters to him too. True, it is not primary. The vessel really is subordinate to the nut. The main thing is the nut, but he still needs the vessel, so the vessel has significance. In that case there has been no placing down: if I consider the whole act of carrying out, he carried out a complete thing, a nut and a vessel, and one part of it—the vessel, which matters to him—is not at rest. Or perhaps we say no: since what matters to him is the nut, which we will call the light, the vessel has no significance at all; only the nut does. He does not want the vessel; he wants the nut. I do not take the vessel into account, because it is the nut, not the vessel, that matters to the person. I need to consider only the nut’s position. He presents these two possibilities. Then he brings a third possibility, and I think this is his innovation here: since the person needs the vessel for the nut, and the nut is what matters to him, but he does need the vessel for the nut right now, the vessel becomes part of the nut. It is as though we have one big nut. We will see this with other examples,

06:34 but the main point becomes clearer in Chassidus. So now we have a nut in a vessel, and if we follow this approach, the vessel too matters: it has become part of the nut. That leaves me with a question, because the vessel is not at rest. I remember—I once read a story, though I do not remember who told it. He once—since we are now on the eve of Rosh Chodesh Menachem Av—he visited the Rebbe’s father, Reb Levik, and entered a Gemara class he was teaching. He says that when he came in, Reb Levik was teaching tractate Shabbos, this passage about Rava and the nut in the vessel. Reb Levik explained the question in terms of the relationship between the vessel and the nut, but the person who told the story did not remember the explanation. He said he had not understood what Reb Levik explained or said. I do not know what the explanation was, but here we can see three kinds of relationship between vessel and light. In the first, the vessel is subordinate; the light is primary. The vessel is separate from the light and subordinate to it, but it still exists in its own right. In the second, the vessel does not count at all; only the light counts. We do not take the vessel into account at all. In the third, the vessel becomes part of the light, part of the thing itself. Perhaps this is what lies behind the three expressions the Alter Rebbe uses here when he gives the example of carrying something out in a vessel. He speaks of being nullified and of being subordinate, and then he comes to the World of Atzilus. We will see that there is a difference between the worlds: there, the vessels are utterly and truly nullified to the light. There, they become one, deriving from the One. We will see that the meaning

08:20 is that the vessels become G-dliness, one part of G-dliness. But with a vessel down here, there is subordination and nullification. Subordinate describes the first case, where the vessel is separate. Nullified means that we do not take the vessel into account at all; we consider the light. The third possibility is to reach a state where the vessel is truly one with the light. To understand this better—perhaps to understand the term as well—when discussing a vessel, an example is brought from light and vessel, from a parable and what it represents. A teacher wants to convey a deep intellectual idea, but the student cannot understand it as it is. So the teacher conveys it through a parable. The parable is the vessel through which the student will understand what it represents. The first way a student can approach a parable is this: a good student knows that the main thing is the idea the teacher wants to convey to him. The parable is a nice story the teacher tells him. It may be a nice story, but he has to know that it is not what he should live with. What he needs to live with, work at, and truly understand is the idea, the depth of his teacher’s profound teaching. But he cannot reach the depth of his teacher’s idea without hearing and understanding the parable. In this approach, the student is still in his own world. He understands the parable on his own terms, and it remains separate from what it represents, from the idea. But he knows that he cannot grasp the idea, what the parable represents, without the parable. So here the parable is simply a vessel, a means of conveying the idea. The second thing required of the student is to reach a state—and this is already a higher level—where, as he receives the parable, he

10:16 He can reach a point where he knows that what he is living with now—and what he needs to live with altogether—is the nimshal, and he gets no real sense of vitality from understanding the mashal. He needs to move beyond it. His whole drive is to get past the mashal, past the simple examples the teacher gives, and reach the abstract idea, to understand the depth of the teacher’s words. In other words, in the first approach, the student lives with the mashal and understands it, but knows that it is not the goal. He has to work to understand the nimshal. There is a third state, a third level, where the mashal is already part of the nimshal. The student reaches a point where he sees it. He has come to understand the depth of his teacher’s thought. So later, when he walks down the street and sees the very scene, the very mashal, that the teacher gave him, he says: “I’m not just seeing the scene here. My teacher saw the depth in this scene that I now see before my eyes. What I’m seeing here now is the depth of my teacher’s thought.” He sees the mashal, the scene he received from his teacher, but he does not see it as a mashal, as something separate. He sees the nimshal in it. That is how it is in the depth of the teacher’s thought. We’ll come to Shlomo Hamelech and see this. The point is that, in the depth of the teacher’s understanding and intellect, the mashal and the nimshal are one. They are not two separate things. We’ll come to how Shlomo Hamelech, the wisest of all men, was remarkable for his ability to bring an idea down through a thousand mashalim. This does not mean only that he brought it down through the power of his intellect. Rather, Shlomo Hamelech saw how the mashal is part of the nimshal. He reached the very depths of the intellect. I have to quote [unclear]: there is no distinction between

11:52 the mashal and the nimshal. So in the relationship between a mashal and its nimshal, we see the three states we mentioned. We’ll see this even more clearly in the question of how the vessel is subordinate to the light in these three states. The Alter Rebbe says in Likkutei Torah, in Parshas Masei, that Torah is lights: “For there are lights and vessels Above. Torah, which is in the category of wisdom and intellect, is in the category of lights, while the mitzvos, which are in the category of action, are in the category of vessels.” In other words, the Alter Rebbe says that Torah is the lights and the mitzvos are the vessels. Put simply, what is the purpose of the mitzvos? To bring the lights of Torah down into the world of action. There is a sicha in which the Rebbe explains the teaching, “Study is greater because it leads to action.” The Rebbe describes three states. If we are saying that Torah study is lights and mitzvos are vessels, then in Likkutei Sichos, volume 35, the Rebbe brings a sicha in Yiddish. There are three ways to understand “Study is greater because it leads to action.” In the first two interpretations, the idea is as follows: study is greater. Simply, what does “Study is greater because it leads to action” mean? That study is what is greater; study is the main thing. But why “because it leads to action”? According to the first interpretation, as the Rebbe explains here, for a person to establish that his reasoning is correct, he must check it against practice as well. He proposes an explanation, studies a complex argument, studies a subject—and to check whether what he has learned is correct, whether it accords with Hashem’s will or Hashem’s wisdom, he looks to see whether that is what the Shulchan Aruch or the Mishnah says. If they say the opposite, that is a sign his reasoning is wrong. According to this interpretation, action—the vessel—is secondary to the light. His main concern is

14:08 to study and understand. His effort is in Torah study, in becoming engaged with it and understanding its depth. But he needs some way to check whether his reasoning is correct. That is the test. So in this state, the action of the mitzvos—if we think of them as the vessels—is actually separate from the study. It only serves as a test that confirms whether his understanding is correct. On the second level, the Rebbe explains that the fullest realization of study—“study is greater”—comes when it leads to action. What does that mean? A person knows that he has to bring an intellectual question to a decision. It is like judges sitting together, knowing that their discussion of Choshen Mishpat and the commentaries on the Shulchan Aruch has practical bearing on a dispute between two Jews over money. Because they have to bring their study into practice and issue a ruling, it sharpens their minds and deepens their understanding, bringing their study to its fullest realization. So what emerges in this state? A Jew needs to know that when he studies Torah, he must afterward fulfill mitzvos; his study must lead to actual practice. When you want something to have practical results, you have to push yourself to study even harder. The light of intellect should not grow dim because you are descending into action. For the world of action, you need more light. So here, the role of action is simply to reveal more light. This is like the second way of looking at the matter: the student needs to reach a point where the whole purpose of the mashal, what he really needs to live with, is the nimshal—the light within it. And even when there is a mashal, the direction is the other way around:

16:03 How can I understand the nimshal more deeply? But in the third approach the Rebbe discusses, “Study is greater because it leads to action,” the previous two interpretations both mean that study is greater—that study is truly the main thing. The light is primary, and the vessel is either secondary or serves to bring about a greater revelation of light. In that case, I am not relating to the vessel as a vessel. I am relating to the revelation of light that I have here. In the third approach the Rebbe brings, “Study is greater because it leads to action” does not mean that study is greater when it remains in the world of light. Quite the opposite: study is greater because it leads to action. When is study truly greater? When it permeates knowledge and the world of action as well. Action, too, becomes part of the light. The wisdom is expressed even in the vessel—the mitzvos he performs—and in the act itself. When you see a Jew performing mitzvos, you do not see just a Jew performing mitzvos. You see a Jew who studies Torah and whose vitality is in Torah study. It is not merely that the Torah says there are also certain times when one must perform mitzvos, so he goes and performs them. No: when he goes to perform a mitzvah, you can see what he is doing and why. His fulfillment of mitzvos springs from the same vitality that animates his study. There is no difference between his vitality when he studies and delves into the depths of Torah and his performance of mitzvos in the plainest sense. Even in the simplest act he performs, you can see that it springs from that same vitality of Torah study. In other words, action is not separate from study; action is part of study. There’s no note here; it isn’t indicated. We didn’t include the footnote. Below, in Likkutei Sichos, there’s a footnote in which the Rebbe gives an example of how action is part of

17:49 from the light. But the point, according to the third interpretation, is that Torah study is great because it leads to action. In other words, the vessel—the mitzvos—is not something separate, secondary, or merely in service of Torah, but part of the Torah itself. Part of the vitality of his Torah study is expressed when he performs a mitzvah. When he performs a mitzvah, you see the same vitality, the same intensity, the same thirst for it as when he studies Torah. So the vessel becomes part of the light. We see the same three states here. We were discussing the vessels and how they relate to the light: are they something separate? In the first two states, the vessel is separate from the light; in the third, the vessel and the light are one. Let’s bring another example. There are quite a few examples of this, but let’s take one from volume 30. There the Rebbe discusses the Shemoneh Esrei prayer. We know the halachah that when praying Shemoneh Esrei, a person must speak loudly enough to hear himself. What does it mean that the prayer is said quietly? It is said quietly, but you have to articulate the words. It doesn’t mean being so quiet that you cannot hear them at all. The Rebbe cites the Zohar, which says that one should not articulate the words at all. That would be prayer in complete silence—not even audible to one’s own ears. And the Alter Rebbe says something in Torah Or that seems, at first glance, to be a novel idea. The Rebbe also suggests what the Alter Rebbe’s source might be: in the time to come, Shemoneh Esrei will be recited aloud, in a normal speaking voice. So we have three states concerning how Shemoneh Esrei should be said. And in the sicha, particularly at its conclusion, the Rebbe explains this. These are essentially the three states we’ve just discussed. At the first level, a Jew is at the ordinary level of today, as set out in the Shulchan Aruch. He is

20:07 the vessel, standing now before Hakadosh Boruch Hu, before the light. In this state, the vessel still has a sense of its own existence. You cannot demand that he be completely silent, that he nullify himself entirely and cease to exist as a separate entity. So at the first level—and this is the halachah in the Shulchan Aruch—we tell a Jew: You are not required to be utterly silent, to be completely nullified. Pray in a way that you can hear your prayer. But know that you are still in the state of a vessel, and therefore

00:00 The idea of an additional soul on Shabbos is not discussed in many places in Chassidus. In halachah, as we all know, the additional soul is mentioned in the Shulchan Aruch in connection with the end of Shabbos. We smell spices at the end of Shabbos because the additional soul is now leaving a person, and the soul grieves over its departure. So we revive the soul by smelling the spices. That is what halachah says, on a simple level, about the additional soul. First of all, what is an additional soul? What does it mean—a second soul arrives? What is this additional soul that everyone receives on Shabbos? And second, why is it connected specifically to Shabbos? We will need to understand that. And more generally, what does the plain meaning of the Shulchan Aruch mean when it says that the additional soul leaves a person at the end of Shabbos, and therefore we smell spices to revive the soul? If the whole matter of the spices is connected with the additional soul leaving a person, that is not such a happy occasion that we should make a blessing over it. What are we blessing? The soul is leaving us. So what do you do? Take some spices and strengthen yourself. But what is the blessing about? If the additional soul were entering, that would be a reason for a blessing. But why make a blessing when the soul leaves a person? In truth, we can ask the same question about the whole matter of Havdalah at the end of Shabbos. With Havdalah, we pass from holy to mundane, make Havdalah, and say a blessing over it. What is the great blessing here—that you can go smoke a cigarette? What are we blessing? Kiddush, at least, marks the arrival of Shabbos and the beginning of its hours, so there is a reason to make a blessing. But when Shabbos ends and you pass from holy to mundane, what is the point of the blessing? We will get to that. We can ask the same question about the spices, which are connected with

02:13 the departure of the additional soul. So what is the reason for a blessing here? As an introduction to this, we need to address what a soul is—what an additional soul is. I brought a quotation here from a passage in Hemshech Samech Vav. As was mentioned earlier, the coming year, 5766, marks a hundred years since Hemshech Samech Vav. So I brought a short passage from the beginning of that well-known Hemshech of 5666. As is well known, there is the level of a son and the level of a servant. One might think that there are souls of one kind and souls of another. But more specifically, he says that every soul has the level of a son and every soul has the level of a servant. “Whether as children or as servants.” Here in the Hemshech he quotes the language of the holy Zohar, in Raya Mehemna, Parshas Behar, concerning a son: [unclear]. Well, I thought the passage I put here did not have it—apparently that was my mistake. A passage that—oh yes, it does bring it. When a person knows Hakadosh Boruch Hu in a general way, knows about G-dliness generally, he is called a servant. But when he knows Him in detail, when he enters into matters of G-dliness specifically—he knows what memalei is, what sovev is, what the order of hishtalshelus is, what the sefiros are; he studies and knows G-dliness in detail—he is called “His beloved son,” like a son who searches through the hidden treasures, all the secrets of the house. Like a son searching through the treasuries—all the treasuries of his father the king. These are the king’s treasures that no one else is privileged to see. But the son goes in, his father allows him in, and he sees everything, knows it all, and delights in all the treasures his father possesses. That is called a son.

04:29 So too, someone who knows all the treasures of Hakadosh Boruch Hu, who knows the entire order of hishtalshelus in detail, the sefiros and the higher levels and secrets throughout all the worlds—he knows these things specifically. That means that Hakadosh Boruch Hu, his Father, has revealed His treasures to him, and he is on the level of a son. This is the beginning of Hemshech 5666, which explains the highest levels, the deepest and most wondrous subjects in Chassidus, the order of hishtalshelus, and the innovations of Chassidus. It all follows from this idea of a son who searches through the hidden treasures of the house. Someone who studies the teachings of Chassidus in order to know G-dliness, who takes an interest in G-dliness in detail, is on the level of a son in relation to G-dliness, a son of Hakadosh Boruch Hu. But every soul also has the level of a servant. Indeed, throughout Hemshech Samech Vav, the main subject he comes to explain is the servant; he specifically emphasizes the advantage of a servant. Earlier, the maamar [unclear] was mentioned: the point is specifically avodah, serving through one’s own effort, and that is the idea of a servant. Samech Vav specifically emphasizes the advantage of a servant, and seemingly that is the subject of the entire Hemshech. It is precisely the avodah of a servant that brings the revelations of the time to come and the revelation of Moshiach. But he also discusses the level of a son at great length, in detail and in depth, because for the avodah of a servant to be as it should, there must be the element of a son. The element of a son in the soul must also be awakened so that the avodah of a servant will be complete, as it should be. Well, that is the general introduction: every soul has the level of a son and the level of a servant. Now let us turn to our subject, the additional soul. So where do we find the idea of the additional soul discussed briefly? Let us look first in the Alter Rebbe’s Siddur, on the verse—on what? On the prayer Nishmas Kol Chai.

06:30 We say Nishmas Kol Chai every Shabbos: “The soul of every living being shall bless Your name, Hashem our G-d.” The Zohar explains that “kol chai” refers to the level of neshamah, yesod. When we say “Nishmas Kol Chai”—the soul of every living being—what are we talking about? Which soul is meant? It is the neshamah of yesod. “Nishmas Kol Chai” is the neshamah of yesod. “And it is called the soul that flies forth from Chai Haolamim.” This soul emanates and is drawn from the level called Chai Haolamim. That level of Chai Haolamim is the level of yesod, as mentioned. Chai Haolamim is yesod. The soul that comes from this level of Chai Haolamim, the sefirah of yesod, is the neshamah of yesod. So if we want to understand what the neshamah of yesod is, we need to understand Chai Haolamim, the level of yesod. From that we will understand the neshamah of yesod. What is Chai Haolamim, the level of yesod? This subject is discussed at length in Chassidus, in the series of maamarim that discuss levels of life-force, in Samech Gimmel and Taf Reish Ayin Shin, and at length in other places. There are two levels of life-force: Chei Olamim and Chai Olamim. Not “Chai Olamim Melech.” There is the level of Chei Olamim, and there is Chai Olamim. Kabbalah explains that Chei Olamim refers to the sefirah of malchus, while Chai Olamim refers to the sefirah of yesod. What is the difference between Chei Olamim and Chai Olamim? First, grammatically, in Chei Olamim, “chei” is joined to “olamim.” Chei Olamim means the life of the worlds. You cannot just say the word “chei.” “Chei” what? It is not a word on its own. Chei Olamim—the life of the worlds. This points to a level of life-force that is bound up with the worlds, entirely joined and attached to them. Its purpose is to give life.

09:02 Worlds. This is the life of the worlds. Of course it is Divine life, but it is Divine life that gives life to the worlds. In the expression “chei olamim,” “the life of the worlds,” it is life as it is reflected in the worlds, making the worlds alive. That is different from “chai olamim.” “Chai” names life itself. You can say the word “chai” on its own. Chai, chai, chai: life in its essence, not [unclear]. “Chei olamim” is the life of something. “Chai” is life itself, as it is, not as it is reflected in another body, in another vessel that it brings to life, but life itself. This is what is called “life that gives life” and “life in its essence.” “Chei olamim” is the life of the worlds; it is life that gives life to something else. “Chai olamim” is life in its essence, life in its own right. It is not life reflected in a body that it brings to life. And in a person there are two kinds of life. There is life that gives life: the extension of the soul, which extends into the body to bring it to life. Whether this is general vitality or vitality particular to an organ, it extends into the body to bring the body to life. So how does that life express itself? What do you see? You do not see life; you see the living body. All that life is expressed and reflected in the body. The body walks, the body speaks, the body sees, and even the body lives. So it is all life as expressed in the physicality of the body. That is life that gives life. Then there is life in its essence. Life in its essence is life itself, the essential point of life that is in the brain. That essential point of life, as it is in itself, is found in the brain, but it is not enclothed in the brain. It does not even give life to the brain itself, because the brain does not live from life in its essence. The brain’s own life, too, comes only from the extension of the soul. Life in its essence does not give life even to the brain; it is only present there. The fact that it is present there

11:33 is as though there were no connection at all between life and the body. It is life as it is, pure, as it is in itself. And how does that actually work? It is really not understood. So what connects it to the body? This is what is meant by “Who works wonders,” joining the soul to the body. It is because the life of the essential point of life, as it is in itself, is pure vitality. This is the idea of “chei olamim” and “chai olamim.” “Chei olamim” refers to Divine life: just as, in the body, the soul extends to give life to the body, so Divine life extends to give life to the worlds and created beings. How does that Divine life express itself? What do you see? As we said, with the life that animates the body, you do not see life itself. It is expressed in physical things, in the body’s activities: the body moves, the body walks, the body speaks. So too Above. “Chei olamim” is Divine life that gives life to the world. How, then, does Divine life express itself? Do you see G-dliness? You see living worlds, living created beings, physical beings and spiritual beings. The life is expressed in the world. That is “chei”: the extension of life, life that gives life. “Chai olamim” is Divine life itself, as it is above being enclothed in this world. We might say that at the level of “chai olamim,” what is felt is Divine life, a feeling of G-dliness—not exactly the essence of G-dliness. And if we ask, then, what does “chai olamim” mean? If you explain that the whole concept of “chai” is life in its essence, above the worlds, what does it have to do with the worlds? It has no connection to the worlds at all. So what is the meaning of “chai olamim”? It does not mean “chei olamim.” Rather, that itself is precisely the novelty here: “chai,” “chai olamim.” It means that the level of “chai,” life in its essence, which is

13:36 Divine life—Divine life, meaning a sense and feeling of G-dliness—that level also shines and has an effect within the worlds. But no, it is not a level of the worlds; it is not the level of life belonging to the worlds. As we said earlier, with “chei olamim,” all the life is expressed through the worlds, through created beings. Here, on the contrary, true life shines in this world, and what is felt is simply G-dliness. If the worlds feel true life, Divine life, then that life acts and shines in this world. But it shines in the worlds on the level of life in its essence, of true life. We find this in the analogy as well, in the human soul. We said that the soul, too, has a level of life in its essence, life that does not pertain to the body: the essential point of life located in the brain. So seemingly it has nothing to do with the body at all. It is there, off to the side, and has no connection to the body. But here, too, we find an example of how this vitality of life in its essence—having begun with what the analogy represents, let us turn to the analogy—does indeed shine in the body. It shines in the body, however, on the level of life in its essence, as a spiritual vitality of the soul shining in the body. An example given for this is the distinction between “beauty of form” and “beauty of appearance.” What is beauty of form? It means that the shape of a person’s face is beautiful: the shape of the eyes, the mouth, the forehead—the arrangement of the features is beautiful and balanced. Beauty of appearance means that there is a radiance in the face. This person’s face has a certain glow, what we might call a dignified countenance. There is a certain radiance in the face. This vitality has no

15:51 physical expression in the body. It does not come from the shape of the facial features, nor does it produce any physical effect. It has no physical expression at all. It is just an appearance of something [unclear], something higher than the body’s physical aspects. That dignity of countenance, that radiance in the face, that refinement, is an expression—but not a physical expression. It has nothing to do with the body’s activity. It is not another bodily organ or another bodily action, another function of the eyes or of the nose. Nothing of the sort. It has no physical meaning. It is the spirituality itself, the refinement that is present here. So, as the maamar says, this is an expression of life in its essence. In other words, even in the analogy of the soul and body, we see that the level of life in its essence—life itself, the soul’s [unclear], which is above the concerns of the body—nevertheless has a connection to the body. Its level is not one that belongs to the body, but as it is on its true level, it acts within the body through that kind of radiance. This is the level of “chai olamim”: the level of life in its essence is present even within the worlds. Continuing this subject, the maamarim that discuss the two levels of life in its essence and life that gives life—the two kinds of life we have been discussing—explain their application Above, to the order of the worlds and Divine vitality. We also discussed the analogy in a person, from the life of the soul and body, where these two levels are found in the soul’s giving life to the body. Following this, the maamarim introduce another point as well: a further example of these two ways of life in avodas Hashem, involving the Divine soul and the animal soul. The Divine soul is the life; it is the soul, and the soul

17:59 The animal soul is like the body. The G-dly soul needs to give life to the animal soul; that, too, is a soul-and-body relationship. Of course, we’re not talking about physical life. In the first example, when we spoke about soul and body, we meant life in the plain sense—ordinary, physical life. Here we’re talking about serving Hashem. We’re talking about the G-dly soul giving the animal soul life in the sense of G-dly life. The G-dly soul has to give the animal soul that life. So the fuller expression of this is that the animal soul, too, should have an understanding of G-dliness. The animal soul should have a love of G-dliness. That is the life the G-dly soul needs to give the animal soul. In this life, in this avodah, there are two levels of life, like “alive in essence” and “alive so as to give life.” “Alive so as to give life” is the life with which the G-dly soul gives life to the animal soul. In other words, this is a kind of life that enters the animal soul and finds expression in it. What that means in practice is that the G-dly soul contemplates G-dliness on a level suited to the animal soul. It contemplates things in a way that the animal soul can understand G-dliness. You have to explain G-dliness so that the animal soul understands the point. You have to explain to the animal soul how Hakadosh Boruch Hu gives life to all the worlds, and gives life to you, too, and sustains you. That way, the animal soul understands G-dliness on its own level, and its love, too, is love on the animal soul’s level. This is the life of the G-dly soul—“alive so as to give life.” It is a level in serving Hashem that finds expression in the world and on the level of the animal soul: how the animal soul can understand G-dliness, how the animal soul can love G-dliness, and so on. “Alive in essence,” on the other hand, is the vitality of the G-dly soul itself: how the G-dly soul itself understands G-dliness and how the G-dly soul itself loves G-dliness.

20:26 For the animal soul to understand G-dliness, it has to be through the worlds. How can you explain to the animal soul that there is G-dliness and that it should love Him? Only through the worlds. The animal soul relates to the worlds; it is part of the world, part of the created existence. You have to explain to it that there is G-dliness that brings the worlds into being, that there is G-dliness that brings you into being, and that if you come closer to Him, you will receive more vitality from Him. So the animal soul’s entire understanding of its connection to G-dly vitality comes through the worlds. But for the G-dly soul itself to grasp G-dliness and love G-dliness, it does not need to contemplate the worlds. It has a connection to G-dliness in its own right. It’s like saying that a stranger needs to understand the king’s greatness through all his enterprises and factories. The king has so many enterprises, so much money, such a large army. So it’s worth drawing close to him—that is how the stranger recognizes his greatness. The king’s son does not need to contemplate his father’s enterprises in order to know his father, recognize him, and love him. After all, he is his son. The G-dly soul, in its own right, does not need the worlds in order to understand G-dliness and love G-dliness. That is the vitality of the G-dly soul itself. So within the G-dly soul there is the vitality with which it gives life to the animal soul, bringing about in the animal soul an understanding of G-dliness and a love of Hashem. And there is the avodah of the G-dly soul in its own right, which is “alive in essence.” As we understand from all the examples of “alive in essence” and “alive so as to give life,” these are two aspects of life itself, in the soul-and-body relationship. The soul’s giving life to the body is

22:28 an extension of the soul. “Alive in essence” is the essence of life, not an extension of life. The same is true when we speak of the G-dly soul giving life to the animal soul. In other words, there are two aspects of the G-dly soul. The aspect of the soul that itself understands and feels G-dliness and love of G-dliness is not the same aspect that explains these things to the animal soul. That is a different aspect of the soul. One is called the essence of the soul, and the other is an extension of the soul. So there are two aspects within the G-dly soul itself: “alive in essence” is its own level, and then there is an extension of life within the G-dly soul—an extension of the G-dly soul that reaches into the animal soul to explain things to it. Let’s now try to understand a little what these two levels within the G-dly soul itself are: the level of the G-dly soul itself, as it relates to G-dliness and understands it, and the extension through which it acts upon the animal soul. In this connection, Igeres Hateshuvah says—in chapter 4, where it discusses the difference between the soul and all other created beings—it begins with the verse, “For His people are Hashem’s portion.” The soul comes from the name Havayah; it is a portion of Hashem. All other created beings, including the angels, come from “And G-d said.” What is the difference, in terms of what is explained there? All created beings were created through speech, through Hakadosh Boruch Hu’s speech: “And G-d said,” through the Ten Utterances. The angels, too, were created through the Ten Utterances, whether on the second day of Creation or on the fifth day. Speech. The soul, by contrast, was created through “And He breathed into his nostrils.” What does it mean to breathe? Where does a breath come from? From within. All created beings were created through speech, which alludes to the external dimension. But the soul was created through “And He breathed,” which refers to the inner dimension of Hakadosh Boruch Hu. What does “from within” mean here? Just briefly, in a word: what is meant by the inner dimension? What does “inner” mean in this

25:07 context? In brief, as he brings up at the beginning, consider a son. What is the difference between a person performing an action—building something or writing something—and a person fathering a son, bringing a child into the world? When you make a table, the table does not possess the power of your hand. It is a result of the power of your hand, but it does not have that power. A son, by contrast, has his father’s own power. The son himself can act. This is what is called an essential transmission in the fullest sense. So all created beings are from the external dimension of Hakadosh Boruch Hu, merely a result of His power. The soul, however, possesses the power of Hakadosh Boruch Hu Himself. That is why the soul has a G-dly intellect and a G-dly love. This idea is, of course, brought in Tanya, chapter 2: the soul’s source is in the name Havayah, in the inner dimension of Hakadosh Boruch Hu—“And He breathed into his nostrils.” Later in the chapter—in chapter 4—he asks: Regarding man, the verse says, “And G-d said, ‘Let us make man in our image, after our likeness.’” “Let us make man in our image” refers to the G-dly soul. Whose image is “our image”? What is this image? Of course, “in our image” refers to the soul. “Let us make man in our image” refers to the G-dly soul. Yet it says here, “And G-d said.” So the soul, the G-dly soul, was also created through “And He said,” through speech. You’re distinguishing between the soul and all other created beings by saying that they were all created through speech, through the Ten Utterances, which is external and associated with the name Elokim, whereas the soul was created through “And He breathed.” But regarding the soul, too, it says, “And G-d said, ‘Let us make man,’” and this “And He said” is one of the Ten Utterances. So the soul, too, was created through speech. He explains later in chapter 4 that this refers to—yes, there is also an aspect of “And He said” in the soul, an aspect of speech as well, but

27:29 This concerns the root of the soul’s descent. The soul has two roots. There is the root of the soul in the sense of—what does “the root of the soul” mean? The root in G-dliness from which the soul was emanated: what the soul itself came from, where the soul came from. Where is it? The soul is in Atzilus. And where did the soul itself come from? The soul came into being in Atzilus. So the soul itself has a root. Where did it come from? From G-dliness. Then there is another matter. Once the soul has been emanated and is what it is, where is it? It is in Atzilus. This soul must descend into Beriah, Yetzirah, and Asiyah. It must descend into those worlds, become enclothed in the world of Beriah—that is, descend to the level of Beriah, the level of Yetzirah, and the level of Asiyah—and afterward descend and become enclothed in a body and an animal soul. So another root is needed, an additional root for the soul’s descent into Beriah, Yetzirah, and Asiyah. To give a brief analogy: say there is a teacher with a very profound understanding. He has a deep, inner idea at his own level, and he wants to teach it to a child. Obviously, he cannot give the child the idea as it is. He has to come up with all kinds of ways of presenting it—with analogies and images from the child’s world—to bring the idea down to him. So we ask: What is the root of the understanding that the teacher conveys to the young student? What is the root of that transmission? What do we mean by “root”? First of all, the root is the teacher’s own understanding. After all, it is the teacher’s idea that he has come to explain. But another root is needed here too. Within himself, the teacher must create the ideas, the ways of presenting them, and the analogies that can bring the concept down to the student. There may be a great teacher who understands the concept very well at his own level, but he does not have

29:43 that root. He cannot create ways of presenting it or analogies for the child, so he cannot bring it down to him. It follows that the transmission to the student has two roots. There is the root of the idea itself, in the teacher’s understanding. That is the true root of the idea, the root of its essence. And there is the root of the idea’s descent—what enables it to come down into the student’s world. There is a separate root within the teacher for that descent. The same is true of the soul. There is a root for the emanation of the soul: the soul is emanated, and the divine soul exists. Then this soul must descend into Beriah, Yetzirah, and Asiyah, and into a body and an animal soul. So, so to speak, the Infinite Creator must create a source for a garment, and place that garment upon the soul so that it will bring the soul all the way down. Two roots. One is called the root of the soul itself. The other is the root of its descent, the root of the soul’s descent below. What is this root of the soul’s descent? What is this garment that, so to speak, the Creator fashions? As we said, the teacher must create a root for making the idea concrete. Here too, a root must be created for the soul’s descent and for its becoming more concrete. So what must that root be? To understand that, we first have to understand why the soul needs to descend at all; then we can determine what garments it needs. Why must the soul descend into Beriah, Yetzirah, and Asiyah, become enclothed in those worlds, and enter a body and an animal soul? Why does it need all of that? Why must it descend and become enclothed? To become enclothed means to descend to their level, not merely to be present there. Why? To descend to the levels of Beriah, Yetzirah, and Asiyah and be grasped within them. And when it descends into a body and an animal soul, it becomes enclothed in the body and is drawn into the levels of the animal soul. Why

32:04 this immense descent? What is all of it for? It is for the soul to fulfill its purpose. Why does the soul descend? First of all, it must refine the animal soul and the body. You have to act upon them and bring them close to Hakadosh Boruch Hu. You have to explain to your animal soul that there is G-dliness in the world and that one must love Hashem. You have to explain it to your animal soul. You have to come down to its level, become enclothed in it, understand it. If you go to speak with a Jew who is distant and explain a matter of G-dliness to him, you have to come down into his world and understand him; then he will understand you too. That is the soul’s purpose, and it is why the soul must descend. So it is understood that the root of the soul’s descent, the root that enables the soul to become more concrete, must be of the same nature as the source that makes the worlds concrete in general. What causes the worlds to exist as separate, created worlds? Their root is in speech, in the name Elokim, in divine speech. As we explained, speech is outward-facing; it is directed toward another. Speech separates from the person. So too, the divine power called “speech” is, so to speak, outwardly separate from its source, from G-dliness. Therefore, a created being brought into being through speech does not sense its source; it senses itself. The reason the world is as it is, then, is that its root is in speech. And because the soul must descend into the worlds, into a body and an animal soul, and become enclothed in them in order to influence them, it too must undergo that same process of becoming more concrete. Therefore, the soul too must descend below through speech. The root of the soul’s descent must be in speech. So this resolves the two

34:02 verses. On the one hand, one verse says, “And He breathed into his nostrils”—that the soul’s root is in Hashem’s breath. The second verse says, “And G-d said, ‘Let us make man’”—that the soul’s root is in speech. These refer to the two roots. What is the soul itself, in its essence? “And He breathed”: it comes from Hakadosh Boruch Hu, from G-dliness; it is a part of G-dliness. As for the root of the soul’s descent, when Hakadosh Boruch Hu had to bring the soul down below, He brought it down through speech—that is, by enclothing it in the garment of speech. This allowed the soul to undergo the same process of becoming more concrete as the worlds, so that it could become enclothed in the worlds and in the animal soul. This resolves the matter: the soul has two aspects. There is the soul as it is in itself, from “And He breathed into his nostrils”: the soul as it is in Atzilus, entirely G-dliness. And there is the soul after it has passed through speech—“And G-d said, ‘Let us make man.’” It has passed through the speech of Hakadosh Boruch Hu, and through that speech has become able to be enclothed in the body and the animal soul, and to act upon the animal soul. Understood? This brings us to the point that the soul at its root, as it is from “And He breathed,” is only G-dliness. It does not need to contemplate the worlds in order to reach G-dliness. But when the soul passes through speech, through “And G-d said, ‘Let us make man,’” and undergoes that process of becoming more concrete, it needs to contemplate G-dliness through the worlds. Then it can also persuade the animal soul. These are the two aspects of son and servant. The soul as it is from “And He breathed,” as it is in itself, is the aspect of a son. The soul as it descends below through speech is the aspect of a servant. What happens now? That is the sequence. What happens on Shabbos? On Shabbos, as is known, Hakadosh Boruch Hu ceases from work,

36:18 He rests, rests from His work. That means He rests from speech. Hakadosh Boruch Hu’s speech is considered action. Hakadosh Boruch Hu rests from speech; He rests from the Ten Utterances. So how do the worlds receive life—from His thought? Or does speech ascend into thought? That is what Shabbos is about: speech ascends into thought. Consequently, the concealment of speech, the way speech gives things a tangible form, the garment of speech—all of that does not operate on Shabbos. Speech ascends into thought. We’ll explain what this means for reaching the soul. What happens to the soul, to the G-dly soul, on Shabbos, when Hakadosh Boruch Hu rests from speech, rests from the Ten Utterances? The source of the soul’s descent is “And G-d said, ‘Let us make man.’” So the source of the soul’s descent is, as it were, no longer there. There is no speech. Hakadosh Boruch Hu rests from speech. So He rests, so to speak, from “And G-d said, ‘Let us make man.’” What does He rest from? From the garment, from the source of the descent below. The soul no longer has the concealment and tangible form imposed by speech. So in what state does the soul remain? It remains with “He breathed” alone, without “He said”—“He breathed into his nostrils.” In other words, the soul is as it is in Atzilus, as it is at the level of “He breathed,” without speech giving it a tangible form. That is what happens on Shabbos. When the soul has the aspect of “He said,” the aspect of speech, how does it contemplate G-dliness? It descends into the worlds and itself becomes clothed in the garment of speech, the garment of the worlds. So its contemplation of G-dliness and its connection to G-dliness come through the worlds. The worlds conceal and have a presence that must be reckoned with; the soul has to work with them and, through contemplating them, arrive at G-dliness. In this way it can also affect the animal soul. This is the level of “alive in order to give life.” But on Shabbos, when Hakadosh Boruch Hu rests from “He said,” only “He breathed” remains: the soul as it is. And the soul as it is does not need to contemplate G-dliness

38:56 through the worlds, because for it there is no concealment of speech at all. There is no concealment by the worlds at all. So the soul’s service of G-d is the soul as it is in its own right. That means that on Shabbos, the level of “inherently alive” shines forth: the soul’s service in its own right. The whole aspect of “alive in order to give life” within the soul means that the soul has to affect the animal soul. That applies when the soul is concealed by passing through speech. It then contemplates G-dliness through the worlds, and that is called “alive in order to give life.” But on Shabbos, when there is no speech, there is the soul as it is in its own right. That is the level of “inherently alive.” This is the meaning of what he says here: “souls that fly forth from the Life of the worlds.” That is the soul’s level on Shabbos. They are on the level of “alive,” the level of Yesod, the level of “inherently alive.” This means that on Shabbos, the concealment of the world and the animal soul does not rest upon the soul. The soul is then without the garment of speech, and it can grasp G-dliness as it is. It does not need to contemplate the worlds. Jews can connect to Hakadosh Boruch Hu in their own right. They do not need to go through all of that. They do not need to occupy themselves with the worlds, with earning a living. Why do they need to occupy themselves with the worlds throughout the week? Because through the worlds they reach [unclear], they reach a certain understanding of G-dliness. Throughout the week you have to occupy yourself with the worlds—“alive in order to give life,” through speech there too. But on Shabbos, when the soul is “inherently alive,” the soul as it is does not need the worlds. So there is no need for that work, no need to occupy yourself with the worlds; indeed, you may not occupy yourself with them. On Shabbos you need to occupy yourself with G-dliness: to learn, to daven, to think, to engage in it and act. You can be connected to G-dliness without the intermediary of the worlds. For then the soul shines forth, the soul’s “inherently alive,” the “He breathed” without the “He said.” And this is called the additional

41:00 soul. That is the additional soul. What is the additional soul of Shabbos? It is not another soul. It is not that you receive new souls from above, that birds fly into your head and new souls attach themselves to your heart. That would be some sort of possession, reincarnation, or ibur—something new entering you. It is your own soul as it is on the level of “inherently alive,” as it is at the level of “He breathed,” without the concealment of speech. You do not need any other intermediaries to reach G-dliness. That is the service of Shabbos. That is the additional soul. And that is why it belongs specifically to Shabbos: on Shabbos, the aspect of speech recedes, leaving only “He breathed,” “inherently alive.” Now what is the point? What is the point of the blessing? Let’s return to the question we raised at the beginning. In halachah, the whole issue of the additional soul in the Shulchan Aruch comes up when we take spices and recite a blessing over them because the additional soul leaves a person. So what is the point of a blessing here? Why do we need to recite a blessing over the additional soul leaving you? This level leaves you; “He said” returns, the garment of speech returns, and the aspect of being a servant returns. You begin to be a servant again. That is why we say after Shabbos, “Do not fear, My servant Yaakov,” because the aspect of servitude is beginning. All the concealments that come from the body begin again. You become caught up in them. The soul descends into all of that. So what are you reciting a blessing over? What is there to bless and be so happy about? What is the blessing here? Let me say just one thing, as we heard, about Havdalah as well. What is the whole point of reciting the blessing over Havdalah? What does it mean to distinguish between holy and mundane? What are you blessing now? “Thank G-d, now you can get back to your own affairs”? What are you blessing? Rather, what is the whole idea of Havdalah? What does it mean to distinguish between holy and mundane?

42:57 And what would happen if a Jew did not distinguish between holy and mundane—if he did not make Havdalah? What would that mean? Would Shabbos continue? A chossid might come along and say, “I don’t want to part with Shabbos, so I won’t make Havdalah. I’ll continue Shabbos. I’ll have Shabbos all week. Why should I make Havdalah? I’ll have Shabbos.” That is not right. The distinction happens on its own: Shabbos ends and the weekdays begin. Their flows of influence return. The weekday flows of influence come in; the mundane enters on its own. You do not make Havdalah to create the separation between Shabbos and the weekdays, between holy and mundane. The weekdays come on their own. On the contrary, you make Havdalah not to separate Shabbos from the mundane—the separation happens on its own. You make Havdalah to draw Shabbos into the weekdays. Havdalah is like a screen, a parsa, like an analogy a teacher gives. The analogy seems to conceal what it represents, but its purpose is precisely to bring what it represents down through that concealment. That is the idea of Havdalah: it is a parsa.

44:15 That is the central point of Havdalah: not to create a separation, but, on the contrary, to draw Shabbos into the weekdays. If you have not made Havdalah, you are forbidden to do various kinds of work. It is not because you are still within the holiness of Shabbos, but because, without Havdalah, you have not drawn the holiness of Shabbos into the weekdays. Consequently, you may not work: if you work during the week without that flow of Shabbos holiness, you will fall. You really will fall. You need to carry it with you; Havdalah enables that holiness to be drawn down. Along these lines, he speaks about the Melaveh Malkah meal. What is the point of Melaveh Malkah? As is well known, the Rebbe held it in very high regard. Some say that the Shabbos meals were farbrengens—not always—but the Rebbe always held Havdalah on Motzaei Shabbos in high regard. One aspect of Melaveh Malkah, as [unclear] explains, is to draw the Shabbos meal into the meals of the entire week. On the contrary, that is its power to connect. It does not come to distinguish or separate, but to extend the special quality of the Shabbos meals throughout the week, so that everything you eat all week has something of Shabbos eating in it. In the same way, we come to our subject and to the spices over which we recite a blessing. What is the point of the blessing? We are not celebrating and holding a ceremony for the departure of the additional soul, then answering amen. The soul is leaving you—do you say “Blessed”? On the contrary, the blessing over the spices, and the whole matter of the additional soul, is about taking the powers of the additional soul that we had on Shabbos and drawing them into the entire week. On Shabbos we had the additional soul, the service of a son, like a son searching in the hidden treasures, connected to G-dliness. All

46:06 Inner matters, matters of G-dliness. What does the blessing we recite accomplish? It draws all this into the entire week. Throughout the week, the work of a servant begins, as we started explaining some time ago. At the beginning, we mentioned that the ultimate goal, as explained throughout the series of maamarim, is specifically the work of a servant. But the servant’s work is personal. Because a servant is immersed in the world, there is a danger that you might fall. So you need the encouragement of “Do not fear, My servant Yaakov,” to give you confidence. Don’t be afraid; you won’t fall. But how can you be so sure you won’t fall? If you need to be told not to fear, there must be reason to be afraid. Why? Because you enter the world and become involved in it. Who says you’ll elevate the world? Perhaps the world will bring you down. That’s why there is reason to fear. So we are told, “Do not fear.” Where does that confidence come from? Because you take the strengths of the son on Shabbos and draw them into the servant. That is the point of the blessing over the spices: to draw the additional soul of Shabbos—the deep, inner connection every Jew has with G-dliness by virtue of the soul, which enables him to engage in Torah, to engage in G-dliness and the honor of Hashem—and carry it into every day of the week. And may we soon merit the time that is entirely Shabbos, very soon indeed, and [unclear].

00:02 We really had the privilege of working on this series of books, Toras Menachem—Tiferes Levi Yitzchak. The name Toras Menachem—the first time the Rebbe approved that name was for this series. We ourselves hadn’t thought of such a grand name. It was Rabbi Groner’s suggestion. We had proposed another name, I think [unclear], and he said, “Maybe we should try this name?” I said, “A name like that? That’s too much.” So he said, “What do we have to lose? Let’s write to the Rebbe and see what happens.” And that’s what we did. When the first volume was ready, the procedure was to submit the foreword to the Rebbe with the date left blank. The Rebbe would always write in the date for the book. We also submitted a mock-up of the title page with the name Toras Menachem—Tiferes Levi Yitzchak, and the Rebbe approved it. Since then, that name has become the general name for all the Rebbe’s Torah—the maamarim and the sichos. It’s also worth mentioning the well-known photograph of Rabbi Levi Yitzchak that has been publicized in recent years. The first time the Rebbe gave permission to publish it was when the second volume of this series, on the Book of Shemos, was printed. Some months earlier, the photograph had arrived from Russia, from the KGB offices. It was the official photograph they had at the prison there, and the Rebbe had not given permission to publish it. In the original photograph he was without a yarmulke, because that was how they took photographs—they made people remove their yarmulkes. But even then, the Rebbe was told that this could be fixed: they could go to experts who would add a yarmulke and everything. The Rebbe did not agree. When we were about to publish the book, the

02:03 second volume, we thought that perhaps this was an opportunity to ask the Rebbe. The secretary said that people had already asked and offered all those solutions, and the Rebbe had not given permission. I said, “We have the right to try, the right to ask. The Rebbe won’t be upset, will he?” And we did ask, and the Rebbe agreed. The Rebbe wrote his answer while traveling to the Ohel, so when we received it, we couldn’t read what it said. He had written two lines in pencil, but no one could make them out. There was no choice: the next day, the secretary went in to the Rebbe again and said they couldn’t understand what was written. The Rebbe took the page, looked at it, and smiled. He understood that it really was hard to read. He took a pen and wrote over the two lines in pencil, and then we could read them. The Rebbe wrote that both photographs should be printed in the book: the older photograph, which had been publicized until then, and the new one. We should write that the new photograph was taken after the imprisonment, after all the torture and everything he had gone through. That was why he looked so unwell; looking at the two photographs, you could hardly tell it was the same person. The later photograph was taken in the last months before his passing, while the other was from the beginning of his imprisonment. Those years had... So we were to print both photographs and briefly explain the reason for the changes. When we were about to print the photograph in the book, we did go to an expert who added a yarmulke and fixed everything, but we wanted the Rebbe to see it before it was printed. So we submitted the photograph to the Rebbe and told the secretary to tell him that we needed it back, because this was the original from which the book had to be printed. In other words,

03:45 it couldn’t remain with the Rebbe. He said, “Don’t worry.” But as soon as he came in with the photograph, the Rebbe took it and said, “Well, this presumably needs to stay with me?” The secretary was at a loss. He said yes, but they had said they needed it for printing. Later, after they had printed the book from it, they submitted the photograph to the Rebbe again. The Rebbe said, “Well, but from today onward, after this, it should stay with me.” The next morning he brought out that photograph. As for the Torah of Rabbi Levi Yitzchak in general, you could say it’s almost a closed book. How many of us open it? We look at it, but there is so much to learn, so many books of nigleh. And if we’re not studying nigleh, we study Chassidus. We don’t spend much time on Kabbalah. That’s the fact. You could say that the first inspiration to publish this book came from something that happened when I was a young bachur, early in my time at [unclear]. I would write up the chazarah afterward and try to understand what the Rebbe had said. I always had trouble with the Zohar; I didn’t understand it. One of the first times, I went over to one of those giving the chazarah afterward and asked him about it. He said to me, “Oh, leave the Zohar alone,” as though it wasn’t so important. That was the way he put it. There’s Rashi, he meant; this was like a personal matter of the Rebbe’s, something the Rebbe did to honor his father. That bothered me very much. It was the first spark of the idea that we needed to make this book. On the contrary: when you see something personal to the Rebbe, something the Rebbe considers important—every Shabbos, if there was time, the Rebbe would make time to explain a passage in the Zohar. In later years, in the maamarim for Rosh Hashanah and in the maamarim for 19 Shvat,

05:36 when he would mention all the rabbis, he would also cite the Torah of Rabbi Levi Yitzchak. The Rebbe even used an expression of holiness in the foreword to the edited maamarim in [unclear]. So there must certainly be a special power in it. In general, when you look a little at Rabbi Levik’s Torah, besides his explanations of the Zohar itself, there are also many notes. This is mainly in Toras Levi Yitzchak, which deals with Shas, with the Gemara. In the letters he wrote to the Rebbe, too, there are all kinds of explanations of teachings of our Sages. And as is his way with the Zohar, there too he takes a whole passage and examines every detail in it: the entire account, whether in the Zohar or in the Gemara, the names of the Sages who made the statements—every detail has to form one comprehensive picture, with everything fitting the subject at hand. It is the joining of the inner dimension of Torah with nigleh. If it is a passage in the Gemara, every detail must fit its inner meaning according to the inner dimension of Torah. These are not two separate Torahs, one speaking in nigleh about two people holding a tallis and the other speaking about the secret of the ten sefiros. Rather, one is the inner dimension of the other, soul and body. It is one reality. Where do you see that? When you take a passage in nigleh, a passage in the Gemara, and explain the entire passage in detail according to the secrets of Torah. There you see how it accords with Kabbalah. There you see that it is the Torah of Chassidus. You see the same approach in the Rebbe’s teachings too. The difference is that with Rabbi Levik it is in the language of Kabbalah, while with the Rebbe it is Chassidus. In the letters the Rebbe writes—that Rabbi Levik writes to the Rebbe—he writes to him in response to notes that the Rebbe

07:26 He wrote to him. So the Rebbe says: All well and good, but we also need to show that it fits according to Kabbalah, not only according to Chassidus. The Rebbe emphasizes the approach of Chassidus more, while for Rabbi Levik it is more a matter of Kabbalah. And what does that mean in Kabbalah? There are gematrias—all kinds of gematrias, whether squares or other kinds, all sorts of calculations. Rabbi Beil[?] once told me that a very famous mathematics professor was his guest; I don’t remember his name. Rabbi Levik said to him—Rabbi Beil[?] told him about several ideas, gematrias and calculations from Likkutei Levi Yitzchak, from Rabbi Levik’s teachings. They were complicated calculations, gematrias of all kinds and in all sorts of forms, such as reverse-order calculations and squares. The professor was beside himself. He put it this way: You don’t arrive at a gematria like that by sitting down and trying to calculate from the bottom up. The professor himself—not only was he Jewish, he wasn’t even religious—concluded that to grasp gematrias of this kind, you have to come from the top down. You have to see the idea, see that there is a connection between one thing and another, and then you can arrive at it. Not—not from the bottom up; from the top down. What is interesting is to take a subject that both the Rebbe and Rabbi Levik discuss and see how they approach it. There aren’t many such examples, because the letters—the responses the Rebbe wrote to his father’s letters—are not available. We have all the Rebbe’s father’s letters; they were published in a book of letters. But what the Rebbe wrote beforehand, and what he answered afterward, is unfortunately not available. There are stories people tell. I don’t know how accurate they are, but when the Rebbe gave Rabbi Levik’s writings for printing, the

09:06 writings on the Zohar and also Rabbi Levik’s letters, the bundle of manuscripts reportedly also contained the Rebbe’s letters, to which Rabbi Levik had written his responses. That is what the story says. The copyist who was supposed to copy the manuscript for the printer—they didn’t give the printer the original manuscript. Someone copied it out by hand, and that copy went to the printer. So, in his great wisdom, when he reached that section at the end, the Rebbe’s letters, he innocently said or wrote that it ought to be a book of its own. There was a large amount of material. In other words, here were Rabbi Levik’s teachings and here were the Rebbe’s letters, so it would be more fitting to make them a separate book. The story goes that because of this, the Rebbe accepted that comment and put them away. They weren’t printed. There is no way of knowing how true that is. But the Rebbe would always say in his talks that much of Rabbi Levik’s Torah is not available. After all, he wrote a great many notes, and what we have is only the material on the Zohar and... I don’t know. It’s a story, so we can’t know exactly what happened. I don’t take responsibility for it. It’s a story people told at the time, and there is disagreement about it. But the Rebbe would always say that the time has come for more of the writings to be found. Most of what Rabbi Levik wrote is not available. In his letters you see references such as “See such-and-such note,” or a discussion of this subject, and dozens more notes that he mentions in the letters, but they are nowhere to be seen. He wrote a great deal, and it isn’t available. For example, among the notes there is one that does contain an exchange between the Rebbe and Rabbi Levik. I’ll mention one point from it, which also involves gematrias.

10:51 You see there that the Rebbe discusses the camp of Israel in the desert. He goes through all the details of the camp of Israel. Then he goes on to the Mishkan, its vessels and all the little details—an entire system. Right at the beginning, he defines the camp of Israel as three parsaos by three parsaos, twelve mil by twelve mil. So the calculation is twelve mil by twelve mil. A mil was two thousand amos. If you calculate twelve mil by twelve mil, you get 576 million square amos. Divide that among the 600,000 men of Israel—while the space occupied by a person is one amah by one amah—and each one has 960 square amos. That is the calculation. What is the allusion here? The Rebbe writes that we are dealing with measures of bittul, nullification. There are many measures for nullification: one in sixty, one in a hundred, one in two hundred. One of the measures, apparently the largest, is 960. It is a Mishnah in Terumos. Regarding fish brine, there is a dispute among three Tannaim. I don’t remember their names—the first tanna, Rabbi Yehudah... One says sixteen; there is the number sixteen, the number 192, and the measure of 960. So the idea is that a Jew has his one amah by one amah, and around him is the largest measure in which he might be nullified, those 960 amos. But since a Jew is a distinct being, and a distinct being is not nullified, the idea is that even with 960 amos around him, he is not nullified by that great measure, because he is a distinct and significant being. That is one detail

12:51 in this note. The Rebbe sent the note to Rabbi Levik, and Rabbi Levik comments on many things in it. There are points on which he disagrees with the Rebbe, and he adds explanations in his own approach. By the way, though, he writes: You mentioned the number 960, and that Mishnah in Terumos with its three opinions. He then says something interesting: All the measures of nullification begin with sixty, so their root is the letter vav. He immediately explains this according to Kabbalah. The letter vav is written with a yud at its top: a vav with a yud. Add the vav and the yud, and you get sixteen—ten plus six. Multiply the vav by the yud, and you get sixty. So the measure of sixty comes from multiplying yud and vav; the measure of sixteen comes from adding them. How do we reach the number 192? We take the vav together with its spelled-out form. The spelled-out form is without the yud at the top, as is known—that is how he writes it. Just the spelled-out form, just the vav itself, gives twelve. Multiply twelve by sixteen, and you get 192. And multiply sixteen by sixty, the vav and the samech, and you get the measure of 960. These are calculations and so on. You might say, “Well, that’s...” But it shows the truth of these things: their common root is the samech and the vav, calculated in different forms and different ways, and that is how all these numbers arise. It would be interesting to see the Rebbe’s explanation of this in the approach of Chassidus. What does it mean? What is its significance? In that same note, the Rebbe also mentions what

14:46 the Rebbe says about the forty days when Hakadosh Boruch Hu became reconciled with the Jewish people and said, “I have forgiven, as you have spoken.” That was when the command concerning the Mishkan was given, along with the whole camp of Israel and all these numbers. It began with those forty days. Forty days and forty nights also amount to 960 hours. The number of hours in forty days and forty nights is 960. The measure of a mikveh is also 960, along with various other things like that. As an example of explaining a point from Likkutei Levi Yitzchak—how the Rebbe explains it in the approach of Chassidus—let’s take one short example. It expresses the Rebbe’s approach: beyond the Kabbalistic content, explaining what it means. Let’s take this maamar concerning teshuvah. We are now at 20 Menachem Av, forty days before Rosh Hashanah; Elul is already approaching. The Rebbe notes in his sichos that some communities already begin saying Selichos. Regarding teshuvah, the Zohar says that it can happen “in one hour, in one day, and in one moment.” This is the atmosphere as Elul arrives. Rabbi Levi Yitzchak focuses on this and asks about the order, which seemingly doesn’t fit. It should be day, hour, moment: not only in one day, but in one hour, and not only in one hour, but in one moment. Instead, the order is strange: it begins with hour, then day, then moment. So what does he explain? He explains that, as is known, teshuvah has three levels. Likkutei Torah, Parshas Balak, discusses teshuvah as it is in Malchus, in Ze’er Anpin, and in Binah. These are the three terms. “Hour” is Malchus. He brings proofs from Kabbalah that “hour” refers to Malchus. Ze’er Anpin is “day”; “day” is

16:56 Ze’er Anpin corresponds to a day, and a moment corresponds to Binah. So that is the order. That is why it says “an hour, a day, and a moment”: they correspond to Malchus, Ze’er Anpin, and Binah. He adds that the words “hour,” “day,” and “moment,” together with the number of their letters, have the same gematria as teshuvah. That is the icing on the—the cherry on the cake. All right, so the Rebbe asks: We need to understand what this means. It really is a beautiful gematria, and it all fits. Seemingly, we should say that these three levels of teshuvah are connected simply to how long they take. What does that mean? How long does the teshuvah of Malchus take? One hour. The teshuvah of Ze’er Anpin takes one day. The teshuvah of Binah takes just a moment. What are these forms of teshuvah? How are these three aspects expressed? They are “turn away from evil,” “do good,” and “seek peace”—Torah study. But seemingly, this whole matter of teshuvah happens in one hour, in one moment, beyond the limits of time. Why is that? Because teshuvah is an awakening of the essence of the soul, beyond measure and limitation. So it is not limited by time; it happens in a moment. That raises a question. Teshuvah at the level of Binah happening in a moment makes sense. But of the other two levels, “do good” is a higher form of teshuvah than “turn away from evil.” How can it be that the lower level, “turn away from evil,” takes one hour, while the higher level, “do good,” takes a day—more time? Why should it take more time? It should take less time too. The same question arises from the perspective of the sefiros. Ze’er Anpin or Malchus—which should take longer? It should take longer when the flow descends into the sefirah of Malchus. That is where more time should be needed. The higher something is, the more it is beyond time. Yet Ze’er Anpin, which is higher than Malchus and does not descend as far, takes longer than Malchus. How does that fit? The Rebbe explains that, in general, brevity and length can be understood in two ways. In one sense, we say that the Mishnah, compared with the Gemara, uses concise language: few words containing many principles. The Gemara goes into greater length. That has been the pattern throughout the generations: the Rishonim write concisely, while the Acharonim write at greater length. The greater the sage, and the loftier and deeper the subject, the more concisely it is written, in just a few words. At a lower level, in a later generation, the Acharonim write more extensively and explain things in greater detail. In that sense, brevity indicates a higher level. On the other hand, it says elsewhere, “A person should always teach his student in concise language.” Why concise language? Because if you give him the entire lengthy explanation, the student will be overwhelmed; it is beyond his capacity. So you put it briefly, so that he can absorb it. Here we see the opposite: brevity reflects a lack—less light. That seems to be a contradiction. The Mishnah’s concise language expresses a higher level, much more light. Yet here you say that when a student cannot absorb all the light of a full explanation, you put it in a few words, and brevity reflects a limitation. How do these two approaches fit together? The simple explanation is that these are two different cases. When we are dealing with two different kinds of understanding, two different worlds of understanding—

18:44 The time should be longer when the flow of Divine energy descends into the sefirah of Malchus. The higher it is, the more it is above time. So why is it that specifically Zeir Anpin, which is higher than Malchus and does not descend as far, has a greater length of time than Malchus? How does that fit? The Rebbe explains that, in general, there are two ways to understand brevity and length. In one sense, we say that the Mishnah is concise, expressing many principles in few words, while the Gemara goes into greater detail. That is the pattern throughout the generations: the Rishonim write concisely, and the Acharonim write at greater length. The greater the scholar, and the higher and deeper the subject, the fewer words are used to express it. At a lower level, in a later generation, the Acharonim elaborate more and explain it in greater detail. In other words, brevity indicates a higher level. On the other hand, elsewhere it says, “A person should always teach his student concisely.” Why concisely? Because if you gave him the entire explanation at length, the student would be overwhelmed; it would be beyond his capacity. So to enable him to receive it, you tell it to him briefly. Here you see the opposite: brevity is a limitation, meaning there is less light. So seemingly this is a contradiction. The Mishnah’s concise language reflects a higher level, much more light. But here you are saying that when a student cannot absorb the light, the full explanation, you put it into a few words, and that brevity reflects a limitation. So how do these two approaches fit together? The explanation is simple: these are two different kinds of brevity. We are talking about two different kinds. That is, when we have two kinds of understanding, two different worlds of

20:31 two different worlds of understanding—brevity is on a higher level than a lengthy explanation. But within the same world of understanding, the opposite is true. The Mishnah and the Gemara are two different worlds; there is a vast difference between them. The Mishnah is the Mishnah, and the Gemara is the Gemara. So the Mishnah is concise, and its brevity is loftier. Everything is more concentrated there: a higher light, more condensed, as we say. At the lower level of the Gemara, things are developed more fully. But within the Gemara itself, where we are not talking about two different worlds of understanding, the opposite is true. The deeper and loftier an idea is, the more details and explanation it requires. When you state it briefly, you give only the basic idea, its outward aspect. You do not go into the details or reach its depths. To reach its depths, you have to explain it at length, spell it out, and expand on it. So the distinction is between discussing one world and discussing two different worlds separated by a great gap. Take sight and hearing, for example. When you see something, you see it for yourself. If you then have to explain it in words, that takes much longer. There is the well-known example in Likkutei Torah: in one hour, the Arizal saw in the account of Balak and Bilaam what would have taken him sixty or eighty years to express in speech. Sight belongs to a higher world. In a single moment, you grasped all the light, the entire essence. In a lower world, it takes a long time to spell it all out. Now let us turn to the three kinds of teshuvah and see what happens here.

22:23 If we divide the three levels of teshuvah into categories, they fall into two groups. The first two levels, “turn away from evil” and “do good,” are teshuvah tata’ah, lower-level teshuvah. The teshuvah of Torah study, whose source is in Binah, is already teshuvah ila’ah, higher-level teshuvah. This is the difference between mochin, the intellect, and middos, the emotions: they are two different worlds. There is a distinction between them, and it is straightforward. The middos relate to the person as he is, to his own reality. He takes in a matter as it relates to him. Intellect means that a person steps outside his own reality and grasps the matter as it is in itself—not in relation to himself, but as it is in its own right. Middos concern how it relates to him, how it affects him, what he gets from it. These are two different worlds. And so the teshuvah associated with Torah study is specifically ... as it says in Tanya, a return to the state of his soul before it descended below, because here a person steps outside his own reality. With teshuvah tata’ah, we are talking about “turn away from evil” and “do good.” The person remains within his own reality: he sinned, and now he corrects what he did. But even after he corrects it and engages in “do good,” it is all still according to his own reality, his own level, what is within his reach. He remains an entity connected to G-dliness. Teshuvah ila’ah is when a person sets aside his own reality. He returns to the soul as it was originally, before its descent below. That is the idea of mochin. It is not about how something relates to him. He steps outside his own reality, takes the matter as it is in itself, and receives it that way. Of course, it also reaches the middos, but that is the path. ... face to face, to the heart, facing the mochin.

24:13 inward, to the middos—the mind revealed, so that the heart receives the light just as it is in the mind, without translation or contraction. In other words, the essential light, as it is in the mind, as it is in the intellectual faculties, as it is beyond the limits of the person—that very light is drawn down to the person as well. So when we speak about the teshuvah of Binah, of Torah study, it happens in a moment. As we said earlier, when you are dealing with two separate worlds, brevity is an advantage. The abundance of light lies in brevity—in the essence of the light. So teshuvah that is in Binah takes place in a single moment. But with the two lower kinds of teshuvah tata’ah, turning away from evil and doing good, it is like two intellectual ideas within the same world, as with two ideas within the Gemara itself. The deeper the idea, the more elaboration is needed to spell it out and explain it. So with those first two kinds, which belong to teshuvah tata’ah—turning away from evil and doing good—the terms are “a day” and “an hour.” The higher level needs more detail, more expansion and deeper examination. By contrast, the first kind of teshuvah, turning away from evil, takes less than an hour, because it concerns only the external aspect. It is the very lowest level. The Rebbe adds that in the version of Ha’amek there is one more expression, “a single time,” a fourth term. What is its significance? Although, in general, there are three levels of teshuvah, as explained in the Torah verse, that same verse, when examined more closely, describes a fourth level: the beginning of Chochmah. This corresponds to [unclear], which is the fourth level. Generally, we do not count it

26:06 as a separate thing. It is included in the teshuvah of Binah, because Chochmah and Binah form one concept. That is why, generally, only three levels are counted. When we go into greater detail, Chochmah is counted separately. Here this is expressed by the word “time,” which indicates even less time than a moment. For even a moment has a measure: the Gemara speaks of the time it takes to say “moment,” to pronounce the word. So it still has some measurable duration. It is less than an hour, certainly less than a day, but even a moment has a duration that can be defined. By contrast, “a single time” refers to the very concept of time; here there is no measure at all. So the level corresponding to Chochmah is not even expressed as a moment, but only with the term “time.” May Hashem help that we not only speak about teshuvah, but truly bring each of us to complete teshuvah. This will ultimately bring the immediate Geulah through our righteous Moshiach, our king, our head, and the leader of our generation.

00:01 First of all, let’s mention something connected to Rabbi Levi Yitzchak. It says that in the future there will be “a shelter from storm and rain.” The Rebbe quoted Rabbi Levi Yitzchak: “storm,” zerem, alludes to ramaz—that is, “do not subtract.” “Rain,” matar, alludes to ramat, which is “do not add.” In the future there will be shelter from both storm and rain. This connects with the subject of meat and milk, as we saw in the Rambam in recent days: someone who says that chicken cooked in milk is forbidden by Torah law transgresses “do not add.” We’ll perhaps begin with the basis of the Torah prohibition of meat and milk, and then focus on two subjects: waiting between meat and milk, and between milk and meat; and, as much as time allows, some common laws concerning mixtures or mistakes involving meat and dairy utensils. First, let’s mention the source of the prohibition of meat and milk. The Shulchan Aruch says in section 87: “The Torah says, ‘Do not cook a kid in its mother’s milk.’” This is stated three times. Now, it does not specifically mean a kid, which is a young animal, nor specifically its mother’s milk. It applies even to the milk of another animal, even a different species. As long as it is meat from a kosher animal and milk from a kosher animal, the Torah prohibition of meat and milk applies. So why does the verse say, “Do not cook a kid in its mother’s milk”? The Shulchan Aruch says that “the Torah spoke of the usual case.” The verse gave the most common example. Why was it the most common? Because a kid, a young calf, and so on nurses from its mother, from the cow or the like. If the calf was slaughtered, there would be surplus milk that it would otherwise have drunk. So people were accustomed to using that

02:22 milk to cook the meat of the calf or kid. The Torah therefore warns: “Do not cook a kid in its mother’s milk.” Don’t do that. And of course, as we saw in halachah, it is not specifically a kid; the same applies to a grown animal. Nor is it specifically its mother’s milk. But the Torah began with the common case. Incidentally, the Chinuch offers a reason for the prohibition of meat and milk. Generally speaking, meat and milk is considered a chok, meaning that it has no complete explanation. Nevertheless, many explanations can already be found among the Rishonim. The Chinuch says this: since the common case is a kid in its mother’s milk, it is an act of cruelty. To take the milk from which the kid was meant to nurse and grow, and use that very milk to cook it, as though reducing it to nothing—that is cruel. Therefore the Torah forbade cooking meat in milk. As we said, the Torah did not distinguish between cooking a kid in its mother’s milk and any other case of cooking meat in milk, but the basis is that a kid in its mother’s milk was what people commonly encountered. That is what the Chinuch says. The Rambam takes an entirely different approach. In his view, the basis of the prohibition of meat and milk is that it was a practice of idol worshipers. They had a special food for their rituals, made by cooking meat in milk. The worshipers would apparently gather in certain places, perform their worship there, and eat this food as well. Since the Torah commanded us to distance ourselves from idol worship, it also commanded us to stay away from their special food. There is another interesting approach. It appears in a new book called Noam Hameluchim [unclear]. Well, you know, someone. He explains it as follows. Everyone knows that the Torah forbids eating blood. It is also known, as the Gemara says—and the Alter Rebbe cites this in the laws of Shabbos—that milk is formed when blood changes and becomes

04:45 milk. In other words, the basis of milk is blood, but it changes, and the Torah permits it. As the Gemara in Chullin derives, this can be learned from the verse praising Eretz Yisroel as “flowing with milk and honey.” This implies that milk is permitted; otherwise, what praise would there be in that? At any rate, the Torah permitted milk even though it originates in blood. But he says—and he quotes a book on this—that once milk combines with meat, which naturally contains blood, it takes on the properties of blood again, as though it turns back into blood. That is the basis of the prohibition of meat and milk. There are other reasons too. One reason given is simply that it is unhealthy, and that this is among the halachic grounds on which the Torah forbade it. The Rebbe also brings another explanation in Likkutei Sichos, quoting someone else: Hakadosh Boruch Hu established boundaries in His world so that each kind remains distinct. That is why there is a prohibition against kilayim, mixing different species of seeds and the like. Similarly, meat and milk are considered entirely different kinds, and must not be combined. Now, one of the distinctive things about meat and milk is what the Gemara says in Chullin: there is something novel about this prohibition. If meat is soaked in milk all day, it is permitted by Torah law, but if it is cooked in milk, it is forbidden. After all, the general rule is that soaking is like cooking. If food sits in a liquid—and according to most opinions, this applies even to utensils, including metal utensils, sitting in liquid for a full day—they absorb its taste, and with most prohibitions this is forbidden by Torah law. Take an example: if someone puts non-kosher meat and cold water in a bowl, and the meat remains in the water for a full day, the water is forbidden to drink by Torah law because it has absorbed the taste of the meat. But if someone puts meat in milk and everything remains cold for a full day, even though the taste passes from one to the other, there is no Torah prohibition. By Torah law, one may drink the milk or eat the meat; but if one cooks them, that is a Torah prohibition. From a halachic standpoint, in this case of soaking, if one takes the milk alone or the soaked meat alone and cooks either one separately, one will also transgress a Torah prohibition. Why? Because the milk already contains the taste of meat, or the meat contains the taste of milk. But as long as they have not been cooked, there is no prohibition. Eating them as they are is not prohibited; cooking them is. So the Gemara indeed calls this a novelty. Nevertheless, there is an explanation for it. The Beis Yosef says that it is specifically through cooking that the tastes combine more fully. We all know that meat on its own is permitted, and milk on its own is permitted. What is forbidden is the new thing created by combining them. When they are cooked together, there is a more complete union. This apparently also provides the underlying rationale for certain leniencies in the laws of meat and milk. Anyone who has studied them knows the first concept: nosen taam bar nosen taam, a secondary transfer of taste. If someone cooked meat in a pot, then removed the meat and cleaned the pot, but afterward cooked vegetables in it, those vegetables are, at least according to the basic law, not considered meat. But if this involved a forbidden food—if someone cooked non-kosher meat in a pot, removed it, and then cooked vegetables in the pot—those vegetables, if they contain its taste, are considered actually non-kosher by Torah law.

07:04 They are forbidden to drink by Torah law, because they absorbed the taste of the non-kosher meat. But if someone leaves meat in milk, both cold, for a full day, even though the taste transfers, there is no Torah prohibition. By Torah law, one may drink the milk or eat the meat, but if one cooks them, that is a Torah prohibition. From a halachic standpoint, in this case of soaking, if he takes just the milk or just the meat that was soaked and cooks each one separately, he will also violate a Torah prohibition. Why? Because the milk contains the taste of meat, or the meat contains the taste of milk. But as long as he has not cooked them, he has not violated the prohibition. If he eats them as they are, there is no prohibition. If he cooks them, he violates the prohibition. So the Gemara does indeed call this a novel ruling. Even so, there is an explanation for it. The Beis Yosef explains it this way: specifically through cooking, the tastes become more fully united. After all, we all know that meat on its own is permitted. Milk on its own is also permitted. What is forbidden is the new combination of the two. So when they are cooked together, there is a more complete union. Conceptually, this is apparently also the halachic basis for several leniencies in the laws of meat and milk. Anyone who has studied them knows that the first concept is nat bar nat—that is, a taste imparted by something that had itself absorbed a taste. If someone cooked meat in a pot, then removed the meat and cleaned the pot, but afterward cooked vegetables in it, those vegetables, at least according to the basic law, are not considered meat. But if the situation involved something forbidden—someone cooked non-kosher meat in a pot, removed it, and then cooked vegetables in the pot—then, if those vegetables have absorbed its taste, they are considered actual non-kosher meat by Torah law.

09:18 What is the difference? We are not getting into how far one may be lenient with meat in practice. But what is the basis for the distinction? As we saw, with meat and milk the Torah forbade only cooking. And as the Beis Yosef explains, that is when the tastes combine. In other words, the full taste combines more thoroughly than it does in another manner, such as soaking. We therefore see that the Torah was not concerned here with a faint taste. So when the taste has weakened—meaning it passed into a utensil, according to the Pri Megadim and others, and then from the utensil into the food—the taste of meat is too faint to serve as the basis for creating a new prohibition of meat and milk. All right, now let’s move to something more practical. We all know that we do not eat meat and milk together. Not only do we not eat them together, but we also wait between meat and milk. Here we should mention what the Gemara says. Mar Ukva said of himself, “I am like vinegar, the son of wine.” What does that mean? Wine that has turned sour: it began as good wine, but then spoiled and became vinegar. That is how he described himself. He was “vinegar, the son of wine,” because if his father ate meat, he would not eat dairy for the rest of that day, whereas Mar Ukva waited only from one meal to the next. That is in the Gemara. Now, as for halachah: first, let’s mention that initial practice described in the Gemara, of someone who waited a full day—or, in the Gemara’s wording, did not eat dairy on the same day. It also has a certain place in the teachings of the Arizal. It is said that the Arizal was indeed careful not to eat dairy on a day when he had eaten meat. There is a discussion, though, about whether that means twenty-four hours. According to most poskim, as the Darchei Teshuvah brings, it means only until nightfall or sunset. In other words, if a full day had already passed, he would not have

11:45 He is particular about this. It may be that if he ate meat at night, he would not eat dairy or drink milk for that entire day, even though many hours had passed. But if he ate it during the day and nightfall has now arrived, he would no longer be particular about it. That is for someone who follows the practice of the Arizal. We need to discuss whether one waits twenty-four hours or only six hours, and whether it makes a difference when the date changes—when night arrives and, according to halachah, it is considered another day. The Shulchan Aruch does not mention the Arizal’s practice; it says to wait six hours. What is that based on? The Gemara says that Mar Ukva said of himself that he waited from one meal to the next. The usual interval between meals is considered six hours. So whether a person ate a little meat during a meal or outside a meal, he waits six hours. That is what the Shulchan Aruch says. The Rema cites a practice common in his time of waiting only one hour. Perhaps we will go into that shortly. The Rema says that it is proper to wait six hours. There are other practices. First, let us mention the practice reported in Germany of waiting three hours. In some places, people wait four hours. The Darchei Teshuvah already discusses this: What is its basis? The Rema mentions either six hours or one hour. Some even say there is no need to wait at all. They understand the Gemara’s phrase “from one meal to the next” to mean that once a person has finished eating and ended the meal, no waiting period is necessary. He finishes the meal, recites Birchas Hamazon, and can drink milk immediately afterward. So where do three or four hours come from? There are several explanations. Some say this: Since the expression is “from one meal to the next,” and in northern countries people then arranged their day according to the daylight and the sun, and so on.

14:14 There was not much lighting available at night, so in the winter people would ordinarily wait only four hours between meals. Thus, “from one meal to the next” meant four hours. That is one explanation. Some say further that four hours applies specifically in winter, because digestion is faster in the cold. That opinion exists as well. Others say three hours. One explanation follows the same principle that the Darchei Teshuvah brings: in northern countries, the interval between meals was short, so it was three hours—the time people waited in winter. There is another line of reasoning along these lines. Perhaps we will see it later: the view that the requirement is six hours, but since there are seasonal hours, and in winter each hour is half an hour, that comes to three hours. Perhaps we will get to that shortly. The practice the Rema cites, which is no longer widespread at all today, is to wait one hour. That practice may not have much significance as a regular custom, but it does matter in a case of need. For example, in the case of someone who is ill, it is much easier to be lenient. Of course, strictly speaking, an ill person does not need to wait at all, only not to eat the two together: he should finish the meal and then drink milk if he needs it for his health. Still, there is considerable reason to wait an hour, since that is the practice the Rema cites. What is the basis for waiting one hour? There are two explanations. One is brought by the Biur HaGra. It is based on the Zohar in Parshas Mishpatim, which says not to eat meat and milk “at one meal or in one hour”—not to eat them within the same hour. That is how the Gra explains the practice. The Pri Megadim does not accept this explanation; apparently, he does not bring it at all, because the Zohar was not known to those early authorities who practiced waiting one hour.

16:30 It is difficult to say their practice was based on the Zohar. That seems to be his argument. So he explains it differently. As is known—and perhaps we will see this later—those who eat meat and then immediately have dairy must clean their mouths and teeth so that no bits of meat remain. But the Shach says that if an hour has passed, there is no need to clean them, because presumably they are clean. The Taz disagrees with him. The Pri Megadim, however, says that this is the basis for the one-hour wait. Essentially, they relied on the opinion that it is enough to wait until after Birchas Hamazon, but they were concerned that something might remain between the teeth. So they said to wait an hour; once an hour has passed, presumably no remnants remain in the mouth or between the teeth. As a matter of basic halachah, there is an opinion among the early authorities that Birchas Hamazon alone is enough. On the other hand, what happens if someone eats meat at a meal and the meal goes on for a very long time—a long farbrengen, perhaps? Six hours have passed since he ate the meat, but he is still at the same meal. Here, too, we are particular not to eat dairy while still at that meal. According to the Zohar, one must not eat them “at one meal,” and here this may be more than a teaching of the Zohar; it is also brought in halachah. Now, why is there a view that one must wait six hours? The early authorities disagree. According to Rashi, meat is digested in the stomach only after six hours. As long as six hours have not passed, it is still in the body, and its taste can be sensed in the breath rising from the stomach. It is therefore considered as though one is eating meat and milk together—not under Torah law, of course, but as though one were. It is worth noting here something you surely all know about Birchas Hamazon. If a person finished eating and forgot to recite it, he can, in principle, recite it for up to the time it takes to walk a parsah, which is four mil—about seventy-two minutes according to many opinions.

19:02 That is considered the time it takes to digest the food, because afterward it is as though the food is no longer in his stomach. So why do we extend the wait here to six hours? They explain that digestion has several stages. There is the initial digestion, which takes a relatively short time—seventy-two minutes, or a little longer according to the different opinions—and there is the final digestion, which takes six hours. These are different concepts. The second reason, the Rambam’s reason for waiting six hours, is that meat may be lodged between the teeth. Meat between the teeth is still meat, and a person might eat cheese or another dairy food, so that together with the meat in his mouth he would actually be eating meat and milk. That is why they said to wait six hours. What does waiting six hours accomplish? After six hours, even meat that was between the teeth is considered like refuse, like waste, and has no significance. In other words, according to the Rambam, if bits of meat are still there after six hours, they have no significance, and one may eat dairy. According to Rashi, if one finds meat afterward, he must remove it and clean his mouth, but he does not wait another six hours. There are other practical differences between Rashi and the Rambam. For example, what if someone chews food for a baby? What does that mean? In earlier times there were no blenders and no jars of baby food to buy. Mothers would chew meat for a baby and give it to the baby to eat. So the person chewing it for the baby does not swallow it; she only chews it with her teeth. According to the Rambam’s reasoning, she must wait six hours because a little meat may have remained between her teeth. According to Rashi, by contrast, she need not wait, because she presumably did not swallow any. There is no lingering taste from the stomach, and according to Rashi, we are not concerned about meat between the teeth.

21:21 Of course, if there is meat there, it must be removed, but there is no need to assume that there is. In practice, we are stringent in accordance with both reasons. That is, even if a person chews meat in his mouth and then takes it out and spits it out, he must wait six hours, even though he did not swallow it. And if a person finds meat afterward, he must remove it, as Rashi holds. Those are the two stringencies. Now, one question whose halachic side is not entirely clear is: How long must a young child or baby wait between meat and dairy? First, as a general principle, an ill person who needs dairy after meat does not wait six hours. At most—that is, if possible—he waits an hour, or as long as he can, but not six hours. The laws of Shabbos state that a young child’s needs are treated like those of an ill person. So according to halachah, if the child needs milk now—say he is very young and needs milk—he certainly does not have to wait six hours. But again, I do not want to state this categorically. There are many opinions from rabbis and later authorities who discuss it. As a matter of basic law, it is clear that if there is a need, a real need to give him milk, he need not wait, or at least not more than one hour. Strictly speaking, until a child reaches the age of chinuch, around five or six, there is no issue at all. But everyone should ask his own rabbi for guidance. It is not entirely clear in the later authorities either; there are several opinions on the subject. Now let us take another example. What is the law if a person did not actually eat meat, but cooked rice or ptitim in a meat pot? Must he wait six hours afterward? According to all opinions, he need not wait six hours, even if he cooked something sharp in it. Furthermore, the Shulchan Aruch says

23:54 The same applies to a meat dish: one does not need to wait six hours. What is a meat dish in this context? Someone cooked chicken soup and ate the vegetables that were in it, or the soup itself. According to most opinions, following the Beis Yosef, he does not need to wait six hours. He perhaps should not eat it together with milk, but he does not have to wait six hours afterward. The Rema notes that the custom had already become to be stringent with a meat dish just as with meat itself—that is, to wait six hours. But according to the Beis Yosef, there is a discussion about thick soup and whether perhaps he, too, is stringent about it. In practice, though, our custom is to wait six hours after any meat dish. But that is only when there was actual meat in the dish, not when flavor passed into it from a clean utensil. Moreover, according to the Shach, the Sifsei Kohen, if there was a little meat in the pot, even if the dish did not contain sixty times its volume, then although the dish is considered meat and may not be eaten with milk, one does not need to wait six hours afterward. This apparently follows the Beis Yosef’s underlying reasoning: the reason for waiting six hours is the taste of meat, and here there is no substantial taste, even though there is a little flavor. After all, the Beis Yosef is lenient regarding a meat dish. So the Shach says that even according to the Rema, we are not stringent about such a small amount. Many authorities did, in fact, disagree with the Shach. They are stringent according to the Rema even about a relatively small amount of meat flavor, as long as there is not sixty times its volume. But as mentioned, if something—chicken, ptitim, or a pareve food—was cooked in a clean utensil, one certainly does not wait six hours afterward. What about the reverse? If someone ate meat and wants to eat something cooked in a dairy utensil within those six hours, that too is certainly permitted. Here, though, some are stringent if something sharp was cooked in it. For example, according to several opinions, an onion is considered sharp at the beginning of cooking, at any

26:08 rate. Once something sharp has been cooked, there is a line of reasoning that its sharpness draws out more flavor or enhances the flavor, so it is considered as though one is eating actual dairy food. Now, if the dish started with an onion or something similar that was cooked in a meat pot, there is no problem. Why? Because, as we said, even if some flavor is present, there is no need to wait six hours: the whole reason for the six hours is a substantial meat flavor that comes up from the stomach, and here there is no substantial flavor. But if meat flavor is already present, and the person is now eating something sharp that was cooked in a dairy pot, then the dairy flavor is more tangible. He is eating it right now, while the meat flavor comes from actual meat. So some are stringent. Most opinions are lenient even in this case. Everyone should ask their own rabbi about this. Can’t hear? Yes, yes. If the pot had not been used that day... Ah, they did not really distinguish on that point here. With something sharp, after all, we are stringent even if the pot had not been used that day. Yes. Now let’s turn to something a little different. What happens if we eat dairy and then want to eat meat? Anyone who has studied the Gemara in Chullin knows about the intermediate washing of hands between cheese and a meat dish. What does that mean? According to the law of the Gemara, a person could eat cheese, a dairy food, and then, in the same meal, simply wash his hands, clean his mouth by eating something, and so on—eating and drinking something—and immediately eat a meat dish or meat itself. That is the law of the Gemara. But the Beis Yosef, in Orach Chaim 173, says that it is proper to take account of the Zohar, which says not to eat them “at one meal and within one hour.” In other words, according to the Zohar, one should not eat milk and meat at the same meal, even when the milk comes before the meat. Even if the meal goes on for a long time, and even if a full hour has passed since finishing the dairy food,

28:32 nevertheless, according to the Zohar, it is proper not to eat meat. The common custom, if it is not the same meal, is to wait half an hour. Even then, most people are lenient if they had only liquid milk, such as a cup of coffee: they do not wait at all. Perhaps they rinse their mouths, but they do not wait. The Chabad custom is, of course, what the Rebbe writes, and it also appears in Shaarei Halachah Uminhag. The Rebbe says to wait an hour, following the Zohar. In fact, the Rebbe expresses surprise at those who discuss waiting half an hour and explain where that comes from. After all, the Zohar says, “at one meal and within one hour.” One explanation they offer is that “hour” does not mean an hour, but a turn of time, some time passing. The Rebbe says that if so, one might as well say the blink of an eye—the shortest interval that could be called a turn or a passage of time. Others explain that, as we said, a proportional hour in winter is very short—half an hour. But the Rebbe does not accept that. The Rebbe says to wait a full hour, including after a person drinks a cup of coffee or milk. The halachah states the following: some say that one waits six hours between cheese and meat. The Rema rules that the custom is indeed to wait six hours if the cheese is hard. In other words, there are two additional opinions here. One opinion says to wait six hours after any cheese. Its basis is the Zohar, which makes no distinction between meat followed by milk and milk followed by meat: six hours. Those who follow this stringent custom for all cheese may not be stringent about drinking a cup of milk, but they are stringent about every dairy food, every cheese. This custom is not widespread. Although several great Torah scholars are cited as having been stringent about it, it is not a widespread custom. By contrast, the Rema cites the common custom

31:02 of waiting six hours after hard cheese. And why do we wait six hours after hard cheese? There is a disagreement. According to the Turei Zahav, it is because the taste lingers. But the concern about cheese between the teeth does not apply: however hard cheese may be, it is not as hard as meat and will not remain there for so long. That is the view of the Taz. The Shach, as explained by the Pri Megadim, holds that cheese, too, can be extremely hard, and that this is also a reason to wait six hours. Therefore, the Pri Megadim says, according to the Shach, even if the cheese does not have a strong taste, if it is very hard one must wait six hours because of cheese between the teeth. Let’s look at the practical situation today. There are cheeses that are somewhat hard, after which most people do not wait six hours. There are yellow cheeses in Israel, and rabbis disagree about them.

32:15 Many permit eating meat without waiting six hours after those cheeses, because their taste does not linger or they are not so hard. Others are stringent and wait six hours after them as well. Everyone should follow their own rabbi. But there are cheeses, particularly ones made in Switzerland and places like that, that really are very hard. Not only that, they have a very strong flavor. And anyone who—I’m not much of an expert in this area—anyone familiar with gastronomy surely knows that some cheeses have a flavor that lingers for a long time. With those, one really does need to wait six hours. One example given in halachah is cheese that has worms in it. That is a cheese after which one must wait six hours. And if you ask how it is possible to eat cheese with worms—we all know that worms are forbidden—halachah says this: worms that develop in something detached from the ground, such as cheese, and have not crawled out of it, are permitted to eat. So, as the Pri Megadim explains, these worms are like dairy meat. On the one hand, they have a substantial taste, because they are flesh—a kind of worm. On the other hand, they are dairy, and therefore one must wait six hours. That is just an example. Has any of you had the privilege of tasting it? I once met someone who, decades after leaving Europe before the war, still remembered that cheese. His eyes lit up as he recalled the wonderful pleasure of eating wormy cheese. Kosher cheese, of course. Since we have been talking about these subjects, let me mention in passing the matter of fish and meat, or fish and milk. The Shulchan Aruch mentions several times—in Yoreh Deah 116, and in the Alter Rebbe’s laws of protecting life and health at the end of Choshen Mishpat—that it is forbidden to eat fish and meat together because of danger. The Gemara says there is a danger of leprosy. Here, too, there are several questions. A. Is it permitted to cook fish in a meat utensil, or meat in a utensil

34:52 Of fish, clean, of course? The Taz and the Shach discuss this in siman 116. Most halachic authorities are lenient. Again, some follow the minority view and are stringent. Everyone should follow their own custom. Another question: What happens if fish accidentally falls into meat, or the other way around? Is it nullified, and if so, in what proportion? This happened a few years ago. Someone asked me about it on a Friday. Apparently, a housewife was working hard to prepare for Shabbos, so her husband wanted to help her. He started putting things into the pot too, but he put them into the wrong pot. He put the fish into the meat pot. So what is the ruling? There are different opinions among the halachic authorities. In principle, we know that most prohibited substances are nullified in sixty times their volume. If there is sixty times as much as the prohibited substance, it is nullified. For example, if a little milk falls into a meat pot, into the sauce, and there is sixty times as much sauce, it is nullified. But what if a piece of fish falls into meat? According to most opinions, the rule of sixty applies here too. If the meat soup contained sixty times as much as the fish, you remove the fish, throw it away, and everything else is permitted. There are differing views in both directions. Some say that here it is nullified even with less than sixty, because the requirement of sixty applies to something inherently prohibited, such as non-kosher meat, or milk in relation to meat. But when the concern is danger, once the taste is slight, it is nullified even if there is less than sixty. Others take the opposite view: The Sages said that an inherently prohibited substance is nullified in sixty because its slight taste does not prohibit the food. But with danger, who knows what the rule is? Perhaps even a tiny amount is prohibited. So ask a rabbi. Again, the prevailing halachic view is that the required proportion here, too, is sixty. But this raises another question: What is the status of the utensil? We mentioned

37:11 that strictly speaking, it is certainly permitted to cook fish in a pot at one time and meat in it at another. But what happens if fish and meat actually become mixed in a pot and the food becomes prohibited? Is the pot now kosher, or does it need to be kashered? What is the reasoning? Some halachic authorities say this: True, one may cook fish in a meat pot, or the other way around. But once they have been cooked together, a situation resembling prohibited food has been created. That is, something has been created that is actually forbidden to eat because of the danger involved, and so the pot needs to be kashered. Others say, as above, that if you may cook fish in a meat pot or the other way around, what problem could there be with the pot? As the Taz and the Shach cite, most halachic authorities hold that taste absorbed in a utensil poses no danger at all. So what problem could there be? If this happens, it is a question to ask a rabbi. Let’s touch on a practical aspect of this question. Some people bake fish in the oven and also bake meat in the oven. May they use the same oven for fish and, at another time, for meat—not together? For those whose practice is to cook fish in a meat pot or the other way around, there is no problem if they do it one after the other. Of course, they should make sure the baking pan is clean and thoroughly washed. And if they use the oven immediately afterward, they should let it air out a little so that no steam from the meat or the fish remains. But for people who are careful not to cook fish and meat in the same pot, if they want to use the same oven, then according to most opinions—almost all opinions—kashering it is fairly simple: “As it absorbs, so it expels.” In other words, first let it air out a little, open the oven, and leave it on for a while. It heats up again, and that kashering is effective. According to most opinions—and this is a somewhat more difficult question—according to most opinions,

39:38 this also works for the baking pan. The pan actually touches the meat or the fish, and here there are opinions that, because of that direct contact, this is considered roasting and requires complete libun. Complete libun is a little more complicated. A temperature of close to five hundred degrees Celsius is beyond what most ovens can reach. But according to most opinions, “as it absorbs, so it expels” works here too—that is, the same temperature. Say it was at a hundred and eighty degrees Celsius. Clean the pan, then heat it at a hundred and eighty or a hundred and ninety for a little while. That kashering allows them to put fish in it, or the other way around, even for those who are careful not to use the same utensils. Let’s conclude this topic with a story told about the Tzemach Tzedek. He had a servant who was a very simple Jew. As the story goes, once, in the Tzemach Tzedek’s home—or perhaps someone asked him a question—fish and meat had become mixed. The Tzemach Tzedek said to throw it away. The servant asked why. He was told, “It says in halachah that it is dangerous.” He said, “Rebbe, I’m not afraid of that.” The Tzemach Tzedek told him, “Fool! When a person later cannot be stirred during davening, it is because of such things.” In other words, it is not only a physical matter; there is a spiritual aspect to it as well. As is often explained, the Torah was particular about forbidden foods, among other reasons, because food shapes a person. If a person eats food that has a corrupt nature, like that of predatory animals, he too may take on that nature. That is why the Torah commanded us to be careful, and so on. So may it indeed be Hashem’s will that, through being careful about kosher food, we merit a spirit of purity, leading to the complete Geulah, when the spirit of impurity will be removed from the earth.

00:00 Speaker 1 One of the Alter Rebbe’s distinctive works is Seder Birchos Hanehenin, the laws of blessings over food and drink. In fact, the Alter Rebbe wrote about these blessings three times. He wrote about them in his Shulchan Aruch, although parts of it have not reached us. We have sections 167 and 168, 174 and 178, then sections 200 through 204, and then sections 208 through 212. But the other sections were lost and did not reach us. More precisely, they were burned in the great fire, as is known. Later, the Alter Rebbe composed his Luach Birchos Hanehenin, which contains all the laws of blessings over food and drink. It is a distinctive summary. What distinguishes the Luach from the Shulchan Aruch is that the Luach was written as practical halachah, without the reasons, whereas the Shulchan Aruch, as is known, presents the laws together with their reasons. The Luach presents them briefly. But three—this was in the year 5560. In 5563, the Alter Rebbe composed his siddur and included halachos in it. One of those sections is Seder Birchos Hanehenin, the third edition of these laws. Three years after the Luach, he composed Seder Birchos Hanehenin. What led the Alter Rebbe to write it again three years after the Luach? He himself writes that in the Luach he ruled according to the later authorities, whereas in Seder Birchos Hanehenin he ruled more according to the early authorities. He also writes there that the presentation of the laws in the siddur is more precise and better organized. Another interesting thing is that if you look carefully at the Shulchan Aruch, the Luach, and the siddur, you see that sometimes the Alter Rebbe copied entire passages in exactly the same words in all three, without any changes. You can see that one author copied the same paragraph. For example, in a certain halachah—

02:38 Speaker 1 he copied it into both the Luach and the siddur in the same wording, without changing even one letter. But sometimes there are changes from the Shulchan Aruch to the Luach and from the Luach to the siddur. Sometimes the changes are only between the Shulchan Aruch and the Luach, while the Luach and the siddur agree. So there are several different patterns. Some things are identical in the Luach, the Shulchan Aruch, and the siddur, while on other points they actually disagree. We will now bring one example. We’ll focus on an example where the Luach and the siddur differ, and understand the reason for that difference in the ruling. First, though, we should say something about the great importance of studying the laws of blessings over food and drink. The Alter Rebbe devoted so much attention to them that he wrote them three times: in the Shulchan Aruch, the Luach, and the siddur. That shows how important it is to know these halachos. Incidentally, entire portions of the Alter Rebbe’s Shulchan Aruch have not reached us at all. Parts of Orach Chaim are missing; the entire second half of Orach Chaim has not reached us, and even in some of the laws of Shabbos there are several paragraphs that have not reached us. Some material in the first part is missing as well. All this is by Divine Providence. So if the laws of blessings over food and drink have reached us in three editions, that shows the importance of studying these halachos. Incidentally, there are other halachos that have reached us three times: the opening laws of the Shulchan Aruch, concerning getting up in the morning. Those have reached us in his first edition, his later edition, and the siddur. There are the first four sections—you can all see them at the beginning. The Alter Rebbe’s first four sections appear in two editions, an earlier and a later one, and they are also in the siddur. Those are halachos we need to study carefully too, but we are focusing

04:50 Speaker 1 of course, on the laws of blessings over food and drink. Let’s first mention that the Gemara says someone who does not know the blessings over food and drink is an am ha’aretz, an unlearned person. What makes someone an am ha’aretz? Not knowing these blessings. The Rebbe remarks in one of his letters that nowadays the situation is reversed: the greater a Torah scholar someone is, the less he knows about the blessings over food and drink, because he considers these halachos too minor to learn. So in the time of the Gemara, someone who did not know them was an am ha’aretz. Today, perhaps it’s a bit embarrassing to say that such a person is not a Torah scholar. We therefore need to recognize the truth: we must study these laws. Incidentally, there is a story about the Tzemach Tzedek. When he came to Vilna as a young man, the Torah scholars of Vilna wanted to test whether he knew the laws of blessings over food and drink. So they presented him with a basket of fruit to see if he knew which fruit to make the blessing on first. He took one fruit and made the blessing on it—precisely the least important fruit in the basket, not the one that should come first according to the seven species or any other order of precedence. They asked him why. He said that there is a halachah that the food a person wants to eat at that moment takes precedence for the blessing. This was a new ruling to them, and they were surprised that he had taught them something new in halachah: what a person wants to eat is what takes precedence. So in the test they set him, he ended up teaching them the halachos instead. In any case, all these halachos are included in the booklet distributed here today. I’d like you to use it as we learn, so that we can also

06:45 Speaker 1 understand this better. Let’s look near the bottom of the first page, at the Luach Birchos Hanehenin, chapter 2, about halfway down: “The time within which separate drinks combine: Some say it is the time it takes to drink a revi’is. Thus, if someone hurriedly drank half a revi’is, faster than most people would drink it, paused briefly, and then drank again, the two amounts combine if, from the beginning of the first drink to the end of the last, no more time passed than it takes an ordinary person to drink a revi’is. The same applies if he did not pause in between but took that long over his drinking.” The first opinion says that the time limit for drinking—whether a person drinks water or anything else—is the time it takes to drink a revi’is. How much is a revi’is? Eighty-six cubic centimeters. And how long does it take most people to drink a revi’is? Half a minute? Twenty seconds? The later authorities disagree about it, but it is no more than half a minute. In any case, we’re talking about drinking a revi’is normally, neither hot nor cold. “And some say that separate drinks combine to make up a revi’is within the time it takes to eat a pras, just as separate amounts of food combine.” The second opinion says that the time limit for combining drinks to make up a revi’is is the time it takes to eat a pras, rather than the time it takes to drink a revi’is. How much is a pras? The amount of three eggs. As for how many minutes that takes in practice, the halachic authorities disagree, and many opinions have been given. The most widely accepted opinion is four minutes. Rabbi Chaim Naeh also rules this way in his Shiurei Torah: four minutes is the time it takes to eat a pras. That means that according to the second opinion, if someone drinks a revi’is of water within four minutes, he recites an after-blessing. But if he drinks it over more than four minutes, he does not recite an after-blessing. This has practical implications, it—

09:06 Speaker 1 This applies to tea, of course—hot tea and hot coffee, which people drink slowly. If it takes more than four minutes to drink a revi’is, then, according to this opinion, one cannot recite a concluding blessing. What does the Alter Rebbe rule in his Luach? When in doubt about a blessing, we rule leniently. In practice, he rules that if a person drank a revi’is of water over a period longer than the time it takes to drink a revi’is, this becomes a case of doubt about a blessing, and he should not recite one. In other words, according to the Luach, if someone drinks water over more than half a minute, he does not recite a concluding blessing, because we rule leniently when in doubt about blessings. All the more so with tea, which people drink over much more than half a minute. So it follows that someone who drinks hot tea does not recite a concluding blessing, because the drinking extends beyond the time limit for a revi’is, and there is doubt about the blessing. That is the Luach. Now let’s read the Siddur, on the second page. Of course, we won’t read the whole passage, just the end, around the second-to-last line: “And some say that the period within which drinking a revi’is can be combined is the time it takes to eat a pras, just as with eating.” What does he rule as the halachah? “And this is the primary view.” The main halachic ruling follows the second opinion, which says it is the time it takes to eat a pras. This brings about a complete change in the laws of blessings over food and drink concerning the concluding blessing for a revi’is of a beverage. According to the Siddur, even four minutes is enough. If someone drinks a revi’is of his beverage within four minutes, he can recite a concluding blessing. According to this opinion, there is no doubt about the blessing. He therefore continues: “One should recite a concluding blessing over hot coffee and tea, even though one drinks them little by little, provided one did not take longer than the time it takes to eat a pras.” So he is saying that if one drinks the tea or coffee within the time it takes to eat a pras—that is, four minutes—one can recite a concluding blessing over tea

11:17 Speaker 1 and coffee. This is a new ruling in the Siddur. As mentioned, within three years the Alter Rebbe reversed his earlier ruling in the Luach, where he had ruled that in cases of doubt about blessings we are lenient; here he introduces a ruling that one should recite the blessing. What led the Alter Rebbe to change his mind? Let’s read what the Alter Rebbe’s brother, the Maharil, writes in his responsa. Water. One has to recite the blessing over food and drink, right? I also wanted to demonstrate how to recite a concluding blessing after drinking water. Let’s read the Maharil: “Regarding your uncertainty about drinking hot tea or coffee—whether the entire amount combines within the time it takes an average person to drink a revi’is, or within the time it takes to eat a pras—since you found in our master the author’s laws of blessings over food and drink,” meaning his brother, yes? The Alter Rebbe, “that the primary view is that the amounts combine if he did not take longer than the time it takes to eat a pras: Know, my dear friend, that I heard explicitly from my master and brother, of blessed memory, that he wrote this because he did not accept what the Magen Avraham wrote, that the rules for combining amounts for blessings depend on the dispute between the Rambam and the Raavad, which he discussed in the Shulchan Aruch, in the laws of Yom Kippur. Rather, even according to the Rambam, who holds that if one takes longer than the time it takes to drink a revi’is, the amounts do not combine, that applies specifically on Yom Kippur, where the relevant measure is a cheekful, which is less than a revi’is. But for a concluding blessing, where the measure is a revi’is, it is not so reasonable to measure the drinking of a revi’is rapidly against the time it takes to drink a revi’is at an average pace.” So he is making a very significant point. He says he heard it from his brother. The Alter Rebbe disagrees here with the— The Magen Avraham drew a comparison between the laws of blessings over food and drink and—thank you. The Magen Avraham says this: “The dispute between the Raavad and the Rambam about the time limit for drinking a revi’is is essentially the same dispute that applies to drinking on Yom Kippur.” There is a law that someone who is ill on Yom Kippur may drink in measured amounts. What does “measured amounts” mean? Someone who, for example, is very thirsty and ill—he has to drink,

13:57 Speaker 1 and if he does not drink, he could be in danger. So he should first drink water in measured amounts, less than a revi’is each time. Less than—more precisely, less than a cheekful. On Yom Kippur, the measure is not a revi’is but a cheekful. A cheekful is most of a revi’is. So if we said a revi’is is eighty-six cubic centimeters, a cheekful is approximately fifty cubic centimeters. He can therefore drink up to fifty cubic centimeters on Yom Kippur, but in measured amounts, with a certain interval between each drink. This is where the Rambam and the Raavad disagree. According to the Rambam, the interval is the time it takes to drink a revi’is. Say that takes half a minute; then he needs to leave a half-minute pause between one drink and the next so that the amounts do not combine into the prohibited measure of a cheekful on Yom Kippur. According to the Raavad—according to the Rambam—yes, that was the Rambam. According to the Raavad, the interval must be the time it takes to eat a pras. Every four minutes he may drink less than a cheekful, because the Raavad holds that drinks taken within four minutes combine. So the Magen Avraham says that this same dispute applies to the time limit for drinking a revi’is for a concluding blessing: whether or not to recite the concluding blessing is the same question. What combines? Do drinks taken on Yom Kippur combine with one another or not? So whoever holds, regarding blessings over food and drink, that a revi’is combines only within the time it takes to drink a revi’is holds the same thing on Yom Kippur. And whoever holds that drinks combine within the time it takes to eat a pras holds the same thing on Yom Kippur. Therefore, the Magen Avraham holds that on Yom Kippur we must be stringent according to the opinion requiring the time it takes to eat a pras—that is, to leave four minutes between one drink and the next,

16:10 Speaker 1 because this is a doubt concerning a Torah prohibition. By contrast, in the laws of blessings, when in doubt about a blessing we rule leniently. So the Magen Avraham says that there we must be stringent in the opposite direction. You see, the rule that we are lenient when in doubt about blessings is not really a leniency; it is a stringency. It means one may not recite the blessing, because it might be a blessing in vain. So if there is doubt about whether he should recite a blessing, the rule means that he may not recite it. Therefore, according to the Magen Avraham, someone who drank a revi’is over longer than the time it takes to drink a revi’is should not recite a concluding blessing. That is also the ruling in the Luach. The Luach essentially follows the Magen Avraham: there is a dispute among the halachic authorities, and the ruling is that when in doubt about a blessing, we rule leniently. On Yom Kippur, by contrast, the ruling goes the other way, because there we are stringent in a case of doubt concerning a Torah prohibition. So there we say one must be stringent about how one drinks. This is also the practical ruling today: one must leave a pause. Nowadays, though, because some hold that the time it takes to eat a pras is approximately nine minutes—there is such an opinion even in the Tzemach Tzedek—some say one must wait about nine minutes between drinks. In any case, that is what the Magen Avraham says. But the Maharil says in the Alter Rebbe’s name that there is a major difference between the dispute concerning Yom Kippur and the dispute concerning blessings over food and drink. On Yom Kippur, the measure is a cheekful, most of a revi’is. There it is easier to measure most of a revi’is against the time it takes to drink a revi’is. But when the measure itself is a revi’is, as it is for a concluding blessing, one cannot measure that revi’is against a fast or slow drinking of a revi’is, because drinking a revi’is is one continuous drink. It is very difficult to compare the time an average person takes to drink a revi’is with the time taken by someone who drinks extremely quickly. The time differences are very small, so in this case we do not say that the measure

18:18 Speaker 1 The time for drinking a revi’is is the time it takes to drink a revi’is. But here we hold that the time allowed for drinking a revi’is is kedei achilas pras—the time it takes to eat a pras. If the explanation isn’t clear, I can go through it again. Is it clear? Not clear. To estimate how long an average person takes to drink a revi’is, we said it’s about half a minute. Now, what if an average person drinks it extremely fast, all at once? How much difference is there between someone who drinks a revi’is extremely fast and someone who drinks it at a leisurely pace? The differences are very small. It is very difficult—as the Rambam said, very difficult—to be precise. In halachah, this is called “we do not require such precision.” It is very difficult to define the times so precisely that the measure would be how long an average person takes to drink a revi’is. The differences between an average person’s drinking time and that of someone drinking faster or slower are very small. So it cannot be that the Sages set a measure whereby someone who drinks just a little more slowly than an average person can no longer say the after-blessing. It is very difficult to say that the Sages established such a boundary for a measure that is so hard to define precisely. That is why, in this case, the Rambam holds that the time allowed for a revi’is is kedei achilas pras. It is specifically in the laws of Yom Kippur, where the required amount is a cheekful, which is less than a revi’is, that I can make an estimate. Fifty—drinking fifty cubic centimeters. Sometimes there are differences in the number of cubic centimeters, but the amounts are fairly clear. The question is how long it takes to drink that amount of water. I cannot say that someone who drinks it in thirty-five seconds can no longer say the after-blessing. So in this case they established a clearer rule. That is what the Alter Rebbe says to his brother, the Maharil: that even the Rambam agrees here that the time allowed for drinking a revi’is is kedei achilas pras. In other words, when the required amount is less than a revi’is,

20:25 Speaker 1 for example, at Kiddush, with the four cups—with the four cups—and on Yom Kippur, where the required amount is less than a revi’is, then the time allowed for that smaller amount is the time it takes to drink a revi’is. That is why the discussion concerns Yom—Pesach or Kiddush. If someone drinks at Kiddush, and he drinks the required amount, less than a revi’is, over a period longer than it takes to drink a revi’is, he has not fulfilled his obligation. Why? How? No, no. That is the distinction. How much does one have to drink for Kiddush? Most of a revi’is. No, it is not a full revi’is. The required amount for Kiddush—no, no, no, no. The required amount for Kiddush is most of a revi’is. The required amount for Kiddush is most of a revi’is. What? A cheekful is most of a revi’is. No, no, no, no, it explicitly says otherwise. The required amount for Kiddush is a cheekful. One must drink from a cup containing a revi’is, and therefore, since the obligation there is to drink fifty cubic centimeters, most of a revi’is—yes, about fifty cubic centimeters—the time allowed is the time it takes to drink eighty-six cubic centimeters. What? Yes. Regarding Kiddush, he writes that it is most of a revi’is. He writes it three times: in the laws of Bikkurim he writes that it is most of a revi’is, in the laws of Pesach he writes that it is most of a revi’is, and in the laws of Shabbos he writes that it is most of a revi’is. Three times the Alter Rebbe repeats that a cheekful is most of a revi’is. There is even an expression in the laws of Shabbos that says a revi’is—ah, a generous majority of a revi’is. Not an exact majority, but a generous one. There is some wording like that. No, no. Lechatchilah, the ruling for Pesach is most of a revi’is.

22:25 Speaker 2 Pesach?

22:25 Speaker 1 On Pesach, for the four cups, and for Kiddush, it is most of a revi’is. Let’s open a sefer and see. I have no problem with that. The words “most of a revi’is” appear three times in this connection. Is there a computer, by the way? I could look it up on the computer too. It does not say “most of the cup.” Where does it say “most of the cup,” by the way? In any event—fine, we’ll move on. We can—I can look at it later. I’m limited for time. Right? So, the required amount for Kiddush is a cheekful, most of a revi’is, and the same applies on Pesach. The time allowed is the time it takes to drink a revi’is, which is half a minute. So if someone finds the Kiddush wine too strong and has great difficulty drinking it, and he drinks it over the time it takes to drink a revi’is, he has not fulfilled his obligation. He has to drink the majority of a revi’is within the time it takes to drink a revi’is. There is no dispute about that. The dispute concerns the after-blessing, for which the required amount is a revi’is. Here the question is whether that revi’is must be drunk within the time it takes to drink a revi’is or within kedei achilas pras. And here the Alter Rebbe and his brother say that even the Rambam would agree that the time allowed is kedei achilas pras. That is why, in his Seder Birchos Hanehenin, he rules—and this is the principal ruling—that in the dispute over whether the time allowed is the time it takes to drink a revi’is or kedei achilas pras, even if one takes four minutes, within kedei achilas pras, one says the after-blessing. So someone drinking hot tea or coffee who drinks a revi’is within kedei achilas pras—even the Rambam would agree that he must say the after-blessing. That is why the Alter Rebbe rules that we do not apply the principle of being lenient when in doubt about blessings here. That is what the Maharil, the Alter Rebbe’s brother, says. In fact, this reasoning already appears in Rabbeinu Manoach’s commentary on the Rambam. It is reasoning found among the Rishonim. So here we see the difference. In the Luach he rules

24:30 Speaker 1 like the Magen Avraham, whereas in the Siddur he rules like Rabbeinu Manoach. So we see the difference between the Luach and the Seder Birchos Hanehenin in the Siddur. As we said, in the Siddur he rules more in line with the Rishonim, unlike in the Shulchan Aruch and the Luach, where he rules like the Magen Avraham. As is known, it is written that he later regretted relying so heavily on the Magen Avraham. There is an expression from the Alter Rebbe indicating that he was somewhat sorry he had ruled so often like the Magen Avraham in the Shulchan Aruch. We see it in the laws of blessings over food as well: many times he rules contrary to the Magen Avraham. Now, there is something down here. He says the following—the Maharil himself wrote: “And he found [unclear] in the laws of Yom Kippur; one can indeed rely on the Rambam, in light of what he wrote [unclear], etc., etc.” Look at the last passage. “If so, since ‘the helper has stumbled and the one being helped has fallen’”—and then it is difficult to refute. In the case of a sick person, too, we should plainly be lenient. Certainly we should be lenient in accordance with the Rambam’s view, and perhaps the Pri Chadash can be added to this as well. Here the Maharil goes even further than the Alter Rebbe. He says something remarkable: we should rule entirely like the Rambam, quite simply, both regarding blessings and regarding Yom Kippur. For on Yom Kippur, as we said, there is a prescribed interval for drinking, and the interval is kedei achilas pras. That is how everyone rules. All the halachic authorities today rule that a sick person must wait kedei achilas pras between drinks on Yom Kippur. Today that is about nine minutes. The Maharil says: “No.” Based on the Alter Rebbe’s reasoning, the Maharil says there is no need to wait more than half a minute. Why? Because the Rambam holds—and the ruling follows the Rambam, the decision is in accordance with the Rambam—that when the required amount is a cheekful, the time allowed is the time it takes to drink a revi’is.

26:29 Speaker 1 When the required amount is a revi’is, the time allowed is kedei achilas pras; but when the required amount is a cheekful, the time allowed is the time it takes to drink a revi’is. Accordingly, if someone has just drunk less than a cheekful on Yom Kippur—forty-five cubic centimeters—and then, half a minute later, drinks another forty-five cubic centimeters, the Alter Rebbe’s brother says we see from this that one can be lenient on Yom Kippur in a case involving possible danger to life. He says that a sick person whose life may be in danger can be given less than a cheekful to drink every half minute. This is a remarkable innovation that none of the halachic authorities states, and it is not stated in [unclear] either. It is his own innovation. We must make a distinction here: this is the Maharil’s own innovation based on the Alter Rebbe’s words, not something the Alter Rebbe told him. In fact, why don’t we rule this way? Because what he says is quite a stretch. But I don’t want to go into it at length, because time is short. So I’ll just say that, in my opinion, the Alter Rebbe holds that one must wait kedei achilas pras. That is, in keeping with the prevailing ruling today, on Yom Kippur we do not rely on the Rambam on this question but on the Ravyah: one must wait kedei achilas pras. I don’t have time to explain why at length. Another time. But let’s continue below. What it says below in [unclear] is very important. First, though, let’s look above. It follows from what has been said that if someone drank a revi’is of wine little by little, in amounts smaller than a kezayis, then even though he drank the entire revi’is within kedei achilas pras, nevertheless, if he did not drink a kezayis within the time it takes to drink a revi’is, he should not say the after-blessing. For with wine, there is doubt whether the minimum amount for the after-blessing is a kezayis, as mentioned in section 1; and when the required amount is a kezayis, the time within which the amounts combine is the time it takes to drink a revi’is. Since he did not drink a kezayis within the time it takes to drink

28:26 Speaker 1 A revi’is, and therefore he is exempt from a final blessing. Accordingly, someone who drinks wine little by little should drink at least a third of a revi’is—the measure of a kezayis—quickly, within the time it takes to drink a revi’is. He can drink the rest within the time it takes to eat a pras, and then he can recite a final blessing. Presumably, even someone drinking hot coffee or tea should try to drink a kezayis in one go at the end, to take into account those who say that with all beverages, too, there is a question whether the measure for a final blessing is a kezayis, as the later authorities wrote. Rabbi Chaim Naeh has some major innovations here. He holds that with wine, there is a dispute about whether the final blessing is recited over a kezayis or a revi’is. There is a dispute in—according to Tosafos, the final blessing over wine is recited over a kezayis. So, since the halachic authorities disagree, the ruling is that when in doubt about a blessing, we are lenient. Therefore, one should initially drink either less than a kezayis of wine or more than a revi’is. That is why, with bentching, as it says in Shulchan Aruch, one must drink more than a revi’is of wine so that one can recite a final blessing according to all opinions. Likewise, at Havdalah, we are particular to drink the entire cup in order to recite a final blessing according to everyone. Now, what does Rabbi Chaim Naeh say here? Rabbi Chaim Naeh says that since one opinion holds that the required amount of wine to drink is a kezayis, which is less than a revi’is, then according to Rabbi Chaim Naeh, that kezayis must be drunk within the time it takes to drink a revi’is. The rest of the cup can be drunk within the time it takes to eat a pras, but the first kezayis must be drunk within the time it takes to drink a revi’is. Why? Because of the Rambam. As we said, for anything less than a revi’is, the time limit is the time it takes to drink a revi’is. So here too, since there is an opinion that the required amount of wine to drink is a kezayis, that is less than a revi’is. The Rambam’s ruling therefore applies—that its time limit is the time it takes to drink a revi’is. And therefore he says—

30:14 Speaker 1 Rabbi Chaim Naeh says that someone who drinks wine but does not drink the first kezayis within the time it takes to drink a revi’is cannot recite a final blessing, because he has not drunk that amount within the required time. [unclear] He goes further: even coffee and tea are the same, because some opinions say that this ruling of the Rambam concerning the final blessing over wine applies to other beverages as well, not just wine. But the Alter Rebbe does not cite that opinion as halachah at all—not in the Siddur, not in Shulchan Aruch, and not in the Luach. So I don’t know on what basis Rabbi Chaim Naeh says we must be stringent according to those opinions. In any case, with regard to wine, he certainly holds that way. In my opinion, I don’t entirely agree with what he writes on that either, and I think one need not drink the revi’is that way. I mean, after the fact; initially, perhaps one should. But after the fact, if someone drank the kezayis in less than the time it takes to drink a revi’is, he can recite a final blessing without concern. Why? There is a rule that when in doubt about blessings, we are lenient. Look here on the first page, the Alter Rebbe’s Shulchan Aruch, section 489. A kezayis of wine is a third of a revi’is. What is a kezayis? The measure of a kezayis is twenty-eight cubic centimeters, or nineteen cubic centimeters, depending on the halachic authorities. That is a measure of liquid in cubic centimeters, not by weight. There is a rule that when in doubt about blessings, we are lenient. Yes, we said that when in doubt about blessings, we are lenient. Why? Because one might recite a blessing in vain. But what is the law when there is a double doubt? Are we lenient or stringent with a double doubt? There is a major dispute among the halachic authorities. Let’s see what the Alter Rebbe rules. Look in section 489: “All this applies when he knows for certain that he did not count on one of the nights. But if he is in doubt about it, even if he did not count the following day, he should count on the remaining nights with a blessing. For there is a doubt that perhaps he did count that night, and there is also a doubt—

32:16 Speaker 1 “—perhaps the opinion is correct that each and every night is a mitzvah in its own right, and they are not dependent on one another. Thus there is a double doubt here, requiring us to be stringent and to count with a blessing on the remaining nights. Likewise, wherever it was explained that one must count again without a blessing because of a doubt about the first counting, if he did not count again, he should count on the remaining nights with a blessing.” He states an important rule here: when in doubt about blessings, we are lenient, but with a d-double doubt about blessings, we are stringent. So there is a law concerning the counting of the Omer. Someone who did not count the Omer one night cannot count with a blessing the next night, because the halachic authorities dispute whether counting each night is its own mitzvah or whether it is one continuous mitzvah. But if someone is unsure whether he counted the previous night, there is a double doubt: perhaps he did count, and perhaps the halachah follows those who say that each night is a separate mitzvah and he may continue counting with a blessing. Even for someone who may have missed a day, the ruling in this case of double doubt is that he may recite the blessing. We do not say to be lenient and omit it. What is the Rebbe’s view on this subject? Look here in Igros Kodesh, volume 18, at the bottom left. It says, “If there is doubt whether he counted the Omer,” citing Shulchan Aruch and so on. Then the Rebbe says, “And likewise in the later authorities,” citing several halachic authorities, “who required reasoning on this matter; and many hold that even with a double doubt concerning blessings, we are lenient. Although their arguments can be debated, we will not, on account of that debate, prohibit what is a clear ruling in Shulchan Aruch.” The Rebbe cites opinions—you have quite a few halachic authorities listed there—who say that even with a double doubt concerning blessings, we are lenient: even when there is a double doubt, we may not recite the blessing. The Rebbe says: No, the fact that their arguments can be debated will not lead us to prohibit what is a clear ruling in Shulchan Aruch. Shulchan Aruch rules explicitly. The Alter Rebbe rules explicitly that in the case of a double doubt about counting the Omer, one should recite the blessing. So he—

34:06 Speaker 1 —says that according to the Alter Rebbe, with a double doubt concerning blessings—and that is also what emerges from Igros Kodesh here—we are stringent: when we have two doubts about blessings, we do not say to be lenient, but to be stringent. Now let’s look at our case. Here we have a dispute about drinking wine: does a person need to drink a kezayis or a revi’is to recite a final blessing? That is one dispute, one doubt. The second doubt is whether, when drinking less than a revi’is, it must be drunk within the time it takes to drink a revi’is or within the time it takes to eat a pras. So we have a double doubt. Perhaps the halachah follows those who say that a kezayis is enough; and perhaps the halachah follows those who say that the time limit is the time it takes to drink a revi’is, or those who say it is the time it takes to eat a pras. So there is a double doubt here concerning a rabbinic blessing, and with a double doubt we do not say to be lenient. Therefore, Badei Hashulchan’s statement that if someone drank a kezayis of wine but not within the time it takes to drink a revi’is, he cannot recite a final blessing—this falls away in light of the Alter Rebbe’s ruling that with a double doubt concerning blessings, we are stringent. Now, to finish... Huh? Where? A kezayis? I didn’t see that. Yes. I didn’t see it on the computer. All right. In any case, Igeres Hateshuvah also gives the answer: “Together with faith and trust, his heart should be firmly confident in Hashem, for He desires kindness and is gracious and compassionate and abundant in forgiveness. As soon as one asks Him, blessed be He, for pardon and forgiveness, there is no doubt whatsoever, not even a double doubt. As we bless in every Shemoneh Esrei, immediately after asking ‘Forgive us’: ‘Blessed are You, Hashem, gracious One Who forgives abundantly.’ Yet when in doubt about blessings, we are lenient because of the concern that it may be a blessing in vain. Rather, there is no doubt here at all, since we have asked, ‘Forgive us and pardon us.’ And if we did not sin again, we would be redeemed immediately, as we bless: ‘Blessed are You, Hashem, Redeemer of Israel.’” The Alter—

36:14 Speaker 1 —Rebbe says here that when in doubt about blessings, we are lenient because of the concern that the blessing might be in vain. We could not possibly be reciting a blessing in vain, so certainly there is no doubt here at all. Since we asked, “Forgive us and pardon us,” Hashem certainly forgives and consequently redeems Israel. But according to the reasoning we gave earlier, with a double doubt concerning blessings we are stringent. So how can the Alter Rebbe be confident that He has certainly forgiven us? Perhaps there is a slight doubt that He has not forgiven us, and therefore the Geulah has not come. On what basis does the Alter Rebbe say with certainty, “without any doubt or double doubt whatsoever,” that Hashem is ready to forgive? For otherwise, how can we bless, “Blessed are You, Hashem, Who forgives”? Perhaps there is a double doubt here? Yet we recite the blessing. With a double doubt, one may recite a blessing. The question is simple, but the answer is simple too. There is a rule concerning a double doubt: two doubts arising from a single issue do not constitute a double doubt. If the doubt concerns one thing, coming from one side rather than two different sides, it is not a double doubt. Here, the doubt is whether He has forgiven or has not forgiven. A double doubt arising from that single issue is not a double doubt. When do we say that with a double doubt concerning blessings, we are stringent? When there are two distinct issues, as we said here: does the halachah follow this opinion, and if so, perhaps it follows that opinion? Consequently, with that double doubt concerning blessings, we are stringent. But with regard to the Geulah, as we said, there is no double doubt here at all. Hashem will certainly redeem the Jewish people immediately, right now.

00:00 We had to open with a little joke, since Rabbeinu Ashbili [unclear] spoke about the Tanya and the program, about Selach Lanu, where it’s not a doubt, or even a double doubt. I hope that with the Odom Das program, too, it won’t be merely a doubt or a double doubt, even though we really [unclear] Odom Das. We won’t rely on a double doubt, because, G-d forbid, that isn’t certainty. I know where that can lead. I once heard about a rabbi—and I’m allowed to say this in a shul—who permits every question on the basis of a double doubt. Why? One doubt is that there’s a disagreement about everything. In fact, there’s even a doubt whether there’s a Master of the Universe, so that makes it a double doubt. In any event, is that cheerful or not? I’ve been given a very, very difficult task: to speak about heker tzir, the direction indicated by a door’s hinges. There are laws set down in the Shulchan Aruch that you can look up in the Rishonim and Acharonim. Sometimes, when it’s only a Chabad custom, that isn’t relevant. I wouldn’t say it that way in Hebrew, but everyone understands what it means. We’ve seen the Rebbe’s words, and they raise questions in quite a few places and quite a few cases. Who knows? And people ask you how to act in practice. Go look in the books, in the works of the poskim on the laws of mezuzah. Boruch Hashem, there are already many, many collections, but the practical question is: how does it fit with our custom? I want to share a little with the audience the difficulty rabbis face. Perhaps I’ll begin with this subject of heker tzir. Just recently, something happened to me. I’m in the unusual position today of being exempt from leading the davening, but I flew here from New York. I was looking, and it was the first time—and I hope the last—that I was impressed by something non-Chabad. I had finished Maariv on El Al, and someone called out from the crowd, “Nu, where’s the needle? Where’s the needle?” You can recognize the Chabadnik. Back came

02:11 a Chabadnik with the needle’s case. That’s how you recognize a Chabadnik by his mezuzah, by heker tzir. When you enter a house, you can notice it immediately, just as you can recognize our mikveh—you have to immerse in the water, after all. But in a Chabad home, although the front door makes it hard to tell, you see it as soon as you come in, especially in public buildings. Anyone who knows a little about public buildings, particularly schools, knows that by law the door in a public building must open outward, so that if, G-d forbid, something happens, people can immediately open the door and escape. Otherwise they would have to pull the door inward. That’s what the safety officials decided. So the doors in schools always open outward. But how is a school laid out? Usually there’s a long corridor and classrooms. Let’s take that as an example. You find the same thing in homes, but let’s use a school. Everyone knows what a school is like; go into a Talmud Torah, Beis Shazar, or a cheder, if you’ve ever been in one. The door always opens into a long corridor, and from the corridor there are several doors into the rooms. The room has no other door, only windows; there’s no other door through which you can enter it. The room has no other door, and its door opens into the corridor. A Jew who isn’t a Chabadnik comes along, opens the door, and immediately looks for the mezuzah on the right. There’s no mezuzah. This has happened to me several times. People have been here, rabbis from outside Chabad, and they’ve asked, “What, you don’t have a mezuzah?” I said, “What do you mean, we don’t have a mezuzah? It’s on the other side.” “Ah, Chabad.” Anyway, you can recognize a Chabadnik immediately by the mezuzah—and by the tefillin, too, and the mezuzah, and so on and so forth. Boruch Hashem, He has set us apart from everyone else, so that we shouldn’t be like others, and all our things are different from everyone else’s. G-d forbid we should blend in. Someone joked to me that Chabad has changed everything, except for one thing: Tehillim.

04:11 Tehillim remained the same Tehillim. Hashem helped, and a few years ago Kehot printed a Tehillim, and I think in chapter 18, instead of “With the pure, You show Yourself pure,” it said “With the pure, You show Yourself pure.” So even Tehillim has changed. But anyway, that’s how it is with everything. We’re different. By us, things are different. But when people come and ask you, “What’s different?”—it’s according to Kabbalah, according to the revealed teachings of Torah, according to Chassidus. That’s how it is. A law given to Moshe at Sinai. But here’s the thing: when you delve into these matters, you can find sources and foundations for them in halachah or in Jewish custom, rooted in the holiest sources. And conversely, once you think about them, you begin to wonder how other people don’t follow this practice. One of the things I wanted to clarify here concerns heker tzir. We mentioned the case of heker tzir. For example, there’s also a drawing here—I think it’s the door on the left, in the picture on the left—where the door opens outward. The room is enclosed, with no other openings, only windows, and you enter it through that door. According to the practice of everyone else, the mezuzah goes on the right. For us, the mezuzah goes on the left. What does “on the left” mean? As though you’re entering toward the outside: the top of the mezuzah points toward the door, toward the outside, and its bottom points inward. As though you’re entering to go outside. The question is, what does it mean to enter to go outside? Usually a mezuzah is on the right as you enter, not on the right as you leave. So what happened? The hinges established that the entrance is not inward but outward. Many, many people have discussed this. In fact, this matter of heker tzir has a basis in the Gemara in Menachos, but the case there is different. The Gemara speaks there of a men’s room and a women’s room: a house had two rooms, one for men and one for women. As the later poskim understand that Gemara—Rabbi Yosef, the case there is that both rooms had

06:20 openings to the outside. Homes then weren’t like ours; they weren’t so large. It was a house with two rooms, and both rooms opened to the outside: a door to the men’s room and a door to the women’s room. But there was another opening between the men’s room and the women’s room, an interior opening. So the question arose of how to place the mezuzah there. They didn’t have sliding doors then, which we’ll mention shortly, but doors like ours that swing open. How should the mezuzah be placed? The Gemara says: heker tzir. Fine—since they didn’t know which way counted as entering, from the men’s room to the women’s or from the women’s room to the men’s, or which room was primary, you look at the heker tzir. What does heker tzir mean? I want to explain it as the later authorities do. There are several explanations of heker tzir, but the accepted explanation—although it’s brought in the Chayei Adam—is based on Rashi in Menachos. The dignified way for a person to enter a room is to open the door and go along with it into the room. But if he has to pull the door back, that isn’t a dignified way to enter. The dignified way is to knock on the door, open it, and go along with it. If he has to step back outside in order to get in, that isn’t a normal way of entering. And in fact, this also seems clear from the Rebbe’s letters and from what I heard from Lubavitcher chassidim. The chassidim in Tel Aviv—anyone familiar with the shul in Tel Aviv knows it has two doors: a main door and a door leading to the corridor. The corridor door opens outward, and upstairs there were Gerer chassidim. Whenever Kaddish or Kedushah was being said in the middle of davening, they would open the door to hear Kaddish, exposing the mezuzah—and the mezuzah was on the other side. There were Lubavitcher chassidim there, and even before Sefer Haminhagim was printed, they knew that this was

08:13 The custom in Lubavitch was to follow heker tzir, the indication of the hinge, and they also understood what heker tzir meant: the way the door opens—although the later authorities offer several explanations. What does heker tzir mean? No, it doesn’t mean the way the door opens, but where the hinge is positioned. Apparently, though, that is not the accepted understanding. The accepted understanding is the way the door opens, so the way the door opens is what determines it. Fine, so far so good. The Gemara speaks about heker tzir for a doorway between a man’s room and a woman’s room. But with a door in a house, as we mentioned earlier, if a room has only one entrance, how can you enter it? How can you leave without entering first? You have to enter before you can leave. Yet you determine that the entrance is outward. All right, let’s say going out is called entering—but you still have to enter first and then leave. Someone once asked the Rebbe about this. I don’t remember the exact sequence, and I don’t remember whether it was the Rebbe Rashab or the Rebbe Maharash who said that, in that case, one should take a ladder and go through the window. That set off a whole debate. Did the Rebbe’s mention of a window mean that this is a room with a window? But suppose it’s a sealed room, like a shelter, or one of the many sealed rooms without windows. Then perhaps that isn’t the point, because the Rebbe said to go through the window and leave through the door. But what if it has no window? And of course, thank G-d, paper will put up with anything, and people wrote and wrote and wrote. One argument pulls this way, another pulls that way, and the matter remains unclear. But when you look at the Rebbe’s wording, it seems—at least that’s how it seems to me; my opinion isn’t decisive, of course, and others will say otherwise. There are major debates about this—that the Rebbe did not mean one literally has to go through a window. The Rebbe did not say the window must be large enough for a person to pass through. And what if

10:07 it’s a skylight? What if it’s a tiled roof and you can remove the tiles and enter that way—would that not count? Either way, it seems more likely that when the Rebbe said “the window,” he meant: don’t rack your brain over how to get in; the main thing is the hinge, heker tzir. What is the source for this? This is something new that we have not found in halachah. No one has yet found a basis for saying this about a door even when there is a window—because the window determines nothing with regard to mezuzah. Nevertheless, what determines it is that the door opens outward, and that is considered the entrance. What’s more, the Rebbe—huh? What? What? Rav Sherira Gaon. Fine. In any case, what’s more, the Rebbe writes in Sefer Haminhagim: “except for the first doorway,” right? “Apart from the first doorway.” Let’s think about that. If heker tzir determines things, what difference does it make that this is the first doorway? It doesn’t determine anything. What is the distinction? Where did we get this distinction between the first doorway and all the other doorways? The Rebbe says this is a halachah given at Sinai, of course. But perhaps if we begin to understand its source, it will teach us how to compare one case with another and derive one point from another. In any case, from what you saw at the beginning today, no solution has been found. People have tried to reconcile it and show how other halachic authorities also hold this way, that there is no contradiction. But why, in fact, was the decision made to adopt such a change in custom and follow the— So I want to suggest something that occurred to me recently. Perhaps it’s a novel idea; perhaps it will sound like a homiletic interpretation. Still, I want to present it to those gathered here and hear people’s reactions. And why did this question of how to follow heker tzir arise specifically in the period of our Rebbeim? Let’s take that further: if the question existed, why didn’t it arise in the days of the Gemara?

12:15 Why did it arise among the Rishonim? Why don’t we find it? There is a dispute among the Rishonim about how a mezuzah should be placed: upright or lying flat. Rashi holds that the mezuzah should stand upright. If you look at Sephardic homes, their mezuzahs are upright. Rabbeinu Tam holds that the mezuzah should be placed like a nail, across the width of the doorway. They disagree about the meaning of the Gemara’s statement: “If he made it like a bolt, it is invalid.” What does “like a bolt” mean? Rashi rules it invalid when it is horizontal, while Rabbeinu Tam rules it invalid when it is upright. This is a major dispute. It concerns not only mezuzah but also tefillin. The Alter Rebbe discusses it in section 32: how should the parchment passages be placed inside the tefillin—upright or lying flat? According to Rashi, they must be upright. According to Rabbeinu Tam, they must lie flat. Years ago I saw a publication by Professor Yigael Yadin, who researched the tefillin from Masada. I saw what he had gathered on the subject, all the new things he found in the Masada tefillin, and I saw a photograph of the tefillin. Interestingly, he didn’t comment on this. From the photograph, it looked very strange to me: the passages in those tefillin were lying down, not upright as ours are. Judging by the shape of the boxes, they looked like little bottles in which the passages lay flat rather than standing upright. In any case, our custom is that the passages must be upright; we have ruled that the passages in tefillin must be upright. If they are lying flat, the Alter Rebbe says they are not invalid after the fact, but ideally they should be corrected and set upright. Incidentally, perhaps not everyone knows that the same dispute also applies to a Sefer Torah, to reading from a Sefer Torah. If you look at the bimah—the reading tables customary in shuls, particularly Ashkenazi ones—the surface is slanted. Why is it slanted? Because Rashi and Rabbeinu Tam disagree about how sacred writings should be placed,

14:25 upright or lying flat, so they place it at an angle. What? Why at an angle? The Rema says in Yoreh De’ah, section 289: “But some say that those who are particular satisfy both opinions and place the mezuzah on a slant,” or diagonally. That is the Rema’s wording. Those who are particular place the mezuzah diagonally—not upright and not lying flat—and satisfy both opinions. In other words, they satisfy both Rashi’s view and Rabbeinu Tam’s view. We won’t get into the detailed argument about why others contend that this does not satisfy both views. For now, we’ll rely on the Rema, who says that placing it diagonally satisfies both. Why? [unclear] The same applies to the bimah in the shul: it too is slanted. Some of the later authorities write about the rounded shape: it is not only to make reading easier for the Torah reader, but also to satisfy both views, as with a mezuzah. The mezuzah is diagonal, and so is the Sefer Torah. Among Sephardim, the Sefer Torah stands upright, just as the mezuzah stands upright. By contrast, for us, the mezuzah is diagonal, and the Sefer Torah is also diagonal when it is read. As the Rema says, it is slanted. Huh? Well. Lying flat, upright. Exactly. Why get caught up in the dispute? I remember there were—I later understood that there were Jews who were particular, when placing the Sefer Torah in the aron kodesh, to set it at an angle like this. [unclear] What is the point of setting it at an angle? It is the same dispute. At any rate, with a mezuzah, whether it slants this way or that way, the angle is not just to keep it from falling. Ideally, that is how it should be positioned. To satisfy both views—whether it should be upright or lying flat—the Rema rules that a diagonal position satisfies both. As we continue, we’ll see; and accordingly, the Rema writes that according to Rabbeinu Tam’s view—ah, that is not mentioned

16:37 Here, but in any case, it is brought in the Shulchan Aruch, according to Rabbeinu Tam’s opinion that it must be placed horizontally. How should it lie? The Rema says—Rabbeinu Tam—that is, the Rema says in explaining the Rosh’s opinion, the top should point toward the entrance and the bottom outward. He says the mezuzah should point inward. He doesn’t say which end points inward, but that is how he puts it: the top inward and the bottom outward. Now, for those who place it upright, this makes a difference. For those who place it horizontally, the top must point inward and the bottom outward. On this matter there is also a dispute between the Rambam and the Rosh. In one of the pictures here, there is an opening without a door. What is the law? Does it require a mezuzah or not? There is a major dispute between the Rambam and the Rosh. The Rambam holds that a room without a door is exempt from a mezuzah. The Rosh disagrees and holds that even without a door, if the opening has the form of a doorway—which we will discuss later—it requires a mezuzah. In other words, according to the Rambam, the door determines the obligation to put up a mezuzah. An opening without a door is exempt. In practice, we take both opinions into account, as the Shach writes: even a room or house with only an opening and no door requires a mezuzah, but without a blessing, because when there is doubt about a blessing, we refrain from saying it. The Rosh holds that it requires one, while the Rambam holds that it does so only if it has a door. So we put up a mezuzah, but without a blessing. Both the Rambam and the Rosh are brought in the Tur, in Yoreh De’ah, and the Rema also writes in Yoreh De’ah that the custom is to write the name Shaddai on the mezuzah. That is what they write. They don’t give a reason; they don’t explain why the name Shaddai is written on the outside of the mezuzah. They write that it is because of the word

18:50 “vehayah” and because of the space. There are various differences of opinion between those who follow the revealed teachings and the Kabbalists, but in any case, the Jewish custom—apparently an ancient one—is to write the name Shaddai on the mezuzah. Why write the name Shaddai? What is its connection to the mezuzah? The Kol Bo writes, and the Darkei Moshe—the Rema cites him in Yoreh De’ah—why was this particular name chosen? Because Shaddai is an acronym for “Shomer Diras Yisroel,” Guardian of Israel’s dwelling. That is what the Rema writes. The Rebbe—look here in Likkutei Sichos, volume 22—[unclear] the name Shaddai on the outside, as an acronym for “Shomer Diras Yisroel.” He quotes the Arizal, [unclear], on the laws of mezuzah, chapter 16. And in the discussion of the laws of mezuzah, he cites Darkei Moshe, Yoreh De’ah, section 288: “Shomer Diras Yisroel.” In other words, we seem to have two views. Everyone agrees that the name Shaddai should be there, but why choose that name rather than the name Havayah or the name Elokim? Why specifically Shaddai? The Arizal understands its special meaning to be “Shomer Deles Yisroel,” Guardian of Israel’s door. The Rema understands it as “Shomer Diras Yisroel,” Guardian of Israel’s dwelling. Now let’s consider what happens if we do not follow the common practice. Let’s picture a room whose door opens outward, yes? The mezuzah points inward. He follows the Rema and places the mezuzah diagonally, yes? Where is the name? At the top of the mezuzah. So the name points this way and the door goes that way—and it is supposed to be the Guardian of Israel’s door. It’s almost comical. But if we follow our custom, always going by the direction of the hinges, the top of the mezuzah—that is, “Shomer Deles Yisroel”—always points toward the door. It shows

21:11 you the Guardian of Israel’s door. But if you do it the other way around—that is, if someone follows the Rema while also taking the Arizal’s opinion into account—then, first of all, why wasn’t this question raised earlier? Before the Rema, there was no such question. Apparently, everyone—even though they cite it, and the Maharil too, from whom it seems that they did not follow our custom of going by the hinges—their mezuzahs were apparently like those of the Sephardim, upright, or in accordance with Rabbi Nosson. I don’t know exactly how they placed them, but presumably upright. After the Rema, though, [unclear]. The Rema says our custom is to place the mezuzah diagonally, and the custom is to write Shaddai on it. And the Arizal’s Siddur says that Shaddai means “Shomer Deles Yisroel.” So if you go by the hinges, the top points toward the door. But if you do it the other way, it is as though one pulls this way and the other pulls that way. How will it guard the door? You know, the thief will get in between them. Ah, you’ll ask me why we don’t do this at the first door. Here you see the strength of the Chabad custom, which always reconciles things—[unclear]. The Rema says “Shomer Diras Yisroel.” The Guardian of Israel’s dwelling watches over the entire dwelling. The first entrance guards the whole dwelling. There, we are not concerned with what the Arizal’s Siddur calls “Shomer Deles Yisroel”; we follow “Shomer Diras Yisroel.” If you say it guards the dwelling, what difference does it make if the door goes the other way? But if you say it guards the door, that won’t work. So, then. So, then. Granted, this may sound like a homiletic explanation, but let someone refute it. In any event, placing it that way is certainly problematic even apart from this, on several halachic grounds concerning mezuzah. So what I’m saying is, if I follow—

23:12 What I’m saying is, if I follow this approach, it makes sense. The first entrance is guarded as Israel’s dwelling. For the other doorways, we follow the relevant considerations. So we have decided in favor of the Kabbalists’ opinion, and that is our custom: to follow “Shomer Deles Yisroel.” For that, we go by the hinges; we must go by the hinges. What did you want to ask? If we are right, this apparently leads us to something new, something we hadn’t thought of until now. In fact, we had thought the opposite. People always ask, “Rabbi, what is the law for a sliding door? Does it have a discernible hinge direction or not? Which way do we go?” With an ordinary door, we go by the direction it opens. If it opens outward, the entrance is considered to be outward; if it opens inward, the entrance is inward. But what about a sliding door? Whenever people asked me, I would say what I have heard many rabbis say and what the compilers write: with a sliding door, some are unsure, while others say it is as though it has no discernible hinge direction. Since it has no hinge direction, we follow the rule for doorways inside a house that have no doors, where the mezuzah could be placed on either side. There is no hinge direction there. So what do we do? Chabad rabbis also rule that we follow the route of entry from the main entrance. Say there is a room and a kitchen, with an opening between them but no door. The custom is to follow—again, a room and a kitchen. Some say the room takes precedence over the kitchen because the room is used for eating. But if the kitchen has a dining area, then it, too, is used for eating. Both are used for eating. So what determines which is primary and which way is considered the entrance to it? We follow what is commonly said: the route of entry from the main door. Because when you enter the house, then if

25:33 He first enters the kitchen and then the living room, so the mezuzah should be on the right as he enters the living room. If the route in is—as happens in many homes—the front door opens into the living room, and from there he enters the kitchen, then the entrance is into the kitchen. Of course, this is if it measures four by four, and we’ll discuss that further. All this concerns a room with no door. But what about a room that has a door, only it’s a sliding door? Many balconies have sliding doors. We would always say that there is no heker tzir—the indication provided by the door’s swing—so we follow the common practice. According to that practice, if the balcony has only one entrance and measures four by four, the mezuzah has to be placed facing the direction of entry. Ah, and it measures four by four. So according to—sorry. In the laws of mezuzah, the Taz says it should be placed the other way around, but let’s talk about two rooms. First, let’s discuss two rooms with a door between them—say, a living room and a bedroom with a sliding door. Let’s say there is no heker tzir in that case. Then, according to common practice, which way is the entrance? And there’s no other door to the room. The entrance is into the bedroom: you have to enter it before you can leave it. That’s the simple way to look at it, and that’s how we would practice. But according to what we’re saying now, if the reasoning of our Rebbeim is based on “the Guardian of the doors of Israel,” then perhaps even with a sliding door it depends on how it is installed. Sometimes the sliding door is on the outside of the room, and sometimes it is inside the room. If the sliding door is inside the room, perhaps here too the mezuzah should go on the outside of the room. So perhaps here too we need to follow heker tzir, because the door is on the opposite side, because “the Guardian of the doors of Israel” is on the opposite side. But if the door is

27:35 inside the room, then from that it may be that heker tzir applies here too. If that is the reasoning of our Rebbeim, it is quite possible that even with a sliding door there is reason to follow heker tzir. There’s something else I wanted to point out. There are many doorways—I’m beginning to understand this now. I saw it especially in Jerusalem when I was a child; I spent a lot of time in Jerusalem. You see it in shuls. The opening, especially in shuls, is wide, with a wide stone passage through the wall. Then, at the end of that opening—say, thirty or forty centimeters in—there’s a doorframe, with the door on it opening into the shul, into the corridor. In many old shuls, I noticed that the mezuzah was not on the doorframe but on the wall, near the outside. People often ask me about this, because many of our homes have something similar: a somewhat wide opening, where the blockwork projects outward, say, fifteen centimeters, followed by a five-centimeter doorframe and the door. Where should the mezuzah go? On the doorframe or in the opening? I used to think that since it says to place it at the part of the opening nearest the outside, that would seemingly mean as far out as possible. But on the other hand, the hinge is what determines it; the doorframe is what determines it. I saw several later authorities write that it should go on the doorframe, not on the stone. In my humble opinion, based on what we said earlier, I think it depends on whether this is the first entrance or one of the other doorways. At the first entrance, because of “the Guardian of the doors of Israel,” the home begins right at the start of the opening,

29:45 but at the inner doorways, because of “the Guardian of the doors of Israel,” there is reason to place it specifically on the wooden doorframe and not on the part of the opening behind it. What did you say? Without a door, without a brachah. Without. Wait, wait. That’s already a question of what counts as the main entrance. There is a passage in the Gemara, and in Kisef, that says up to four or five tefachim is all considered one entrance together with the door. If it is more—if it is an amah—there is an opinion that it is considered a separate entrance, requiring another mezuzah. What? Why? Why? Outside is fine; that’s the main entrance. Right, fine, so it opens outward. So let it open inward. They put it on the wall—I don’t remember. What? What? Yes. Yes. That’s what I told him earlier. Kisef implies that if it is up to four or five tefachim, it is all considered one entrance. If the corridor you’re talking about—that is, that opening—is no more than five tefachim, it is all considered one entrance. And as I said, if it’s the main door, put the mezuzah on the outside. No, no, no, not on the doorframe—at the entrance. What? Perhaps we’re not understanding each other. Which one? No, I didn’t understand. You mean an entrance like at Beis Menachem: before you go in, there’s a corridor. Yes, and there’s a mezuzah in the corridor. Yes. And then there’s the door through which you enter the shul. Yes. So if that corridor is only five tefachim long, one mezuzah at the entrance is enough; you don’t need another one on the door. But if it’s an amah, it requires two mezuzahs: one at the beginning and one at the door. Why does Beis Menachem have only—many

32:17 people have asked me why Beis Menachem has only one mezuzah, when it seemingly has four doors. That’s another matter. There is an opinion of the Rashba that... And in Beis Menachem it is even simpler. The Rashba says that if there are several doors opening onto... That is, several doors, each with its own doorway, then if the doorframe between them is a tefach thick, each requires its own mezuzah. If it is less than a tefach, the whole thing is considered one entrance. The Rashba is speaking about doors with hinges mounted on the door. At Beis Menachem, the hinges are not on the door; they are in the floor and the ceiling. So the Rashba implies that this case is even simpler: even if the frame is a tefach thick, it is all considered one entrance, and one mezuzah is enough. What? Ah, now, the problem with a back door. So, according to what we’re saying, we have to say that all those elaborate explanations about the Rebbe saying to go through a window and... That’s it. Apparently, the Rebbe had a hidden reason that he did not want to reveal. And as appears from one of the sources I saw on this, the Rebbe apparently did not want to reveal this whole matter at all, but later the Rebbe did reveal it. But if... In other words, the Rebbe said, as it were, “Let them go through a window—what does it matter to me?” But that is not relevant. Whether or not there is a window, what determines it here is the door, and therefore the protection is directed toward the door. That’s one point I wanted to dwell on a little. There’s another point here, but we need to look into it—especially when our Torah scholars gather—to study everything in depth: every word of the Rebbe, how precise it is, how deep it is, and how much we can draw from it that has practical halachic implications. One of the things—what? I said heker tzir means the direction in which the door opens. If it swings inward, the mezuzah is oriented inward; if it swings outward, the direction is reversed. What? What? Where do you have such a thing? Oh, that’s you, Itzik. Now then. If it’s a room—again, this could have another practical implication. For example, sometimes there’s a clothes room, a walk-in closet. I’m glad you mentioned it. There’s a clothes room that opens off a bedroom or a children’s room, and let’s say its door opens inward. As usual. Seemingly we should follow heker tzir. But that isn’t the common practice. Why? Because Rabbi Akiva Eiger says that a room smaller than four by four is exempt. That is the halachah: a room smaller than four by four is exempt. In practice, then, this clothes room is exempt from a mezuzah. Why put a mezuzah there? Because there is an entrance into the larger room. So the entrance is into that room; entering the small room does not count as an entrance, because it does not qualify as a room. It is like an alcove, as Rabbi Akiva Eiger says. If there were an alcove in this doorway, you would place the mezuzah facing the direction of entry into the room. So that would always be the case here. I had thought so too: even according to our custom of following heker tzir, though the door swings into the small room, if the halachic authority says that room is exempt from a mezuzah, on what basis would you follow heker tzir? But if it has to do with “the Guardian of the doors of Israel,” I don’t know who can decide all this—whether it is exempt or not with respect to the door’s direction. That’s how it is; I write the name Shaddai.

34:32 Of the Rebbe—how precise it is, how deep it is, and how much you can delve into it and draw out all sorts of things with practical halachic implications. One of those things—huh? I said that heker tzir means the direction in which the door opens. If the door opens inward, then the mezuzah goes on the side of entry into the room; if it opens outward, the direction is reversed. What? What? Where do you find such a thing? Oh, it’s you, Itzik. Now, like this: If it’s a room—again, this can make a practical difference too. For example, sometimes there’s a clothes room, a closet. I’m glad you mentioned it. There’s a closet that opens off a room, a bedroom or a children’s room, and let’s say its door opens inward. Normally, it would seem that we should follow heker tzir. But that isn’t the common practice. Why? Because Rabbi Akiva Eiger says that a room smaller than four by four is exempt. That is the halachah: a room smaller than four by four is exempt. In practice, then, this closet is exempt from a mezuzah. Why do we put a mezuzah there? Because there is, however, an entrance to the larger room. So the entrance is into that room; entry into the small room isn’t considered entry—it isn’t a room. The room isn’t a room, but Rabbi Akiva Eiger says it’s like a recess. If there were a recess in... in this doorway, then you would place the mezuzah in the direction of entry into the room. So in this case, always. That’s what I thought, too, at first glance: even according to our custom of following heker tzir—and here the door opens into the small room—nevertheless, if the halachic authority says it is exempt from a mezuzah, then why would you follow heker tzir? But if it has to do with a Jewish door, I don’t know who would decide all this—whether it is exempt or not, according to the direction of the door. That’s how it is. I write the Divine Name.

36:45 There, it may look a little ridiculous, but it is written in the Arizal’s siddur. And since the Rebbe placed so much emphasis on this—the Rebbe always mentioned the protection of Shaddai, the protection of “Shomer Dalsos Yisroel,” the Guardian of Israel’s doors—then naturally... And it’s understandable that this was not always the practice, because it came after the Rema. The Rema introduced it as a halachic practice, and the Arizal wrote about Shaddai, “Shomer Dalsos Yisroel.” So it became the Chabad custom to turn the shin, the Name, toward the door. There are many things like this, where customs—especially our customs—have an effect. What are we talking about here? The basic Torah law of mezuzah. The shin, the whole Name Shaddai, is only a custom. Yet the Rema cites that custom, and it changes the orientation of the entire Torah-law mitzvah of how to affix a mezuzah. Here you see the power of Jewish custom. The Rebbe emphasized this so much and mentioned this point several times: sometimes a custom changes things that pertain to Torah law. Huh? What? A back door. Oh. So regarding a back door, it seems that many have already discussed this at length. I don’t have all the material here. I came across it in Shaarei Halachah Uminhag. There are two responses from the Rebbe there that people have discussed extensively, which seem at first to contradict each other. In one place the Rebbe writes... Well, in one place the Rebbe writes—here in Sefer Haminhagim, which we copied—what does it say? How did we read it here? “Affixing the mezuzah on the right side according to the hinge side, except for the main entrance.” In other words, the Rebbe excludes only the first entrance. But it sounds as though all the other entrances, even if the house has additional doors to the outside, are still governed by the hinge side. There’s a response from the Rebbe here—where is it? I think it’s in Likkutei Sichos; I don’t

39:00 see it here. There the Rebbe writes about doors leading outside... Well, I don’t remember where it is. It isn’t here; there’s Likkutei Sichos, volume 4, here. In any case, speak to me about it afterward. In any case, from the Rebbe’s wording there, it seems he doesn’t mean specifically the main door. Rather, if a house has another entrance, the Rebbe writes there, “such as to the public thoroughfare,” or to the courtyard, I think. To the public thoroughfare and to the courtyard. On the other hand, the Rebbe gives an example from the Frierdiker Rebbe’s apartment. Anyone who knew that apartment knows there were two doors into it. One door led toward the yechidus room, and one led into the apartment itself. One of the doors opened outward. The Rebbe brings that as evidence: the mezuzah there was placed according to the hinge side, facing outward. So we asked: here it seems... He brings evidence from the Frierdiker Rebbe’s apartment that they followed the hinge side even for a second door leading to the stairwell. Elsewhere, though, he writes that even with an entrance to the public thoroughfare, if there is another... So that would seem to mean not following the hinge side. But as our writers have written, and many, many have agreed with this reasoning, there is no contradiction. It depends on the situation. When we’re talking about a door from an apartment to a stairwell, and the apartment has two doors, the second door isn’t made for going outside. I mean, you know Crown Heights—everyone knows those two-story houses that are either two-family or one-family homes. There’s the main entrance from the street, and there’s a side entrance leading to the alley. Right? So the question there is... that side entrance

41:26 isn’t just an entrance for taking out the garbage; it’s another entrance to the house. Another entrance to the house. So the Rebbe’s intention there, in extending the rule to the courtyard, was to refer to apartments like those, where it’s another entrance to the home. Just as there’s an entrance from the street, there’s also an entrance from the courtyard, and it serves as an entrance to the apartment. It serves as a residential entrance. It’s possible that there, too, it was used as a residential entrance. That doesn’t mean... It isn’t a contradiction. But if we’re talking about a side door made only for going out, used only as an exit, then the halachah remains that we always follow the hinge side. There is much more to say about this. One more point, one more point. Forgive me, just one more word, because I can see I’m already on the third reading. So... May Hashem help me along. There’s one more point I wanted to raise about the Rebbe’s words, since we’re studying Sefer Haminhagim. It’s very interesting, and to this day I haven’t seen people think about this issue. When you take down mezuzos to have them checked, there’s always the question: if you put them back up the same day, do you make a blessing or not? Many have discussed whether to make a blessing. Some have suggested that when you bring the mezuzos back from the sofer, you should switch them to avoid the doubt. In other words, take the mezuzah that was in the living room—assuming, of course, that these rooms have doors—and put the one from the children’s room on the bedroom door, and the one from the bedroom on the children’s room door. Then it’s as though each is a new mezuzah that wasn’t on that doorway before. Recently, I came across one of Rabbi Zalman [unclear]’s books, and he writes that it seems obvious to him that someone who replaces one mezuzah with another

43:27 cannot make a blessing. He cannot make a blessing. He isn’t speaking specifically about moving mezuzos from room to room. He says in general that if a person has a mezuzah and now wants to replace it with another, he cannot make a blessing. Why? He says it’s like a person blowing the shofar who starts blowing and suddenly can’t get a sound out of that shofar. Someone comes and brings him another shofar from the next room. According to the Pri Chadash and many halachic authorities, he doesn’t need to make another blessing over the second shofar. You made the blessing on blowing the shofar, not on that particular shofar. So then what? What? He came to hear the sound of the shofar. Fine, wait a moment. But that’s how it seems to him. I can say that, in my opinion, what he writes there is puzzling. So it seems to him that replacing one mezuzah with another is like replacing one shofar with another. Why should he make a blessing? Now, you’ll ask—as he writes—the later authorities say that if a person was wearing a tallis, took it off intending to put it back on within an hour or two, and meanwhile replaced its tzitzis with new tzitzis, he must make a new blessing over the tzitzis. So if that’s the case, why do I say that someone replacing one mezuzah with another doesn’t need to make a blessing? He explains it this way: with tzitzis, when you took off the tallis, you were no longer fulfilling the mitzvah of tzitzis. A tallis that... I don’t mean you were exempt, but the tallis was no longer serving to fulfill the mitzvah of tzitzis. With a shofar, by contrast, you remain obligated to hear the shofar even though you’ve changed shofars. And the same applies to a mezuzah: the house remains obligated to have a mezuzah, and you’ve merely replaced it. So a tallis is not comparable to a shofar.

45:39 What? Tzitzis is a personal obligation. But in any event, the halachah is that a person is obligated to buy tzitzis. Now, as it says in Sefer Haminhagim, the Rebbe wrote: “You are surely aware of our custom regarding affixing a mezuzah outside Eretz Yisroel.” During the first thirty days, one is not obligated to have a mezuzah until the end of the thirty days. “Our custom is to affix mezuzos as soon as one moves into the house, of course without a blessing. Then, when thirty days have passed, one takes down one mezuzah to have it checked. It is permissible to replace it with a more beautiful one, so one affixes the new one with a blessing, intending to include the mezuzos on all the other doors as well.” In other words, you affix the mezuzos right away, but you cannot say the blessing right away. You take down one mezuzah and replace it with a more beautiful one, and then you can say the blessing. Now, there is a great deal more to discuss about this, but it seems explicit from the Rebbe that when you replace one mezuzah with another immediately—I mean, literally right away, you take one down to have it checked and replace it with another mezuzah—you can say the blessing. Just by replacing it. The question is, why does the Rebbe say to bring a new one? Why not switch them from door to door? Why does he need to... So it seems like this: switching them from door to door is not enough. But if he brings another mezuzah, he... In any event, that much is clear. From the Rebbe, it seems that this is not as he wrote, that it is like replacing one shofar with another. I wanted to bring support for this from the Alter Rebbe’s position. Now, in the Talmudic Encyclopedia, under the entry on dwelling in a sukkah, they note that this is a novel ruling of the Alter Rebbe. The Alter Rebbe rules that if a person—and this is also a halachah worth knowing—if a person is sitting in a sukkah and, in the middle of the meal, suddenly decides to go to a farbrengen at his neighbor’s sukkah right next door—there are several sukkahs built in the courtyard—and he decides to go to the farbrengen in the other sukkah, the Alter Rebbe says he must recite the blessing “leishev basukkah.” Even though

47:50 as far as blessings over food are concerned, he does not need to say a new blessing, because it is all a continuation of the same meal, he must recite “leishev basukkah.” And according to the Alter Rebbe, even if he does not eat there, he must still say the blessing for spending time there. That time is not covered by the blessing he said over the first sukkah. So they note there that, according to the Alter Rebbe’s position, the very act of moving from one sukkah to another is a new mitzvah, and therefore requires a new blessing of “leishev basukkah.” That is very, very interesting. So we already have, as it were, one example relevant to replacing one mezuzah with another, and it would seem to be more like the case of the sukkah. He left this sukkah for the other sukkah. Here he brought the mezuzah into the house; there he brought himself into the sukkah. But it seems from the Alter Rebbe that if a person changes sukkahs, moving from one sukkah to another, he must say a blessing. Still, the question is why? Why? If so, why must he replace it with a more beautiful... with another mezuzah? He could simply have switched them from door to door. We will leave that question unresolved for now, but I bring it up on another occasion.

00:00 Thank you very much, gentlemen. The issue of moving the graves in Gush Katif did not come up today. It came up when there was only initial talk of evacuating Gush Katif. Certain people in the military leadership approached me and asked us to clarify the halachah. To tell the truth, I was very uncomfortable, because some of the people around me said, “This will be seen as making excuses for the evacuation. Why are you dealing with this?” I said that we often deal with matters we hope will never actually happen. Take the army, for example: they prepare contingency plans for all kinds of situations. I told one of the rabbis here, for instance, that the Ministry of the Interior has a committee preparing the State of Israel for a mass disaster. What if there is an earthquake here? You could say, “No, why prepare? There’s no need; it won’t happen.” But what if it does? And if, G-d forbid, there are suddenly five thousand dead, how will they be identified? So people prepare. I began looking into this issue, and if I remember correctly, it was in Adar or later. I’ll tell you the conclusion of my talk right now. [Unclear.] I studied the Shulchan Aruch and responsa closely, then requested a meeting with Rabbi Wosner’s beis din. I asked that two other dayanim be present besides the rabbi himself. We spoke at length, and there was another point. Without mentioning names, certain parties wanted the removal of the graves from Gush Katif to begin two or three months before the residents were evacuated. I rather suspect that their reason was to create a sense that people were leaving. It was clear then, and Rabbi Wosner ruled accordingly at the time, that as long as Jews remained in the area, it was forbidden to move the graves. But if, G-d forbid, all the Jews were evacuated, the graves would be considered graves that could not be safeguarded. He said orally that he feared lawless people would desecrate the graves, and that moving them would be a mitzvah. That is what he

02:47 wrote to me: three clauses in a halachic ruling, with their signatures and the seal of Rabbi Wosner’s beis din. So the bottom line is that in today’s situation, as it stands now, no one thinks it is forbidden to move the graves. Rather, it is a mitzvah to move them. I’ve told several people that I often find myself in situations like this, whether dealing with civilian or military matters. Without false modesty, I feel that in certain cases my role is to protect the dead, not the living. And in the current situation, the commander of Southern Command told me that even now the Israeli army, the IDF, can barely stop Palestinians from entering Gush Katif. There are no residents, no communities. The patrols are becoming less frequent. There is a sense that this is nearing its end, and it is reasonable to assume that if they enter, who knows what they will do to the graves? They know what is sensitive to us, and there is serious concern that the graves will be abused. Some further examples: there is a book called Meoros HaDaf HaYomi on Tractate Avodah Zarah. It relates that in 5728, Karlin chassidim found the graves of two Karlin Rebbes in the town of Malinov, one of whom had been killed by a Cossack. They found a cemetery that had been completely destroyed and wanted to bring their remains to Eretz Yisroel. Rabbi Algazi immediately ruled that it was a mitzvah to do so. The author of Tzitz Eliezer ruled that it was a mitzvah to do so, while Rabbi Yosef Chaim of Berdichev [?], z”l, wrote that he could not decide. The question has, in fact, arisen throughout the ages, and the great Torah sages have always ruled that it is permissible when it is necessary to protect the deceased. These are simple things to any believing Jew: even after a person passes away, the soul knows what is done to the body. On the well-known teaching of our Sages, “Worms are as painful to the dead as a needle is to living flesh,” the Rashba says,

04:55 “The body feels nothing. It is the soul that suffers when the body is disgraced.” That is the Rashba’s wording. So no matter how many years have passed—and we will soon see a little of this in the responsa—it is certainly difficult for the deceased to be taken out of the grave and brought somewhere else. Evidently there are grounds for permitting such grave measures, and everyone involved in this approaches it with fear and trembling. In any event, past experience shows that this is an extremely difficult undertaking, and, may Hashem protect us, it is now before us. Another story I heard just this morning: a woman—you can leave; go see someone. A woman passed away in Gush Katif and was buried there some months ago, less than a year ago. Three months after she passed away, her grandfather was nearing the end of his life. He left instructions asking that a grave beside his be kept available so that, if Gush Katif were evacuated, his granddaughter could be buried beside him. [Unclear.] Well, I’m coming into this without knowing exactly what I’m coming into, but apparently that is what they will do. A little more information: all the families with relatives buried in Gush Katif have joined together in a special group, and a lawyer represents them. Throughout this recent period they have been debating what to do and how to do it. As of last night—I don’t know what will happen tomorrow—seventeen families, out of the forty-eight graves in Gush Katif, want to hold one funeral on one day for all seventeen of their relatives and bury them together in one section on the Mount of Olives. The others each want to bury their relative in the place where they themselves now live. That was the situation last night. I don’t know whether it will still be so by Sunday, because opinions keep changing. There is one other thing we know: some of the residents who were moved to Nitzanim and housed in what are called caravillas will have their permanent homes there. Some of them asked to bring the

07:04 deceased to Nitzanim. So on Sunday morning, members of the military chevra kadisha consecrated a cemetery there. There is a cemetery belonging to the kibbutz, which is not exactly in accordance with halachah. They took a site some distance away, built a fence around it, and consecrated it as a cemetery. Apparently at least two or three people will be brought there. I don’t know exactly. Another place where, as far as I know, they are planning to bring people is a moshav called Mavki’im, where there is a relative; two deceased people are supposed to be brought there. That is the situation for now. I don’t know how it will be carried out. In any event, on Sunday, or perhaps even on Motzaei Shabbos, the military chevra kadisha is supposed to begin moving the graves. Over the years, I have occasionally been involved in moving a grave or two. You can never know what is in a grave until you open it. There are natural processes, as they say. To take a simple example, if someone is buried in the cemetery in Holon, where the soil is beach sand, the flesh decomposes very quickly and only a skeleton remains. If someone is buried in a place like Gedera, with its dark soil, then even after a very long time, the shrouds remain. It is easier to move the person. Before we begin with the halachah, I must tell you something. About a year ago, I think—I don’t remember exactly—a family brought a deceased relative from Morocco to Eretz Yisroel. When they removed him from his grave in Morocco, the chevra kadisha there said that his body was completely intact. The family contacted me here in Israel and said they wanted me to examine the body to see whether it was true. The body was brought to the Segula Cemetery in Petach Tikvah. We opened the coffin. There lay a person who looked as though he had died five minutes earlier—after seven years in the grave. His eyes—you could look him in the eyes. It was astonishing! Now, you know, sometimes a chevra kadisha might say something and [unclear].

09:11 I have no explanation. The shrouds had taken on a slightly gray color. The body was completely intact. His face—you could see him as though he had just died. I went upstairs and saw the family, perfectly ordinary people. I don’t know, synagogue people. I asked them, “Tell me, was he a tzaddik?” “No.” “Then what?” I tried to find out what could account for it. One of them said that when this man was ill and close to death, he had received a blessing from one of the tzaddikim of the Abuchatzeira family that he would merit to be buried in Eretz Yisroel. So I understood it to mean that until now, he had not yet been buried: his body was intact. Now that he had arrived in Eretz Yisroel, his burial would begin. That is the only explanation I have. Yes, there are things one sees and mysteries one does not understand, but it is clear that Hashem’s hand guides these matters, and each person merits what he merits according to his deeds. Therefore, when we come to speak about moving graves, we approach it with reverence and great fear—not to harm the dignity of the deceased, and of course not to violate halachah. So, the first clause, which you should have in front of you.

10:15 Of both of you. What prohibitions have to be overcome for it to be permissible to move someone who has died from a grave? And why is it forbidden to disturb a grave in the first place? The first source is the Gemara in Bava Basra. It discusses a young man who sold property and then died. After his death, his brothers challenged the sale, saying he had been a minor when he sold the property, so the sale was invalid and the property belonged to them. To prove he had been a minor, they wanted to open his grave and examine him for signs of maturity. The Gemara tells of an incident in Bnei Brak involving someone who sold part of his father’s estate and died. His family came forward and claimed he had been a minor at the time of his death. They asked Rabbi Akiva whether they could examine him. He told them, “You are not permitted to disgrace him,” and gave a second reason as well. This is one of the principal sources cited by all the halachic authorities on opening a grave or moving someone who has died from one place to another. Opening a grave to see the body as it lies there is a prohibition in its own right. As Rashi says in Sanhedrin, you see the body in a disgraced state, with its abdomen split open. And, of course, taking it out of the grave and moving it elsewhere is even more serious. You are moving it about, and there appear to be additional prohibitions. But this is the well-known Gemara that everyone cites. There are cases in which it has been permitted. Here is an example somewhat related to the previous story. This question appears in Pischei Teshuvah: A woman comes to the beis din and says that her husband has disappeared and she is an agunah, but she is certain that her husband is buried in a particular grave. She wants them to open the grave and check whether it is her husband. It says this is permitted. What is the reasoning? We assume that the deceased would agree to having his body disturbed so that his wife could be permitted to remarry. Presumably, that is what he would want for his wife. So

12:28 that is an example of a situation in which it is permissible to open a grave. I want to make a point about the previous story that the audience should know. Some of the tests done today for identification present no halachic problem. If a little blood needs to be taken from a body to obtain DNA, the Igros Moshe says—Rabbi Moshe Feinstein writes explicitly—that taking blood is permitted, because it is done to living people too. There is no problem. Or, for example, they take fingerprints or dental records. Presumably there is no halachic problem, because it is for identification. But you should know that to obtain DNA from a skeleton, as in the case of the Soviet Holocaust, they have to take a bone from the deceased, saw off a piece ten centimeters long and grind it into powder. I do not know whether that is permitted according to halachah. I do not know. Especially since sometimes it is not a matter of permitting an agunah to remarry. I am talking about a case from the past few months that did not reach the media. A man had been missing for many years. About six months ago, a skeleton was found in the area where he had disappeared. There was a wristwatch still on the bone, and a credit card beneath the skeleton. The credit card led them to the family. A family member said, “Yes, my brother disappeared fourteen years ago.” They showed him the watch. He said, “That’s a watch I gave him as a gift,” and he pointed out an inscription on the back, a dedication to his brother. Now, this was about establishing the identity of a man who was unmarried. There was no question of an agunah, no question of inheritance, no question of shivah. To put it bluntly, all that was at stake was what to write on the headstone. That was all. According to halachah, personal belongings like a watch and a ring provide conclusive identification. But the body was at the Institute of Forensic Medicine, and in the scientists’ eyes that was not enough. They wanted to obtain DNA. I fought fairly hard

14:28 against that, because I said there was no halachic permission to take a bone from him and grind it into powder. The end of the story—and I am permitted to tell it publicly—was that a fairly senior police officer cooperated and understood the issue. He told the Institute of Forensic Medicine, “You don’t want to identify him? Then don’t. We don’t need any favors. I brought him to you. I brought him to the institute. Give him back to me. He isn’t yours; he’s mine.” Someone senior at the institute said, “We don’t hand out gifts to families.” He isn’t a gift. I brought him; I’m taking him back. They took the body without doing the DNA test, buried it with a headstone, and everything worked out. In other words, with this question of testing, you sometimes have to consider whether it is permitted. I don’t know. I’m in favor of it. It is a delicate question. So the first prohibition is disgracing the deceased, and grinding a bone is certainly a form of disgrace. There is a second reason. It appears in Chavos Yair, but its original source is a book called Kol Bo. There are many books called Kol Bo, but this is a Kol Bo by one of the Rishonim. Its author is unknown, but the Beis Yosef cites it constantly, and the Rema cites it constantly. It was the first to introduce a prohibition known among the halachic authorities as charadas hadin, dread of judgment. He derives it from the incident with the woman who summoned spirits, Shaul and Shmuel. When she brought up Shmuel, he said to Shaul, “Why have you disturbed me by bringing me up?” This is called charadas hadin. The halachic authorities say that when someone who has died is moved—whether moved within the grave or taken out of it—the soul is alarmed, fearing that the great and awesome Day of Judgment has arrived. That is charadas hadin. It does not appear in the Gemara, but it has been cited since the Kol Bo. Why are both reasons needed? The Shivas Tziyon writes that if, for example, a person was buried in a coffin and the coffin remains intact, and I take out the coffin as it is and bring it somewhere else, then according to the Noda BiYehudah there is no disgrace involved, because no one sees anything. But there would still be charadas hadin, because the very movement of the deceased’s bones causes it, as the Shivas Tziyon says.

16:35 He therefore says that the main reason it is forbidden to open a grave is the disgrace to the deceased. That is the primary reason, with another following it. The halachic authorities added the Kol Bo’s reason, charadas hadin, to prohibit even cases where the coffin is not opened: it remains closed and is brought elsewhere as it is. There is another reason, which seems obvious to me. I am surprised no one thought of it. It is what the Rema introduced in Darchei Moshe. It is a simple point. In the Torah’s laws of burial in Parshas Ki Seitzei, it says, “You shall surely bury him on that day.” Why the double expression, “You shall surely bury him”? It is like “You shall surely return them,” which the Gemara in the chapter Eilu Metzi’os says means even a hundred times. The Darchei Moshe says that placing the deceased in the ground and covering him with earth does not complete the mitzvah. The mitzvah is for him to remain buried at all times, every moment. If the body becomes exposed, it must be covered again. Consequently, he says, if you take someone out of a grave, then during the hours, days or moments he is outside it, you are actively failing to fulfill the positive mitzvah of burial. He is not buried. That is why you may not take someone out of a grave for no reason. But if this is the reason that taking someone out of a grave involves the prohibition of “You shall surely bury him,” there is also room for leniency. The Gemara states explicitly, “If he delayed the burial for the deceased’s honor, he does not transgress.” What does that teaching mean? It means that the Torah itself said it is permissible, so to speak—in quotation marks—to set aside the requirement of “You shall surely bury him” for the honor of the deceased. It can be deferred. The reasoning is that the deceased presumably consents. For example, it is therefore permissible to take someone who has died from outside Eretz Yisroel to Eretz Yisroel, even though during that time he is not buried. The positive mitzvah is not being fulfilled, but presumably he consents to that. Or in the case of the agunah, where they examine a grave to see whether it is her husband, he presumably consents. But if there is no reason connected to the deceased’s honor, then every moment he is not buried is a transgression of the positive mitzvah. As an aside, the Gemara says, “If he delayed the burial for the deceased’s honor, he does not transgress.” What counts as his honor? When may a burial be delayed? Rashi explains in the Gemara: to obtain a coffin, shrouds, or women to deliver eulogies. Today it is also customary to delay a burial so that many people can attend the funeral. I do not know whether that fits, particularly if the people who are meant to come are not exactly observant of Torah and mitzvos. Rabbi Wosner writes in Shevet HaLevi that perhaps it would be better if they did not come; delaying the burial for them is not worthwhile.

18:39 Now, another aside. I encounter this quite often. Under Israeli civil law, it is the family that decides when the funeral will take place. Sometimes they consult the rabbi, though not always, and it also depends on how much pressure they put on him to say that a delay of three or four days is permissible. In very many cases, “the honor of the deceased” is given too broad an interpretation, in my humble opinion. I can tell you about a case that happened some time ago in Bat Yam, the city where I live. A Jewish man passed away, someone from the shul. Well, all right. It was eleven in the morning. I said to his son, “Let’s hold the funeral at four this afternoon.” He said, “My father? My father, in the afternoon?”

20:15 You have to let people know; a lot of people will come.” I asked him, “How many people will come?” He said, “A lot—thousands, surely.” This happens in a person’s mind. We shouldn’t just skip over it, but it happens. When someone passes away, as another hour and then another passes from the time of death, in the family’s eyes he becomes, first of all, the greatest Torah scholar of the generation. Then he becomes like the Gra, and then he becomes like the Rambam. That’s the process. In the end, the funeral was the following evening. After four hours, he relented. He had ordered a bus, but in the end they went to the cemetery in just a taxi. That was it. That was what he had. So the matter of honoring the deceased, his dignity—it’s not so clear. We won’t discuss it according to Kabbalah, and certainly not according to the holy sefarim. According to Maavar Yabok and the Zohar, the hardest time for the soul of the deceased is from the moment of death until burial. That is why people who are particular about following Maavar Yabok and the Zohar don’t wait for anyone; they bury the person as quickly as possible. Even among people somewhat distant from the Zohar, this idea has taken hold, and sometimes they forgo waiting even for sons. Just this past week, there was a case like that: a woman passed away; two sons were in Israel and three sons were in Panama. They asked me what to do. I said, “Don’t wait for them, but call them and explain why it’s so important to bury her as quickly as possible.” And they said, “We, the sons, are giving up the chance to come. Bury her as quickly as possible.” But not everyone knows this. In any event, this matter of charadas hadin, desecration of the deceased, and the prohibition against opening a grave because it undoes the mitzvah of burial—those are three principal prohibitions. The Gemara on page fourteen discusses desecration of the deceased; Kol Bo discusses charadas hadin; and Rabbi Feinstein discusses undoing the mitzvah of burial, which, according to some, may be permitted. Now, the truth is, again, that there are other reasons. The Pischei Teshuvah

22:09 again gives a very simple reason. He says it is forbidden to remove a deceased person from a grave because of the distress and indignity to the deceased. Moving the body a long distance may cause it to decay or its limbs to come apart, which would be an indignity to the deceased, as has indeed happened many times. That’s a simple reason. If there is no real halachic reason to move the deceased, you take the body out and move it around. The body is damaged. That’s a fact; there’s nothing to be done about it. I once had a very difficult argument about this. An elderly unmarried woman lived in Tel Aviv, and she moved to a nursing home somewhere in the Sharon region. So she understands that she’s moving to a nursing home, and she takes her bed, her wardrobe, the picture on the wall, and both her parents. She wants to move both her parents from Yarkon Cemetery to where the nursing home is. I said, “The cemetery is there, across from the window. You can see them every day.” I had very serious disagreements with her. This wasn’t a question of a burial plot in Eretz Yisroel; it was a matter of moving deceased people around. In the end she gave up the idea—I’m not sure she did. There is a very long responsum in Tzitz Eliezer, written in the wake of the affair involving the construction of a hotel in Tiberias over the grave—over the grave of the Rambam. If you remember that big affair with the Bank Leumi company, I think that was it. He wrote a very, very long responsum. What? Migdal. I don’t remember the... They boycotted the banks then; it was a difficult affair. What? Yes. In any case, he wrote a very long responsum. He brings together all the reasons for the prohibition. He finds some twelve reasons, besides the ones we mentioned: desecration of the deceased, charadas hadin, indignity to the deceased. He also writes something that is hard to contend with. He writes, “What will the non-Jews say?” If you clear a cemetery here, they’ll clear them in Europe too. Why only

24:01 here in Israel? The Jews always claim they have some sacred site. So they’ll point to this and say, “Look, we cleared one.” I don’t have an answer to that right now. I don’t have an answer. It’s a very difficult problem. Though I can tell you about another matter I was involved in, and it’s particularly difficult right now. Five years ago, the old cemetery in Vienna was in danger of being cleared, and the Ashrei Yisroel organization sent a delegation of three people, two rabbis, and me to see what could be done there. We came to Vienna. It turned out that half of that cemetery was already gone. They had cleared it. Another cemetery—they built a stadium there. Now they were planning to build a mall there, an enormous shopping center. A German company was going to build it, because across the way there is an old castle with a river and a bridge, a tourist destination. We arrived and found an area entirely paved with street stones, with a cemetery underneath. How did they find out? The company, or the municipality—I don’t know who—sent an engineer to investigate. He dug test pits to see what kind of soil was there. Everywhere he dug, he found a grave. He photographed them. And from his photographs, these were clearly Jewish graves. There’s also a map. In some European communities, the custom was to place two pieces of pottery over the eyes of the deceased before burial, and that’s exactly what the photographs show. In one photograph you can see a jar between the deceased person’s legs. Perhaps—I assume he was a Torah scholar and they put the books he had written there, or [unclear], I don’t know. In short, they brought us to see the site, and we met with the minister of religious affairs. There’s such a minister of religious affairs, a Lithuanian, the deputy minister for minority affairs—I don’t know. All sorts of important people. They explained to us that they were absolutely determined to clear the site. If the community would do it willingly and in an orderly fashion, fine. If not, you understand. We listened, investigated, formed an impression, walked around, and saw a map of the cemetery. There is a theory that the Chida [?] and his family are buried there. We returned to Israel. Then we approached—there is a council of rabbis in Europe that deals with European cemeteries, and they told us that their policy is not to clear cemeteries, because if one cemetery in Europe is cleared, cemeteries all over Europe will start to be moved. There’s also a cemetery in the center of Hamburg, and there are others. So we dropped the matter. That’s how they ruled. They ruled. Six months ago bulldozers went onto the site and cleared the graves. A team of anthropologists sat there. Anthropologists are specialists in human bones, and they sorted them: thirty sacks of left legs, thirty sacks of right legs, thirty sacks of pelvises and other bones, and so on. They made a precise inventory, dug a large pit, drove in a bulldozer, and threw everything inside. There is—one can’t prevent it, but there is an argument here. What will the non-Jews say? The non-Jews aren’t saying anything. That’s my humble opinion. But they published a book called Keter Zeh. Another reason is written in the Maharam Schick. I’ll come to it in a moment—the Maharam Schick has a striking new idea. He says that, as it is written regarding the Mishkan, a beam that merited to stand on the north side must always remain on the north side. We do this with a sukkah too, keeping the walls in their same positions. A deceased person merited to be in a particular place; don’t take him out of it. That is another reason. The Chasam Sofer, in siman 353, offers a novel point. He says that when a deceased person is taken out of a grave and people see the body in a condition that is not at all pleasant, that is not only an indignity to the deceased; it is an indignity to the living. How can you, as a living person, look at such things? So he broadens the issue of indignity to the deceased. What emerges is that opening the grave of a deceased person is a very serious problem. We need to talk about the prohibition of chillul Hashem, all

26:04 In good condition, arranged properly. If it isn’t arranged properly, you can understand that. We heard, checked, got an impression, walked around, and saw a map of the cemetery. There’s a theory that the Chida [?] and his family are buried there. We came back to Israel. Then we got involved—there’s a committee of rabbis in Europe that deals with cemeteries there, and they told us their policy is not to move cemeteries, because if one cemetery in Europe is moved, all of Europe will start moving. There’s a cemetery in the center of Hamburg too, and in other places. So we dropped the matter. That was their ruling. Their ruling. Six months ago, bulldozers went onto the site and cleared out the graves. There was a team of anthropologists there. Anthropologists are experts in human bones, and they sorted them: thirty sacks of left legs, thirty sacks of right legs, thirty sacks of pelvises and bones, and so on and so forth. They made a precise record, dug a large pit, a bulldozer came in, and they threw it all inside. There’s something here—you can’t prevent it, but there’s something here, some line of reasoning. What do the non-Jews say? The non-Jews don’t say anything. That’s my humble opinion. But they published a book, Keter Zeh. Another reason is given by the Maharam Schick. I’ll get to it in a moment—the Maharam Schick has a major insight. He says that, as it is written regarding the Mishkan, a plank that merited to be on the north side must always remain on the north side. We do that with a sukkah too: we keep the walls in the same positions. A deceased person merited to be in a particular place; don’t take him out of there. That’s another reason. An insight of the Chasam Sofer, responsum 353: he says that when you remove a deceased person from a grave and see the body in a condition that isn’t exactly pleasant, it isn’t only a disgrace to the deceased; it’s a disgrace to the living. How can you, as a living person, look at such things? So he broadens the issue of disgrace to the deceased. What emerges is that opening a deceased person’s grave is a very serious problem. We need to discuss the prohibition of chillul Hashem, all

28:00 These prohibitions are very serious. There is also a dispute among the later authorities over whether the prohibition against desecrating a body is from the Torah or rabbinic. We won’t go into that. Now, when would it be permitted? At first glance, this is straightforward. It is stated explicitly in the Shulchan Aruch, Yoreh Deah. It appears in your source sheet, near the end, if I remember correctly. In Yoreh Deah 363:1 it says explicitly: “One may not move a deceased person or bones, even from an honored grave to another honored grave,” and so on. And in the last line: “If the deceased is not protected in this grave, because there is concern that non-Jews may remove him, it is a mitzvah to move him.” So at first glance, the matter is straightforward. But here the question was whether we have to be certain it will happen, and whether there is another option. I found a responsum of the Maharam Schick that, in my humble opinion, fits the present situation exactly. I’ll read you the question in the Maharam Schick. See whether you think it relates to Gush Katif. “Concerning the removal of the deceased, after the government and the ministry agreed,” as the question puts it, “to build an Eisenbahn”—a railway—“whose route passes through the cemetery in his community, and the members of his community petitioned the ministry to abandon the plan, without success.” Just like today. People pleaded for there to be no evacuation, but nothing helped. “His honor asks whether they may allow a road to be built over the graves.” People ask: Why should I care? The deceased are below; leave them there and build the railway above. “Or is it better to move the graves?” The answer is very long. The Maharam Schick’s major insight, which the Chasam Sofer also states, is this principle: once a cemetery passes into non-Jewish ownership, it is considered a grave that is not protected. That is without even getting into the concern that they may remove the deceased and desecrate them. The very fact that a Jew is lying in land owned by a non-Jew—

30:12 means there is an obligation to move him, to move his grave. “It seems that this itself is a disgrace: that his fate depends on the non-Jew’s decision. He cannot rest there, and it will be in the non-Jew’s hands to dig...” [unclear] This is his insight. In other words, in my opinion, even if some organization had said, “We are prepared to guard the graves in Gush Katif”—someone suggested bringing in the UN, or something like that—it would not help according to the Maharam Schick. Ownership passes to a non-Jew, who decides what to do with it; the Maharam Schick says it is a mitzvah to move the deceased. That is where it stands. Here is another example of the same point. In a responsum of the Chasam Sofer, Yoreh Deah 330, he says that Jews were given a place to bury their dead because there was a cholera epidemic. After they buried them, they were told that in that place there was a law allowing the cemetery to be plowed and planted after six years. Is it a mitzvah to move the deceased or not? He says that ideally they should approach the authorities and petition the emperor, may his majesty be exalted, to have the decree rescinded. If that is impossible, then they must turn to the emperor. And the emperor said, “I am doing you a favor: I give you permission to move them.” The Chasam Sofer then writes: “It seems more obvious than an egg in kutach that it is a great mitzvah to work toward this.” And this is plainly true not only for those whose fathers and relatives lie there, but even for those who are not relatives. The community has a duty to take this obligation upon itself, so that the deceased do not lie unprotected from vandals who might abuse them. Now comes the next question. If there is a family, the family has the obligation to see to it. If there is no family, then according to the Chasam Sofer it becomes a mitzvah to remove the deceased from the grave. I want to mention something related, though it is also a bit of an aside. There is one matter concerning the deceased

32:20 that the public is not aware of—ordinary people in everyday life. There is a law in the Gemara requiring the deceased to be guarded. One may not leave a deceased person alone from the moment of passing until burial, and this is not merely a custom. It is written in the Gemara. There are laws governing the guarding as well, and people are not sufficiently careful about this. A person, G-d forbid, passes away in a hospital. The family goes off to arrange buses, notices and eulogists, leaving the deceased alone. That is forbidden. So as long as the deceased is still in the ward, someone certainly needs to guard him. Once he is taken down to pathology, a different question begins: Is there still an obligation to guard the deceased when he is shut in a refrigerated unit? The Gemara says plainly that the obligation is because of mice or other things that might damage the body. If he is shut in a refrigerated unit, there would seem to be no problem. Igros Moshe—Rabbi Moshe Feinstein—writes that there is an obligation to guard the deceased even when he is protected from mice, out of respect for the deceased. If there is concern about mice, he says, one may not leave the deceased for even a moment. But if he is shut in a refrigerated unit and there is no concern about mice, one may come and go. That is his ruling. One need not stand guard constantly. But if there is concern that the body may be harmed—whether by mice or by pathologists; it makes no difference, it is still harm to the body—there is an obligation to guard the deceased. Moreover, Maavar Yabok gives a third reason: when a person dies, evil spirits cause him distress, and the presence of a living person there prevents them from harming him. According to Maavar Yabok’s reasoning, it follows that someone must guard him constantly. You can offer an explanation concerning mice, and an explanation concerning evil spirits. I don’t know how they operate; I don’t know how it works. People do not know this. I have seen it myself a few times.

34:12 I was once at a cemetery—not in Tel Aviv. I arrived five minutes before the funeral. The room where the body had been prepared for burial was open, the deceased was lying there, and no one was present. This is a binding law. By the way, there is a very interesting discussion in Chochmas Adam. I’ll put it briefly: it says that when King David passed away, King Shlomo sent a question to the Sages: “My father is lying in the sun, and the dogs of my father’s house are hungry.” Chochmas Adam, at the end, asks: When King David passed away, what was bothering King Shlomo was what the dogs would eat? How does that make sense? He says that the “dogs” are not dogs; they are evil spirits. He was asking the Sages how to prevent evil spirits from harming King David. What was the answer? “Cut up an animal carcass and place it before them.” I won’t go into that. The idea is to give the sitra achra its portion so that it goes away, as with mayim acharonim and other things. But the obligation to guard the deceased is binding law. Chochmas Adam writes at the end that the duty falls on the family, on the mourner. If he cannot do it, the chevra kadisha must see to it, but the responsibility rests with him. That was a side point. People are not sufficiently careful about it, and it is not possible to observe it everywhere. There is a question in Shivas Tzion, section 62, about the same issue. In one city, the mayor wants to build a road through the cemetery, paved with stones, that will pass over the graves. Is it permitted or forbidden? He says: “There is no greater disgrace than a public thoroughfare passing over graves, with wagons traveling on them and horses’ and donkeys’ hooves striking the graves at all hours.” That is it. This question has arisen in many other places in the United States. In the United States, every few years Jews settle in a particular neighborhood, build a shul, open a cemetery, and then

36:11 That’s how the Black residents moved in. So the Jews gradually left the neighborhood and moved elsewhere, leaving behind both a synagogue and a cemetery. A synagogue is one thing, but a cemetery is another matter. It’s a very difficult question. People spoke to me about it afterward: What do you do with cemeteries? There are three responsa by Rabbi Moshe Feinstein in Igros Moshe. Even apart from the fact that they were chassidim, he says that the Black residents were dumping garbage into the cemetery. It is a mitzvah to move the graves. There is also a responsum in Yoreh De’ah, volume 1, section 242: the remains must be moved and buried somewhere far away, where the Black residents and [unclear] will not come. That is his ruling. I have no answer about Yosef’s grave. I don’t know. I have no answer. On Har Hazeisim, the state could address it with money: hire a security company, and that would settle it. But there are people who are buried on Har Hazeisim while still alive, so to speak. What can I do? Your argument is a strong one, but I’m talking about the present situation, the situation as it stands right now. We need [unclear] the dead who will come from other places; we should pray that it won’t happen. But again, that is a question on a much higher level, separate from the approach to the issue itself. Where? Yes. Not everyone [unclear]. All right. They did nothing. They uprooted headstones, paved roads, and desecrated the graves. To this day, part of Har Hazeisim is a dumping ground for all the Arabs, and nobody does anything. Is that an enormous disgrace? Without question. Well, here we’re not talking about the Jordanians; we’re talking about terrorists who know exactly where we are vulnerable. That’s worse. All right, those are more or less the main responsa that permit moving graves. There is also Yabia Omer, volume 7, if I’m not mistaken, on moving graves. There were three graves in Yamit. There, Rabbi Ovadia rules that it is permitted

38:38 to remove—to move the graves. There are many more sources. There is also Seridei Eish, for those familiar with it, on removing a grave from a Jewish cemetery after the Jews have left. That is a grave that will not be preserved. He discusses only the status of the grave itself, and says that it must be moved. Now, there are a great many responsa. It is simply obvious to the halachic authorities that once there is concern that non-Jews will come and disturb the grave or desecrate the dead—even if they merely drive carts over it—it is a mitzvah to move it. That was Rabbi Wosner’s answer; he relied on the Maharsham and the Chasam Sofer. A second point, briefly: When graves are moved, is there an obligation to take what the Mishnah in Nazir calls the tefusas hameis, the earth beneath the deceased? That means a handbreadth beneath the deceased. The Mishnah in Nazir says yes: “He takes him and his tefusah.” The Mishnah brings proof from Yaakov Avinu, who said, “Carry me out of Egypt”—together with the earth of Egypt. That is a good proof, except that Yaakov Avinu was not buried in Egypt at all. It is a major question: What is the Mishnah’s proof? No, let’s leave that. The Tiferes Yisroel, in his commentary on the Mishnah, and Rabbi Moshe Feinstein too, maintain that taking earth from beneath the deceased applied only when the laws of ritual impurity and purity were observed. When they wanted to purify the site, they took that earth. Today it is not necessary. That is Rabbi Moshe Feinstein’s ruling, as well as that of other halachic authorities. Many disagree with him, including Mishpetei Uziel and Gesher Hachaim. So that is another consideration. Rabbi Wosner told me on this question: Ideally, if possible, you should also take the tefusah—a handbreadth of earth from beneath the deceased. It creates many problems for the removal and transport, but with Hashem’s help, that is what will happen. What is the law for the families? For some reason, people keep talking—even people connected to the world of halachah—about one hour. But that is not correct. Mourning for one hour applies only in a case of delayed news: a person hears that his father

40:58 has died, and thirty days have already passed since the death. Then it is one hour. Here the law is different. There is a concept in the Gemara and in the final section of Yoreh De’ah called the day of gathering the bones. On that day, the laws of shivah are observed for one day—but only from the time the remains are moved until sunset. That is what the Shulchan Aruch says. The halachic authorities disagree about whether this means the day the remains are removed from the grave or the day they are reburied. Suppose they are removed on one day and buried on another. This is an old dispute. There is a book called Hakol B’Aveilus by Rabbi Ginzburg, which argues that the mourning begins when the remains are moved and continues until after the burial. He claims this is explicit in the Chasam Sofer. The question came up after the Yom Kippur War, a year after the war, when there was an operation to transfer those who had died from temporary cemeteries to permanent ones. Rabbi Wosner, Rabbi Shlodevitsky[?], for those who know him, and Rabbi Ovadia all ruled that the day of gathering the bones is the day the remains are moved, not the day of burial. The Chasam Sofer says so explicitly. He goes further: in the case discussed by the Chasam Sofer, a cemetery far from the city was being moved. He says not to tell the family when the graves will be moved, so they will not have to observe that day of mourning. That is what the Chasam Sofer says: do not tell them. Well, here that is impossible. So if we follow the majority of halachic authorities, the day of gathering the bones—the one day of mourning—will be from the time the remains are moved until sunset that day. If people want to bring in the Chazon Ish’s argument that it is the day of burial, the Chazon Ish wrote something about that. Those who remember the story of the three soldiers abducted in Lebanon: three soldiers were abducted, two of them Jewish. There were two very difficult stages there. It was a very difficult story. What happened was this: Several rabbis sat together, myself included, as a kind of beis din. Senior intelligence officials came before us and gave us information that, to this day, we have been forbidden to disclose because it could cause harm. I translated that information into halachic terms—assessments of the evidence and so on—and we reached the final conclusion that they were dead beyond any doubt. Whether they had been buried, we did not know. Then the families were informed. The families had great difficulty accepting it, because emotionally it is very hard not to see a body, not to see a funeral, and suddenly to sit shivah. It was very hard for them, and I was given the task of being with the Avraham family, for those who remember, during shivah. I spent many hours with them. The family members did not want to sit shivah. They said, “We don’t believe you.” The father sat shivah and said to me, “What if he suddenly comes back? Will I have committed a transgression?” I said, “Then we’ll make a big feast—what else?” In short, they accepted it. They sat shivah. A street was named after him, and a Sefer Torah was dedicated in his name. Some time passed, and, as you know, an agreement was reached. They were bringing them back to Israel. You may not have noticed it then, but Hezbollah are utterly wicked people. They did not say they were returning bodies. They said they were returning the soldiers, and that threw everything into turmoil. The families said, “You lied to us. They’re alive. Hezbollah says it’s returning the soldiers.” Hezbollah was asked, “Are they alive or dead?” Its answer was, “You’ll know tomorrow.” So Arona from the Avraham family said to me, “You see? I told you he’s alive. Tomorrow I’ll embrace my son.” The bodies were flown from Lebanon to Germany. When the plane arrived—the bodies were brought to Germany—it turned out they had arrived frozen so thoroughly that fingerprints could be taken from them. The bodies were completely preserved. Then the question arose: Is this a day of gathering the bones? Gathering the bones means taking someone out after he has been buried, but

43:15 The heads of the intelligence establishment gave us information that, to this day, they had forbidden anyone to disclose because it could cause harm. And I translated that information into the language of halachah. Yes, you look at the evidence and the presumptions and so on, and the final conclusion was that, beyond any doubt, they were dead. Whether they were buried or not, we didn’t know. Then the families were informed. The families didn’t really want to accept it, because emotionally it’s very hard: you haven’t seen a body, you haven’t seen a funeral, and suddenly you’re sitting shivah. It was very hard for them, and I was given the task of being at the Avraham family’s home during shivah, for those who remember. I spent many hours with them. The family members didn’t want to sit shivah. They said, “We don’t believe you.” The father sat shivah and said to me, “What if he suddenly comes back? Will I have committed a sin?” I said, “We’ll make a big celebration, what else?” In short, they accepted it. They sat shivah. A street was named after him, and a Sefer Torah was dedicated in his name. Some time passed, and as you surely know, an agreement was reached. They were bringing them back to Israel. If you noticed at the time—or perhaps you didn’t—Hezbollah are utterly wicked people. They didn’t say they were returning bodies. They said they were returning the soldiers, and then everything fell apart. The families said, “You lied to us. They’re alive. Look, Hezbollah says it’s returning soldiers.” They asked Hezbollah, “Are they alive or dead?” The answer was, “You’ll know tomorrow.” So Orna Avraham said to me, “You see? I told you he’s alive. Tomorrow I’ll hug my son.” The bodies were flown from Lebanon to Germany. When the plane arrived—the bodies were brought to Germany, and it turned out they had arrived so frozen that fingerprints could be taken from them. The bodies were completely preserved. So then the question arose whether this counted as a day of gathering the remains. Gathering the remains is when someone has been buried and you take them out, but

45:18 Here, we don’t even know whether they were buried at all. And by the way, the families have already sat shiva. There is another halachah: if a person disappears and it is certain that he has died, but his body cannot be found, the family does not sit shiva as long as the search for the body continues. Once those searching have given up hope of bringing him to burial—that is the term used—the day they give up hope is treated as the day of burial, and they sit shiva. Who has to give up hope? Whoever is in a position to find the body. In this case, involving those abducted to Lebanon, the state announced that there was no chance of finding the bodies, so the families sat shiva. Now the bodies have arrived. So I consulted several halachic authorities. Their opinion was that in cases like these, where the bodies had not been buried—apparently had not been buried at all, but had been kept in refrigeration—everyone agrees that the day the remains are gathered is treated as the day of burial, because there is no day of removal from a grave; that situation simply does not exist here. That is what the families were told, and that is indeed what they did. In any event, regarding removal from a grave as well, I don’t know whether the families will accept this ruling that shiva is observed only on the day of removal. If there is a funeral and they want to tear their garments, sit shiva, and receive visitors offering condolences, it will not be possible to prevent them. Although the laws of mourning say that one must not be stringent—if a person is exempt and conducts himself as a mourner, that is not quite right—one cannot argue with the families’ grief. Their grief is doubled and redoubled. That is more or less what there is to say about the subject of Gush Katif. I repeat that Rabbi Wosner issued a written halachic ruling that it is a mitzvah to move the graves. I know that one of the soldiers from Southern Command asked Rabbi Elyashiv, and he told him, “It is a mitzvah to move them.” Rabbi Mordechai Eliyahu spoke with me on Thursday morning and said, “A decree has been issued. We must accept the judgment. Do what needs to be done now.” That is what he said on the phone. I did not speak with him in person; I did not see him face to face. From one end

47:08 to the other, that is true. It is terrible that we have reached this point. But now that we are in this situation, we must do what we can to save the deceased and protect them. So if, G-d forbid, Moshiach has not come and the resurrection of the dead has not taken place by Sunday, we will do what we can. All the best.

00:01 Speaker 1 It is a great privilege for me to stand here and share with you a little of what I know. As was mentioned earlier, the subject of money and interest is something that touches a person’s life today from morning to night. Some people deal with it knowingly, while others are involved without even realizing it, whether they want to be or not. They are involved in all sorts of financial matters. The topic I was asked to speak about was defined as investments according to halachah. To get into this practical subject, I first want to say a few words about the general concept of a heter iska. As everyone knows, there is such a thing as a heter iska. Lending money at interest is forbidden by the Torah. Throughout the generations, our Sages worked to find an arrangement that would allow everyday commerce to continue under present-day conditions. The solution they found was the institution of heter iska. It is based primarily on the Gemara, which says that the concept of an iska, a business arrangement, exists even without a heter iska. The arrangement itself exists in halachah. The Gemara says in Bava Metzia: “This iska is half a loan and half a deposit.” In the times of the Gemara and the Mishnah, an iska involved merchandise that one person gave to another. The first person did not want to handle the buying and selling himself, so he would give the merchandise to someone else, who would sell and buy, sell and buy, and earn money. In principle, the profits were to be divided equally. Why? Because half the money, half the merchandise, was considered a loan. When someone receives a loan, the money belongs to him entirely, so anything earned from that money belongs to him. The other half was considered a deposit. In other words, he was merely holding it for the owner, so any profit from the deposit half belonged to the owner. But a problem arose

03:27 Speaker 1 in the Mishnah. After all, the work a person does with the deposit half is in return for the loan half he receives. The solution they found was to pay him wages—either the wages of an idle worker or an agreed amount. They were lenient about this because, as the Gemara says, when a person is handling his own half anyway, he handles the other person’s half as well. Still, they had to set some amount as payment for his work. The concept of heter iska was built on this model, which in its time described a real situation: a person actually gave the money as half a loan and half a deposit for the other person to do business with. The Sages said as follows: In what we call a loan, Reuven lends Shimon—or anyone else—money and wants to receive a return on it. If he calls that return interest, if he receives it as interest, it is forbidden by the Torah. So the Sages said: No, we will define the money as half a loan and half a deposit. In other words, if Reuven gives Shimon a hundred thousand shekels, he gives him fifty thousand as a loan and fifty thousand as a deposit. The result is that all profits from this money must be divided in two. The profits from the loan half belong to the recipient, and the profits from the deposit half belong to the giver. Now, there is a fundamental difference in the recipient’s responsibility for the two portions. For the half he receives as a loan, he is one hundred percent responsible. His responsibility is absolute. From the moment Reuven gives Shimon a loan, what happens to that money is no longer Reuven’s concern. If the money is lost or burned, it makes no difference. That money is

05:47 Speaker 1 loan money. A loan has to be repaid. The deposit half is different. For that half, he is only a custodian. It remains the giver’s property; I am merely holding it for him. I may be an unpaid custodian or a paid custodian, but nothing more than that. If, for example, something happens beyond my control, I am exempt. All the more so if the loss is not physical, but the money is lost in a business venture. If there was no negligence, I am exempt from that too. So there is a fundamental difference between the two portions. That is how they defined it. They said that any loan on which a person wants to receive a return should begin as half a loan and half a deposit. Since the giver does not know what businesses the recipient used the money for, he also does not know how much the recipient earned. Only the person handling the money knows all that. He knows whether he earned ten percent, twenty percent, perhaps a hundred percent. Maybe things went well and he earned a great deal. There is no way to know; only the person doing the business can know. It is also possible that he made no profit at all. So the recipient has to establish the facts for the giver. How do I know what you did with the money? You have to establish it. Under Jewish monetary law, there are two ways to do that: witnesses or an oath. One or the other. For example, the recipient might come and say: “That is all well and good, but I invested it in something and the money is gone. Nothing is left. Not only was there no profit; none of the original money is left either.” How would we know that? On the other hand, he might come and say, “I earned ten percent.” Perhaps he earned twenty percent. No one else can know. So they instituted two rules. They instituted that, regarding the principal,

08:12 Speaker 1 he would be believed if he said it had been lost and no longer existed only on the testimony of two witnesses. As for the profits—whether there were any and how much—he would be believed on the basis of a solemn oath. Fine; that is the second level of a heter iska. But the result is still that the giver cannot be sure he will receive any profit. In the end, all he might get from the recipient is an oath: the recipient swears that there were no profits, and that is where matters stand. But the giver wants a return. He wants to lend money and receive a return on it. At the same time, the recipient does not always want to swear an oath. Jews are reluctant to swear even when they know what they are saying is true. A person does not want to swear under any circumstances. So they created the third level. The recipient and the giver agree between themselves as follows: “If you do not want to swear, you still owe me an oath to establish the facts. You owe me proof; you owe me an oath. Now, if you do not want to swear, we will agree on a price in place of that oath.” That is something they can set a price for. What is the price? It happens to be the same percentage I would have wanted as interest. In other words, he says to him: “You have two options. You can swear how much profit there was. If there was profit, you have the right to swear to the amount. But if you do not want to swear, then our agreed settlement amount—as it is called—will spare us from arguing about how much profit there was, or whether there was any at all. If you pay me five percent or eight percent, whatever we decide now, I will ask no questions, and I will not care if you earned a hundred percent

10:28 Speaker 1 or eighty percent. I will have no claim against you. But if you do not want to give me the eight percent and you want to swear instead, you have the right to do so.” That is more or less the basis of a heter iska. Why is it important to understand the basis? Because the first principle of a heter iska is that the parties must understand what it is. When it comes to the kashrus of food, a person can say: “I do not understand kashrus. All I know is that I need to eat kosher food with a reliable, high-standard certification.” So what does he do? He checks the kashrus certificate or the seal on the product he is buying, and that is enough. He does not need to know more. If it is a certification he accepts and can rely on, fine. You might think the same should apply to a heter iska. A person walks into a bank and asks, “Is there a heter iska here?” “Yes, there is.” Fine, then he thinks he is covered. But he is not covered at all. Why? Because the transactions he conducts with another person or with the bank are monetary transactions. There is a major difference between having a heter iska and not having one. It is not merely a question of whether the transaction has, so to speak, a kashrus certificate. The difference lies in the laws of Choshen Mishpat: What actually happened here? Did I give a straightforward loan, or did I give a loan together with a deposit? Those are two entirely different things. I need to know what I am doing. If I intended to give a loan, then I did not give a deposit, or vice versa. If I agreed to accept only a deposit and the other person was prepared to give me only a loan, then in fact we never reached an agreement. Technically

12:33 Speaker 1 We met, but in fact each of us made a different deal here. So if a person does not understand what a heter iska is, having a heter iska does not help. He has to understand, because when Shimon receives the money from Reuven, Reuven needs to know that he has given him fifty percent as a loan and fifty percent as a deposit, and Shimon needs to know that he has received only fifty percent as a loan and fifty percent as a deposit. Otherwise Reuven will come along afterward and say, “I knew nothing about this.” Reuven is the giver, what we call the lender. He will say, “I understood that I was giving the money and that I had full security for it.” Why would he say that? Because in his mind, he understands that he gave a loan. With a loan, he knows his money is fully secure, but in fact that is not the case. We need to explain to him that he is giving fifty percent as a loan, and that fifty percent is secure, but the fifty percent that is a deposit is not secure at all. If there are losses, his share will lose money too. It is his money, not the recipient’s money. That is why the Alter Rebbe writes in Shulchan Aruch, section 42—though he also discusses this, he is mainly discussing other forms of heter that existed in their time for receiving a loan. His wording is: “For this is not a proper practice, since a false admission accomplishes nothing. Although it is effective in monetary law—if a person admits that the money in his house belongs to his fellow, his fellow acquires it even if it is known to be his own—nevertheless, a false admission accomplishes nothing toward permitting something forbidden.” In other words, what he means to say is that when there is a substantive difference between two things, between A and B, then if a person does not know what he is saying, he actually

14:36 Speaker 1 did not intend it at all. Now, it is true that if a person signs something, we rule in Shulchan Aruch, section 46, that a person who signed a document is not believed even if he says he did not read it or cannot read it—that is not a claim that releases him from it. But in fact, even according to those who... That is really the point of disagreement here between those who say that even if he did not understand, signing a heter iska is effective. Still, even according to those who say it is effective, he is at least in the category of someone who intended to eat something forbidden but perhaps ended up eating something permitted. There is still a problem here. So we certainly have to understand the basics of a heter iska. What? Again. When a person—when there is a question of something forbidden and a person is prepared to do something. Now, it could be, as you say, that a person says, “I act according to the understanding of the sages, whatever the sages say.” But nevertheless, if he does not know what he is doing... That is to say, the issue now is not merely whether he knows it is permitted or forbidden. He does not know that he is giving a deposit. He thinks he is giving a loan. So it could be a transaction made under a mistaken assumption. He does not know what he is doing in monetary terms. That may not be enough; he may have to know. And the bank’s owners know. What do you mean, why wouldn’t they know? He knows, he knows. Don’t worry, he knows. What? That you personally placed a deposit? He has a manager, and the manager knows, and that is enough for him. That works. If—if—go ahead. If there were... What are you asking, if there were...? If there was a loss in the end. He

16:42 Speaker 1 is asking what happens if there was a loss. If there was a loss, then by the very nature of an iska and a heter iska, the loss is apportioned proportionately between the two sides. That is, he took a hundred thousand, invested it, and thought he would make a profit. In the end the stock market went down, and he was left with eighty. So first of all, ten of the loss is mine. In other words, I have to repay you the fifty thousand of the loan, because even though I also lost ten of my own fifty thousand, that is my share. I lost my own money. The fifty thousand that was a deposit is actually your money, so you lost on that. That leaves you with forty instead of fifty. Now, the bank has to accept that argument. If it does not accept it because it goes to a civil court rather than a beis din, then it is simply stealing from you. That is no longer a question of interest. It has moved from the category of interest into the category of theft, of robbery. A court can rule ten times that it is invalid; if it is valid according to Torah law, then it is valid. Incidentally, a court would not rule that it is invalid. This has already happened. There was a case in a Tel Aviv court twenty or twenty-five years ago. Three diamond dealers had received a loan from Mizrahi Bank, and they made this argument when diamond prices fell. The loss was clear; there was no doubt about it. Besides, they were prepared to swear to it. That was not the issue. The facts were clear: they had taken—this was called a designated loan. That is, it was a loan restricted to buying diamonds, and the bank knew they had bought

18:35 Speaker 1 diamonds with it. It was not as though the bank could claim otherwise. But in any case, they were prepared to swear and everything. They did not repay it because they had been left without money. So they told the court, “Since the loan was made under a heter iska, all right, we will pay half; the other half of the money was lost”—or whatever portion was lost. The bank’s representative said, “No, this whole heter iska business is only for... It isn’t serious.” That is what he argued. So the judge, who was not religious, said, “Look, I don’t know very much about this yet, but I understand that you could be stepping on a landmine here. Think carefully before you make that argument.” In the end they worked something out between themselves; they reached some sort of arrangement. But the judge told him, “You should know that, on the face of it, if we examine this and find that it is valid, then you should know that argument will not be accepted.” That is, unless they say it is no good. So again, someone else has stolen from you. It makes no difference. Someone is using another person to steal from you. What?

19:46 Speaker 2 There is a contract.

19:48 Speaker 1 Yes. All the contracts are subject to the heter iska. It is a regulation. The heter iska in banks is part of the bank’s regulations and cannot be canceled. Now, it may be that... This binds both sides. So yes. In practice, it does not come into play, because, as I say, it is one of those rare cases. Even people who can swear to a loss and bring evidence calculate, as businesspeople, that the next day they will no longer be able to work with the bank, so they are better off reaching some arrangement. But in principle it should be valid. Here in Israel, yes.

20:29 Speaker 3 There is a very serious problem. There is a rabbi who says he understands, but he...

20:34 Speaker 1 Right, right. What? No, no, no, no. The clerk does not—what? The clerk does not need to explain it. The clerk is only an agent. He is not doing anything himself. What does he... Fine, but the contract is subject to it. Look, every contract says it is subject to the bank’s heter iska. Now, one has to understand what a heter iska is. You have to understand. The bank, the bank—the banks in general. I mean, I do not know whether this clerk or that clerk knows exactly what it is, but whoever is responsible for the bank’s business knows what it is. He may be acting according to... That could be. All right, you... I think the problem of interest there is marginal. I think they stole much, much more from them than the interest. What? Yes. You receive a loan from the bank. Or—fine, you are asking a different question. In principle, in principle, every... All right, fine. What are you trying to get me to talk about?

00:00 With the permission of everyone gathered here—the rabbis and the chassidim, men of action. Apparently, every good resolution is welcome. We started late so that we would enter the day of the passing of the great Torah scholar and kabbalist, the Rebbe’s father, Rabbi Levi Yitzchak. This evening is the very night of his passing. And who better to mention in connection with Chevron, which was mentioned earlier? Though he is in Russia today, his self-sacrifice—and his greatness in self-sacrifice—is surely a merit for all of us to take an interest, as much as we can. Everyone knows that it was the Mitteler Rebbe who sent his daughter to Chevron, who sent his son-in-law to Chevron, and who established the community in Chevron. The Mitteler Rebbe wrote Kuntres Hahishtatchus. Anyone who has studied it—and surely everyone has—knows that, beyond its depth and length, he put his whole being into that kuntres. Whoever wants to know should study it and see what it contains. Still, however much we study, we will not fully understand the matter. So I thought it might be worth mentioning a little of it, beginning with the sources in the words of our Sages, the halachic authorities, and the early commentators. What is the whole idea of visiting the graves of tzaddikim? After all, this is a gathering at the holy Ohel. I’ll be brief. Time is short, I understand, and we’ll just go in order. Everyone knows that, both before and after the Giving of the Torah, the Torah itself mentions visiting the graves of tzaddikim twice. The first was Yaakov Avinu, who said to his son Yosef—and the Midrash explains that Yosef either asked or wanted to ask: How could it be that his righteous mother, Rachel Imeinu, whom all the Jewish people call “our mother,” would not merit to be buried in the Me’aras Hamachpelah? So Yaakov Avinu said, “I buried her there on the road to Efras,” near Beis Lechem. For the Jewish people, Yaakov’s children, would go into exile after Tisha B’Av. They would go into exile and need salvation from Heaven, and they would pass by Rachel’s grave.

02:48 And they would pray—as I’ll explain in a moment—not to Rachel, but to Hakadosh Boruch Hu, asking that Rachel’s merit speak on their behalf. And indeed, it says of Rachel, “Restrain your voice from weeping”; “A voice is heard in Ramah,” and Hashem promised her, “Your children will return to their borders.” I think that today, at this time, in these very days, that is the answer for us. To this day, many, many Jews come every day to the Me’aras Hamachpelah and Rachel’s grave. So I say, “Your children will return to their borders.” Hashem made that promise to Rachel Imeinu; may we merit to see Hashem’s promise to Rachel Imeinu fulfilled in our day—today. That was the first instance involving the graves of tzaddikim: Rachel Imeinu’s grave. But her son Yosef himself, when he was sold into exile in Egypt, passed by his mother’s grave and wept, asking that she speak on his behalf so he would be saved from his troubles. That is the continuation of the account of Rachel’s grave. That was the first time, before the Giving of the Torah. Then, in the account of the spies, which everyone knows, there is a verse, and the Midrash and Rashi explain it there: “And he came to Chevron”—meaning Chevron. When Calev ben Yefuneh saw the spies, that whole group, he was very afraid that he might be drawn in, that he might be swept along by their counsel. It’s no simple thing to be with a group of spies. You need a great deal of help from Heaven to be among people who do not want Eretz Yisroel, who do not love it. You need a great deal of help from Heaven not to be drawn along with them. So at the Me’aras Hamachpelah, Calev ben Yefuneh asked our forefathers that Hashem help him escape the counsel of the spies, so that he would see the love of Eretz Yisroel plainly. He remained steadfast, and Yehoshua bin Nun remained steadfast. Sadly, everyone else followed the spies—all the Jewish people—and it became a cause for weeping for generations. Calev ben Yefuneh remained steadfast; apart from Yehoshua, he was the only one who merited to be spared. He stood firm with great strength. Eretz

05:16 Yisroel is the land Hashem desires. Eretz Yisroel is the Holy Land. And that is how he silenced all those who wanted to spy out the land, because his prayer had been accepted. Hashem accepted his prayer, and the forefathers spoke on his behalf so that he would be saved. That was the second time. But I want to be precise here. I don’t think they say this explicitly, but it seems to me there is a great lesson for us, for every one of us, in these two accounts. Look at the difference: When Yosef Hatzaddik, or the Jewish people to this day, pass by Rachel’s grave, what are they asking for? They have already gone into exile; the decree has already been issued, and they are already going from Eretz Yisroel to the land of exile. They need Hashem to promise Rachel that He will bring the Jewish people back. Here, there is a decree, and the prayer is that it be annulled. That is the first kind of prayer: Rachel had already undertaken to pray, and Hashem promised her, “Your children will return to their borders.” Yosef Hatzaddik, too, was already in trouble when he prayed. He had already been sold to Egypt, so he prayed at his mother Rachel’s grave that Hashem accept her prayer and save him from his trouble. He was in trouble. That is what distinguishes the prayer at Rachel’s grave. But with Calev, it was exactly the other way around. This was before any decree had been made, before he had been drawn along with the spies. But he knew. He knew he needed to pray. He knew the spies were no ordinary people. Who were the spies? The Torah testifies about them. He would be traveling a long way with them. Who knew how all their views and all their talk might affect him? Usually, sadly, you hear and hear and hear, and you need help from Heaven not to be drawn into the falsehoods of the spies. So he prayed to be saved from the counsel of the spies. That is a second kind of prayer: to be saved before a decree comes about. This is a lesson to this very day—not only in general, but in particular. It is even the need of the hour to offer two

07:35 prayers at the Ohel, at the graves of tzaddikim. If there is a decree, may Hakadosh Boruch Hu annul it. In a moment we’ll learn how this works. The second prayer is that Hashem prevent decrees against us. Now, most importantly, what should we have in mind? What should we have in mind when we come to the Ohel—the Rebbe’s holy Ohel today? Jews come throughout the year, especially on Gimmel Tammuz and other special days. Surely everyone knows that there are wondrous stories from every place. What should we have in mind? Perhaps I’ll conclude with what Kuntres Hahishtatchus says about this—what we can receive there. But first, through the Mitteler Rebbe’s kuntres, I want to find answers to questions about the Gemara and the words of our Sages. The Mitteler Rebbe’s words give me a way to understand the Gemara. The Gemara says the following: In Taanis, page 16, it says that when there is a decree of drought, people fast and go out to cemeteries; the same applies to other decrees. So they fast and go out to cemeteries. The Gemara asks: Why go out? What is the point of going to a cemetery? After all, there is ritual impurity there. The Gemara gives two views, one says this and one says that—Rabbi Levi and Rabbi Chanina. It does not say which one is Rabbi Levi; it says, “One says”: We go out to the cemetery and say, “We are considered as dead.” We see where we stand—what is man, what are our lives? The Rambam gives this reason and adds the main point: when a person stands in a cemetery and considers himself as dead, he returns in complete teshuvah. That is the whole purpose. The Shulchan Aruch, at the end of section 579, also gives the same idea. During fasts in response to decrees, people go to cemeteries, where a person takes stock of himself, considers himself as dead, and then returns in complete teshuvah. That is one view. And the other view in the Gemara is that the very

10:01 To go to the cemetery—and the intention here is to visit the graves of tzaddikim, where holy people are buried. We go there to pray and plead that the tzaddikim intercede and ask for mercy on our behalf. That is the Gemara’s wording. Now, there is a remarkable question here: When the Rambam cites the Gemara, he gives only the first reason, and so does the Shulchan Aruch. “We are regarded as dead,” the Rambam says, “and we should return in complete teshuvah.” Why didn’t the Rambam bring the second view? Moreover, the Bavli does not identify who said one reason and who said the other. In the Yerushalmi, in the laws of fasts, Rav Levi says that we should have in mind that we are regarded as dead and should return in teshuvah. That last point is added by the commentators. And Rav Chanina says that we should go to the cemetery, to the resting places of tzaddikim, and ask them to intercede for us. That is what Rav Chanina says. Yet the Rambam brings the first view and not the second. The Shulchan Aruch does the same. Who was Rav Chanina? There is another passage in the Yerushalmi—an interesting point. Rav Chanina says there, “I have never said anything in my life that I did not hear from my fathers or from my teacher.” He taught no halachah, no Torah teaching, unless he had received it from his teacher. Who was Rav Chanina’s teacher? Rabbi Yehudah HaNasi, Rabbeinu HaKadosh. And Rav Chanina gives this reason for going to the cemetery, to the graves of tzaddikim, and asking them to intercede for us. Yet the Rambam does not bring it; he brings the first reason. That is truly remarkable. For now, I am only raising the question, but I want to finish with the answer and show you what the Mitteler Rebbe told us. Continuing on this subject, there are several more sources in the teachings of our Sages. There is a Gemara in Bava Basra, page 58. Rabbi Bana’ah—that was his name—marked burial caves, up to the cave of our forefather Avraham in Me’aras Hamachpelah.

12:26 What did it mean for him to mark the caves? Rashi, Tosafos, the Ritva—all the Rishonim—explain it this way. As described in that Gemara, and in many other passages, if you go to Meron today, you can see a cave with burial niches along its sides. The Gemara calls them niches, and that is where the graves were. The cave was in the middle, with graves along the sides. The graves in the niches convey tumah to kohanim; the cave itself does not, if one knows where the graves are. So, according to the plain meaning, Rabbi Bana’ah marked their locations. He applied markings: he went into the cave and measured how far each niche extended, where the grave reached and where it did not. When he came out, he told the kohanim, “Up to here a kohen may not go; beyond here he may.” That is how he measured all the caves. He reached Me’aras Hamachpelah, and the Gemara goes on at length about another matter there. That is in Bava Basra. Now the question is: What is the tumah there? Tosafos explain, and Rashi alludes to it, that tumah rises straight up. There is confined tumah in a grave, and there is tumah that rises straight up. Under the laws of a grave, the tumah rises directly above it; it does not affect the areas to the sides. Once he had measured the niches, he knew where they were and where, farther along in the cave, there was no tumah. A kohen could therefore stand outside there, even opposite the cave. There is another Gemara, in Bava Metzia, page 85: Reish Lakish marked the burial caves of the Sages. He made markers for the caves of chachamim, of tzaddikim. Whenever I read that Gemara, I wonder: If the purpose was to prevent kohanim from becoming tamei, then a cave where other Jews were buried would also need to be marked. There is also a Gemara in Shabbos about Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai: when he came out of his cave, he purified the city of Tiberias.

14:47 It says explicitly that he purified the city of Tiberias. They told him there were graves in various places around Tiberias, so he dealt with them, determining whether a kohen could pass through those places. By the way, I want to take a few minutes to mention something very important that I feel should be publicized. I am from Jerusalem. In Jerusalem there is Har Hamenuchos, a large cemetery. People come there from all over the country, and even from around the world. I am a rabbi associated with the chassidim’s chevra kadisha, and I pass by there regularly. Several years ago, I noticed something serious that ought to be publicized. When you travel along the road into the cemetery, you can see graves beyond the fence at the side of the road. Anyone can see them. I noticed something there that deeply concerned me: beside a grave there is a tree. In fact, there are many trees all along that stretch. The trees overhang the graves, since they stand beside them, but their branches also extend over the road itself. That is a fact; anyone passing by can see it. It is not just one tree, but a row of trees, with branches covering a large section of the road. Everyone uses that road. When there is a large funeral, everyone walks there. I became very concerned and immediately publicized the matter, even in newspapers, warning people to be careful. I contacted the relevant authorities, especially the municipality, because they needed to prune the branches. It was difficult to get their agreement because of regulations, but eventually they did prune them. They cut back some branches, but that solved the problem for only a very short time. Within a few weeks they grew back, and today they have grown out again. I say that we have a duty to keep publicizing this, again and again, so that nothing happens. What troubles me is that large groups of people walk along that road, and no one notices. This

16:55 is a road with a straightforward concern of tumah for kohanim. That is why tzaddikim such as Reish Lakish made markings, so people would know, “You may go up to here, but no farther.” Marking a cave is easier, because the cave is enclosed. But here, it is a mitzvah to publicize the matter. The question about Reish Lakish is this: Why did he mark only the burial caves of the Sages? Every place must be made safe from tumah for kohanim. He should have gone everywhere. Rashi offers an explanation, but it still needs a great deal of clarification. He says: Why did Reish Lakish mark the caves of the Sages? So that if a kohen passed over such a grave, no mishap would come about through the tzaddikim—as though the tzaddik buried there had caused the kohen to become tamei. All right, that is Rashi’s explanation, but it is still difficult to understand in a straightforward way. We have to explain it. What explanation can we find? If a kohen might pass through any place where there is tumah, we need to mark it and make clear where he may not go. That is our duty. What does it mean that Reish Lakish went specifically to the caves of the Sages? This certainly calls for deeper study. I will say just one thing, though the plain meaning still needs to be examined more deeply. I found something very interesting in a well-known book, Kaftor Vaferach. Its author was a great Jew who devoted himself to visiting the graves of tzaddikim and holy places, traveling to all the sites connected with the history of the Jewish people. He cites the Rif, who says that “marking” means “examining.” An interesting interpretation: it does not mean that Reish Lakish literally went to put up a marker saying, “There is tumah here.” “Examining”—and this is how he explains it—means that he studied the graves of tzaddikim.

19:14 How much holiness there is at the graves of tzaddikim. In other words, it is an entirely spiritual matter. Reish Lakish went among the graves of tzaddikim [unclear]. He went to contemplate what is present at the graves of tzaddikim. That is what Reish Lakish did. So we already see that at the graves of tzaddikim, one needs to have intention. One needs to be stirred, to contemplate. It is not just an ordinary visit. It is worth looking into this very matter. There is a point of halacha here. A few weeks ago I published a third book on practical halacha, before Pesach. In the second halacha there, I brought an interesting question relevant to this subject. I asked there—or rather, I clarified the matter: When one goes to a tzaddik’s resting place, Siman 4 of the Shulchan Aruch, right at the beginning, says that when one enters a cemetery, one must wash one’s hands. It is an explicit halacha. So if one enters a tzaddik’s resting place, must one wash one’s hands? Here is what I brought. The Alter Rebbe once went to visit the holy resting place of the tzaddik of Berditchev, and they gave him water to wash. He said, “I do not need to wash my hands, because the graves of tzaddikim do not impart impurity.” I want to add a word right away. “Do not impart impurity”—do not make a mistake: in one sense they do not, but in another sense they do. The Rebbe spoke out emphatically about this. Some people go to the Rebbe’s resting place, or the Arizal’s, and kohanim move aside the partitions and enter. That is forbidden. G-d forbid, there is no basis whatsoever for permitting it. “Do not impart impurity” refers to the spirit of impurity for which one washes one’s hands. So the Alter Rebbe did not wash his hands when he left the holy resting place of the Berditchever. Likewise, when the Rebbe Rashab went to the holy resting place of his father, the Rebbe Maharash, he too did not wash his hands. It was already understood then that the chassidim who went to the resting place did not wash their hands. The Rebbe, the leader of our generation, as we all know, did wash his hands after visiting the resting place, and everyone saw it. Why? It is very simple. When the Rebbe was at the resting place—

21:36 the holy resting place of his father-in-law, the Frierdiker Rebbe—he stood there for several hours. There is no need to explain what was taking place once we hear Kuntres Hahishtatchus here. We saw how the Rebbe showed us what it means to visit the Frierdiker Rebbe’s resting place. I heard this from many, many people, and everyone knows it: They wrote the Rebbe a letter—not just any letter, but one with questions, requests, requests for advice and blessings—and the Rebbe answered with only the words, “I will mention it at the resting place.” That was the answer. Once someone asked the Rebbe, “I didn’t receive an answer to what I asked. I asked for advice about a medical matter, I asked for a blessing, I asked for advice.” The Rebbe said, “I said, as I wrote, ‘I will mention it at the resting place.’ That is the blessing and the clear answer. Do you need more than that? That is your answer.” So, that is what it means to bring something to the resting place. Anyone who receives such an answer will immediately feel the comfort it brings. In practice, the Rebbe did wash his hands because, as is known, he always passed by his mother the Rebbetzin’s resting place, or sometimes by [unclear], and then passed by others as well. He passed twice and also looked toward another Rebbetzin’s resting place there. Since he went among other graves, that accounted for it. If one goes only to the tzaddik’s resting place, there is no obligation to wash one’s hands. But when one goes further inside, everyone must wash their hands. It is as simple as that. Now let us be brief. I just want to recall what we asked about these questions. There is also the Gemara in Taanis: the Rambam appears to bring only the first view, that we should consider ourselves like the dead and return in teshuvah. The second view, that we should ask for mercy, is not mentioned in the Rambam’s Laws of Fasts, nor is it mentioned in the Shulchan Aruch. Now look: in Kuntres Hahishtatchus by the Mitteler Rebbe, there is a great deal of explanation—very much indeed. I—

23:50 will mention only the main point. The Rebbe mentions it in several letters. There are five aspects. He calls them levels: everyone who comes and has the privilege of visiting the holy resting place needs these five things. I will first mention three, and the other two I wrote down before coming here, because I should not recite them from memory; I want to use the Rebbe’s exact words. The first level, as the Mitteler Rebbe calls it, is that when a person visits the resting place, he should think about and remember the day of death, and return in teshuvah. What does that mean? If the yetzer hara is strong, what can you do about it? How can you overcome it? Remember the day of death. That is exactly what the Gemara in Taanis says: consider ourselves like the dead, and return in teshuvah. What does the Rambam say? These are the words of the Rambam and of the Shulchan Aruch, Siman 579. Then the Mitteler Rebbe says there is a second level. What is it? When you stand beside the holy resting place, know, be stirred, and understand: this is a holy, pure place where prayer is accepted. As a result, the tzaddik will speak favorably on your behalf concerning what you are praying for. Which view is this? It is the second view in Taanis, that of Rabbi Chanina. The Mitteler Rebbe brings both views together here. But doesn’t the Rambam bring only the first view? That is no question at all. In the Laws of Fasts, the subject was the decrees against the community. They went out with Torah scrolls, as the Gemara also describes, and prayed, acknowledging their sins; there is a particular point there about supplication at the graves of the dead. But if you look at the end of Siman 581, two words are brought: “It is customary on the eve of Rosh Hashanah to go to the cemetery.” Nothing else is said—no explanation, no intention to have in mind. The Magen Avraham comes along and asks: What is meant here? He says it refers to the graves of tzaddikim. That is what the Magen Avraham says, and he cites—

26:14 the Maharil. What does the Maharil say? The Magen Avraham does not bring his explanation at length. I will tell you what the Maharil says. The Maharil says this: When you find yourself at the holy graves of tzaddikim, feel it and stir yourself. First of all, this is a holy and pure place. Also, feel that the tzaddikim will speak favorably on your behalf. The Maharil says this, but he adds something—and it is worth mentioning to us. This is an explicit halacha in Hilchos Olam, which I prepared for Rosh Hashanah; I discussed it at length there. One must be very careful. Jews come to a cemetery, even if it contains the graves of their ancestors. It is a cemetery. Where does salvation come from? [unclear]. What does that mean? It means that we must ask only Hakadosh Boruch Hu Himself—not through intermediaries and not through any power in the world. Even “Malachei Rachamim,” which appears in our Selichos—I brought this up in Hilchos Olam; anyone can look it up. Great Torah sages, great Torah sages: the Maharal of Prague did not include “Malachei Rachamim” in the Selichos. One can make a mistake here too, if one asks the angels to bring our plea for mercy, to carry our prayers upward. That is why such care is needed. And the Maharil says: G-d forbid, if you attribute salvation or healing to the cemetery itself, that is seeking the dead. It is straightforward. It is a grave matter under Torah law. People, ordinary people, do not understand this. Thousands of Jews go to a grave and say, “Rebbe, I ask you to grant me salvation.” What do you mean, salvation? You need salvation, but Hakadosh Boruch Hu is the One who will grant it to you. You, the tzaddik, will speak favorably on my behalf. You will speak favorably on my behalf. That is the point. So that is what the Maharil says. It is the second reason given in the Gemara, and it is also what the Rambam says, because the Shulchan Aruch and the Rema mean this here as well. In Siman 581, then, the Rema—and the Rambam only states the matter of

28:19 [Unclear]. In chapter one, the Rema, like the Maharil, already says about prayer: they should ask for mercy. Now I’ll just finish with something worth ending on. Look, let’s say what the Mitteler Rebbe tells us about what to have in mind. I have to read it, even though they’re signaling that it’s already late. There’s no choice, because it’s needed for the second point. I’ll just read it aloud so everyone can hear. The fourth level: when people go to the graves of tzaddikim whom they knew and recognized during their lifetimes, and so on, then, because of the strength of their faith in that tzaddik while he was alive, and because they were connected to him—“a holy man of G-d,” as he is called—when they come to the place of his holy resting and picture his holy, pure face before them, thinking, “The Rebbe is standing before me,” awe and fear will fall upon them even more than during his lifetime. When someone comes to the gravesite, he feels greater awe before the tzaddik than he did during the tzaddik’s lifetime. That is what the Mitteler Rebbe says. That is the fourth level. The fifth level is an exceedingly high level, with none above it: the act of prostrating oneself at the graves of tzaddikim, and so on. Through this, through prostrating oneself at the graves of tzaddikim, one can attain profound insights into the secrets of the Torah and bring about a sublime union. This was the source of the Arizal’s extraordinary attainments: lofty souls revealed secrets of the Torah to the Arizal beyond what he received through the revelation of Eliyahu and ruach hakodesh. The Arizal attained more at the graves of tzaddikim than through ruach hakodesh. All right, so we might say this doesn’t apply to us. But we need this level. I always thought we could reach those first two levels, but I found something more specific as well. That’s why I want to mention it here. I have to mention it. In one of the Rebbe’s letters—this is interesting, too—they asked a question: they held a lottery, everyone contributed, and one person won the privilege of prostrating himself at the Rebbe’s holy gravesite. Apparently,

30:49 it was the Frierdiker Rebbe’s gravesite, since the Rebbe wrote the letter. So they asked the Rebbe: What should we do? He won the lottery; how should we proceed? The Rebbe says this: On the one hand, there is a general halachic issue here, [unclear]. There is a serious question whether, if someone contributes a small sum and wins a large amount, he acquires it. “An asmachta does not confer ownership.” It is not simple. He gave ten shekels and wins a thousand dollars—that is certainly an asmachta that does not confer ownership. So the Rebbe says [unclear] the person who wins the lottery. But everyone who takes part in the lottery should have in mind: “It is my full wish that he be my shliach.” The Rebbe continues there. So each person [unclear] the one who travels on behalf of the others. The Rebbe says that whoever sends him should himself have in mind all five levels described by the Mitteler Rebbe. Each of us sometimes sends a shliach: “Go to the Rebbe; mention me to the Rebbe.” So the person who sends that Jew should have in mind all five levels we discussed here, including profound insights. The Rebbe tells us this, and surely it is enough to stir us on this holy eve. May Hashem grant that, in the merit of the tzaddikim, even as we stand here and send a pidyon nefesh and connect with the tzaddikim, they will surely intercede for good in this time, in this situation. It began—it began with Yosef from Hebron. We will continue throughout Eretz Yisroel, wherever a Jew may be, with the Torah’s original promise: “And the children shall return to their borders, speedily in our days, amen.”

00:07 Speaker 1 My teachers and friends, I think everyone is a little tired. You’ve been hearing Torah here all day. The subject I’m supposed to speak about is very broad; one could speak about it for hours. I won’t be able to cover it from every angle. I’ll try to speak very concisely and explain what makes the issue difficult. I must admit that I don’t know what was actually done. From the little I’ve heard, things were not done according to halachah. The people making these decisions are not the rabbis but the politicians. Those who decided to uproot the communities also made the decisions concerning the shuls, and this issue is very, very complicated and far from simple. First of all, our hearts ache over everything that was done, but it has already been done. Discussing the shuls while the community still existed would have been an entirely different question. Once the community has been destroyed—and as I understand it, they have already made sure to destroy all the homes as well—it is no longer possible, practically speaking, to live there. And sadly, they are determined to hand it over to the Arabs. So the questions are, first, whether the demolition itself is permitted; and if we say it is not, what about the problem of the shuls falling, G-d forbid, into Arab hands? Our politicians don’t care all that much if that happens. So what do we do? First, we need to know that even making a small hole in the wall of a shul is the subject of a dispute among the early authorities as to whether it is prohibited by Torah law. The Rambam writes in Hilchos Yesodei HaTorah, chapter 6: “Anyone who demolishes any part of the altar or the Beis Hamikdash is liable to lashes, as it says, ‘You shall tear down their altars and break their monuments,’ etc. ‘You shall not do so to Hashem your G-d.’” In other words, in the Beis Hamikdash it is an outright Torah prohibition. What is the law concerning a shul? The Sefer Yereim writes that even

03:10 Speaker 1 in a shul, someone who demolishes a small part is liable to lashes. The Sefer HaEshkol also writes that someone who breaks a small part of a shul is liable to lashes. The Raavyah writes the same in section 597. But there are many early authorities who hold that the sanctity of a shul itself is only rabbinic. The early authorities I mentioned apparently hold that it is rooted in Torah law. There is a dispute about the Rambam’s position in Sefer Hamitzvos—whether he holds that the sanctity of a shul is rooted in Torah law or is rabbinic. But the authorities I mentioned, the Yereim, the Raavyah and the Eshkol, hold that it is rooted in Torah law. The Ramban writes explicitly that the sanctity—sorry, not the Ramban. The Ran cites the Ramban’s words in explaining the sanctity of a shul, and the Ran himself also explains the matter of a shul’s sanctity. He writes explicitly that it is rabbinic. All its sanctity is rabbinic, so the prohibition against demolishing it is rabbinic as well. As for the Ramban whom the Ran cites, I’ll discuss his words at greater length shortly. There is a dispute over whether he holds it is rooted in Torah law or is rabbinic. In any event, there is certainly a prohibition here if one demolishes something in order to repair it. The Pri Megadim is very stringent. There is a Taz in section 150 of the Shulchan Aruch. Anyone who wants to can look at the end of that section; it’s a well-known Taz. There is also a lengthy Pri Megadim that brings a great deal of evidence on this. As a matter of halachah, most authorities agree that if one is doing it in order to make an improvement—for example, one wants to hang a sign on the wall and needs to put in nails—that serves a purpose and is permitted. It is only when it is done purely to cause damage that it is prohibited according to all opinions. The dispute is only whether the prohibition is rooted in Torah law or is rabbinic. So if even making a small hole is prohibited, certainly demolishing an entire shul is prohibited. But here is the question: we need to examine the issue very thoroughly. Is it possible to remove the sanctity of a shul? A shul has sanctity. Can that sanctity be removed? The Gemara says explicitly that it can. The Mishnah in Megillah, 25b,

05:31 Speaker 1 at the beginning of the fourth chapter, opens: “If the townspeople sold the town square, they should buy a shul. If they sold the shul, they should buy an ark.” The Mishnah says explicitly that a shul can be sold. It does not mean selling a shul belonging to a Sephardi community to Ashkenazim, or anything like that. Obviously that is permitted. The Mishnah is not discussing it at all. It remains a shul and retains its sanctity. That is not really a sale at all; it is a transfer from one set of hands to another. It remains a shul. The whole Mishnah, the whole subject, is about ascending in holiness. And the entire discussion in the Gemara also makes clear that the issue here is selling it and removing its sanctity. Now, the Gemara immediately says—and the Gemara clearly took it for granted that a shul may be sold—“This was taught only concerning village shuls, but not city shuls.” A city shul cannot be sold; only a village shul can. How are “city” and “village” defined? There are many views on this. According to the ruling in the Shulchan Aruch, a shul situated at a crossroads, where people come from elsewhere, is called a city shul. If it is a local shul built for the residents of the place, it is called a village shul. In other words, this has nothing to do with size. For example, this is a very central place, and people come here from elsewhere, but it was built for the residents here. People from outside come and are received with every honor, but they are guests. If I invite a guest into my home, that doesn’t make him the owner of my house. The house is mine. I receive him with every honor; I welcome guests, but I am the owner of the house. Here, too, those who built this shul intended it for the local residents. A shul, a yeshiva, or anything else was established at their discretion, solely at their discretion, except that

07:48 Speaker 1 they give others permission to enter. Therefore, even a shtiebel with a great many minyanim, where thousands daven every day, is considered a village shul if it was built for a particular community. Giving others permission to enter does not turn it into a city shul. What, for example, is considered a city shul? There is one at the new airport. Anyone who has been there has seen it. It is a shul with eleven seats. It is a disgrace. My heart aches every time; you can feel their attitude. There is such a huge area there, yet they built a shul with eleven chairs. That shul is considered a city shul because it was built for travelers coming and going. So people come to it from elsewhere—that is what “people come to it from elsewhere” means. It is undoubtedly considered a city shul. Again, you see that size is not the determining factor. That is the ruling in the Shulchan Aruch. It makes no difference whether outsiders donated money or not. The very fact that it was built with the wider public in mind is what matters. It could be that the other shul here, which was built for all the chassidim from around the world who come and go, was built with the wider public in mind. Even if they did not donate money, according to the ruling in the Shulchan Aruch, even if they came in and never gave a single penny, the very fact that it was built with the wider public in mind is enough. And the main shul here was, in practice, built for chassidim everywhere. All the farbrengens and all the gatherings take place here. Consequently, a shul like that is called a city shul. I don’t know—farbrengens are held in this shul here as well—but there is no doubt that the other shul has the status of

09:44 Speaker 1 a city shul. Now, as to these other matters, Gush Katif.

09:49 Speaker 2 Also a yeshiva for people from all over the world.

09:51 Speaker 1 Yes, no, it’s not simple. In the ordinary case, yes, it would be considered a village synagogue. If it’s a yeshivah, even though it’s intended for students, the yeshivah has an administration that admits them and gives them permission to daven there, but that doesn’t make them owners. The other place here is public. 770 is public; it belongs to all the chassidim and was built with them in mind. It is always possible to prevent a synagogue from becoming one of the city synagogues. If a small committee builds it and says, “It’s ours; everything is at our discretion, and we don’t give everyone permission to enter,” then it retains the status of a village synagogue, like the example the Gemara gives there of the synagogue of the Tarsiyim. But once they built it from the outset with the understanding that anyone who wants to may come—and I think that’s how it was done here—it already has the status of a city synagogue. So the synagogue isn’t Kfar Chabad; it’s a Chabad city, without any doubt. Now, as I said, this doesn’t depend on size. But according to this, the synagogues in Gush Katif were enormous, yet they unquestionably had the status of village synagogues. Why? Because they were built for the local residents, specifically for the local residents. Of course, when someone came to daven, they welcomed him as a guest; they were happy to receive him. But they were built for the local residents. That is called a village synagogue, and a village synagogue can be sold. That’s the first stage. Let’s go on. It isn’t so simple even with village synagogues. How are they sold? There are three ways: the seven trustees of the town could sell it; or the townspeople who daven there could sell it; or, third, the seven trustees of the town could sell it in the presence of the townspeople. Now, according to the way most of the Rishonim explain the straightforward meaning of the passage, if it was the seven trustees alone or the townspeople alone, then regarding the synagogue—the Gemara discusses

11:53 Speaker 1 the proceeds. What happens to the money? Does it retain sanctity or not? The proceeds do retain sanctity, and, on the plain understanding, they also cannot remove the synagogue’s sanctity. The removal of that sanctity is itself a dispute among the Rishonim. The only way to remove a synagogue’s sanctity completely is for the seven trustees of the town to sell it in the presence of the townspeople. Who are considered the seven trustees of the town? The Rashba writes in a responsum, and the Shulchan Aruch rules the same way, that they are not necessarily wealthy people or Torah scholars. They are the committee—the people who handle communal needs, whom the community has authorized to handle all its affairs. And if the community specifically authorized them to sell the synagogue, there need not even be seven; a single person can do it. So the seven trustees of the town, acting in the presence of the townspeople, can make the synagogue ordinary property, and the money need not be used for something of greater sanctity. The Gemara says: “This was taught only when the seven trustees of the town did not sell it in the presence of the townspeople. But if the seven trustees sold it in the presence of the townspeople, they may even use it to drink beer.” Some Rishonim explain that this refers to the money: the money now belongs to the community, so if they want to buy beer for the community with it, that too is permitted. The rule of increasing sanctity does not apply. Such is the power of the seven trustees acting in the presence of the townspeople. But the Rambam, as we will see from his words in chapter 11 of Hilchos Tefillah, holds that their power is so great that the synagogue’s sanctity is removed completely, entirely, altogether. If they want to turn it even into a toilet, that is permitted according to the Rambam. That is the Rambam’s position. In other words, all the Rishonim agree—there is no dispute—that if the seven trustees sold it in the presence of the townspeople, the synagogue becomes ordinary property and can be used for other purposes. The dispute is over four things. There is a Mishnah in Megillah,

14:13 Speaker 1 27b, recording a dispute between the Sages and Rabbi Yehudah. The halachah follows the Sages. There are four things that someone who bought a synagogue and made it ordinary property may not turn it into: a bathhouse, a tannery, an immersion house, or a water closet. A water closet. Several Rishonim explain that this means a toilet. The Rambam holds that all this applies when the seven trustees did not sell it in the presence of the townspeople. But if there was a sale with that full authority—the seven trustees acting in the presence of the townspeople—it may be turned into a toilet. That is the Rambam’s position; he writes it explicitly. The Rosh agrees with the Rambam, and Rabbeinu Yerucham does too. By contrast, the Raavad—his view is cited in the Kesef Mishneh and also in the Beis Yosef, section 153, as well as in the responsa [unclear]; there are several responsa of the Raavad on this subject—holds that, Heaven forbid, one should not permit turning it into a toilet. Yes.

15:15 Speaker 3 You don’t need the seven trustees, because the townspeople are the core of the—

15:21 Speaker 1 Yes, I’ll address that shortly. I understand, I understand. Certainly, certainly. I’ll address it later. What I want to do first is point out whether there are any possibilities here for solving the problem and ruling leniently. I’ll tell you the bottom line in advance: I found no way to permit it. I’m telling you that at the outset. But in the meantime, when you study halachah and look for a prohibition, finding grounds to prohibit is very easy. You have to make an effort. What does “the strength of a lenient ruling is preferable” mean? It doesn’t mean that the person who permits something is right—not always, not necessarily. Rather, the person who permits it has worked harder. Why? Because he has taken the trouble to search. Someone who is unsure and says, “Fine, I’ll be stringent, and that’s that”—that’s very easy. One has to work and make the effort, and someone who permits it has clearly worked hard. Here, I’m telling you, I worked very hard, but I found no basis to permit it. I think I exhausted what I could find on this subject. I examined it from every angle, and I think there is no way to permit it. But let’s proceed in order. So now, apparently, according to the Rambam—the Rambam, the Rosh, and Rabbeinu Yerucham hold that a synagogue that has been sold may even be turned into a toilet. By contrast, as I said earlier, the Raavad holds that this is forbidden. The Raavad holds that only after the synagogue has been destroyed may a toilet be built on that site; while the building still stands, it is forbidden. The Raaba[?] agrees with the Raavad. The Raaba[?] and several other Rishonim explicitly prohibit turning it into a toilet. The Shulchan Aruch rules that it may be turned into a toilet. In section 153, paragraph 9, the Shulchan Aruch writes that someone who bought a synagogue may not put it to any of those four uses. But if the seven trustees sold it in the presence of the townspeople, even those four uses are permitted. That is how the Shulchan Aruch rules. The Mishnah Berurah disagrees with the Shulchan Aruch. He discusses it at length in the Biur Halachah, and he

17:31 Speaker 1 brings very strong proofs against the Shulchan Aruch. To understand the problem here, I need to give some background. What is the nature of a synagogue’s sanctity? Where does it come from? In halachah, there are things considered to have intrinsic sanctity—for example, a Torah scroll, tefillin, their boxes and parchments, and mezuzos. They are called objects of intrinsic sanctity. Their sanctity can never be removed; neither a sale nor anything else will accomplish that. There is a second level: accessories of sanctity. For example, the covering of a Torah scroll, which rests on the scroll, or a cloth on which the Torah scroll is placed. These are considered accessories of sanctity. The outer paroches here is considered an accessory of an accessory. It isn’t an accessory of sanctity, because we never place the Torah scroll on it. It’s an outer covering for the aron kodesh. By the way, this is very, very important. Nowadays, people build beautiful synagogues and want to make a beautiful aron kodesh, so they put the paroches on the inside. They’re embarrassed by the paroches; they hide it. I saw a letter from the Rebbe whose implication is that the paroches should specifically be on the outside—specifically on the outside. We, too, are very careful about this. Even if the aron kodesh is exceptionally beautiful, the paroches should be on the outside. There are sources and foundations for this, and it is important that it be specifically on the outside. It isn’t enough to put it inside and hide it. In any event, everyone would certainly agree about a paroches like ours. In the past, people would take the paroches and place it on the bimah. Today we no longer do that, so it has the status of an accessory of an accessory. An accessory of sanctity is something that touches an object of intrinsic sanctity. Now, accessories of sanctity must be put away in genizah. This is an explicit Baraisa in the fourth chapter of Megillah: accessories of sanctity are put away in genizah. Then there are accessories used for a mitzvah. What are accessories used for a mitzvah? Tzitzis do not have sanctity or intrinsic sanctity; they are used for a mitzvah. Or a shofar, a lulav.

20:01 Speaker 1 An esrog, a sukkah, the wood of the sukkah, the decorations of the sukkah—all these are considered objects used for a mitzvah. The baraisa says that objects used for a mitzvah may be discarded. That means that once you stop using them—old sukkah wood that you no longer want to use for a sukkah, or the four species after Sukkos—strictly speaking, you may throw them away. There are different customs about this, but according to halachah, you may throw them in the garbage. They may be discarded. That is what the baraisa says, and that is the halachah as ruled in Shulchan Aruch, siman 154. The Ramban says—and this appears in the newly published Chiddushei HaRamban. Yes, yes, it appears in the newly published Chiddushei HaRamban, at the beginning of chapter four of Megillah, and the Ran quotes part of his wording. The Ramban says: “The sanctity of a shul is the sanctity of an object used for a mitzvah, just as tzitzis, once the time for their mitzvah has passed”—the tzitzis have worn out and I no longer want to wear them. The strings have torn, for example, or they are very old and I no longer want to use them; I may throw them in the garbage. “So too, a shul sold by the seven leaders of the town in the presence of the townspeople loses its sanctity.” In other words, the Ramban holds that from the outset, all its sanctity was that of an object used for a mitzvah. So once you sell it, it is like an esrog after Sukkos. An esrog after Sukkos has no sanctity; you may throw it away. Of course, there are many segulos associated with it, and almost no one does such a thing. I don’t know anyone who would throw away an esrog. But if we look at the halachah, it is clear that you may throw away the esrog. You may throw away the lulav, hadassim and esrog. So the Ramban holds that a shul that has been sold is like an esrog after Sukkos. The Ran disagrees with the Ramban. The Ran does not accept this explanation. The Ran says: “A shul is made for reciting matters of holiness in it—Kaddish, Kedushah, Borchu—so the Sages conferred sanctity on it by rabbinic enactment. Because it is made for a sacred purpose, they conferred sanctity on it.” It is not clear who is more stringent

22:26 Speaker 1 here, the Ran or the Ramban. But these are different definitions. The Ran has his definition: he says sanctity was conferred on it, an inherent sanctity, while according to the Ramban it is only the sanctity of an object used for a mitzvah. The Mishnah Berurah asks about the ruling of the Shulchan Aruch here, in siman 153, in the laws of shuls: it permits a shul that was sold in accordance with halachah to be used even as a bathroom. According to this, by the way, we can understand on our own that all the more so, the Shulchan Aruch would permit demolishing it. Yet in the laws of tzitzis, in Shulchan Aruch, siman 21, paragraph one, the Shulchan Aruch says that tzitzis strings that have snapped may be discarded. In paragraph two—I’m quoting the wording of the Shulchan Aruch—“When a tallis used for a mitzvah wears out, a person refrains from using it and is not permitted to wipe himself with it.” Here the Shulchan Aruch teaches us something very significant. You may throw away the tzitzis. Why? You threw them away. It’s a one-time act. You threw them away; you are no longer using them, and that’s it. But to take them and turn them into a rag, to wipe yourself or the floor or the table—that is a degrading use of something that was used for a mitzvah, and it is not permitted. That is what the Shulchan Aruch writes. The Mishnah Berurah asks: If so, the Shulchan Aruch contradicts itself. In siman 21 it says that it is forbidden to make a degrading use of objects used for a mitzvah once the time for their mitzvah has passed, while in siman 153 it permits a degrading use of a shul that has been sold. He raises another question as well. In the laws of the four species, siman 664, the Shulchan Aruch states: “There is one who says”—that is its wording—“there is one who says that one must not step on an aravah used for a mitzvah.” After Sukkos, one may not step on an aravah used for a mitzvah. Why? Because stepping on it degrades it. So you see that degrading it is forbidden, and there is a contradiction from two places in the Shulchan Aruch. In light of this, the Mishnah Berurah rules that when a shul is sold, ordinary use is indeed permitted,

24:56 Speaker 1 but degrading use is forbidden. That follows the opinion of the Raavad, not the Rambam. In my humble opinion, the question on the Shulchan Aruch is not a question. On this point, the Mishnah Berurah follows the Vilna Gaon and Shulchan Aruch HaRav, who have a version of the Shulchan Aruch in siman 21 that reads: “He is not permitted to wipe himself with them.” But the Chida, in his book Machazik Berachah, in siman 15—not there, but in siman 15—discusses this at length. Anyone who looks at the Chida’s words will see that it is impossible to say that the Shulchan Aruch actually forbids even a degrading use of tzitzis. Why? Because the source of this halachah is the Ran. The Ran writes: “When a tallis used for a mitzvah wears out, a person refrains from using it and does not wish”—instead of “is not permitted”—“does not wish to wipe himself with it.” That is what the Ran says. The Beis Yosef copies the Ran’s wording: “does not wish.” So the Chida says: That is the correct version in the Shulchan Aruch. By the way, I also found that Rabbeinu Yerucham writes “does not wish.” The Ramban, in Toras HaAdam, writes the same thing. By the way, Rabbi Slonim, who spoke before me, mentioned that the Rebbe did wash his hands when leaving the Ohel. I think there may be another reason for that, based on the Ramban in Toras HaAdam, whom I just mentioned. The Ramban writes that washing one’s hands when leaving a grave has nothing to do with impurity. It is along the lines of “Our hands did not shed this blood”; it has nothing to do with impurity. The Ramban says: What, will washing your hands do anything about impurity? And why would it? After all, we are already impure through contact with the dead. It has nothing to do with impurity. So it may be that the Rebbe held like the Ramban in Toras HaAdam, and that is why he was careful to wash his hands, even though, in the case of a tzaddik, it is not required. No, it is not a law of impurity; it has nothing to do with impurity, but is a separate law concerning a cemetery. As soon as he said

27:11 Speaker 1 that, this occurred to me. In any case, gentlemen, I’ll repeat: The Ramban in Toras HaAdam also writes that a degrading use is permitted. But what? It is a matter of extra piety not to do so. Now, when the Shulchan Aruch wants to say something is permitted, it knows how to say so. When it wants to say something is forbidden, it knows how to say that too. What does it write here? “When a tallis used for a mitzvah wears out, a person refrains from using it.” “Refrains”—what does “a person refrains” mean? Does it mean one must refrain? What does “a person refrains” mean? And if we now read “does not wish,” as in the Chida’s version—Shulchan Aruch HaRav reads “is not permitted,” and the Vilna Gaon reads it that way too, and the Mishnah Berurah agreed with them. But according to what I am saying, it is just the opposite: according to the Chida’s version, there is no contradiction in the Shulchan Aruch. According to the version of Shulchan Aruch HaRav, which the Mishnah Berurah accepts, there is a contradiction in the Shulchan Aruch, and we have to resolve it. So if we explain it like the Chida, that the Shulchan Aruch says “does not wish”—that it is merely a stringency, not a requirement of the law—the contradiction is resolved. In the laws of shuls, the Shulchan Aruch is speaking about the strict letter of the law; in the laws of tzitzis, it writes “does not wish,” describing a worthy practice. How could you do such a thing to something you used for a holy purpose? Now, what about the laws of Sukkos? There the Shulchan Aruch states this halachah in the name of “there is one who says.” There is a principle concerning the Shulchan Aruch: when it cites only one opinion as “there is one who says,” it means one of two things. Either it found a halachah in one book and found no one who disagreed with it, but also no one who agreed with it. So it writes “there is one who says.” The implication is that the Shulchan Aruch agrees with it. It is only because it was brought in just one book, and the Shulchan Aruch found no further support for it, that it

29:09 Speaker 1 He writes, “Some say.” That is indeed how the Kaf Hachayim explains it there. But no—sometimes, when the Shulchan Aruch writes “some say,” he means to indicate that the ruling is not universally accepted. It is like an unqualified ruling followed by “and some say otherwise.” Look to see whether he gave an unqualified ruling elsewhere; that is what the Shulchan Aruch is hinting at. So here, where the laws of the synagogue explicitly permit leniency, we can say that “some say” is the dissenting view and that the halachah follows the unqualified ruling. That is why the Shulchan Aruch wrote “some say.” Furthermore, the Shulchan Aruch writes, “One should not step over it.” The source of this law is the Or Zarua, which says, “It is forbidden.” The Rema, in Darkei Moshe, quotes the Or Zarua: “It is forbidden.” The Mordechai quotes the Or Zarua: “It is forbidden.” But the Shulchan Aruch writes, “One should not step over it.” Why? It could be that he deliberately changed the wording, again to show us a proper practice, but not a strict requirement of the law—merely a stringency. In light of this, I had a practical halachic question from Argentina not long ago. They built a group of small shuls there and had not planned it well. After they finished, they saw a long line for the restrooms in the morning. There were not enough restrooms. On the other hand, the rooms of the shuls were a little small. So what did they want to do? They wanted to take several restroom rooms—it was quite a spacious area—and knock down the wall, turning one of the synagogue rooms, which even had an aron kodesh, into restrooms. In exchange, on the other side they wanted to use another area to make a larger synagogue room. They sent me this question, and I permitted them, as a practical halachic ruling, to turn a synagogue into restrooms, but under certain conditions. It is not quite so simple, as I will explain shortly. But I permitted it. In She’eilos Uteshuvos Yabia Omer, volume one, there is a similar question in which my father ruled stringently, but he was discussing a major city.

31:17 Speaker 1 Cairo. My father told me that he was a rabbi in Cairo from 5707 to 5710. He said that leftists controlled the community there. They were anti-religious, did whatever they wanted, and he suffered more from them than from the Arabs. To that extent. There, they took an active synagogue, sold it, and turned it into a bathhouse. So he writes in his responsum that even after the fact, what they did is not valid. They must restore it as a synagogue. Their action is not valid. But anyone who reads that responsum will see, first of all, that he writes with great pain about the conduct of those committee members. Second, Cairo at the time was a major city to which people came from elsewhere. Those synagogues were central to people from all over the world, who came there for commerce. Boruch Hashem, that is no longer the case, but that was how it was then. So the law governing major cities is different. But Buenos Aires is considered a village in this regard. The synagogue, though very large, has the status of a village—not Kfar Chabad, but a village—and that is why I permitted them to do this with that synagogue. Now, let us return to our subject. We said that the Shulchan Aruch’s words can be explained to mean that one may sell a synagogue outright, completely removing its sanctity. But here there is another problem. How do you remove its sanctity? Do the seven community trustees simply sit in the presence of the townspeople and decide? Or must they carry out a formal transaction—actually make a transfer of ownership and sell it first? Once it passes into a private individual’s possession, it becomes ordinary property. I do not want to go on at length. This question is a dispute among the Rishonim. The Rif and the Rosh discuss it in the passage about renting out or mortgaging a synagogue. Anyone who looks at that passage will understand what I mean. The Rif and the Rosh hold that a formal transfer of ownership is specifically required. By contrast, the Ramban, whom I mentioned earlier, holds that a synagogue is an article used for a mitzvah, and therefore holds that no transfer of ownership is needed; a decision by the seven community trustees is enough.

33:22 Speaker 1 Wait, wait. That is the Ramban’s position. The author of the Hashlamah, the Rashba, and the Ritva agree with the Ramban. On the other hand, the Rif and the Rosh are two pillars of halachic ruling. The Raavad, in Tamim De’im, rules as they do. So does Rabbeinu Meir Hame’ili in Sefer Hame’oros. Rabbi David Hakochavi, author of Sefer Habatim, writes the same, as do Rabbeinu Yerucham and the Meiri. Many Rishonim hold this view. The Magen Avraham rules this way in section 153: a formal transfer of ownership is required, or at least an exchange of one property for another. You know, here too, they did not even make an exchange. They did not build them any synagogues at all. They built them what they call “caravillas,” but synagogues they did not... Perhaps they made them something small. Now, gentlemen, those are the minimum facts needed to understand this issue. We certainly cannot resolve a dispute among the Rishonim, and certainly not against the Rif and the Rosh, who are pillars of halachic ruling. The Pri Megadim understands the Rambam’s position to be lenient. In my humble opinion, there is no proof from the Rambam, especially since the author of Sefer Habatim, who was thoroughly familiar with the Rambam’s teachings and lived in the Meiri’s time, is stringent on this issue and does not mention the Rambam. That simply would not make sense otherwise. Apparently he too held that there is no proof from the Rambam on this issue. So a formal transfer of ownership is necessary. Now, gentlemen, there is a well-known responsum by the Mabit on which those who wish to permit demolishing the synagogue rely. The Mabit discusses a synagogue in a major city whose surrounding area no longer has Jewish residents; its inhabitants have left. The Mabit permits selling the synagogue, even though it is in a major city. Most of the great later authorities agreed with the Mabit. There is She’eilos Uteshuvos Masa’as Binyamin. The Magen Avraham cites the Mabit, though he contradicts himself. But the Masa’as Binyamin and the Maharam of Lublin, who lived in that period four hundred years ago, also rule like the Mabit.

35:35 Speaker 1 So do the Ateres Zekeinim and the Knesses Hagedolah. The Divrei Chaim of Sanz rules that way in his responsa. The Maharsham rules that way, the Mishnah Berurah rules that way, and the Igros Moshe rules that way. Many, many later authorities. The Chasam Sofer, by contrast, rules stringently. He says that even in a place without Jews, it is forbidden to sell a synagogue of a major city. The Chasam Sofer adds that one who does so desecrates Hashem’s name. The Maharam Schick was a student of the Chasam Sofer. He does not agree with him as a matter of halachah, but in practice he is reluctant to rule against him. He says that since his teacher has already ruled—the elder has issued his ruling—it is forbidden to sell even in a place that has been completely abandoned. The Ben Ish Chai, in She’eilos Uteshuvos Rav Pe’alim, also rules stringently on this, but most authorities ruled leniently. Rabbi [unclear] ruled leniently in practice. You know, there is a problem in the United States. For example, there is an area in Queens—I once drove through it and saw it. It breaks your heart to see dozens of synagogues that were once active. Black people moved into the area, and it was completely abandoned by the Jews. The Jews fled, and the synagogues were left standing. My father writes about Egypt, about Cairo, that it is a mitzvah to sell the synagogues there, even though he holds that it is a major city. Why? What are you going to do with them? Just let the Arabs desecrate them? On the contrary, it is better to sell them. So some want to cite this as support regarding Gush Katif. But, gentlemen, it is not comparable. There it is outside the Land of Israel. We do not want to return to Egypt. The Jews have left, and we hope it remains that way. All that remains for us is to sell the synagogues and use the money to build synagogues in the Land of Israel. But Gush Katif is in the Land of Israel. We still have hope. Very soon—perhaps tomorrow morning—we may return there. We hope the Geulah will come very soon and we will return. So that is a different story. It is not comparable.

37:40 Speaker 1 The halachic authorities who discussed all these questions mostly spoke about places outside Eretz Yisroel, not about Eretz Yisroel. And there is another point: the entire concern of the Mabit and the authorities who said to sell was that the synagogue would simply be left abandoned, and who knows what would happen to it? Non-Jews might come and desecrate it. I don’t know whether something could have been done here. I don’t understand these matters, and thank G-d I’m not a politician, but I don’t know whether we could have come and demanded: You want us to leave Katif? Put an international force there to protect the graves and the synagogues. Couldn’t that have been done? Just imagine if, G-d forbid, the situation with the Arabs were different... Suppose we had managed, thank G-d, to evacuate an Arab village, but the Arabs said: We’ll leave on condition that you leave the mosque standing. There is a prohibition against leaving mosques in Eretz Yisroel; it defiles the land. But what can we do? Given the situation, we cannot fight the non-Jews until Moshiach comes. Sadly, Eretz Yisroel is full of idols and idolatry, and we are forced to remain silent. But if Arabs evacuated a village for us and said, “Only on condition that you leave the mosque standing,” would any of us consider refusing? It is a holy place to them. We have to respect their religion, so to speak. So why shouldn’t they respect ours? There were synagogues here. I think the whole world could have agreed to that. That’s the first point. So we cannot bring proof from the Mabit, because here it would have been possible to preserve the synagogues and go up there from time to time to pray, and of course to visit the cemetery under international protection. Now, beyond all that, I ask: How could they have done all

39:38 Speaker 1 this without acts of acquisition? As I said earlier, according to most of the early halachic authorities, including the Rif and the Rosh—two of the three pillars of halachic ruling on whom the Shulchan Aruch consistently relies—even the seven trustees of the city, acting in the presence of its residents, cannot remove the sanctity without a sale. And I looked into this, my friends. There was no sale here. Of course, G-d forbid, I don’t mean selling it to the Arabs. That falls under lo sechaneim. I mean selling it to a Jew in order to remove its sanctity. That wasn’t done here. And another thing: Who owns these synagogues? You know how it works. The state doesn’t provide all the money to build synagogues. At least some of the synagogues in Gush Katif were donated by individuals. People donated them with a particular purpose in mind. Now, when a benefactor funds a synagogue—some benefactors get involved, but even one who doesn’t, who simply gives you the money to build it—surely he intends for the worshippers and the synagogue committee to run it properly. Where are those committee members today? The poor people are in hotels. This past Shabbos, people from several hotels in Jerusalem contacted me. They had simply been brought there and left there. They didn’t have a siddur, let alone Torah books. They want to sit and learn—G-d-fearing, upright people who want to learn—and they have nothing. So I began going around collecting lots of books and bringing them to the hotels. They didn’t even have books, nothing. And afterward people call them extortionists, extortionists; that’s how they talk about them. But when these people built the synagogues, I think that halachically they have ownership. The government cannot confiscate donors’ money. It may have the power to reclaim money it gave, though even that is not simple. Once it gave the money to a nonprofit organization, that organization became the owner. I

41:38 Speaker 1 don’t know. That may be a legal question. But where there were donors—and I think most, if not all, of the synagogues were built by donors, or at least with their participation—when a donor gave the money, he did so with the understanding that it would be a synagogue. It cannot be sold without his permission. In other words, even if they wanted to carry out the required acts of acquisition to remove its sanctity, it would be impossible. Can anyone imagine some benefactor in America who believes in an undivided Eretz Yisroel coming along and giving up his claim, saying, “Yes, yes, sell it. Fine, I agree”? Certainly not. So, my friends, in light of all this, I think we have no grounds to be lenient and allow a sale—that is, demolition. According to some of the early halachic authorities, this involves a Torah prohibition. It certainly involves a rabbinic prohibition. And there is another point: The Gemara says one may not demolish a synagogue until another synagogue has been built. Why? Because people might be slow to build it. With our government, it isn’t a question of “might be slow.” They certainly will be slow to build it. But with Hashem’s help, we trust in Hakadosh Boruch Hu that He will build the Beis Hamikdash for us and build us many, many miniature sanctuaries, and we will need neither them nor their favors. We will restore Gush Katif, Gaza, and all those places to their former glory. We will settle throughout all of Eretz Yisroel, which is ours, speedily in our days. Amen, may it be His will.