Tanya Chapter 1 - First Lesson

00:03 There is a well-known question people ask: Why does the Tanya begin with the word “Tanya”? As we know, the Gemara in Tractate Niddah does not use the word “tanya” there. It says, “Rabbi Simlai expounds.” In particular, Rabbi Simlai was an Amora, not a Tanna. Rabbi Simlai was among the Amoraim, of the first generation, a student of Rav or something like that. He lived in the time of the Amoraim, not the Tannaim. And it says there, “Rabbi Simlai expounds,” followed by the whole Gemara in Tractate Niddah, with all the details about the baby in its mother’s womb and how it is born. It does not say “tanya.” There is a version somewhere that does say “tanya,” and the Alter Rebbe even goes into a detailed discussion to establish that version. Where do we learn it from? From somewhere else. It would take a whole page, and this is not the place to explain it, but that version does have a basis. Why did the Alter Rebbe need to do it this way, writing specifically “tanya”? And not only that: it is the first word, the way he began the book. More than that, today the book’s name is specifically Tanya. The Alter Rebbe did not call it Tanya. He called it Likkutei Amarim or Sefer Shel Beinonim. Nevertheless, neither of those names remained its everyday name. The book’s everyday name is specifically Tanya. Or, as the Rebbe would always say, “Tanya Kadisha.” There is a source for that somewhere, which the Rebbe cites from an approbation by rabbis. In any event, the point is that its name is specifically Tanya. On this, the Rebbe cites in his sichos two explanations that are generally well known: one in a negative sense and one in a positive sense. The negative explanation is that Tanya is a kelipah. Kabbalistic works say there is a kelipah called Tanya,

02:19 a kelipah that conceals, obscures, and causes forgetfulness, making it difficult to study Torah, particularly its inner dimension. I have sometimes seen books that say “Tanya” is related to “tanin,” the great serpent. Pharaoh is called a tanin. So “Tanya” is related to “tanin,” to the serpent, connected with the primordial serpent. In any event, it is a kelipah. By beginning the Tanya with the word “tanya,” the Alter Rebbe broke that kelipah. Along these lines, there are other Kabbalistic works, works on the inner dimension of Torah, that also begin with the word “tanya”—Tikkunei Zohar. I don’t remember which other books begin that way, for the same reason: beginning with the word “tanya” breaks its power, the opposing force of this kelipah, so that there will be no concealment or obstruction to studying the inner dimension of Torah. This is one explanation passed down from elder chassidim, generation after generation, and the Rebbe also cites it in several places. The second explanation, in a positive sense, is that the letters of Tanya spell “eisan.” As we know, there is the concept of eisan: “A maskil of Eisan the Ezrachite.” Chassidus explains, as the Rebbe cites in maamarim—in Likkutei Torah, Parshas Re’eh, and in several other maamarim—that eisan refers to the soul’s strength. Avraham Avinu is called eisan. As the Rambam writes, Avraham Avinu is called eisan in the Midrash. Eisan means firmness and strength: the firmness and strength of the yechidah of the soul. Eisan also has a connection to the future tense. Its four letters—alef, yud, tav, nun—are the four letters used to form the future tense: “I will be,” “he will be,” “you will be,” “we will be.” These are the four letters of the future tense, pointing to the future, with the revelation of Moshiach, when “A maskil of Eisan the Ezrachite” will be revealed within every Jew. The ezrachi will be revealed—

04:47 the one destined to shine forth. So the letters of Tanya spell eisan: the Tanya reveals the soul’s strength within every Jew. Every Jew has that strength, the strength of the yechidah of the soul, particularly in the time of exile, when there are so many things that obscure and conceal it. Throughout the soul’s descent below, and particularly during exile, there are many such concealments. A special strength is needed. This is the Divine providence behind the revelation of the Tanya specifically at this time, the time before the revelation of Moshiach: to give a Jew that strength. “They administer an oath to him.” In a moment we will see more about the strength within the soul, which enables him to overcome every challenge and every concealment, and to serve Hashem as he should. So these are two well-known explanations for why the Alter Rebbe began with the word “tanya” and why the book is called the Tanya. But the Rebbe once said in a sicha that these are all beautiful explanations, in addition to the simple meaning: “Tanya” means “We have learned.” What does “tanya” mean in the Gemara? “We have learned.” The Alter Rebbe began the Tanya with “tanya”—“We have learned”—to tell us that the Tanya must be studied. It is a matter of study. The Tanya is a book you have to know how to study: to learn it, understand it, and delve into it. It needs to be approached as study, as we discussed in the previous class as well. “In your mouth”—when it is “in your mouth,” it can then be “in your heart, to do it.” That is the point of studying in order to understand, so that you then know how to serve Hakadosh Boruch Hu and bring it into practice. There are several more explanations, but at least as a starting point, these are the well-known ones. Now let’s begin studying the text. Chapter 1. The Alter Rebbe says: “We have learned at the end of chapter 3 of Niddah: They administer an oath to him: ‘Be righteous and do not be wicked. And even if the whole world tells you that you are righteous, regard yourself as though you were wicked.’” That

06:55 means, simply, that there are three details here in the oath. First, be righteous. Second, do not be wicked. Third, even if the whole world tells you that you are righteous, you must regard yourself as though you were wicked. The obvious question that arises—the Alter Rebbe does not even ask it, but he will explain it later, in chapter 13—is: What, seemingly, is the difference between “be righteous” and “do not be wicked”? Why do both need to be said? Tell him one of them. What does it mean to say, “Be righteous and do not be wicked”? They seem to be the same thing. Why the repetition? There is also a question here in general. The Alter Rebbe says, “And even if he regards himself as wicked”—sorry—“And even if the whole world tells you that you are righteous, regard yourself as though you were wicked.” People asked the Rebbe: What is the oath here? How can an oath apply to that? Granted, “Be righteous” is an oath administered to a person. In other words, he is told that he is obligated to work on himself to become righteous. He is made to swear not to be wicked. But what does it mean to administer an oath that, when the whole world calls him righteous, he should regard himself as though he were wicked? How does an oath apply there? An oath about what? It is a little difficult to understand what the oath is here. In fact, there is a letter from the Rebbe in Igros Kodesh in which the Rebbe says that this is not necessarily part of the oath. These are details. The oath consists only of the two phrases, “Be righteous and do not be wicked.” That is the oath. “Even if the whole world...” is an addition. He is told: Know that you have a task you must work at. And what does it mean to be righteous and not to be wicked? Then they add and tell him that he should know that the world calling him righteous still does not mean he is righteous. He must still think of himself as though he were wicked, and so on.

08:47 The reason for this isn’t written here in Tanya; it’s discussed in other sefarim. Various commentators explain the reason. The Gemara explicitly says that a person should regard himself as though he were wicked—but why? One explanation is that he shouldn’t fall asleep, thinking he’s already fine, and stop. A person has to keep advancing in his service of Hashem. It’s simple. So even if the whole world tells you that you’re a tzaddik, regard yourself as though you were wicked, so that you’ll always demand more of yourself and want to keep advancing. Of course, through Tanya we’ll understand this much more deeply. When we learn in the coming chapters what a tzaddik and a wicked person truly are, as the Alter Rebbe explains, we’ll see that it isn’t only meant to motivate a person. In truth, the fact that people see someone behaving like a tzaddik still doesn’t mean he really is a tzaddik. Being a tzaddik has to do with the soul; it’s something much deeper. People can only speak about what a person actually does. They can’t speak about his soul, and so on, as we’ll see later in the chapter. In any case, this teaching of our Sages is the foundation of Tanya. Now, there’s a maamar of the Tzemach Tzedek called “They Make Him Swear: Be a Tzaddik and Do Not Be Wicked.” As is known, when the Tzemach Tzedek was born, the Alter Rebbe said a maamar on “They Make Him Swear: Be a Tzaddik and Do Not Be Wicked,” the opening of Tanya. The Alter Rebbe began saying the maamarim on Tanya on the day the Tzemach Tzedek was born. But there’s also a maamar that the Tzemach Tzedek later said, and afterward wrote down and added notes to.

10:52 It’s the Tzemach Tzedek’s maamar “They Make Him Swear.” There the Tzemach Tzedek adds an explanation that’s relevant to the whole subject. Why does Tanya begin with this teaching of our Sages? He gives a wonderful explanation of what an oath is in this context. It’s a simple question everyone asks, including the commentators: What place does an oath have here? What does it accomplish? Why is it needed? Usually a person takes an oath or makes a commitment, but what does an oath mean here? The G-dly soul doesn’t need an oath; it already wants to do what’s right. And the body doesn’t listen to the oath at all. So what is the power of this oath? The Tzemach Tzedek explains that the word for “oath” has three meanings. This is well known and is brought in many places. There’s also a maamar of the Rebbe from Erev Rosh Hashanah 5743, in the collected maamarim for Rosh Hashanah, where the Rebbe explains this more deeply. First, an oath is a commitment. Ah, how do you say it—compromiso? No, how do you say it? An oath means a person binds himself, right? “By Myself I have sworn.” Through an oath, a person connects with his hidden strengths. Even if his revealed strengths encounter concealment and obstacles, the oath binds him to do everything he can and bring those hidden strengths out. We find something similar with Yosef: Yaakov Avinu made him swear to take him to Chevron, to the Cave of Machpelah. There too, the same question is asked: Why an oath? Did Yosef need one? But Yaakov knew there would be obstacles and difficulties, so he made him swear. The same applies here. The soul descends below, where it encounters the concealment of the body and the animal soul, and all the trials it will face in the world,

13:04 “Go forth from your land, from your birthplace, and from your father’s house.” So an oath is needed to reveal more powerful strengths. The second meaning of the word for “oath” is related to being sated: they fill him with strength. In other words, besides binding a person to his hidden strengths, those strengths are also invested within him. That’s what being sated means: they enter into him, become revealed, and come down into his life. Like a person who has eaten his fill—his whole being is filled. He’s sated; all his strengths are revealed. Those hidden strengths come into the open and are invested in the soul within the body. This fills him and gives him the strength he needs down here to do the work. And then there’s the third meaning: seven. Seven refers to the seven middos, beginning with chessed. What is the significance of the number seven? These are the seven—as the Alter Rebbe will say in Tanya—the seven days of building. Or, that is, it tells us where the soul receives what it needs to carry out its mission in the world. The Alter Rebbe continues: “But we must understand, for we learned…” Ah, one more thought before we continue. It’s something the Rebbe wrote on 1 Tishrei, which came to light after Gimmel Tammuz. I think he writes it in the name of Rabbi Levi Yitzchak. “We learned at the end of chapter three of Niddah.” The Rebbe explains that niddah refers to exile. During exile, Knesses Yisroel is considered to be in a state of niddah, like a woman separated from her husband. In exile, Knesses Yisroel is distant; there are verses that speak of this state. It is a state of concealment. How does the verse go? Ah, “I was mute with silence; I held my peace.” It’s a verse in Tehillim whose initials spell “niddah.” It says that during exile this applies to

15:26 everyone. So that is why it says, “at the end of chapter three of Niddah.” Chapter three refers to the third exile. There are three exiles, right? This exile is called the third exile. “At the end of chapter three” means at the end of the third exile. There was the Egyptian exile, the Babylonian exile, and this exile, the exile of Edom. Sometimes they’re counted differently, but in general there are three exiles. So it says, “at the end of chapter three of Niddah.” The Alter Rebbe is hinting that Tanya would be revealed specifically now, at the end of the exile, to give us strength to overcome all the concealment and obstacles of this final period. As is known, why was Tanya revealed specifically now? Because in the darkness of exile we need special strengths. That’s the allusion in “We learned at the end of chapter three of Niddah.” The Alter Rebbe continues: “But we must understand, for we learned in Avos, chapter two, ‘Do not regard yourself as wicked.’” We learned in Avos that a person must not consider himself wicked. So there’s a contradiction here. In Niddah we’re told that even if the whole world tells you that you’re a tzaddik, you should regard yourself as though you were wicked. Yet in Avos we’re told, “Do not regard yourself as wicked.” How do we explain the contradiction? That’s one question, and we’ll see the answer in the coming chapters. It’s a question about the apparent contradiction between the Mishnah and the baraisa. Now the Alter Rebbe asks another question, one about serving Hashem: What am I supposed to feel if I regard myself as though I were wicked? I’m told that even if the whole world calls me a tzaddik, I should think of myself as though I were wicked. So how am I supposed to feel about that? That’s what the Alter Rebbe asks now. And even if

17:37 “He should regard himself as wicked.” If a person thinks of himself as wicked, his heart will be troubled, he will be sad, and he will not be able to serve Hashem with joy and a glad heart. If a person constantly thinks of himself as wicked, he lives with the feeling that he is wicked. Someone who lives with that feeling cannot serve Hashem with joy, and that certainly cannot be right. You cannot tell a person when he is born, “You need to live your whole life in depression. Spend your whole life thinking you are wicked.” He would be depressed and sad his whole life—the opposite of “Serve Hashem with joy.” The Alter Rebbe continues: But what will you say? “And if his heart is not troubled by it at all”—if you tell a person that he does not need to feel bad: “Think of yourself as wicked, and nevertheless serve Hashem with joy. Don’t feel bad about it. Know that you are wicked and just carry on.” You certainly cannot say that either. “He may come to frivolity, G-d forbid.” A person could reach a state of casting off the yoke. If he knows he is wicked and yet does not care—that coldness, that indifference, that “I don’t care”—is casting off the yoke, and that is no good either. So the Alter Rebbe is asking a simple question here: What am I supposed to feel? You are telling me that my whole life, no matter what anyone else says, I should regard myself as wicked. So how am I supposed to live with that? In sadness? Certainly not. I need to be joyful. With a sense of carelessness? You might say, “Don’t be sad; be joyful and everything will be fine.” But that would lead to frivolity, which is no good either. But did you notice something interesting here? It is as though the Alter Rebbe

19:43 could have given a third answer: Don’t be joyful. Serve Hashem without joy. That is not even entertained as a possibility. It is interesting; it is worth noticing. In Tanya, that possibility does not exist at all. The Alter Rebbe rules out sadness completely. It is forbidden. One must be joyful. But not caring—that is no good either. In other words, sadness is simply not an option. There is no such option. You might think that someone who does not study Tanya—let’s take someone who does not study Tanya but studies the Gemara—would read that the Gemara says a person should always regard himself as wicked, as we said, so that he will never feel... how do you say it? Satisfied with himself. He will always want to grow and develop. He must not think he is a tzaddik; he must always regard himself as wicked. So he might say, “Oh, that doesn’t help me feel joyful.” Then don’t be joyful. Who says you have to be joyful? But here, at the beginning of Tanya, the Alter Rebbe already gives us a fundamental principle, one of the foundations of Chassidus: joy is indispensable. Serving Hashem with joy is not some detail, an added enhancement of a mitzvah—as if, if you want to do it in the best way, be joyful, but without joy it is still service. Service without joy is not service. We will see this in the later chapters. In chapter 26, the Alter Rebbe will explain that you cannot overcome the yetzer hara without joy. The only way to serve Hashem and overcome the yetzer hara is specifically through joyful service. So joy cannot be treated as something separate. There are also other points we will see later about why joy is so

21:39 important in serving Hashem. It is central to our service, and therefore there must be joy. The question is how that goes together with feeling that I am wicked, and that is what the Alter Rebbe asks: What should a person feel? As the Rebbe explains, the reason the Alter Rebbe adds this question rather than stopping with the previous one is that the words in Pirkei Avos, “Do not be wicked in your own eyes,” have two interpretations. The Rambam interprets them as the Alter Rebbe does: a person must not think of himself as wicked. “Do not be wicked in your own eyes” means just that. But most commentators interpret it to mean that a person must not act wickedly even when he is alone, by himself. Sometimes a person thinks, “No one can see me.” So Pirkei Avos says, “Do not be wicked when you are by yourself”: even when you are alone and no one is watching, behave as you should, like a tzaddik. That is how many commentators interpret it. That is why the Alter Rebbe asks two questions. According to the Rambam’s interpretation, there is a contradiction between Pirkei Avos and Tractate Niddah. According to the other commentators, who do not interpret it like the Rambam, the question is about the Gemara in Niddah itself: What should a person feel, given this reasoning? In any case, we learn from this how important it is that a person not be sad, on the one hand, and how important it is, on the other, to guard against becoming careless. That is why the Alter Rebbe seeks ways to do both together: to regard myself as wicked and be joyful, yet not let that lead to frivolity. Today is the yahrzeit of Rachel Imeinu, and also of the Raza. In Chabad, 11 Cheshvan is the Raza’s yahrzeit.

23:41 So here is one story about the Raza—there are many stories, but this is one I heard from Reb Mendel Futerfas. Reb Mendel related that, as is known, the Raza was in business. He had a factory in Babitch[?], and afterward moved to Vitebsk. Throughout his life, the Raza tried to establish himself in business. This was in accordance with the Rebbe Maharash’s wishes, and it caused him a great deal of pain. It was a difficult story for him. On one occasion there was a fire, and the entire factory burned down. The Raza was in the middle of davening when people came to tell him that the whole factory had burned down. He finished davening, went outside, and saw that everything he had invested—his money, everything—the entire factory had gone up in flames. The Raza took out a cigarette, stood there looking, and began to smoke as if nothing affected him. He just stood there calmly, looking on. People could not believe it. A man’s entire business had burned down—his life’s work, everything he had invested—and he was standing quietly, smoking a cigarette as if... So the chassidim standing beside him asked, “How can you be so... how can you be so calm?” The Raza told them, “Listen, what does a person do when something like this happens to him? He loses his mind, starts crying, faints, cannot think straight. Fine. For how long? A few days? He gets sick, takes to his bed, falls into depression. Another few days. Well, a few weeks pass, and he says, ‘What can I do? Lie in bed my whole life? I have to do something.’ So what does he do? He goes to his friends, asks for a loan, and starts rebuilding. He begins investing, investing, investing. After about two years, little by little, he gets back on his feet. Hakadosh Boruch Hu helps him, and he is earning a living again.” So the Raza said, “My zeide—I think it was the Tzemach Tzedek—said I have a quick mind.”

26:01 The Tzemach Tzedek said the Raza grasped things quickly. “So that whole process that takes two years, I went through very quickly. I am already at the point two years later. I can take a cigarette and smoke peacefully. I have already gone through the whole process, just like that.” That was his point—a saying chassidim would repeat. Of course, it shows great breadth of mind, but it is not just a joke. It is a genuine insight from a chossid who rises above all the calculations and can detach himself from what is happening now, instead of crying and falling into despair and depression. After all, in the end you will have to get back on your feet, so get back on your feet right from the start. That is serving Hashem through trust in Him. Of course, that takes... That is a story about the Raza.