Transcending Our Nature

Judaism focuses on the need to change our negative traits. Chassidic thought goes a step further. We also need to change the nature of our positive character traits.

Gleanings

In this week’s parsha the Torah discusses the Jewish Holidays in great detail. It is therefore surprising to find this discussion of the Holidays interrupted with mention of two agricultural Mitzvos that seemingly have nothing to do with the Holidays. These two Mitzvos are: the giving of Pe’ah (leaving a corner of the field for the poor) and Leket (leaving stalks of grain that have fallen during the harvest). Why, our Sages ask, did the Torah find it necessary to mention these seemingly unrelated obligations in the context of the Holidays?

Rashi, quoting the Talmudic Sage, Rabbi Avridimus the son of Rabbi Yossi, explains that the reason these commandments were inserted into the discussion of the Holidays is to underscore the importance of these contributions:

One who gives Leket, Shikcha (the stalks of grain that one has forgotten to remove from the field) and Peah to the poor in the proper manner is considered as if he had built the Holy Temple and offered sacrifices within it.

We must still understand why the Torah singles out these agricultural contributions from all other forms of tzedakah (charitable giving). Shouldn’t every effort to sacrifice some of our own resources qualify as the equivalent of offering a sacrifice in the Temple? Second, why does Rashi compare these agricultural forms of charity to the building of the Temple as well?

Two Forms of Tzedakah

The Rebbe (Likkutei Sichos volume 17, p.255ff) explains that the distinction of these agricultural charitable contributions as compared to the classic Mitzvah of Tzedakah is twofold:

First, when one gives of his money to the poor, that contribution does not necessarily involve much effort. One could inherit a fortune, find a large sum of money that no one would claim, win the lottery or even earn a lucrative salary as remuneration for a line of work that doesn’t demand much effort.

And while, that act of giving is highly regarded, nonetheless—because one could have used that money to purchase his life’s basic needs, and it is therefore considered as if he gave his entire being—it still cannot match the degree of sacrifice involved in the foregoing agricultural forms of charity.

Under normal circumstances the gleanings from one’s produce is obtained through hard work and persistent toil. The Torah supports this contention in the familiar verse, “with the sweat of your brow you shall eat bread.”

Second, one who wishes to give tzedakah has the full right to decide which poor person or needy cause will be the recipient of his or her largesse.

By contrast, the Torah does not allow the farmer to choose who will be the beneficiary of his or her produce.

Moreover, the owner of the produce cannot even be involved in the act of giving it to the poor; he must leave these gleanings in the field and allow the poor to take it on their own without the owner’s intervention.

The normal sense of satisfaction that accompanies the act of giving is denied the one who fulfills the Mitzvah of leaving his or her gleanings for the poor.

These altruistic contributions are thus unique because they go against the grain of our egos. The owner of the produce, the one who fulfills the Mitzvah is totally out of the picture. It is not about him or her; even to the extent of having the satisfaction of choosing the recipient and assisting in the process of giving.

In short, these gleanings involve the greatest sacrifice and the least amount of stroking of one’s ego.

Thus, our Sages compare this particular form of giving not just to the act of offering a sacrifice but also to the arduous construction of the Temple. It underscores the effort that is involved in these Mitzvos, which compare with the actual construction of the Temple. In addition, when one was involved in the building of the Temple they were doing it to serve the needs of the entire Jewish nation, not just simply the parochial needs of the one who offered a sacrifice.

Going Beyond our Spiritual Sensibilities

Moreover, the Rebbe asserts, there is a third feature that is unique to these agricultural forms of charity. Not only do we have to go against our natural, egotistical tendencies and give unconditionally, the observance of these Mitzvos require of us to go against the grain of our spiritual sensibilities as well.

Generally speaking, when we give tzedakah, the people who are closest to us ought to be the first to receive our support. The Talmud states that if we have a choice between giving to poor members of our own community or the poor of another community, the local needs take precedence.

That rule, however, does not apply to the abovementioned agricultural gleanings of Leket, Shikcha and Peah. We must leave the gleanings in the field, free for anyone—even a foreigner—to take.

Changing the Character of our Nature and the Nature of our Character

This, the Rebbe explains, exemplifies the innovative thrust of Chassidic thought. Not only are we to endeavor to change our natural characteristics, we must also change the nature of our positive characteristics.

It does not suffice to alter those natural tendencies that are wanting, such as our inflated egos, anger, lust, etc. We must also strive to modify the good traits that we possess. We don’t want our positive traits to stagnate. For example, if our natural trait of kindness dictates that we should be charitable up to a point, we must continually strive to go beyond our comfort zone.

Prelude to Moshiach

In the final paragraph of his lengthy scholarly discourse that was encapsulated above, the Rebbe states that by altering our nature—in the spirit of the Mitzvos of Leket, Shikcha and Pe’ah, we will move from the virtual building of the Temple to the actual construction of the Third Temple with the imminent coming of Moshiach.

These concluding words of the Rebbe’s convey a powerful message to us: The Messianic Age is connected with altering our nature.

Why? What is it about our nature that keeps us in exile?

To answer this question we must dwell on the way we view the creation of the world, both the macro world and the micro world.

Nature is Imperfect

One would have imagined—as did the ancient Greeks—that G-d’s creation is perfect, leaving no room for us to improve on nature. If anything, we can help to actualize nature’s potential. But to change nature sounds blasphemous.

Indeed, the Midrash records a debate between a Heathen and a rabbi about circumcision.

The heathens argument was:

If G-d created a man with that part of the body intact how dare we remove it, insinuating that G-d’s handiwork is imperfect.

He could not fathom how the same G-d of nature would command us to destroy His own handiwork. Indeed, in the period that led to Chanukah, the Syrian Greeks—in one of the first things they did in their crackdown against Judaism—banned circumcision. They could not tolerate the mutilation of the body and the destruction of nature.

Judaism takes strong exception to that view and considers that glorification of nature to be a form of idolatry. The Torah teaches us that, on the contrary, G-d created a world that may seem perfect—and indeed it is from the perspective of the laws of nature—but His intention was for us to refine, perfect and even transcend nature in certain defined ways. This is based on a verse in the very beginning of Genesis that states (according to Rashi’s rendition): “All that G-d created to perfect.” G-d created the world so that we perfect it!

Two Handed Approach

To be sure, this is not a license for the wanton destruction of nature, the performance of reckless acts, flirting with disaster in the guise of transcending nature. Only the Torah, which is G-d’s direct communication to us, can order us to go against (read: transcend) the natural order. Without Divine sanction, going against nature is a sin.

On the one hand, Judaism is keen on the preservation of all the gifts of nature G-d gave us. Every part of nature must be used in the most efficient way. This is not only true because it is not ours to destroy, as the Torah states unequivocally. There is also a spiritual reason for the preservation of nature. Nature contains within it Divine energy, and that energy is released only when we use it for its intended purpose. To destroy even our own property denies us the opportunity to use it in a positive and constructive fashion. The Torah provides us with the guidelines as to when and how we may dispose of certain things.

On the other hand, when G-d tells us to go against nature it is because G-d wants us to rise above that aspect of the Divine creative power that is vested in nature and achieve a dimension of G-dliness that is not limited to the natural order.

In the pre-Redemption period, we are bound, to a certain degree, to the constraints of nature, symbolized by the Divine name Elokim, which has the numerical value of the word hatevanature. Every now and then we can access the other Divine name (the Tetragrammaton, referred to as Havaye). This name, a composite of the three tenses of past, present and future, connotes an aspect of the Divine that transcends the parameters of time and space. But even when it is revealed in the present period of Galus/exile it is not revealed in its entirety.

Nonetheless, with every attempt at doing precisely that, rising above our own nature— albeit within the constraints of exile—we hasten the coming of Moshiach. Thus, by giving tzedakah—particularly the forms of tzedakah like these gleanings, which maximize our effort even as they keep our egos in check—we begin the Redemptive process of breaking out of the parameters of nature as it has been defined in the period of exile.

From the book Light from the Future: Parshas Emor by Rabbi Heschel Greenberg, published by the Jewish Discovery Center.