I always talk to myself; it is the only way to ensure intelligent conversation. A man
Something is intriguing you will notice in any Torah scroll in the opening word of the third book of the Torah, Vayikra, Leviticus.
The opening words of the book are: “Vayikra El Moshe,” "He called to Moses." The Aleph of the word for "He called/vayikra,” the first word in the Book of Leviticus, is written smaller than usual. The aleph is written in miniature.
This is how it has been since the first Torah Scroll was written by Moses 3300 years ago. But why? What is the significance of this?
Contrast this with one more place in the Tanach where the Alef is written in a large size—larger than the usual Alef.
That is in the opening verse of the book of Chronicles, Divrei Hayamim—the book that recounts the story of humanity beginning with Adam and Eve, continuing throughout the generations, over the next 3400 years of human and Jewish civilization. Here, the word “Adam” comes with a large Alef.
These two Alef’s capture two paradoxical notions in Judaism’s view of the human individual.
It is a paradox inherent also in the Passover holiday.
Over the festival of Passover, we are forbidden the slightest particle of Chemtz, leavened bread, representing the inflation of the ego, conceit, pride, and vanity. All pompousness must be rejected for the sake of the flattened, humble matzah.
And yet on that very night, we are instructed to experience ourselves as kings, as royal aristocrats, emancipated, free people. We recline like kings, we drink four cups of wine celebrating freedom, and we partake in the Seder designated to re-experience the taste of absolute liberty and freedom. A slave is a surrendered creature; he lacks self-determination. He is constantly deflated in service of his mater. He does not own himself. A free person owns his body, his mind, his time, and his resources. He can seek self-expression and self-actualization.
Yet, it is precisely at that moment of Passover when we celebrate self-determination that we are commanded to consume only flattened and humble matzah.
It is this paradox that is essential to Judaism. How do we view ourselves? As great or as small? Do you look in the mirror and say: This guy is awesome, or do you look in the mirror and hear a voice saying: This guy is just a tiny infinitesimal droplet on the surface of the planet?
The Torah gives us conflicting messages. Believing that there is a G-d in whose presence we stand means that we are not the center of our world. G-d is. “I am dust and ashes,” said Abraham, the father of faith. “Who am I?” said Moses, the greatest of the prophets. In our daily prayers, we say, “May my soul be like the dust of the earth!”
But the Mishnah states: “Every person is obliged to say, the world was created for me!” That sounds pretty arrogant to me. And what do we tell our kids? Are you the best, or are you small? Take yourself very seriously, or don’t take yourself seriously at all?
The answer to this, says the Rebbe, are the two Alef’s. There is a small Alef, and there is a large Alef. The two are not mutually exclusive. They stem one from the other.
There are two forms of humility. There is humility where you see yourself as worthless and insignificant. It is an expression of self-abasement. There is humility where you see yourself always in the presence of G-d, whose ambassador on earth you are.
There are likewise two forms of pride. One form of pride is seeing yourself as superior to others; you feel the need to look down on others or to brag about yourself. You are allergic to criticism, and you seek self-aggrandizement.
In the summer of 1986, two ships collided in the Black Sea off the coast of Russia. Hundreds of passengers died as they were hurled into the icy waters below. News of the disaster was further darkened when an investigation revealed the cause of the accident. It wasn't a technological problem like a radar malfunction or even thick fog. The cause was human
stubbornness. Each captain was aware of the other ship's presence nearby. Both could have steered clear, but according to news reports, neither captain wanted to give way to the other. Each was too proud to yield first. By the time they came to their senses, it was too late.
Another form of pride is you know who you are, you appreciate your G-d given strength, and you are cognizant that in every situation and under all circumstances, G-d entrusted you with a mission to serve Him and be His ambassador for love, light, and hope to heal the world.
This type of pride is not contradictory to humility; it stems from it. Abraham’s and Moses’ humility did not render them servile or sycophantic. It was precisely as Abraham called himself dust and ashes that he challenged G-d on the justice of His proposed punishment of Sodom and the cities of the plain. It was Moses, the humblest of men, who urged God to forgive the people, and if not, “Blot me out of the book You have written.” These were among the boldest spirits humanity has ever produced.
Humility in the Jewish view is not low self-regard. That is self-denigration and self-abasement. Humility means that you are secure enough not to need to be reassured by others. It means that you don’t feel you have to prove yourself by showing that you are cleverer, smarter, more gifted, or successful than others. You are secure because you live in G-d’s love. He has faith in you always, even when you are in a low. You do not need to compare yourself to others. You have your task, they have theirs.
This means that you can see other people and value them for what they are. They are not just a series of mirrors at which you look only to see your reflection. Secure in yourself, you can value others. Confident in your identity as a child of G-d and an ambassador of G-d, you can value the people who do not like you.
In 1979, the late Christopher Lasch published a book entitled The Culture of Narcissism, subtitled American life in an age of diminished expectations. In it, he argued that the breakdown of family, community, and faith had left us fundamentally insecure, deprived of the traditional supports of identity and worth. Narcissism, he argued, is a form of insecurity, needing constant reassurance and regular injections of self-esteem.
So real humility enhances, rather than diminishes, self-worth. When we lose faith in G-d, what is left at the center of consciousness is the self. All we have is the self—and that gives us a superficial vanity. In 2014, the Harvard Business Review published the results of a survey that showed that “The best leaders are humble leaders.” They learn from criticism. They are confident enough to empower others and praise their contributions. They take personal risks for the sake of the greater good. They inspire loyalty and a strong team spirit. And what applies to leaders applies to each of us as marriage partners, parents, fellow-workers, members of communities and friends.
What type of husband or wife are you? Can you take criticism? Can you listen to another view? Must you always be in the center of the universe? When we place the self at the center of our universe, we eventually turn everyone and everything into a means to our ends. That diminishes them, which diminishes us. Humility means living by the light of that-which-is- greater-than-me. When G-d is at the center of our lives, we open ourselves up to the glory of creation and the beauty of other people. The smaller the self, the wider the radius of our world.
Rabbi Jonathan Sacks wrote: One of the humblest people I ever met was the late Rebbe. There was nothing self-abasing about him. He carried himself with quiet dignity. He was self-confident and had an almost regal bearing. But when you were alone with him, he made you feel you were the most important person in the room. It was an extraordinary gift. It was “royalty without a crown.” It was “greatness in plain clothes.” It taught me that humility is not thinking you are small. It is thinking that other people have greatness within them.
And this is the secret of the two Alef’s. When G-d is calling out to you, “Vayikra,” you are a small Alef. In the presence of G-d, you are humble.
But when it comes to the story of the world—Divrei Hayamim—the story of human civilization, Adam must have a large Alef: he must recall his infinite greatness. When we have the humility of knowing we are working for G-d, we do not become smaller; we become much larger. We realize that we are a reflection of the Divine, a piece of His infinity, charged with the mission to bring His light into the world. Each of us reflects the infinite way, and no one can take away or diminish our light.
When I realize that at every moment, I am charged with a mission by G-d to live a purpose-driven life and to be His ambassador to the world, to serve Him every moment, then no power can beat me down, no voice can stifle my creativity, and no setbacks can curb my enthusiasm. Because this is G-d’s world, He placed me here and now to work for Him. So, any situation I find myself in cannot be more powerful than my mission right here, right now, in these conditions, under these circumstances.
A Jewish tycoon once shared with me that he was sitting with the late British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher, who was one tough personality and known as The Iron Lady, serving as the longest and firmest Prime Minister of the United Kingdom of the 20th century.
He asked her what was her most amusing moment in her career.
Mrs. Thatcher shared the following story. The British Queen and Margaret Thatcher would meet once a week, on Tuesdays, at 630 PM. Once, Thatcher entered the police, approached the Queen and much to the Prime Minister's horror, she noticed that she and the queen were wearing exactly the same dress.
The next morning, the Prime Minister sent a handwritten note to the Queen expressing her profound apology over the incident. She added that henceforth, she ordered her staff to ask the Palace what the Queen would be wearing so that this would not happen again.
A few hours later a note came back to Thatcher from the palace. The note read: "No need to apologize. Her Majesty never notices what commoners wear!”
I love the story, not so much because of what it says about the British royal family, but because of the lesson we can glean from it. A Jewish soul is royalty, a “Fragment of the Divine.” When you truly realize that, then you face the world with a large Alef—you do not even “notice” the obstacles, inner or outer, to your mission because you are the queen.
Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Yoseph Geisinsky
Susan Bickford wrote...