Israel hits Iran's nuclear sites

Many of us are stressed, scattered, fragmented, afraid, confused, downtrodden, sad, and anxious. At best, we are overwhelmed, burdened, splintered, and all over the place. Netanyahu vows operation to continue 'for as long as it takes' 

According to Iranian media, Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps Commander Hossein Salami has been killed, while conflicting reports have emerged regarding the condition of Iranian Chief of Staff Mohammad Bagheri. 

 Flights to Israel cancelled as airspace closes due to Iran operation. 

Beyond nuclear aspirations: Iran moving full steam ahead to develop new threat... WHEN ALL COMES OUT BEEPERS' OPERATION WILL LOOK SMALL. 

Anxiety does not come from nowhere. It is an alarm clock waking us up to an inner voice we are hearing, an opportunity to dive in and heal. Throughout the process, we need powerful support. This comes in a single verse in this week’s portion. 

The journey of the Jewish people in the Sinai Desert, as related in this week's portion Behaalotcha, was guided by God. A cloud hovered over the portable sanctuary, the Mishkan, built in the desert. In the words of the Torah:  

"Whenever the cloud lifted from the Tent, the Israelites would set out accordingly; and at the spot where the cloud settled, there the Israelites would encamp. They thus camped at G-d's word and moved on at G-d's word." 

There is a fascinating and perplexing discussion in the Talmud based on the above verses. A brief introduction is necessary. 

"For six days shall work be done," commands the Torah, "but the seventh day shall be to you a holy day, a Sabbath of rest to G-d." But what, exactly, constitutes "work"? The Hebrew word employed by the Torah, melachah, means "creative work." Thus, writing a single word is a melachah, while dragging a heavy sofa from one end of the room to the other is not. Specifically, the Talmud enumerates 39 categories of "creative work" that are forbidden on Shabbat, such as "plowing," "planting," "sowing," "baking," "weaving," "writing," "building," "igniting a fire," "carrying" and the like—they are the 39 types of constructive work that were employed in the construction of the "sanctuary", which the Torah describes immediately following its commandment not to perform work on Shabbat. 

The fact that the Torah juxtaposes the prohibition to work on the Shabbat to the construction of the Mishkan was its way of explaining what work is forbidden on Shabbat; any labor involved in the construction of the Mishkan. 

So, for example, in the Mishkan they plowed and planted herbs to make dye for the various tapestries, or wheat to bring meal offerings, so we are forbidden to plow and plant on Shabbat. In the Mishkan they cooked and baked the meat of the offerings, or the bread of the offerings, so we are forbidden to cook or bake on Shabbat. In the Mishkan they wrote on each of the beams its suitable number, so we don’t write on Shabbat. And the Mishkan they built—so we are forbidden to build on Shabbat. They also demolished the Mishkan, to transport it and reassemble it elsewhere, so we are forbidden on Shabbos to demolish any structure. 

According to Jewish law, the biblical prohibition to demolish on Shabbat is only if we are demolishing the structure, not just to destroy, but for the sake of renovation, just like it was in the Mishkan: it was demolished to transport and erect it at the next encampment. If I break down a wall in my home, or remove a brick, because I want to renovate my home, then it is a violation of the biblical prohibition to work on Shabbat. 

Yet there is an enigmatic view by one of the greatest sages, Rabbi Yosi. He maintains that demolishment is only biblically forbidden on Shabbat if the structure demolished was to be renovated in the very same location. Only if one dismantles a structure with the intention of rebuilding it in its current place is it a violation of Shabbat. 

The Talmudic sage Rabba raises a basic problem with the view of Reb Yosi. As we explained, all 39 forms of labor prohibited on Shabbos are derived from the types of labor performed in connection with the construction of the Mishkan. Now, when the Jews were prepared to travel, the Mishkan was dismantled so that it could be transported and then reassembled at the new place of encampment. If so, disassembling a structure for the purpose of transporting it and reassembling it in a different place should be prohibited on Shabbos, reflecting the procedure used by the Mishkan! 

Whenever the Jews dismantled the sanctuary it was never to reassemble it in the very same location—but rather to travel with it till they reached a new location, and there it would be erected once again. Why then would Reb Yosi hold that on Shabbat the only form of demolishment biblically forbidden is the one done with the intention to renovate in the same location, when in the Mishkan it was always done with the objective of recreating it elsewhere? 

The answer the Talmud gives is cryptic: Since the Torah states (in this week’s portion), "They camped at G-d's word and moved on at G-d's word," when they dismantled the Mishkan it was as though they had the intention of reassembling it in the very same spot! 

This answer is puzzling, if not absurd. Why should the fact that the Jews followed the word of G-d in their travels cause us to disregard their movement from one place to another in the desert and state that they demolished the sanctuary only to be erected in the same location? Here is the beautiful parable by Reb Chaim: 

Imagine a young woman traveling halfway round the globe. From Miami she flies to Los Angeles, then to London, Moscow, Tel Aviv, Johannesburg, Sydney, and then New York. In each place, she must wait the long lines to go through customs and security. She needs to wait on lines to board and deplane. In each place, she needs to deal with luggage, travel, and settling in. As she enters each country, she receives a unique stamp on her Passport, indicative of the distinctive status of the new country she is about to enter, with a bureaucracy all its own. She then must research and find the proper place to lodge in each city. 

But what if this young woman is holding an infant in her arms as she makes this arduous journey around the globe? If the baby was asked where he has been all these days and weeks, what would his response be? If you were to ask him, or her, how many countries has he visited, in how many places did he hang out, how many lines he waited on, how many passport controls he needed to endure, how many security agents did he have to deal with, how many migraines did he acquire in so many diverse airports? His/her answer would be: I was in the same place all the time—cuddled up in my mother's arms. 

For the baby, there is little difference between continents, countries, states and cities. All the long, grueling and strenuous lines don’t mean much to him—as he is protected from all of it. Throughout all the journeys, he lay comfortably and stably in his mom’s arms, oblivious to the vicissitudes and fluctuations all around him. From his experience, he is not even "moving around" from one end of the globe to the other; he’s lodged comfortably in the safest and most nurturing place on earth: in his mother’s or father’s warm embrace. 

This, then, is the meaning behind the Talmudic answer: "Since the Torah states, ‘They camped at G-d's word and moved on at G-d's word,’ when they dismantled the Mishkan it was as though they had the intention of reassembling it in the very same spot!" While journeying in the desert, the Jewish people experienced themselves as lodged 24/7 in G-d’s loving and embracing "arms." From their perspective, they were always situated in the same "place." Sure, geographically, they moved around; but in their consciousness, they had not moved anywhere; they were in the same spot—in the loving and nurturing grip of G-d. 

As Moses tells the Israelites: "and in the desert, where you have seen how the Lord, your G-d, has carried you as a man carries his son, all the way that you have gone, until you have come to this place." 

This is what constitutes the secret to stability and wholesomeness in life. 

Life can sometimes be compared to a slow tranquil ride, but at other times to the Super roller coaster, where you are being turned upside down, and you are not sure if you are coming or going. Life’s excursions and voyages take us up mountains, down valleys, and sometimes—it feels—down cliffs. But when I realize that through all the ups and downs, I am situated in my mother’s arms, that I am encircled by infinite love, it confers upon me a sense of stability and serenity. 

When you realize you are in G-d’s embracing grasp, all the time, then you remain in an integrated and wholesome space. At this moment, G-d leads you to one meeting; at a later point, G-d leads you to another one. He may take you today to 30 places. He may keep you today in the same space. But throughout it all, you are always in His space—and in that space, you are safe, secure, confident, and protected. 

Our lives become stressful and disorienting because they are fragmented, dichotomized, and splintered. We are all trying to achieve many different things, and we carry many different burdens on our shoulders. But if you discover that you are always, always, hugged and cuddled in G-d’s embrace, full of infinite affection, then even as you are moving from place to place, geographically and mentally, you always remain in the same space—in the space of love, joy and oneness. 

Where shall I go from Your spirit, and where shall I flee from Your presence? 
If I ascend to the heavens, there You are, and if I make my bed in the grave, behold, You are there. 
If I take up the wings of dawn, if I dwell at the end of the west, 
There too, Your hand will lead me, and Your right hand will grasp me. 

Or in the words of the Alter Rebbe, Rabbi Shneur Zalman of Liadi, this is the essence of the faith for which a person was created: to believe that "There is no space devoid of Him"… Confidence and joy are in His place, because He is good all the time. Therefore, a person ought to be happy and joyous at every time and hour, and truly live by his faith in G d, who animates him and acts kindly towards him at every moment. 

Nathan Sharansky spent 9 years in Soviet Communist prisons for his activism for Israel and the Jewish people. He was arrested and accused of being a spy against Russia. First, they wanted to execute him, then they sentenced him to prison. He spent years in solitary confinement without a bed to sleep on. He was treated like a roach. His suffering was intense. What kept him alive? I quote from his book ‘Fear No Evil’: 

"Just a few days before my arrest, I received via a tourist a small gift sent by my wife Avital (who had already left the Soviet Union), a book of Psalms. Frankly, it was in the middle of our struggle. I had to fight against the KGB. I had no time for these things like reading Psalm books, so I put it aside." 

"When I was arrested some days after this, I suddenly remembered it and started fighting to get it. The Soviets confiscated the book sent by my wife. It took me three years to fight and force the authorities to give me this book. They gave it to me on the same day when they also gave me the telegram that my father died. I felt terrible, because I could not be with my mother, I could not support her in those days. So, what can I do? I decided that I'll start reading this Psalm book." 

"I can't say that I understood the Psalms completely, but I sensed their spirit and felt both the joy and the suffering of King David, their author… I especially liked Psalm 23: ‘Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I will fear no evil, for You are with me….’ And Psalm 27 was a particular comfort to me: ‘Do not forsake me, do not abandon me, O God, my deliverer.  Though my father and mother abandon me, the Lord will take me in…’" 

"For forty days I read the Psalms. Through reading these Psalms, I thought continually about Papa, Mama, and Avital, about the past and the future, and about the fate of our family. My feelings of grief and loss were gradually replaced by sweet sorrow and fond hopes." 

"A few months later Mama wrote to seek my advice about the inscription on Papa's gravestone. Not surprisingly, I turned to the Psalms – in particular, to Psalm 25, with its prophetic reference to Israel, to my father, and to his imprisoned but hopeful son.  The verse read, ‘His soul will rest in peace, for his seed shall inherit the Land.’" 

About a year after the book of Tehilim that he had received from his wife Avital was returned to him, it was once again taken away. "In reply to my protests, a representative appeared… who said, ‘It is the duty of the state to guard you in prison from harmful influences, so your religious literature has been confiscated with our consent.’" 

Sharansky proclaimed a work strike until his book of Tehilim was returned to him.  As punishment, he was sent to a punishment cell in exceedingly difficult conditions for fifteen days, and every time that he refused to go back to work before his book of Tehilim was returned to him, he was sent back for another fifteen days. In this way his time in the punishment cell continued for about 100 consecutive days, and his health deteriorated to such an extent that his jailers were forced to admit him into the infirmary.  When his health slightly improved, he was returned to the punishment cell, where he stayed for another 86 days.  He was then judged for his "crimes" in the work camp and sentenced to three years of incarceration in a horrible prison. There, his book of Tehilim was finally returned to him. 

Nathan was on a hunger strike for 110 days because they would not allow him to read his wife’s and mother’s letters. They forced the food down his throat.  "I took my Psalm book, and for days on end, with the photographs of my dear ones in front of me, I recited all one hundred and fifty of King David's Psalms, syllable by syllable. 

"I felt all the time that if this psalm book was with me, nothing would happen. I fought each time they took it from me: I was on hunger strikes, I spent hundreds of days on hunger strikes and in punishment cells, in order not to permit them to take it from me. Even when I was released, and I still didn't know that I was released, but I was brought to the airplane from the prison, and they took all the clothes, and gave me the different ones, and I suddenly understood that maybe some big changes are happening, but my psalm book was not with me. I was so scared to be without it that I lay in the snow and refused to enter the airplane until they brought it back to me. And that's the only piece of property with which I came to freedom from Soviet prison." 

The story is told of an opera singer who was known for his readings and recitations from the Classics. He always ended his performance with a dramatic recital of Psalm 23. Each night, without exception, as the actor began his recitation—"The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want"—the crowd would listen attentively and then rise with thunderous applause, in appreciation of the actor's ability to bring the psalm to life. 

One night, just before the singer and actor was to offer his customary recital of Psalm 23, an old Jew from the audience spoke up. "Sir, would you mind, if tonight, I recite Psalm 23?" 

The actor was surprised by this unusual request. Yet he invited the old Jew to come onto the stage to recite the psalm; curious to see the how the ability of this Jew weighed against his own talent. 

Softly the old man began to recite the words of the psalm. His voice was parched and weak, and his tune lousy. 

"The Lord is my shepherd: I shall not want… 

"Though I walk in the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me; Your rod and Your staff-they will comfort me… 

"Only goodness and kindness shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the House of the Lord for many long years." 

When he was finished, there was no applause. There was no standing ovation as on other nights. All that could be heard was the sound of weeping. The audience had been so moved by the man's recitation that every eye was tearful. 

Amazed by what he had experienced, the opera star queried, "I don't understand. I have been performing Psalm 23 for years. I have a lifetime of experience and training -- but I have never been able to move an audience as you have tonight. And frankly, you have a horrible voice and can barely carry a tune. Tell me, what is your secret?" 

The Jew humbly replied, "Well sir, you know the Psalm...but I know the Shepherd." 

Shabbat Shalom, 

Rabbi Yoseph Geisinsky