06 May ACHAREI MOT: A REBBE’S BLESSING TO ELI WIESEL THE COURAGE TO START ALL OVER

Used Only Once
The Torah states in
this week’s parsha
(Acharei Mot) that
the Kohen Gadol had
a special set of
garments he donned
on the holiest day of the Jewish calendar,
Yom Kippur. It was unlike the garments
he wore all year round: eight garments
woven from gold and wool. On the Day of
Atonement, he dressed in four garments (a
turban, shirt, pants, and a belt) made of
simple, pure, white linen.
Yet there is an intriguing law stated in our
parsha: “And Aaron shall enter the Tent of
Meeting and remove the linen garments
that he had worn when he came into the
Holy, and there, he shall store them away.”
(Vayikra 16:23). As Rashi explains, “This
teaches us that they require being stored
away forever, and he shall not use those
four garments for any other Yom Kippur.”
(Toras Kohanim 16:61; Yoma 12b).
But this is strange. The priestly garments

he wore all year could be used for many
years, till they withered. Yet the Yom
Kippur garments which he wore only once
a year could never be used again? Why
squander a set of expensive clothing used
only once? Why not use them again on the
following Yom Kippur?
In truth, this law captures the essence of
Yom Kippur: the capacity for renewal. We
often become addicted to our comfort
zones and limitations. We get stuck in the
quagmire of resentment, grudges, hate,
misery, insecurity, envy, bad habits,
addictions, fear, guilt, shame, and the
belief that we are worthless. We enter into
a box, one that restricts our flow and
authenticity.
The vital message articulated in the
institution of Yom Kippur is that I can start
anew. The soul, just like its source, is
capable of liberation and transformation. I
have the power to create myself in the
image I choose—according to my deepest
and most authentic values. Yom Kippur I
can become a new person. The “clothes” I
wore last Yom Kippur will not be brought

into the equation. I do not
come into the process with
any “old stuff,” not even old
uniforms.
I may need lots of assistance
and support to get out of the
cycle of anxiety and release
the traumas that hold me
captive and deprive me of my
wholesomeness, but I must
always recall that the past
must not become the future. I
can let go of my old garments, because in
truth they are only garments; they do not
constitute the core of my being.
Start Over
In his book of memoirs “All the Rivers
Run to the Sea,” Noble Prize Laureate and
Holocaust survivor Elie Wiesel tells the
following episode.
On my first visit to the Lubavitcher
Rebbe’s court [at 770 Eastern Parkway, in
Brooklyn, NY]… I had informed him at
the outset that I was a Chasid of Vishnitz,
not Lubavitch, and that I had no intention
of switching allegiance.
“The important thing is to be a Chasid,”
he replied. “It matters little whose.”
One year, writes Wiesel, during Simchas
Torah, I visited Lubavitch, as was my
custom.
“Welcome,” he said. “It’s nice of a
Chasid of Vishnitz to come and greet us
in Lubavitch. But is this how they
celebrate Simchas Torah in Vishnitz?”
“Rebbe,” I said faintly, “we are not in
Vishnitz, but in Lubavitch.”
“Then do as we do in Lubavitch,” he
said.
“And what do you do in Lubavitch?”
“In Lubavitch we say L’chayim.”
“In Vishnitz, too.”
“Very well. Then say L’chayim.”
He handed me a glass filled to the brim
with vodka.
“Rebbe,” I said, “in Vishnitz a Chasid
does not drink alone.”
“Nor in Lubavitch,” the Rebbe replied.
He emptied his glass in one gulp. I
followed suit.
“Is one enough in Vishnitz?” the Rebbe
asked.
“In Vishnitz,” I said bravely, “one is but

a drop in the sea.”
“In Lubavitch as well.”
He handed me a second glass and refilled
his own. He said L’chaim, I replied
L’chaim, and we emptied our glasses.
“You deserve a brocha,” he said, his face
beaming with happiness. “Name it.”
I wasn’t sure what to say.
“Let me bless you so you can begin again.”
“Yes, Rebbe,” I said. “Give me your
brocha.”
And the Rebbe blessed Eli Wiesel to begin
his life anew.
Indeed, the man who was still tormented
by the horrors of “Night” (the name of his
first book), where in the long night of
Auschwitz he saw the most horrific sights
the human eye could endure, the individual
who did not want to marry and have
children feeling that it is unfair to bring
Jewish children into such a cruel and
brutal world, ultimately rebuilt his life
from the ashes, creating a family, and
becoming a spokesman for hope and
conscience the world over.
On the day of his son’s bris, Wiesel writes,
friends sent gifts. “But the most moving
gift came from an unexpected place.” It
was a beautiful bouquet of flowers sent
from the Lubavitcher Rebbe. I guess it
represented his blessings for a life
invigorated with a fresh start, blossoming
like a beautiful, fresh flower. He named
his son, Elisha, after his father who
perished in Buchenwald.
As Eli Weisel once reminded me, this was
just a few weeks before my own bris,
which Weisel attended, as my late father
attended his son’s bris. My father and Eli
worked closely together for many years as
Jewish journalists. A survivor of Hitler
and a survivor of Stalin—like so many
other survivors of unspeakable horrors—
they both chose to take out a new lease on
life, love and happiness.