28 May BECHUKOSAI: SAYING GOODBYE TO YOUR OLD G-D SOMETIMES, BEING CLOSE MEANS FEELING FAR

The Endless Quest
A story:
It was Simchat Torah,
and the disciples of
Rabbi Mendel of
Horodok, many of
whom had journeyed
for weeks to spend the
Yom Tov with their Rebbe, were awaiting his
entrance to the shul for the recital of the Atah
Hor’eisa verses and the hakafot procession.
Yet the Rebbe did not appear. Hours passed,
and still Rabbi Mendel was secluded in his
room.
Finally, they approached Rabbi Schneur
Zalman of Liadi, who had studied with Rabbi
Mendel in Mezeritch under the tutelage of the
Great Maggid. Perhaps Rabbi Schneur
Zalman, who was revered and loved by Rabbi
Mendel, would attempt what no other chassid
would dare: enter the Rebbe’s room and ask
him to join his anxiously awaiting followers.
When Rabbi Schneur Zalman entered Rabbi
Mendel’s study, he found the chassidic master
deeply engrossed in his thoughts. “The
chassidim await you,” said Rabbi Schneur
Zalman. “Why don’t you join them for the
hakafot?”
“There are a hundred meanings to the verse

Atah Hor’eisa,” cried Rabbi Mendel, “And I
do not yet fully understand them all. I cannot
possibly come out to recite the verse without
a proper comprehension of its significance!”
“Rebbe!” said Rabbi Schneur Zalman.
“When you will reach a full comprehension
of the hundred meanings of Atah Hor’eisa,
you will discover another hundred meanings
you have yet to comprehend…”
“You are right,” said Rabbi Mendel, rising
from his seat. “Come, let us go to hakafot.”
Throwing Out the Old?
An interesting verse in this week’s parsha,
Bechukosai, reads, “You will eat the very old
[grain] and you will remove the old to make
way for the new.”
A homiletic interpretation of the verse
understands “the very old” to symbolize G-d,
who has “been around” since time immemorial
and who represents eternity. One ought to eat
and satiate one’s hunger with “the very old”
G-d.
Yet there comes a time in our life when we
need to “remove the old to make way for the
new.” We should never get stuck in our
old definitions of G-d. We must be ready to
abandon our old perception of G-d for the
sake of a more real and mature relationship
with ultimate reality.

It is not always easy, but this is the path
forward.
Our old definitions of G-d can become traps
which stifle our creativity, hinder our growth,
and keep us stuck in the quagmire of our
fears, traumas and insecurities. G-d can
become an opium, an excuse for not allowing
ourselves to be challenged in a genuine way.
Religion sadly becomes the factor which
holds us back from an honest assessment of
our lives and the courage to rethink our
mistakes or dysfunction.
The only definition of G-d in Judaism is that
He has no definition. This means that a
relationship with G-d is the readiness to
challenge every comfort zone, every
addiction, every fixed paradigm. It is the
openness to mystery and to the ultimate
knowledge that “I do not know.”
Spiritual Frustration
A man approached me one morning in the
synagogue and expressed his anguish over the
fact that he does not experience G-d anymore
in his life.
“When I originally became a baal-teshuvah
many years ago,” he said, “I felt an intimate
relationship with G-d. I sensed His truth and
His depth. “Today,” the man continued, “I am
still a practicing Jew. I put on teffilin each
morning, I pray three times a day, I keep
the Sabbath and I don’t eat shrimp. But
G-d is absent from my life. “How do I
become a baal-teshuvah again?” the Jew
wondered.
As I looked up at his face, I noticed a
tear in his eye. I thought that he may be
far better off than many people born and
raised as observant Jews who have never
shed a tear over G-d’s absence from their
lives. Many of us are even unaware of the
fact that there exists a possibility to enjoy
a genuine personal relationship with
Hashem.
In the midst of our emotional
conversation, I noticed on the table a
200-year-old Chassidic work titled
“Noam Elimelech.” I opened the book,
authored by the 18th century Chassidic
sage Rabbi Elimelech of Liszhensk, and
randomly arrived at this week’s parsha,
Bechukosai.
In his commentary to the first verse of
the parsha, the Chassidic master discusses
an apparent lack of grammatical accuracy
in the blessings that we recite daily.
“Blessed are You, Lord our G-d,” we say,
“Who has sanctified us with His
commandments.”
Why do we begin the blessing by
addressing G-d in second person,
“Blessed are You,” and then conclude it
by addressing Him in third person, “Who
has sanctified us with His
commandments.”?
The Paradox
In the beginning of one’s spiritual
journey, writes the saintly author, when

first discovering G-d in one’s life, Hashem
seems very near. At that special moment of
rediscovery, you feel that you “have G-d,”
that you grasp His depth, His truth, His grace.
You and G-d are like pals. You cry to Him,
you laugh with Him, you are vulnerable in
His midst. Like one who is reunited with a
best friend not seen in many years, you
declare: “G-d! You’re awesome.” “Blessed
are You.”
But as you continue to climb the ladder of
spiritual sensitivity, you come to discover the
gulf between you and infinity. This is not a
sign of distance, but of closeness. When you
become close to truth, you can begin to sense
how far you are from truth.
A deeper relationship with G-d allows you to
sense the void and the distance. That void
becomes the womb where a new relationship
can be born.
Far But Near
It is this state of mind that Yeshayahu Hanavi
is addressing when he says, “Peace, peace to
him who is far and near, and I will heal him.”
How can one be both “far and near”
simultaneously?
The Chassidic master Rabbi Elimelech
answers that Yeshayahu is referring to the Jew
who feels that he is far, but in truth he is near.
The very fact that one senses is remoteness is
indicative of his closeness. If he truly were to
be distant, he would actually feel close!
When the first Jew Avraham is taking his son
Yitzchok to the Akeida atop the sacred Har
Hamoriah in Yerushalayim, the Torah tells
us that “On the third day, Avraham looked up
and saw the place from afar. Avraham said to
his attendants, ‘You stay here with the donkey,
and I and the lad will go yonder, we will
prostrate ourselves and then return to you.’”
Why did Avraham take his attendants along
if he was to leave them behind anyway?
Because it was only Avraham who “looked up
and saw the place from afar.” Only Avraham
realized how remote he still was from the
Divine mountain. His attendants, on the other
hand, actually thought that the place was near.
At that moment, Avraham became aware of
the vast sea separating his spiritual state from
theirs; he knew that they were not ready yet to
accompany him on his journey toward G-d.
Thus is the paradox of one’s spiritual
process. The closer you become, the further
you must become. It is to this Jew, harboring
deep humility and frustration, that G-d sent
forth His promise: “I will heal he who is far
and near.”