The Yahrzeit of the Holy Ari (July 2012)

Today is the fifth day of the Hebrew month of Av. It is also the yahrzeit/hilula of the Holy Ari—Rabbi Yitzchak Luria (1534-1572). 

 “As a young man, Rabbi Yitzhak Luria, the founder of the Lurianic Kabbalah, removed to the banks of the Nile. For seven years he secluded himself in meditation, visiting his family only on the Sabbath, speaking seldom and then only in Hebrew”

(from “A Passion for Truth” p 214, Rabbi A.J.Heschel)

Last night I was reflecting on the legacy of this great “saint” of both halakhah and  kabbalah  and I “came across” an inspiring short video by Rabbi Avraham Sutton.  It is said that  the Holy Ari studied under the tutelage of Eliyahu HaNavi, and Rabbi Sutton explains that this may be taken as referring to a state of consciousness.

We may not share the spiritual greatness of one such as the Holy Ari, and the state of Gilui Eliyahu (Elijah consciousness) which is described by Rabbi Sutton is not something which is easily or frequently granted.  Nevertheless, we can all aspire to improve our receptivity to whatever  Divine input we might be granted  in our  private prayer.

 The  tutelage of  Eliyahu haNavi may not be within our  own  personal reach and experience, but we can at least attempt to be chassidim  of the Ari and approach the “cave of Elijah” in his merit.  As  “lion cubs” who also spend time in secluded prayer—whether it be hisbodedus or hisbonenus—we are engaged in avodah, and work to become “open” in receptive prayer.

The connection between attentive listening in such secluded prayer and the “return” of prophecy (or at least the development of ruach haKodesh) is one of the main reasons I seek to promote “contemplative living”   and  times of regular contemplative prayer, as I wrote in 2005:

“If  the Torah which is written on our hearts is ever to be understood and if the spirit of prophecy is to return in its fullness:  the individual, personal  communication and the spiritually receptive attentiveness which they require is not only desirable, it is crucial.  For all  Jews.

Ultimately we are said to be destined to become a nation of prophets.  For that time to be approached there has to be somebody listening.  The parallel development of contemplative lifestyles and contemplative prayer in the life of all Jews might go some way towards making sure that those “listeners” are in place.”

(Kuntres M’arat haLev p25)

In a recent video talk on prayer from Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, the Chief Rabbi of the UK, I noted a remarkable passage which you can view here.

 

He reminds us that Jewish life depends on three things: Torah, Avodah, and Gemilut Chasadim (Prayer, Learning, and Acts of Kindness).   He points out that though there are many people studying Torah, and though there are many clear examples of Jewish welfare activities, he says many people do not feel “engaged” by (liturgical) prayer which he calls the “motor” of Jewish Spirituality.  Though he was  talking about liturgical prayer, his point  may be applied by extension to all forms of spiritual “avodah”.  

At a time when secular approaches often  minimize (or even squash) the place of the holy in the life of Israel it is even more imperative that those who can do so should spend time in hisbodedus –not as an exercise in ethical or spiritual refinement, but as a form of  service.  The service of “being attentive” to HaShem.  

The Holy Ari believed that this modern age is the time for that which was “secret” to become revealed.  In these days, this is most often achieved by the spiritual army of those who study in Yeshiva and Kolel, and by the hidden souls the world over who approach the Throne of Mercy in their davening and in their contemplative prayer—making an avodah for the sake of all Israel and all the worlds.

It may be true that we are “neither prophets  nor the sons of prophets”… but  when we offer our attention to The One Who Spoke, we can become open to receive the legacy of Elijah, and in so doing, we can prepare the way for the time when “all the Earth will be filled with the Daas of  the Glory of HaShem as the waters cover the sea.” (Habakkuk 2:14)  May that time come speedily, in our days.

 NRDavies

July 24 2012

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Solitude in Jewish Contemplative Practice - February 2012

In the tractate of the Mishnah known as the “Ethics of the Fathers”, we are strongly advised “not to separate ourselves from the community” (Pirkei Avos 2:5). Anyone attempting to lead a Jewish solitary life has to come to terms with this directive, yet there have always been Jews who have felt inspired to make solitary lives of prayer and study their main spiritual discipline and a major part of their contribution to the life of the Community of Israel.

If you consult a modern Hebrew dictionary, you will discover that the word for solitude is “b’didut”. In Jewish mystical theology the related term “hitbodedut” (often transliterated as “hisbodedus”) has been used for centuries to denote interior and exterior seclusion for contemplative prayer and meditation. Despite this history, a non-Jewish observer might find it hard to see evidence of physical or spiritual solitude in Jewish practice—and many Jews might even declare that there is no place for it in Judaism at all. In this short essay I hope to shine a little positive light on that gloomy misconception.

The two main reasons for the apparent dearth of solitary practice in Judaism are its insistent focus on communal activity and its objections to life-long celibacy. Judaism does not generally encourage physical withdrawal from society, it encourages the pursuit of justice and mercy through social action. Judaism does not encourage monastic celibacy as a way of expressing devotion, dedication, or as a spiritual technique. Instead, Judaism regards procreation (Genesis 1:28) and the education of children by the family unit (Deuteronomy 6:7) to be positive mitzvos—commandments to be observed. It also insists that communal liturgical prayer is the ideal form of Jewish worship, and it makes the presence of a minyan (ten worshippers) the condition for many full liturgical usages in order to assert this directive somewhat forcefully.

Nevertheless, if we look at the lives of Jews with a leaning towards meditation, contemplation, and meticulous religious observance we may find surprising and highly significant anomalies in the practice of religious solitude. I am not merely referring to fringe pietist groups or minority eccentrics here, but towering figures like Moses our Teacher, Elijah the prophet, Rabbi Isaac Luria the eminent kabbalist, and the Baal Shem Tov, founder of “modern” chassidism. These are not Jews on the fringe. They are the generators and exemplars of quintessential Jewish spiritual practice.

What is even more remarkable—given the usually universally observed commandment to procreate—there are even Tzaddikim who have practiced celibacy as an exceptional form of Jewish spiritual dedication. Examples of lifelong celibates in Judaism include the prophets Elijah and Elisha (see Zohar Chadash 2,1; Midrash Mishlei 30; and Pirkei d’Rabbi Eliezer 33), as well as the Talmudic sage Rabbi Simeon Ben Azzai (see the Bavli tractate Yevamot 63b and also the remarks on religious celibacy in the Shulchan Aruch, Even ha-Ezer 1:4).

Moses and Elijah were both advocates of religious solitude by example. Moses spent two very long retreats on top of Mount Sinai in deep solitude. He also left his wife and family behind and lived in celibacy for many years. Elijah appears to have been unmarried and childless yet, in a sense, his progeny are the contemplative Jews in each era. In every generation, each contemplative Jew follows Elijah into the cave of solitude to refine his/her spiritual attentiveness to the inner voice of the divine, and our tradition declares Elijah to be the archetypal mentor of those blessed to receive the gift of “his” mystical instruction. To be “under the mantle of Elijah” is to receive a profound contemplative awareness—a change in perspective— which is brought about by God’s inspiration.

When Moses went “into the Cloud” (Exodus 24:18), it was for a solitary retreat of forty days. Elijah’s encounter with the “still small voice” in the cave on Horeb (I Kings 19:9-18) was the climactic event which concluded a long solitary journey of forty days (I Kings 19:8). This was a biblical “zen walking meditation” par excellence. These experiences were not the biblical equivalent of a short “weekend retreat”. They were significantly long periods of isolated meditation intended, I would suggest, as models for future Jewish practice.

The giving of the Torah at Sinai was a unique religious event in that it was not an individual but a communal revelation. All of Israel experienced this event and yet, in a sense, the Torah was received by each individual in their own heart—in a spiritual solitude which is deeper than any mere physical solitude ever could be. It is “solitude within a crowd” and it is reflected each and every day in the traditional Jewish liturgy. Each communal service has periods where congregation members recite the central prayer of eighteen blessings (the Shemoneh Esreh) silently. At this and at other times during communal worship, they pray in secluded privacy under their tallisim ( prayer shawls), often at their own pace while absorbed in a text on the pages of their own prayer-book. They are worshipping in community, yet praying alone in interior solitude.

Elijah was only able to hear the “still small voice” when he had ignored the hustle and bustle of normal existence. The earthquake, and the wind, and the fire of our frenetic business and social lives can sometimes obscure a call to experience a deeper level of daat (religious encounter) or a more profound revelation of God’s will (ratzon). The messages of the “still small voice” are often the very ones which we are trying to avoid confronting, receiving, or putting into practice ourselves. Perhaps it is in a combination of external and internal solitude that we can best be aware of this tiny and hidden spark of inspiration (ruach ha-kodesh). Elijah was a Jewish mover and shaker, for certain—but even he went on a retreat. His is a Jewish example of religious solitude which many Jews ignore.

In chapter thirteen of his manual for Jewish pietists (Sefer Ha Maspik, in Rabbi Wincelberg’s English translation, “The Guide to Serving God”), Rabbi Abraham Maimonides (1186-1237) considers the biblical use of solitary meditation and suggests that we might follow the examples of Isaac meditating in the field (Genesis 24:63); of Moses on Mount Sinai (Exodus 34:3) and in his “Tent of Meeting” outside the camp” (Exodus 33:7); and Joshua during his long retreat there ( Exodus 33:11). He also gives us one of the most comprehensive definitions of Jewish solitary practice in existence when he writes:

“Outward retreat (hisbodedus) might be total, such as to separate from the city to isolate oneself in deserts, mountains, or other uninhabited places. It might be partial, such as to isolate oneself in houses. It might be frequent, or occasional, for long periods, or for short periods. But it is impossible in this world for one to retreat for an entire lifetime.”

(from the “Sefer HaMaspik” Chapter 13 trans Rabbi Yaakov Wincelberg in “Guide to Serving God” p 495)

Rabbi Abraham’s definition holds good for every Jewish solitary from the biblical era to the present day.

It is worth noting that attempts to incorporate solitude into Jewish life have most often been a case of a single Jew practicing a temporary hermit lifestyle rather than the communal monastic one. Christian solitaries have usually chosen to live as anchorites (confined in a building); as hermits (living in physical solitude); or as communal but eremitical monks ( sharing some aspects of religious life but spending the majority of time in isolation in a cell). Yet even these forms were not without some representation in Jewish practice. For example Rabbi Chaim Vital (1542-1620) writes when speaking of the “early saints” (chassidim rishonim) mentioned in the Talmud:

“These individuals would travel to rocky caves and deserts, secluded from the affairs of society. Some would seclude themselves in their homes, as isolated as those who went into the deserts. Day and night, they would continuously praise their Creator, repeating the words of the Torah, and chanting the Psalms, which gladden the heart.”

From “Sha’arey Kedushah” trans Rabbi Aryeh Kaplan on p94 of “Meditation and Kabbalah.”

There is, however, one notable example of a Jewish “communal eremitic monasticism”: the Order of the Therapeutae. The sole surviving historical source for knowledge of this Jewish religious order is Philo’s “De Vita Contemplativa” written early in the First Century C.E. (A.D.) Some scholars suggest that the community must have been formed of elderly “retired parents” and temporarily dedicated young pre-nuptual assistants. They were each secluded in a small hermitage with a private garden and prayer room with the cells grouped around a communal building, rather like the arrangement used by the Carthusian monks of the Christian religion. Each of the “communal hermits” of the Jewish monastic order of Therapeutae (both female and male) lived in solitude during the first six days of the week, but on the Sabbath, the entire community would gather for communal meals and services.

By combining Sabbath assembly with weekday solitude, perhaps the Therapeutae were attempting to reconcile the need for community observance with the countervailing impulse to lead solitary contemplative lives. It was this “Sabbath/weekday compromise” that was most often taken up by those later kabbalists and chassidim who felt particularly drawn to solitary practice— though almost exclusively in a solitary eremitical rather than a monastic form.

Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel (1907-1972) writes:

“As a young man, Rabbi Yitzhak Luria, the founder of the Lurianic Kabbalah, removed to the banks of the Nile. For seven years he secluded himself in meditation, visiting his family only on the Sabbath, speaking seldom and then only in Hebrew, which was not commonly spoken in his time. Chassidic lore tells us that as a young man the Baal Shem Tov spent many years alone in the Carpathian Mountains.

Solitude was a common practice among mystically inclined Jews. Even the non-mystical Jewish writers of the Middle Ages seemed to agree that solitary living was indispensable to the attainment of spiritual purity. This view may be found in the writings of Abraham Ibn Ezra, Maimonides, Badarshi, Falaquera, Gersonides, Albo, Crescas, and Abravanel among others.”

(from “A Passion for Truth” p 214, Rabbi A.J.Heschel)

The subject of that essay, Rabbi Menachem Mendel of Kotzk (1787-1859), spent no less than nineteen years secluded in a single room adjacent to his shul, only venturing out when called to the reading of the Torah. Rabbi Joseph Horwitz of Novhardok (1848-1919) spent eighteen months as a “Jewish anchorite” in solitary retreat in a room with a bricked-up door and holes in the wall for delivering his food. He agreed to marry, but only on condition that he be allowed to spend all the weekdays in solitude in a forest hermitage. He lived like that permanently for twelve years. In the Breslov community, kabbalist-ascetic Reb Avraham ben Reb Nachman Chazan (1849-1917) also spent his weekdays in solitude in the woods outside Uman for many years, returning home each week only on the Sabbath.

But these, one must admit, are exceptional examples of an extreme practice of seclusion. In many ways, the more typically Jewish use of solitude as a religious discipline is one which is practiced in comparatively short retreats, or in regular periods of secluded meditation whose duration is measured in just hours, or even minutes. Rabbi Abraham Abulafia (1240-1291) writes:

“Choose a special place for yourself where your voice will not be heard. Meditate alone with no-one else present. If you engage in this by day do so in a darkened room. It is best if you do this at night.”

(“Chayei Olam HaBah,” trans. Rabbi Aryeh Kaplan in “Meditation and Kabbalah,” p. 107)

The same practice is recommended by Rabbi Chayim Vital (1542-1620):

“You should be in a room by yourself...It should be a place where you will not be distracted by the sound of human voices or the chirping of birds. The best time to do this is shortly after midnight”

(“Shaarei Kedushah,” trans. Rabbi Aryeh Kaplan in “Meditation and Kabbalah,” p. 197)

The practice of such solitary prayer is especially dear to the followers of Rebbe Nachman of Breslov (1772-1811) who used the word hitbodedus to denote a form of informal prayer in solitude to be practiced on a daily basis by Jews of every type and spiritual capability. Here are three short examples of his advice on this:

“It would be good if we could spend our entire day in hitbodedut. However, not everyone is capable of this. Therefore, we should spend at least one hour each day alone, meditating and speaking to God.

However, if a person's heart is strong, and he wishes to accept upon himself the yoke of Divine service, in truth he should aspire to practice hitbodedus all day long. Thus, our Sages declared: "Would that a person could pray all day long!” (Berakhot 21a)”

(Likutey Moharan 11, 96, trans. Rabbi David Sears in “The Tree that Stands beyond Space,” p. 78)

“It is also necessary that you should meditate in an isolated place. It should be outside the city, or on a lonely street, or some other place where other people are not found. (...) You must therefore be alone, at night, on an isolated path where people are not usually found. Go there and meditate.”

(Likutey Moharan I, 52, trans. Rabbi Aryeh Kaplan in “Meditation and Kabbalah,” p. 310)

“Hitbodedut meditation is the best and the highest level of worship. Set aside an hour or more each day to mediate, in the fields or in a room, pouring out your thoughts to God .... Every person can express his own thoughts, each according to his own level. You should be very careful with this practice, accustoming yourself to do it at a set time each day.”

(Likutey Moharan II, 25, trans. Rabbi Aryeh Kaplan in “Meditation and Kabbalah,” p. 309)

In his Sefer HaMaspik, Rabbi Abraham Maimonides tells us that the “great sages” (gedolim) used to pronounce the following blessing:

“May God enable you to feel companionship in solitude and loneliness in a crowd”

(op.cit. p 529)

This is perhaps the most perfect Jewish way to practice the spiritual discipline of solitude. Most contemplative Jews do not seek withdrawal from society for too long, yet  they all appreciate that physical solitude is often necessary for spiritual health and growth. A contemplative Jew is like Jacob in Genesis 35: He is one who wrestles with both God and Humanity in the privacy of his own heart. But in that solitary struggle he is not simply a “Jacob,” an individual in solitude. He is also “Israel,” - a spiritually generative and essential part of his greater religious community. As Rabbi Moses Cordovero (1522-1570) writes:

“All Israel is related one to the other, for their souls are united, and in each soul there is a portion of all the others.”

("Tomer Devorah" 4:6)

When Jews practice solitude as a spiritual discipline, they take the Community of Israel with them into their own personal “desert”—they have not withdrawn from Jewish or global society at all, but have chosen a particularly deep form of spiritual engagement with them. Their seclusion and solitude is not a form of self-regard or a method of character development because, above all else, they cleave to the Solitary One in order to become useful as conduits of His Light. Whether physically isolated or not, they have withdrawn into the cave of the heart—and from there they hope to draw down the compassion of the God of Israel on all creation.

©Nachman Davies

January 1 2012

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For those interested in a more advanced study and practice of “hitbodedut”, I highly recommend the online archive of classical Jewish texts to be found on the website “Solitude-Hisbodedus” which can be accessed HERE. 

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Hishtadlus and Bitachon on the Contemplative Journey (Aug 2011)

(photo: Sorelle White)

Reflecting on the current week’s Torah reading (Parshas Devarim) which recounts some of the stages and battles of the time we were in the desert, I began to see how it might provide us with a sort of manual for some aspects of our contemplative practice. This month’s article takes that idea and develops it a little. Though it is directly related to Parshas Devarim and its accompanying Haftaras Hazon, it has a year-long application as it concerns the very basic nature of a contemplative’s relationship with the One who is Avinu Malkeinu...both our Father and our King. He can be both at the same time. Can the contemplative Jew emulate that balance in some way by being both His child and His servant simultaneously?

Do we simply allow the wind to blow a “Divine seed” to the place of its intended growth or do we also need to prepare the land which will receive it ourselves? Are there times when no plant would grow at all if we ourselves failed to plant a seed of our own choosing?

Are we receptive like suckling children or are we on active service like zealous soldiers?

My suggestion is that though we may never quite attain it, our aim should be to discover and to create a balance between these two expressions of  contemplative practice.

Commentary: Parshas Devarim and Haftaras Hazon

There are times when we are asked to wait, to listen, to hope and pray, to be patient.  

And there are times when we are asked to take the initiative, to help ourselves, to fight for something, and to make things happen ourselves.

They are the delicate balance between hishtadlus (initiative and action) and bitachon (trust and faith).

We are born God’s children and called to be His servants- so perhaps bitachon is in some way superior?  We are told not to fear enemies but to confront them bravely- so perhaps hishtadlus is in some way superior?  In truth they are two inseparable facets of a spiritual life lived in balance.

We are not instrumentally passive like angels... we become God’s instruments when we act bravely and then, paradoxically find ourselves used as passive channels of His Light. Once we have “obeyed” by performing deeds we become “purified” in our spiritual essence by losing our self-focus in the blaze of His activity.

Parshas Devarim and Haftaras Chazon are like a manual for such a process.  The Parshah describes the balance between hishtadlut and bitachon and the Haftarah describes the purification process and its link with halakhah:

“Behold I have set the land before you

Go in and possess the Land”

(Deut. 1:8)

and

I will turn my hand upon you

And purge away your dross as with lye”

(Isaiah 1:25)

.....

In our daily lives we can usually plod on with religious routines and hope that our zeal can introduce a freshness and a joy into all our practices. But in the lives of all contemplatives there are moments of decision, periods of uncertainty, turning points and changes of focus and most significantly...an endless activity in which we encounter obstacles and difficulties as stages in a journey. Parshas Masei and Parshah Devarim both seem to highlight such events.

God sends inspiration in our prayer and direction in our study but we have to choose to see what He is trying to tell us, and sometimes we prefer to misread Him in order to get what we want ourselves. He may “set the land before us” (Deut. 1:8) but we have to help to remove the “dross”(Isaiah 1:25) ourselves, by “going in” to do battle.

He is ever leading us “in the fire by night” and “in the cloud by day” (Deut:1:32) but we have to keep moving ourselves or be left behind by the ever-moving caravan. The fire of our nightly hitbodedus may give us a sense of direction, but we may fall asleep before we are galvanised into action the next dawn. The clouded “daily” messages from Above which come to us in the significant events we encounter Below in our everyday lives-may be ignored if we attend only to the “noise and traffic on the street” and “forget to look up at the sky” ( where the message is writ clearer). And of course we can also drag our heels and actually refuse to go anywhere!

In other words, God may be showing us where He wants us to go but we may either choose to be blind, or we may choose to look the other way. Either way we will make no progress unless we at least attempt to work out what we are being “shown” or “told”.

....

Sometimes the contemplative finds that the obstacles one meets on the journey are too great to overcome and so a “failure” ensues. Sometimes this is not a failure but merely a necessary step along the way. An event with a purpose we are unable to see. This too is highlighted for us in Parshas Devarim. Speaking of an enemy of Israel, Moses reminds us:

“for Hashem your God hardened his spirit and made his heart obstinate

that He might deliver him into your hand, as it has transpired today”

(Deut.2:30)

Applying this text to this commentary, it would seem that there are times when our struggle has to fail in the face of obstacles so that our eventual rescue or redemption may be clearly seen as something which God alone could achieve for us. These are times when HaShem “sets His seal” on our lives clearly. 

 At such times, our apparent failure is merely a way to enhance our eventual joy. In this sense we have been treated as “servants” with a certain harsh subservience demanded of us- in order that we may “become children” at the end and simply jump for joy in our Father’s rescue. Often, though we have to act ourselves, there are times when our patience and hopefulness are actually the only action we can offer Him. Again the whole scenario reflects the balance of activity and passivity, but in this case our activity is “in the act of trusting” itself.

.......

Sometimes, contemplatives find themselves “stuck” at a stage on the journey and this is neither due to rebellion nor to an inability to see the signs of direction offered. Sometimes, we are in the grip of fear and have been paralysed by our spiritual “enemies”

The "enemies" which the contemplative is combating, those things which prevent the progress of the spiritual journey, are different for each person but they often have characteristics in common. They are often self-doubts or exaggerated notions of self importance (two poles of the same infirmity of self-absorption); or a fear of the future when the present is acting as a soporific; or a perennial dark night of faith in which Everything is called into question!

Parshas Devarim also tells us not to fear those enemies if we are sure we are doing God’s will. In Deuteronomy 2:36 we are reminded:

“You shall not fear them

For HaShem your God, He it is that fights for you.”

This is one of the many verses in the Parshah that demonstrates the balance between hishtadlus and bitachon as it is quite clearly our active combat that is described as the action of God. It is clearly a process with an “upward” and a “downward” flow whose dynamism is never one-sided. The verse may be telling us that “when we are doing God’s will” to the best of our knowledge and ability, our success will come directly from the Strength of God within us.

But how can we be sure that we are doing God’s will?

This brings me to next thread of advice for contemplatives which seems to run through both the Torah reading and the Haftarah. It is the notion that obedience and authority have an undisputed role to play in the way in which we progress on the contemplative/mystical journey. Once again it is a matter of balancing activity and passivity.

The “child” in us sometimes craves instruction and infused knowledge;

But it may also insist that its own opinion is “the right one” before it has acquired discernment or wisdom.

The “soldier-servant” in us recognises the honour of duty and the value of obedience- sometimes even blind obedience; But it also wants to win by its own prowess and develop pride in its conquests.

The “child” in us may want to use intuition

The “servant” may choose to be commanded

The “child” may demand its own way

The “servant” may lack initiative.

The “child” may burst with love but can also burst in spiteful rage.

The “servant” may lack creativity, but may also be an effective tool in the hands of the Master.

Can you see from these few random examples how subtle a balance of the two we all need to be?

We can never exist as one without losing the other to some degree.

We need to order the two drives into some kind of functioning balance.

How is that done?

There is a short Psalm text which may serve to light the way for us:

In Psalm 8:3 we read:

“Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings

You have founded strength”

We begin as children who are ravenous for the attention of God

And mature as servants who have developed the strength to give Him all our attention.

We begin with our own childlike intuitions and reflections

And mature by checking them alongside the words of our Sages.

We begin with an outburst of childlike love for our God

And mature by showing our love in practical action by observing the mitzvot more deeply.

We begin with childlike attempts to crawl and scramble up Sinai’s contemplative slopes

And mature by realising that we were lifted into the cleft of the rock by God’s Hand (and not by any effort or merit of our own) all along.

The Parshah tells us: “I took the heads of the tribes, wise men and full of knowledge, and made them heads over you.” (Deut. 1:15). The Haftarah reminds us: “If you become willing and obedient, you shall eat of the land” (Isaiah 1:19) and “I will restore your judges as at the first and your counsellors as at the beginning” (Isaiah 1:26)

It is a subtle balance of activity and passivity;

Of communal obedience and personal creativity;

Of individuality and conformity;

Of receptive waiting and humble action.

Our obedience makes us strong as good soldiers so that we may be as loving as good children.

Our simple childlike trust makes us want to fight for ourselves when we are given a Divine Challenge.

And the bottom line?

Well, the ultimate test of whether or not we are “doing what God wants of us” is also given in the Haftarah:

“Seek Justice, relieve the oppressed, Judge the fatherless, plead for the widow.”

(Isaiah 1:17)

And each one of them can be done in our prayers as well as in our social interactions.

.....

May we know when to act and when to wait;

When to reject and when to accept;

When to lead and when to follow;

When to be children and when to be soldier-servants;

May we learn to balance hishtadlus and bitachon in our lives

So that the work and prayers of Israel-

May be as the Work of His Hand and the Thoughts of His Heart.

N R Davies

Aug 1 2011

The Jewish Retreat Centre- Our Interior Sanctuary (March 2011)

Parshas Tzav contains the instructions for the consecration procedures for the nation's priests, and includes the description of a seven day retreat. Though it is a retreat which was originally related to priestly ordination, it can provide all Jews with a beautiful model for our own formal retreats (either alone or at Jewish retreat centres) or for our solitary contemplative prayer periods.

I live in Spain and at the time of writing there is not one single “Jewish retreat centre” in the whole of Europe. I don’t think that this necessarily implies we Jews of Europe are an “unspiritual” lot. Like many Jews the world over, we appreciate the value of “time out” to face our God in private periods of retreat- but as yet there is no chain of specially dedicated venues such as those which an American Jew might check into.

There is, however, one obvious “venue” to which we can all have recourse, and that is the retreat centre which we create (or discover) in our own souls. It is the “Retreat Centre” which is provided by God whose name is Ha Makom: the only true venue. We can encounter that “Place” simply by finding or creating a little solitude in our lives. That kind of solitude (hitbodedut) is something we create in time and space by choosing to. 

It might be encountered in a few hours walking in a wood or a park. It might be found during a weekend alone in a hotel room. It might approach us in a day trip out of our normal activities, or in an hour sitting alone away from anyone who knows us or notices us. It may also be found by living ( physically and temporally) as I do at the moment, with the breath of silence and the cloud of unknowing for company almost every minute of every day.

The “Spiritual retreat” which is mentioned in Parshas Tzav is described as follows:

“And you shall not go out from the door of the Tent of Meeting in seven days, until the days of your consecration are completed; for seven days shall He consecrate you.... Therefore you shall remain at the door of the Tent of Meeting day and night seven days, and keep the charge of the Lord, that you die not; for so I am commanded....So Aaron and his sons did all things which the Lord commanded by the hand of Moses.”

(Leviticus 8:33-36)

One of the most detailed expositions of “secluded retreat” in Judaism is to be found in the Sefer HaMaspik l’Ovdei HaShem (Guide to Serving God) written by R.Avraham ben Maimon (1186-1237) who is sometimes known as Avraham ben HaRambam (after his illustrious father R.Moses Maimonides). The twenty third chapter of this work outlines the major examples of secluded retreat in the Bible and proposes that they are the model both for a long term retreat and for the hours of secluded meditation (hitbodedut) in the life of a contemplative Jew. In his introduction to this work, S. Rosenblatt gives a useful summary of R.Avraham’s thought in Chapter twenty-three as follows:

“There is a complete kind of external solitude, such as retirement to the desert or the mountains, and an incomplete kind such as secluding oneself in a house. It may last either for a while only or for a long time, but it can’t be life-long. Enoch, Abraham,Isaac,Jacob,Moses, the generation of the wilderness, Elijah, Elisha, Balaam and other prophets practiced complete external solitude in deserts for various lengths of time and attained their perfection in that way. Seclusion in houses or places of worship was a habit first adopted by Jacob. Joshua, Samuel, Elijah, and Elisha are also known to have followed it. Aaron and his sons and the high priests were ordered by God to remain in the Temple for certain periods of time.”

(“Highways to Perfection of Abraham Maimonides” trans: Samuel Goldblatt p.29)

R. Avraham ben Maimon explains the connection between external and internal retreat as follows:

“...the purpose of the desire for outward retreat is to realise inward retreat, through which one can realize the benefit – the prophetic Encounter- or something similar to it......

The intimate ones – the prophets, their disciples, and the chasidim – would practice retreat in the Temple which contains the burnt offering altar and the incense altar.....”

(“Guide to Serving God” R.Avraham ben HaRambam trans: R.Yaakov Wincelberg p.513)

We ourselves are not temple priests nor do we have access to the historical Sanctuary. We can make our offerings on an interior altar because our true “Retreat Centre” is the Mishkan in our heart. Our own practice of “inward retreat” is not limited by place or by situation.

The “external retreat” which nurtures such a state of mind (or soul) is however greatly assisted by physical and temporal seclusion. But it doesn’t come without its conflicts, its trials or its constraints. When we go “on a retreat” we are not just hoping to meet God, we are also coming to terms with our own selves. A “spiritual retreat” is a step towards the “Encounter” with God but it involves a certain amount of personal introspection. This is not self-observation for its own sake. Nor is it self-examination in order to reach a state of perfection. It is just a chance to examine our responses to God frankly and critically. The danger is that we might overdo it and become obsessive about our own ego... this can produce either pride or self criticism to the point of despair. We may feel we arrived long ago and know “it” already, or we may feel we should give up because we are failing to “make contact”. Both could well be misjudgements born of exaggerated self importance .

Whether we are living in permanent retreat or just entering into that state periodically, whether we live in secluded silence at all times or practice this form of seclusion only in our daily contemplation periods, we will always face these two very private and tenacious challenges: How to avoid religious self-righteouness on the one hand and how to avoid excessive self-abasement on the other. The former leads to pseudo-spirituality where religion masks a delusion, and the latter is an expression of religious despair brought about by the awareness of an “absence” of God and our our own inadequacies and failings in attempting to “discover” and obey Him.

The necessary balancing out of these two extremes is is beautifully encapsulated in the saying attributed to R. Simchah Bunam (1765-1827):

“Everyone must have two pockets, with a note in each pocket, so that he or she can reach into the one or the other, depending on the need.  

When feeling lowly and depressed, discouraged or disconsolate, one should reach into the right pocket, and, there, find the words: For my sake was the world created. 

But when feeling high and mighty one should reach into the left pocket, and find the words: "I am but dust and ashes."

( Quoted at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Simcha_Bunim_of_Peshischa )

Parshas Tzav describes the first communal retreat within an enclosure. The priests were to stay on duty at the door of the Tent of Meeting the entire time and not to engage in secular activity at all. Applying this to ourselves and our own retreats: We are enjoined to make prayer (being at the Tent door) our principal activity and advised to avoid all distraction (staying in one place) for the duration of our period of separation.

We are also given a “seven day period” as an example for the ideal length of such a retreat. This is both a way to avoid the sensation of having settled into a retreat only to have to leave before one is “done”, as well as being a way to encourage a little perseverance in endurance. So often weekend retreats are too short to be effective. So often they are only sufficient to induce a mere spiritual high, a transient phenomenon which does not last for more than a few hours after returning to “normal” life. In a seven day silent retreat of some intensity it is possible to transcend the “high” period and arrive at a state of questioning which often opens the door to real and lasting progress.

This is not to say that a weekend retreat cannot be effective. Duration is ultimately insignificant as it is the quality of the “moment” that counts , nor does it deny that some of us may need much longer than just seven days to reach the plateau where “testing” can begin. (Forty day retreats come highly recommended for such people!) Nor should we forget that every observant Jew attends a “spiritual retreat” every week through the observance of the Sabbath. It is true to say that Shabbat has both a spiritual and a communal element, but if ever there was a period of time worthy of the name “retreat”, that term should certainly apply to the twenty-four hour period of Shabbos which releases us from the weekday yoke of the “secular” world and its business.

In this context, it is significant that the retreat in Parshas Tzav is not a solitary retreat like that of Moses or Elijah, but it is one which is undergone in the presence of others making the same journey as ourselves. No doubt the candidates for the priesthood will have spent some of their time discussing and studying together. Or perhaps not? Their presence at the door of the “Tent of Meeting”- in such a very Holy place- might have meant that they were commanded to be engaged in reflection all of the time during those seven days. But they were not in individual isolation. They will have felt the comradeship of their peers and they will have been able to gain strength from the fact that the seven days were spent with the support of an inner community. This is especially relevant for those of us who undergo solitary retreats in silence which are shared experiences. There are times when we really do need total solitude in order to make a good retreat...but I would heartily vouch for the effectiveness of silent retreats which are shared with other silent retreatants. The silence in no way interferes with the sense of comradeship, and the comradeship felt can be a source of perseverance for the ones in silent contemplation.

What is it about being a contemplative or a “mystic” that presents the Jew (in particular) with a perilous situation with regard to pride and self esteem?

When one is engaged in a spiritual journey, there is a tendency to feel that one is doing something “special”. This feeling is an enormous trap for Jews as our texts so often portray the mystical journey as something dangerous and cosmically momentous. One engaged in a kabbalistic or contemplative form of tikkun may so easily become excited by the notion that they are adventurers, or pioneers, or (even) spiritual pirates. This might sound far-fetched, but anyone reading the Zohar or the Merkavah texts can see that the danger is there, already written into the route-map by hyperbole, highly dramatic visualisation and a sort of flirting with the language of manipulative magic. This is not to say that the journey is not momentous. It is. It is way beyond our wildest imaginings or our incompetent human comprehension. But in a religion which spends most of its time being concerned with the ethical and the practical- with tasks to be achieved and deeds to be done- it must be said that those who choose to follow the mystical tradition can easily become deluded in over-estimating their self-importance. This refers to both comprehension and function.

On a short retreat, one who does not normally “dwell in marble halls”, may well experience transient states of altered awareness or moments of epiphany in technicolour. One really has to keep these very much in perspective, for they are not the main-course. (For some of us they are a tiny aperitif which we wish were more substantial, for others they are like a mega-calorific dessert which we can’t wait to try. We would always be advised, however, to eat sensibly. Spiritual indigestion is no joke.)

I said that the contemplative task is beyond our wildest imaginings or our incompetent comprehension. Once we acknowledge the former for what they are, we are encouraged to pay little heed to their purely imagined sensations, and as long as we hold the latter firmly in view, we will hold to the truth that we really know nothing in depth or at its root at all.

Haftaras Tzav tells us:

Let not the wise glory in their wisdom,

Nor the mighty in their strength

Nor the wealthy in their riches

(after Jeremiah 9:22)

A contemplative ought to know that “possessions” (whether they are physical or spiritual) are often a trap. We value what we are given and we are grateful for our livelihood, but we also remember that to “spend money on what is not bread” and to hoard spiritual attainment or prowess as though it were a badge of honour or a crown to wear is not compatible with the command to Love God with ALL our heart and strength and wealth. Haftaras Tzav continues to advise us:

“Let them glory in this:

That they understand and know me:

That I am the Lord

who exercises Mercy, Justice, and Righteousness on the earth.”

(after Jeremiah 9: 23)

We cannot ever really understand God, and we can only “know” Him to a certain extent...but we can see his back if He allows it. His attributes of Mercy (Chesed), Justice (Mishpat), and Righteousness(Tz’daka) are the “things” we are invited to glory in and they are God’s possessions, not ours.

Whether we are engaged in a short period of retreat or in an extended and full time period of solitary observance- this is a wonderful theme for how to make a retreat effective. Our primary focus should be on our God, but when we do come to consider our selves....we should do so by examining how well we reflect or embody these three attributes. This way we are not extolling our possessions-our spiritual, academic, or status achievements and attainments- but we are examining our effectiveness as God’s servants.

And this is where the second challenge begins to emerge.

When we do come to make such a self analysis, we can so easily fall down into the despair of being over-critical of ourselves and actually end up emerging from a “retreat” in shattered ruins. No use to ourselves and certainly no use to our God.

How do we avoid this?

Actually, the answer is principally the same as for spiritual pride: That we should make sure that we try to see things, as it were, from God’s perspective. We are told countless times that His Mercy is “for ever”, that His long-suffering Patience and Compassion are “boundless”. We actually have a duty to make our faith in this concept real and not just a declaration we make when davening but which we don’t live out in practice. The way out of the maze is simple: Trust Him, not yourself.

We should pray:

“Do not deliver me up to the will of my tormentors,

For false witnesses have risen up against me,

And they breathe violence”

(Psalm 27:12)

Though the voices of self-criticism can be our guides to humility and offer us paths to spiritual progress and better service, they can easily rise to a strident pitch and cause a panic which pushes us over a cliff into desperation. I know people who have been forced out of the doors of retreat centres by those internal “voices”, and they are real but they are also delusion. When we criticise ourselves too much we are actually just falling into the trap of a disguised form of pride again. What we are really doing is declaring that we WE are not as perfect as we want to be. (These are not original observations, though I can vouch for them personally. You can find these statements in most Jewish works of Mussar, and countless text proofs in our Scriptures. But oddly enough that doesn’t stop us from ignoring the truth these ideas contain, so I am not apologising for repeating them here yet another time for you. We need reminding.)

The test of a good retreat, I would suggest, is that what one learns during the period of prayer and reflection is translated into a long lasting and persevering practice once one leaves the “sanctuary complex”. Do we continue to perform that mitzvah we promised? Do we actually improve our personal relationship with the one we had offended? Do we maintain our newly found attitude in tangible practice or was it just a superficial “teshuvah moment” born of hormonal and emotional bio-chemistry?

In Parshas Tzav we read that when a priest leaves the sanctuary to dispose of the sacrificial ashes outside the camp, he is to change into secular clothes. (You can read this in Leviticus 6:6.)

My suggestion is that one who makes a “good retreat” should never leave the sanctuary in his heart, even though engaged in what might appear to be secular activity. In this sense, there is no need to “remove the sacred clothing” because one will always be internally on duty in the sanctuary.. I would relate this idea to the concept of the tallit gadol (worn during liturgical prayer) in relation to the tallit katan (worn during everyday business). They are actually the same garment being used in different ways. Jews are never “off duty”.

If one is linked to the world of the Sanctuary (as far as is possible) even when physically engaged in secular activities one is truly “at the door of the Tent of Meeting” because that is a place which can be said to exist on a threshold between both the sacred and the secular; also  between the solitary and the communal. If one of the priests were to stand there they would have the choice to face inward to the sanctuary or outward beyond the Sanctuary complex. It is sometimes up to us which one of those two we make it: sometimes looking inward in prayer, sometimes looking outward in interpersonal and social action. If we have our eyes wide open, we will see that though the activities of each “realm” may seem separate, we can make them one. I would go so far as to suggest that, for a Jewish Contemplative, it should ideally be possible to face the sanctuary and yet “bear the world on one’s shoulders” (see Exod. 28:6-12) just as it is possible to face the world “with the Sanctuary in one’s heart”.

Whatever we do, if we have made “a good retreat”, even when we are simply referring to our daily hitbodedut ... we will remember that “the fire on the altar shall be kept burning continually” (Leviticus 6:6). Not just when we are “inside the Tent of Meeting” but also when we appear to be far from its activity. Not just when we are experiencing a moment of spiritual intensity (whether that be "on a high" or "in a low") but continually.

Though we may have left the external “Retreat Centre” or “Sanctuary” behind us-- that flame is meant to burn on the altar in our heart perpetually. Wherever we are.

Norman R. Davies

10th March 2011

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