We tend to judge our own actions favourably. Afterall, if others push you down or view you negatively, you might be your only advocate. If we don’t speak up for ourselves, our world might be very quiet, it becomes a matter of personal survival. Hillel teaches in Pirkei Ovos, that we shouldn’t believe in ourselves till the day we leave this world. How do we synthesise this idea with our need to boost ourselves when life gets us down, or when society pushes us away? We celebrate Yom Tov thinking that we would have always been on the winning side. We learn the weekly parasha and imagine ourselves on team Avrohom ,or team Moshe, instead of the eirev rav, the assimilated mixed multitudes or at the rear of the camp who were rejected by the Clouds of Glory. How do we really know? Maybe those nasty characters or those who rebelled are more like us than we feel comfortable admitting!
The Baalei Musar encourage us to reflect on the fact that every life is a work in progress that can only be fully evaluated once it has been lived. We must not be overly complacent that we have made it; instead, we must constantly strive to improve. Hillel’s statement though is often corrupted and twisted. Instead of hearing a personal message, it is used as a lens to view others. At times, we create a situation in which we are unsure of everyone (sometimes with the notable exception of ourselves) until the day they die. Apart from a small clique that are approved of, the rest remain on the other side of the metaphorical river. This is the perfect recipe for a cynical society where all relationships are mere provisional means, since we can never really know what is going on in the heart of the other. This type of society is doomed to its own self-fulfilling prophecies. Such a society is not one where anyone, would like to live.
When Avrohom negotiates with Efron for Maaras Ha’machpela the Torah alludes to Efron’s lack of sincerity but omitting the vov in his name. Rashi comments: “The name Ephron is written defectively without the vov, to indicate that there was something missing in Ephron namely, sincerity — because he promised much but did not do even the very least” (Bava Metzia 87a).
The origin of the word sincere is disputed, although popular etymology has it coming from Latin for 'without wax.' Sine "without" and cera "wax." Some think that marble workers would cover imperfections in the stone with wax, much as unscrupulous antique dealers might rub wax to hide a scratch in wood. Alternatively, since cement was more expensive than wax, there are stories that unprincipled bricklayers would sometimes employ wax instead of cement. When the wax melted, bricks could shift and structures collapse. So, the claim that something was "sine cera," or without wax, would be an important guarantee. We always learn that Efron is the wicked character in this story. Yet I wonder how often we talk up what we intend to do, only to fail to deliver. Of course, when we do it, we have valid reasons or so we like to claim. The characters that the Ovos Ha’kedoshim engage with, should not be viewed as foils for the Tzadikim; rather they are there for us. We have to sincerely carry out a cheshbon Hanefesh to consider if we would truly be a talmid of Avrohom or Efron.
Either of the two suggested etymologies for the English word sincere highlight a challenge that we all face in our avodas Hashem. When we ask a person what they do, the implication is that I want to know what job they have. For a Jew what we do , is being Jewish, or living in a relationship with Hakadosh Baruch Hu. This is no job, this is our essence. As such there is a huge difference between those living with Hashem and those who chas veshalom do not.
A craftsperson, for example, is not expected to be anything other than proficient at his task. We do not care if he is a gossip or a deep thinker. It is enough that he can construct a chair or build a bench. We may question why the beauty of one endeavour does not translate into another, but these thoughts we keep to ourselves. However, with a person who represents Torah, we expect that the Torah knowledge would refine their character and would morally enrich the one who possesses it. We expect that an eved Hashem {N.B. I don’t like the word frum} would embody virtue. We are taken aback when such a person, can quote Chazal but their character seems untouched by what they have learnt.
In explaining our journey back to our pure inner selves the mashgiach Rav Klein teaches:
A dry, intellectual understanding of the importance of Judaism and the value of a life spent a serving Hashem cannot itself put a person in touch with the purity of their neshomo. Although the Torah enjoins us to engage with Torah and Hashem on an intellectual level, the avodah of V'yadata hayom, "You shall know, today," is, alone, not enough. In order to truly get in touch with avodas Hashem in the ultimate manner, a second, vital, condition: v'hasheivosa el livavecha, "and you shall draw it down to your heart" in needed. A person can fall into spiritually vile places, experiencing doubts, negative thoughts, and tremendous confusion. But if while evaluating himself and his great distance Hashem, he begins to ask Ayeh mekom kevodo, "Where is the place of His glory"? - for he recognises that he has fallen so far into such places, this is the foundation of his tikkun and spiritual ascent."
Asking "Where am I?" starts the journey back to our real selves.
Rebbe Nachman is teaching us a tremendous rule in avodas Hashem: An error never results in the termination of our holy mission. We may fall, yet we never shatter; our light may be dimmed, but it is never extinguished. When we wake from our spiritual slumber and behold the devastation around us, our first question should never be “Who have I become?" In order for us to heal, we must instead ask "Where in the world am I?” lamenting our current state.
Reb Tzadok adds:
The same way one needs to believe in Hashem, so too must he afterward believe in himself; that Hashem has an interest in him and that he is not toiling for naught."
In Sichos Haran, Rebbe Nachman draws a vital distinction between a broken heart and debilitating sadness. In the strongest terms, the tzaddik stresses that they are not the same thing at all – while a broken heart is "beloved to Hashem and extremely
precious in His eyes," sadness is "from the Side of Impurity and is hated by Hashem
So how do we know if we are a Talmid of Avrohom or Efron? It’s obvious, Yidden have pure neshomos, when we fall we get back up, mistakes happen but they don’t define who we are. A Yid could never be truly an Efron. We are and continue to be bnei Avrohom, learning from him and trying hard to emulate his ways.
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