Rav Chaim Lifshitz

Essays and Articles:

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 Translated from Hebrew by S. NAthan

l'ilui nishmat Esther bat mordechai

      “How have you lived so long?” someone asked a scientist who was well into his nineties. “I picked the right parents,” was his curt reply. When Chazal were asked a similar question, each one answered by referring to the unique character trait that he had labored over, and the specific mitzvos of the Torah in which he had stringently and unstintingly invested. From their responses, it becomes clear that Jewish life expectancy does not parallel biological life expectancy.

      When the Chofetz Chaim was asked about a potential bridegroom who had a history of illness, by a prospective father-in-law who feared his daughter’s becoming a young widow were he to accept the young man as his son-in-law, he replied that if a person was ill it did not necessarily mean he was doomed to a short lifespan. This “sickly” bridegroom actually merited considerable longevity, and passed away through mitas neshikah, “God’s own kiss,” his head bent over the Gemara he was studying, having just asked his rebbetzin if he might have a quick cup of coffee before running off to give his regular shiur at the yeshiva. An elder of elders among roshei yeshivos, this was the gaon Rav Isser Zalman Meltzer zatsa”l, in whose lap I grew up, and with whom I spent many years of my youth, and I do not recall him as being bedridden.

      In our own time as well, we have Torah giants who are known for extreme longevity, who are now well into their nineties, and the vitality and vigor of their leadership does not wane, while their mental alertness is of a perfection that surpasses perfection, and signs that their Torah learning is slowing down are nowhere in sight. The weight of the biological burden does not bear down on them more heavily with every passing year. Regularity of Torah study is the most blatant feature of their behavior; biological process seems to have skipped over them.

      One can discover this principle in the words of Chazal: “ ‘And Sarah’s life was one hundred years and twenty years and seven years.’ ‘G-d knows the days of the temimim, the whole and perfect people, and their lot is forever.’ Just as they are whole and perfect, so their years are whole and perfect. When she was twenty years old, she was as seven years old for beauty, and when she was one hundred years old, she was as twenty years old for sin.” (Bereishis Raba 58) In Midrash Hagodol, we read: “And so you find with our mother, Sarah. When she was one hundred years old, she was as twenty years old for strength, and when she was twenty years old, she was as seven years old for modesty and purity. And when she was twenty years old, she was as one hundred years old for righteousness – to teach you that the one hundred weighed like the twenty and like the seven, and the seven weighed like the twenty, and the twenty like the hundred.”

      “Avraham was old.” On this pasuk, the Gemara says in Sanhedrin 103b: “Whoever would see Avraham would say, ‘There’s Yitzchak.’ Whoever would see Yitzchak, would say, ‘There’s Avraham.’ Avraham requested that G-d should mercifully grant him oldness, as it says, “Avraham was old, getting on in years.” From this Gemara in Sanhedrin it may be learned that hoary and aged characteristics had not been visible in elderly people, and that their appearance had resembled that of young people. That is to say, biological process did not affect them.

      People commonly say, in response to this fact noted by Chazal, that yes, perhaps it was so in the ancient era, but not in our own days. Yet this is not so. In our own days as well, and throughout all of history, there have been Torah giants to whom the biological cycle or biological processes did not apply. Where does their secret lie?

      Here is another important distinction that points to a related phenomenon: A Jewish community living for many generations among people of other cultures, will not absorb the character of the surrounding cultures, so long as the Jewish community exists within the protective bubble of Torah and mitzvos. The moment the Jewish group begins to abandon this protective bubble – of exclusive preoccupation with Torah and mitzvos – one can immediately discern the indicators of the surrounding culture within the Jewish community. This is what befell the later Spanish Diaspora and the Ashkenazic communities. In contrast, the Jews of Lithuania, who lived in the protective bubble of a life of Torah and mitzvos, produced world-class Torah giants out of their midst over the course of many generations, and were separated from the cultural life created by the environment to the point of ignoring even the language of the land in which they lived. Rare indeed were the Torah scholars who were proficient in the local language. (See Rav Weinberg’s Sridei Eish, cheilek daled, where he views this phenomenon as problematic because of the practical limitations it created.) According to what has been said above, it would appear that this practice was followed on principle, in order to distance Jewish society from the danger of assimilation into non-Jewish society, and this had the effect of intensifying their involvement in Torah.

      Yet this was not the case during the early period of the enlightened Spanish Diaspora, which during the Middle Ages raised world-class Torah giants so great that one may say that were it not for them, Torah culture would not have continued into our own day. Though this flourishing was due in no small measure to anti-Semitism, still it was certainly not the whole cause. Something caused the Jews to enclose themselves within their own reality and to develop their own unique culture.

      What is the segulah, the uniquely characteristic feature of Torah that enables it to so effectively overcome biological and cultural processes? It would seem that this fact should be ascribed to the nature of the involvement in Torah and mitzvos, for such involvement is capable of encompassing the very life of the person so involved, for even his face becomes transformed, thanks to a way of life, and forms, and types of foods, and daily practices that penetrate deep into the details of existence: Kosher food; family purity; stringency as to cleanliness and scheduling, both daily and weekly; rising early to the study hall; taking care to avoid delay in krias shema; tefilah bizmanah, prayer in its proper time, and a family life anchored in principles of sanctity and proper interpersonal relationships, and furthermore and no less important: A structure – unique in proportions and in purity – of harmonious family life founded upon a chesed and devotion that have no equal on this planet. All of these contribute to a harmonious structure of eternal life.

      Yitzchak brought Rivka into his mother Sarah’s tent in order to discern her character as regards righteousness, good midos and a management of home economy and family life based solely upon devotion. Only when it became evident to him that indeed Rivka had those same principles that had characterized his mother Sarah – only then did he become convinced, only then did he love her as he had loved his mother, the tsadekes who had been perfect in both her awe of Heaven and in her goodness of midos – good midos that did not exist separately from the devotion that derives from awe of Heaven.

      In the Torah perspective on life, no separation exists between the life of the spirit and the life of the body, and the two are inextricably interwoven. “A man’s spirit will sustain his sickness, and who can bear a crippled spirit?” With this statement in Sefer Mishlei, the wisest of men hammers immutable nails into the principle of physical matter’s dependency upon the spirit. That is to say, the life of the body does not stand on its own, but is dependent on and supported by the life of the spirit, which is the essential one, and which even leads and determines the life of the body, rather than vice versa.

      The life of the spirit is not dependent on the life of the body. According to this principle, we may understand more clearly the rule brought in the Gemara: “Everything depends on mazel, except for common colds and minor ailments.” This means that only health’s minor pitfalls such as headaches or catching cold are dependent on a person’s efforts of hishtadlus, but not the serious, life-threatening illnesses. These come upon man as a decree from Heaven, and are not dependent on human efforts of hishtadlus.

      Neverthless, everyone relies on the fact that one has an obligation to invest effort and hishtadlus based on the pasuk commanding us to exercise maximum caution due to the imperative of pikuach nefesh, saving life. Apparently this imperative encompasses the entire spectrum of health that determines one’s life expectancy. We see from this that hishtadlus stands on its own, and is separate from life expectancy, which belongs to a different chapter, to another dimension of human existence.

      It should be pointed out that for the average person, who is not of the people of Israel, life expectancy is dependent on the measure of hishtadlus, on the consistent, logical application of the rules of medical research, yet such is not the case with the Jew, who is dependent mainly on the life of the spirit and on the level of his midos. This dependency is not simply one of the conditions of physical matter. Rather, it is a dependency that embraces heaven and earth, extending so far as to render ambiguous the obligation of hishtadlus for improving bodily conditions, whereas it is utterly decisive for a person who is not of Israel.

      This is true regarding issues of health, and it is true regarding all other issues as well. The issue of marriage for example: The question that should properly be asked is – why did Eliezer find it necessary to hang the whole issue of his matchmaking mission on specific signs of behavior that were dependent on an absolute perfection in the level of chesed? Should he not have relied upon and trusted his master Avraham, and inquired directly of Avraham’s family, as he had been commanded? “For only to my land and to my family shall you go.” It was premature at this stage to investigate: “If it will come to pass that the girl will say…” because at this stage such indicators would seem (from a superficial perspective) to be superfluous. Had he gone searching for the right girl for his master’s son directly to Betuel’s family, would he not have encountered Rivkah?

      However, the servant knew that he was required to exert himself somewhat, to invest in the exertions of hishtadlus in order to encounter his mazel. This is why “our forefathers’ servants’ casual conversation is more beautiful than the children’s Torah discourse,” because from the servants of our forefathers you learn not only important details, but the rules and principles that guide basic Jewish perception: If it is siyata dishmaya, Heavenly assistance that you desire, hasten and see to it that you take the first initiative. Only thus will you merit siyata dishmaya.

      This means that hishtadlus does not deal at all with the details of physical matter. Rather, it is indicated by taking initiative. In the merit of this initiative, you will be privileged to receive true and direct assistance from Heaven. If you despise your own initiative, this despising does not show excess bitachon in Hashem, but rather laziness and lack of interest. “Your shoe did not wear out on you these forty years,” not because of an unusually strong sole, but because of the inextricable bond and the absolute dependency of the physical condition upon the spiritual condition. Thus “make your will His will, so that He will make His will your will.” When the servant realized that it was the will of his master that he find a woman of high quality, he was required to exert himself and to invest effort over this, and only after this hishtadlus would he then be required to search for a woman who was a daughter of Avraham’s family.

      These things are true to this day. The search for the compatible woman is directed toward a compatible family, yet this alone is insufficient. “A man may not marry a woman until he has seen her.” Read that as – until he has investigated her personal virtues, before he investigates the virtue of her family origins. Personal yichus precedes family yichus, as indeed it should. From here we derive an additional rule, that one must not despise the matter of family yichus. However, one must first investigate as to whether personal yichus exists, and only afterwards investigate family yichus. However, we cannot learn from this that if a conflict exists between personal yichus and family yichus, one can ignore family yichus entirely, for this is of importance as well, as it says, “Each kind to its own kind.”

      Birthday Every kindergarten graduate knows what a birthday is: A celebration, birthday songs, a bouquet of flowers and most importantly, presents. Generally speaking, every mortal experiences such a private celebration once a year, identical in every way to the private celebration experienced by his friend across the street. At least once a year, everyone deserves some attention. Not that it would be a bad thing to get a little attention on the other days of the year, at least from one’s parents and teachers. Where does this peculiar practice derive, of making birthdays?

      In the Torah only one birthday is mentioned, “the birthday of Pharoah” in connection with Yosef Hatsadik. That king, as we know, was not of the children of Yaakov. For this reason, he asks Yaakov, who appears to him extremely old: “How many are the days of the years of your life?” Yaakov does not suffice with merely his number of years, and describes their content. “Few and bad have been the days of the years of my life.” “They have not reached to the days of the years of my fathers’ lives during the days of their dwelling,” to teach you that the number of years without the story of their content tells you nothing at all. The content is what is important.

      Birthdays do not derive from a Jewish source for a fundamental reason, of which we see only the tip of the iceberg in this dialogue between Yaakov and Pharoah, which is trying to tell us something. It is teaching us that the Jewish way of life is indicated by permanence. It does not symbolize the fluid process of passing time. Rather, the past stands on its own, and the future stands on its own. The future is not determined by the past, as its continuity and as its inevitable process. Rather both of them, both past and future are determined individually as separate units, according to the value-driven principles to be found within them.

      It is these alone that determine their value. Time that passes out of an autonomous process has no value and is not worth counting. It is only out of the value that exists within the times that something worth counting can emerge, such as Shmita and Yovel, which are bound up with mitzvos, or any of the other way-stations of time affixed by Chazal: “Eighteen years old for the wedding canopy,” etc.