Our Parasha is the last of the Book of Genesis. The death of Yaacov represents the end of an era. With his demise, the patriarchal age ends, and a new generation begins. This event takes place at the end, literally as well as ideologically. Yaakov felt that it was then suitable to reveal to his children what awaits them and their descendants in the future. The Verse says: “And Yaakov called his sons and said ‘Gather, and I will tell you, what will happen to you in the end of days …” [Genesis 49:1-3]. When Yaakov gathers his children, his stated intention is to inform them of events in the future. But, instead, he blesses them. It seems that when this revelation is about to take place, Yaakov’s clairvoyance eludes him, and this frightens him. The Talmud [Pesachim 56a] describes the scene: “Yaakov wished to reveal the ketz, the end of days to his children, but the Shechinah [Hashem’s Spirit] left him. He said, “Perhaps there is an inadequacy in my bed [offspring] like Avraham who fathered Ishmael, or my father Yitzchak who fathered Eisav.” The Talmud connects Yaakov’s fear with the errant offspring of his father and grandfather. Why should Yaakov have expected that his children would be greater than his revolutionary grandfather’s or his saintly father’s? If Avraham could father an Ishmael, and Yitzchak could father an Eisav, why would Yaakov expect that his own “bed be complete”? This question is closely related to the Kabbalistic discussion of the three patriarchs, the Avoth. Why were there three, and not two, or for that matter six? What delineates the era of the patriarchs, which comes to an end in this Torah portion? Avraham, Yitzchak and Yaakov were not merely three highly accomplished spiritual individuals, They formed a dynasty, in Hebrew shalsheleth, which root is shalosh meaning three. The Zohar explains that each of the three patriarchs imprinted a different spiritual feature in the world, each becoming one of the three pillars necessary to support the establishment of the nation. Avraham is identified with Chesed “kindness.” Yitzchak is identified with Gevurah and din “strength and justice.” Yaakov is identified with the merging of the above features – tifereth or “Mercy.” Basically, the patriarchs represent; thesis, antithesis, and synthesis. Once synthesis is achieved, the nation can emerge. There is, however, another side to this coin, for in addition to the synthesis, another philosophical thread is woven through our history. Avraham also fathered Ishmael, who according to the Sages represented the counterfeit of his father. Instead of truly emulating Avraham, Ishmael imitated his father in a superficial and external manner. The main trait of kindness is giving, but even such an exalted gesture can have counterfeit applications. The act of giving is Godly, but it too must have its boundaries. Unlimited giving can be insidious and can lead to immorality and sexual licentiousness. Thus, even giving must be governed by some type of moral system. Herein lies the Sages indictment of Ishmael – the eldest son of Avraham made cynical use of his father’s teachings. If Avraham taught the idea of love, Ishmael taught “free love.” If Avraham taught that we should love our neighbors as ourselves, then Ishmael taught that we should love our neighbors’ wives or husbands or their possessions. The counterfeit of kindness – or, in the language of the mystics, the klipat chesed – was sexual immorality and theft. Yitzchak endeavored to create a spiritual balance to his father’s kindness. His greatness lay in his strength, a second aspect of Hashem’s attribute. The Jewish teachings regarding strength are encapsulated in the words of the Sages [Avos 4:2]: “Who is considered strong? He who controls his desires.” As Hashem controls His infinity to create a finite world, man must control himself, and a beautiful world will emerge. The counterfeit is the misuse of strength and justice to control and subdue others. The counterfeiter’s rationales emerge from a feeling of superiority, just as every dictator, which believes that it is in the people’s best interest to be led by him. Those refusing must be eradicated even if it means committing bloodshed. This was Eisav’s forte, as Rashi [25:25] explains: “He was red, this is a sign that he will spill blood.” Eisav, like his uncle Ishmael, was superficial. He did not follow his father’s teachings. He twisted the idea of strength into a mandate to control, and ultimately to take life. The fact that Eisav took wives from the daughters of Ishmael should come as no surprise. These two had more in common than mere ancestry, and the result was the combination of their negative forces. Yaakov, on the other hand, internalized the positive aspects of the teachings of Avraham and Yitzchak, to become the third pillar, Mercy. This trait which is a combination of those of Avraham and Yitzchak is a harmonious synthesis to run the world with. Therefore, at that point Yaakov’s bed should be complete as Mercy is the highest level attainable in this world and all the tribes should be perfect. This is the reason he wondered if any of them was less than perfect. They replied by saying “Shema Yisrael” which is the cry of faith by which we identify our oneness with Hashem. Hereafter is a beautiful story that relates that message: Reb Kopel earned a living by purchasing barrels of vodka and beer from the local distillers and selling his wares to the taverns in and around his native village of Likova. It was not an easy life, with the heavy taxes exerted by the government and the hostile environment facing a Jew in 18th-century Europe. Yet his faith and optimism never faltered. Each year, on the morning before Passover, Reb Kopel would sell his chametz to one of his gentile neighbors. Chametz is “leaven” — a category that includes bread but also all food or drink made with fermented grain. The Torah commands the Jew that absolutely “no leaven shall be found in your possession” for the duration of the Passover festival, in commemoration of the leaven-free Exodus from Egypt. In the weeks before the festival, the Jewish home is emptied and scrubbed clean of chametz; on the night before Passover, a solemn candle-lit search is conducted for every last breadcrumb hiding between the floorboards. By the next morning, all remaining household chametz is eaten, burnt or otherwise disposed of. What about someone like Reb Kopel who deals in leavened foods and has a warehouse full of chametz? For such cases (and for anyone who has chametz they don’t want to dispose of) the rabbis instituted the practice of selling one’s chametz to a non-Jew. Reb Kopel’s neighbors were familiar with the annual ritual. The Jewish liquor dealer would draw up a legally-binding contract with one of them, in which he sells all the contents of his warehouse for a sum equal to their true value. Only a small part of the sum actually changed hands; the balance was written up as an I.O.U. from the purchaser to the seller. After Passover, Reb Kopel would be back, this time to buy back the chametz and return the I.O.U. The purchaser got a tip for his trouble — usually in the form of a generous sampling of the merchandise that had been legally his for eight days and a few hours. One year, someone in Likova came up with a novel idea: what if they all refused to buy the Jew’s vodka? In that case he would have to get rid of it. Why suffice with a bottle or two when they could have it all? When Reb Kopel knocked on a neighbor’s door on the morning of Passover eve, Ivan politely declined to conduct the familiar transaction. Puzzled, he tried another cottage further down the road. It did not take long for him to realize the trap that his gentile neighbors had laid for him. The deadline for getting rid of chametz — an hour before midday — was quickly approaching. There was no time to travel to the next village to find a non-Jewish purchaser. Reb Kopel did not hesitate for a minute. Quickly he emptied the wooden shack behind his house that served as his warehouse. Loading his barrels of chametz on his wagon, he headed down to the river. As his neighbors watched gleefully from a distance, he set them on the riverbank. In a loud voice he announced: “I hereby renounce any claim I have on this property! I proclaim these barrels ownerless, free for the talking for all!” He then rode back home to prepare for the festival. That night, Reb Kopel sat down to the Seder with a joyous heart. When he recited from his Haggadah, “Why do we eat this unleavened bread? Because the dough of our fathers did not have time to become leavened before Hashem revealed Himself to them and redeemed them,” he savored the taste of each word in his mouth. All his capital had been invested in those barrels of vodka and beer; indeed, much of it had been bought on credit. He was now penniless, and the future held only the prospect of many years of crushing debt. But his heart was as light and bright as a songbird. He had not a drop of chametz in his possession! For once in his life, he had been given the opportunity to truly demonstrate his love and loyalty to Hashem. He had removed all leaven from his possession, as Hashem had commanded him. Of course, he had fulfilled many mitzvot in his lifetime, but never at such a cost — none as precious — as this one! The eight days of Passover passed for Reb Kopel in a state of ecstatic joy. Then the festival was over, and it was time to return to the real world. With thoughtful steps he headed to his warehouse to look through his papers and try to devise some plan to start his business anew. Clustered in the doorway he found a group of extremely disappointed gentiles. “Hey, Kopel!” one of them called, “I thought you were supposed to get rid of your vodka. What’s the point of announcing that it’s ‘free for the taking for all’ if you put those watchdogs there to guard it!” They all began speaking at once, so it took a while for Kopel to learn the details. For the entire duration of the festival, night and day round the clock, the barrels and casks on the riverbank were ringed by a pack of ferocious dogs who allowed no one to approach. Reb Kopel rode to the riverbank. There the barrels stood, untouched. But he made no move to load them on his wagon. “If I take them back,” he said to himself, “how will I ever know that I had indeed fully and sincerely relinquished my ownership over them before Passover? How could I ever be sure that I had truly fulfilled the mitzvah of removing chametz from my possession? No! I won’t give up my Mitzvah, or even allow the slightest shadow of a doubt to fall over it!” Under the bewildered eyes of his gentile’s town people, he rolled the barrels down the riverbank until they stood at the very brink of the water. He pulled out the gaskets and emptied them in the river. He waited until the last drop of vodka and beer had merged with the river. The gentiles were baffled by the commitment of the Jew to his principles and his faith. Is it necessary to finish the story? We all know what happens to a Jew who openly proves his unfaltering faith and who sanctifies publicly Hashem’s name. The reason is as the Midrash states, “Hashem does not reside in the world, rather the world resides in Hashem.” So, obviously, Rabbi Kopel was blessed with wealth, but the true blessing was that his daughter gave birth to the Seer of Lublin [1745 – 1815] who presided over the spread of Chassidism in Poland and Galicia; many of the great Chassidic masters of the time were his disciples.

By Rabbi Fridmann * [email protected] * 305.985.3461

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