Barefoot Beasts

ESSAY:
Barefoot Beasts
Three breeds of materiality
Eight Times Eight
What happens when the credo of the week is postponed for three weeks running?

All who walk on their paws among the four-legged animals, those are unclean for you

On several occasions, our sages emphasize the importance of placing a protective barrier between one’s feet and the ground. “A person should sell the roof-beams of his home,” they enjoin, “in order to buy shoes for his feet.”[1] They go so far as to count one who walks barefoot among “those who are shunned by G-d.”[2]

Chassidic teaching speaks of an equally critical need for spiritual shoes—for a shield between the person and the “earth.” To walk barefoot through life—to allow full, unmitigated contact between oneself and the mundanity and materiality of our world—is deleterious to our mission and role as a “holy people” whose lives are driven by higher, loftier aspirations.

(On the other hand, we invite and insist upon uninhibited contact with “holy ground”—with those areas and aspects of the material world which openly display their divine source and purpose. Thus, when G-d appeared to Moses in the burning bush, He instructed: “Remove your shoes from your feet, for the place on which you stand is holy ground.”[3] By the same token, the kohanim serving in the Holy Temple went barefoot; in fact, a service performed by a kohen with even the slightest barrier between his feet and the ground was invalid.[4])

The Torah’s repudiation of barefootedness extends to the animal kingdom as well: only hoofed animals are kosher, “fit” for consumption for the Jew. Animals who “walk on their paws” with no “shoe” between the soles of their feet and the ground are excluded from our diet, for this anatomical feature reflects a nature and characteristic we should avoid ingesting into ourselves.[5]

The Zohar tells us that “There are three [internal] governors [in man]: the brain, the heart and the liver.”[6] The brain is the seat of the intellect; the heart, of the emotions and character; and the liver, the most complex and important of the metabolic organs, represents the physical self.[7]

Of the thousands of species of animals who “walk on their paws,” Rashi cites three examples: the dog, the bear and the cat. For just as there are three basic dimensions to man, so there are three basic types of materiality—intellectual materiality, emotional materiality and physical materiality—represented by these three hoofless beasts.

The Talmud notes that “A dog acknowledges its master; a cat does not acknowledge its master.”[8] In contrast, the cat is cited for its refinement and positive traits (“Had we not been given the Torah, we could still learn modesty from the cat”[9]), while the dog is a virtual symbol of crassness and impudence.[10]

“Acknowledging one’s master” in the spiritual sense is to possess an awareness of G-d and an appreciation of His mastery over us. The “cat” represents one who is deficient in this area. His heart may be noble and refined; but his mind is a material mind, consumed with material thoughts and the indiscriminate acceptance of the material conceptions of reality.

The “dog,” on the other hand, “acknowledges his master”—his mind is in the right place. His “hooflessness” is expressed in the baseness of his character and emotions. It is in this area that he fails to erect any defenses against the materiality of the earth.

Then there is the barefoot creature whose materiality is of the purely physical sort. His is not an intellectual deficiency or an emotional weakness, but a simple hedonism. Lacking “hooves” between his physical self and material earth, he indulges his physical drives without restraint. He is, in the words of the Talmud, one of those “who eat and drink like a bear, are swaddled with flesh like a bear... and are restless as a bear.”[11]

For an animal to be kosher it must have hooves; but an utterly shod creature (such as the camel or horse) is also “unclean.” The hooves must be split.

For the purpose of life on earth is not to escape its materiality, but to sanctify it. So while unmitigated contact with the earth makes for a non-kosher creature, so does the absence of any contact whatsoever.

Both extremes are unacceptable. There must be a certain element of distance and aloofness in our earthly involvements, lest we become enslaved by that which we have come to master. But involvement there must be, for developing the physical world into a “home for G-d” is the essence of our mission in life.

Based on an undated entry in the Rebbe’s journal and on a talk delivered on Av 29, 5710 (August 12, 1950)[12]

And it came to pass on the eighth day, that Moses called Aaron and his sons, and the elders of Israel...

This “eighth day”—the day that followed the seven-day inauguration of the Sanctuary—was the first of Nissan, a day that “wore ten crowns”: it was a Sunday, the first day of the week; it was the beginning of a new year;[13] it was the first day that the divine presence came to dwell in the Sanctuary; the first day of the kehunah (priesthood); the first day of the service in the Sanctuary; and so on.[14] There is even an opinion that this was the anniversary of the creation of the universe.[15]

With so many “firsts” associated with this day, why does the Torah refer to it as “the eighth day”?

The number seven represents the natural reality. The world was created, and continues to be created anew each week, in a seven-day cycle. There are seven sefirot, divine attributes that define G-d’s relationship with our reality; these are reflected in the seven middot, the seven traits of the human heart.

Thus our sages explain the special significance of the number eight. If seven is the number of creation’s natural cycles, “eight” represents that which is higher than nature, the “circumference” that encompasses the circle of time and space.[16] On that eighth day, the day that the divine presence came to dwell in the Israelite camp, we were granted the potential to reach beyond the natural and the norm, to break free of the seven-dimensional cycle that defines and confines our existence.

Shemini, “The Eighth,” is the name of the Torah section (Leviticus 9-11) we read this week, which derives its name from its opening verse, “And it came to pass on the eighth day...”

A Jew “lives with the times,” drawing inspiration and guidance from the weekly Torah reading. Each year, when the section of Shemini comes along in the annual Torah-reading cycle, it inspires us to liberate ourselves from the systems and routines that have come to define our lives and reach for that higher, “eighth” dimension.

Indeed, the section of Shemini is usually read on the Shabbat after Passover, when we are engaged in the “Counting of the Omer” that connects Passover to Shavuot. The Counting of the Omer is itself a quest for the “eighth dimension”: a seven week, 49-day count leading to a 50th day (7x7+1) that is the scene of the divine revelation of Shavuot.[17]

This year, the configuration of our calendar emphasizes the lesson of Shemini in a most unique way.

Each of the Torah’s 53 sections is generally read during one week of the year—in part on Monday and Thursday mornings, and the previous Shabbat afternoon, and in its entirety on Shabbat morning. At times, however, a particular section may be “lived with” for more than one week. When Shabbat coincides with a festival, a special reading associated with the festival is read, and the regular reading is moved ahead to the next week. The Shabbat afternoon readings, however, and the Monday and Thursday readings (when these are not themselves festival days), are still from the “weekly” section—the section that would have been read that Shabbat were it not a festival.

This year, both the first and last days of Passover fall on Shabbat. As a result, the section of Shemini is twice “postponed” and is publicly read in the synagogue eight times over the course of three weeks: on the Shabbat afternoon, Monday and Thursday before Passover; on the afternoon of the first day of Passover; on the afternoon of the last day of Passover; on the Monday, Thursday and Shabbat mornings the week after Passover.

So this year, the lesson of Shemini is even more compelling than in other years. It is read eight times, granting us the power of eight, eight times over.

Sometimes it is extremely difficult to judge another person favorably. That person might have committed a certain deed or he might possess a certain trait which, try as we might, we cannot see in a positive light. At such times, it is important to remember that there is more to this person than that particular trait or deed. If we learn to appreciate his positive qualities, the negative ones will be more tolerable and forgivable.

The Ethics of the Fathers alludes to this approach when it says, “Judge every person to the side of merit.” The Hebrew phrase es kol ha’adam, which the Ethics uses for “every person,” literally means “the whole person.” If we view the whole person rather than focus on the parts that are wanting, we will surely find much that is meritorious.[19]

Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi once said to one of his grandchildren: “Let me tell you about the simple faith of the Jews of Vohlyn (Ukraine).

“Many years ago, I was traveling home from Mezeritch after a period of study under the guidance of my master, the great Maggid.[20] It was a cold winter night, and my feet had become immobilized by the cold. When we stopped at a wayside inn, the coachman had to carry me inside in his arms.

“The innkeeper, an elderly, G-d-fearing Jew, rubbed my feet with snow and spirits until the life returned to them. He asked me about the purpose of my journey, and I told him that I was a disciple of the Maggid of Mezeritch. In answer to my questions, he told me that he had been operating this inn for close to fifty years, and that, thank G-d, he has earned a comfortable living from it.

‘Is there a Jewish community here?’ I asked.
‘No,’ replied the innkeeper. ‘We are the only Jews for many miles around.’
‘So you don’t have a minyan[21]? What do you do on Shabbat and the festivals?’
‘To my sorrow,’ sighed the old man, ‘we pray without a quorum all year round. For the High Holidays, we close the inn for two weeks and travel to the city—a several days’ journey from here.’
‘But how can you live this way!’ I exclaimed. ‘How can a Jew go for months on end without a kaddish or borchu, without hearing the public reading of the Torah?’
‘What can I do? This is my livelihood. There is nothing for me to do in the city.’
‘How many Jewish households are there in the city?’ I asked.
‘About a hundred,’ he replied.
‘If G-d manages to provide a living for a hundred families,’ I said, ‘don’t you think He could find a way to provide for one more?’
“On that note, we parted company. I was given a room in which to rest, and the innkeeper went off to attend to his affairs.
An hour later, I heard a commotion outside. Looking out the window, I saw several carts and wagons piled high with bundles and crates, furniture and household items. The innkeeper and his sons were running about, tying down the bundles and settling the women and children into the wagons.
‘What’s going on?’ I asked the old man.
‘We’re moving to the city,’ he replied. ‘You’re right—this is no place for a Jew. A Jew needs a minyan, a rabbi, a community...’
‘But just like that, you’re going? Where will you stay? And what will you do for a living?’
‘We’ll find something. As you rightly pointed out to me, if G-d can take care of a hundred families in the city, He can surely provide for a few more souls...’

“Such was the faith and trust in G-d of these Jews,” concluded Rabbi Schneur Zalman. “I was but a young man at the time, but because I had told him that I was a disciple of the Great Maggid, he unquestionably acted on my advice. Without giving it another thought, he left behind an enterprise that had provided him with a comfortable living for fifty years and set out, that very night, to a place where he could better serve his Creator.”

[7]. Thus a melech (“king”) is one in whom the moach (brain) wields the highest authority, the lev (heart) is second in command, and both have priority over the caved (liver); (melech is an acronym for moach, lev, caved, in that order). This hierarchy of priorities is also reflected in the vertical stance of the human body, which places the brain as the highest (also in the literal, spatial sense) of the body’s organs, the heart below the brain, and the liver below them both. In contrast, in a four-legged animal’s body, the three are on the same plane. (Thus, a person is “acting like an animal” when his mind does not exercise its authority over his heart, and his thoughts and feelings have no influence upon his physical life.)

[13]. Though the Jewish year is usually reckoned as beginning on the first of Tishrei, the month of Nissan is designated by the Torah as “the first of the months of the year” (Exodus 12:2. See Our Other Head, WIR, vol. IX, no. 26).

[16]. Keli Yakar on Leviticus 9:1. Thus, the mitzvah of circumcision on the eighth day of life takes precedence over the mitzvah of Shabbat, the seventh day of the cycle of creation.