Interestingly, the opening lines of Parshas Tazria relate to the Bris Milah that is to take place on a boy’s eighth day of life. This is juxtaposed upon the previous parsha, Shemini, which concludes with the words, “to distinguish between the contaminated and the pure.” The exhortation makes it incumbent upon us to learn how to distinguish between things that appear to be similar, such as between purity and the contamination. Horav Yehonasan Eibeshutz, zl, explains that specifically the mitzvah of Milah distinguishes between tamei, ritually impure, and tahar, ritually pure, and between the members of the gentile nations and the people of Klal Yisrael. As much as some of our assimilated coreligionists may attempt to emulate the nations of the world, a powerful distinction remains between us and them. Prominent among these differences is the mitzvah of Milah, which physically distinguishes us in appearance, as well as establishes our spiritual distinction. Thus, the Torah underscores the notion that our havdalah, separation, is the result of mitzvas Milah.
The Imrei Binyamin employs this idea to explain why at a Bris Milah we declare, K’sheim she’nichnas l’Bris kein yika’neis l’Torah, u’lechupah u’l’maasim tovim, “Just as he has been entered into the covenant (of Milah), so may he enter into (the study of) Torah, to chupah, marriage, and to (the performance of) good deeds.” Specifically in this setting – and not at any other event celebrating a mitzvah – we make this public declaration. It is only through the performance of this mitzvah that one enters into Bris Olam, the eternal covenant, a bond that transcends time and place. No other mitzvah assures that the individual will fulfill the mitzvah throughout his entire life. Milah leaves an indelible mark on one’s body – a mark that he takes with him to the grave. No other mitzvah guarantees this level of commitment, this inexorable bond.
Regrettably, we find individuals who, in later life for whatever reason, have rejected their original life of observance. They have turned their backs on the tradition in which they had been raised, the tradition for which their forebears had sacrificed their very lives. When it comes to the mitzvah of Milah, they are unable to turn back. It is the one mitzvah that once it has been performed – is here to stay for the duration of one’s life. Thus, we pray that, as this mitzvah will endure forever, so, too, should the infant’s commitment to Torah study, marriage and the performance of good deeds be his hallmark for life – never to be separated from them.
The Chasam Sofer focuses on the words yimol b’sar orlaso, “The flesh of his foreskin shall be circumcised.” In Sefer Shemos, the Torah addresses the requirement that everyone was circumcised prior to partaking of the Korban Pesach: “Every slave of a man, who was bought for money, you shall circumcise him; then he may eat of it” (Shemos 12:44). Likewise, the convert must be circumcised. “No uncircumcised male shall eat it” (Ibid. 12:48). The words b’sar orlaso, “the flesh of his foreskin,” are not mentioned. Only with regard to the Jewish male does the Torah empathize that the flesh of his foreskin is to be circumcised. Why?
The Chasam Sofer derives from here that a Jew is only an aral basar, physically uncircumcised. An improvement must be made only in his physical essence. Spiritually, he is circumcised. A non-Jew, however, remains an aral lev, his heart uncircumcised. It is not merely the skin that must be “repaired”; his heart also continues to remain closed. Once he converts, he removes the innate impediments within him that preclude his ability to commit. Consequently, his acceptance into the congregation of Yisrael accompanies his lasting commitment.
A Jew is never isolated from Hashem. This inseparable bond has endured the test of time, and transcended the vicissitudes and travail to which we have been subjected throughout our tumultuous history. The Kaliver Rebbe, Shlita, writes that we must do everything within our power to bring Jews back to Hashem – to faith and Torah. This is the only guarantee of our continued existence. A moment’s thought that we arouse within a Jew who has gone amiss of Torah observance can often, in due time, alter the course of all future generations. An acculturated Jew, who had been attending a class of mine for two years without exhibiting any semblance of change, recently did something that renewed my confidence in never giving up on anyone. He entered the room, reached into his coat for his white yarmulke and kissed it before putting it on! By this simple act of tendering a kiss to the yarmulke, he demonstrated a sense of reverence for kedushah, holiness.
The Kaliver Rebbe relates an incident which took place following the war. Arriving in Sweden straight from Bergen Belsen, the group of Jewish survivors, which included the Rebbe, was relegated to remain in a quarantine camp until it was safe to determine whether they had any contagious diseases. One night, the survivors noticed a group of Jewish women walking, in search of lost relatives. These women were at the mercy of the Swedish government, which treated them humanely, but placed them in jeopardy by “introducing” them to the local gentiles. Having lost everything, and seeking some form of economic and emotional stability, these women were on the verge of consenting to intermarriage.
The Rebbe appealed to their good consciences not to turn their backs on their faith. He was unsuccessful in moving them. Finally, the Rebbe cried out to them, “My dear sisters! Please remember this one thing: Prior to entering the fire which would consume their bodies, your parents’ last wish was that their surviving children resist temptation and not sell themselves to the devil for any benefit in the world.” As he uttered these words, the women burst into tears. A few days elapsed, and the women traveled to the capital city to apply for visas to Eretz Yisrael.
As mentioned earlier, the mitzvah of Bris Milah is interwoven into the basic fiber of Judaism. It is our badge of honor, our symbol of commitment, regardless of the challenges and obstacles which we must overcome. During the Holocaust, individuals risked their lives to see to it that every Jewish child received a Bris. The Piaseczner Rebbe, zl, was the last Chassidishe Rebbe in Warsaw who still functioned as a Rebbe. At constant risk to his life, he held a public tisch, festive Shabbos gathering around the tisch, table. (This was, and continues to be, a setting for chassidic Jews to gather with their Rebbe to hear Torah thoughts, receive guidance and inspiration, and sing together, rejoicing in religious camaraderie.) Around the tisch, he taught Torah and prepared everyone to give up his life for the sanctification of Hashem’s Name. He spared no effort to maintain the women’s mikveh, and often risked his life to circumcise every Jewish male child.
In the winter of 1943, the Piaseczner performed a Bris on a baby that was already several months old. Everyone who participated in that clandestine minyan of men was placing himself in extreme danger, since, by this time, they had to worry equally about the Ghetto regime as they did about the Nazi guards. Any Jew who was caught on the street was likely to be shot and killed on the spot. No questions were asked, for no answers were acceptable. The child’s mother, however, stood there sobbing uncontrollably. She could no longer continue seeing her son go uncircumcised. Originally, she had been too frightened to circumcise him, thinking she might leave him with a gentile family for the duration of the war. Now she understood that all she wanted was to keep the mitzvah and at least see her son circumcised and entered into the covenant – whatever the cost.
Streams of tears flowed from the eyes of all those assembled at the Bris. Their hearts were filled with pain and anguish. Prominently missing was the child’s father, who had been taken away to a torture camp near Lublin. Now that his wife worried daily about her husband’s fate, she no longer wanted to accept the responsibility of permitting her son to go one more day in his uncircumcised state. With her heart-rending sobs piercing the air, she poured out her plea to the Almighty, “Let my husband live. Wherever he is, allow the merit of this Bris to intercede on his behalf, that he be saved from death.”
As those assembled heard the mother’s bitter sobs, their own tears began to flow with greater urgency. When Rav Zushia Friedman started up a niggun, lively chassidic tune, however, they all joined in – one great song of Kiddush Hashem. Their bitter, somber mood was almost instantly transformed from mourning to joy. The death that reigned in the streets, the pall that hung over all of their lives, had no power to prevent these dedicated Jews from joyfully celebrating their Jewishness.
