A KorbanTorah, thanksgiving offering, is brought by the beneficiary/survivor of a life-threatening crisis. Chazal (Berachos 54b) break this obligation down into four categories: yordei ha’yam, those who have crossed the sea; holchei midbaros, those who have traveled the wilderness; choleh she’ nisrapeh, those who have been healed from serious illness; and chavush she’yotzei mi’bais ha’assurim, those who have been released from captivity. Obviously, the obligation for gratitude exceeds these four cases, but they serve as primary examples.
On a practical level, the Torah instructs the individual who brings the korban to prepare a large, festive meal, and invite all of his friends to share in his hodaah, gratitude to Hashem. Forty loaves of bread are far more than any one person can consume. The commentators (Netziv) explain that the abundance of food which must be consumed during the restricted amount of time allotted ensures that this will be much more than a small gathering. The more people – the more they are privy to the publicizing of the miracle. Gratitude must be shared. In this way, people may come to realize that their personal good fortune is a gift from Hashem.
All of this is wonderful, but it only deepens the anomaly surrounding the korban Todah. If it is all about publicity, rent a hall and make a large, festive meal. Why is a korban necessary? Why slaughter an animal in the Bais HaMikdash, with all the accoutrements: the mizbayach; the fire; burning of essential parts of the korban? Why is korban intrinsic to the gratitude process?
Ramban and Rabbeinu Bachya offer a foundational principle and rationale for korbanos in general. We complete human actions through the media of thought, speech, and deed. In the service of the kobanos, when performing all these acts (to the korban), a person should reflect that it would be fitting that the blood being spilled on the mizbayach should be his blood, and the body being burned should be his body – were it not for the kindness of Hashem. The Almighty rendered the korban as a substitute for the one who is offering it. This sacrifice atones – blood for blood (of the one offering the sacrifice) — a life in place of a life, with the principal limbs of the animal corresponding to the principal limbs of the person. Everything – from the placing of the hands, the confession, the slaughter – is present to impress upon the person: It should have been me. The animal takes his place.
How does this relate to Korban Todah? Indeed, I think that now todah has a deeper meaning. It is not only about gratitude and joy for what went right, but a requisite to accept the sober recognition of how close he came to disaster. Hakoras hatov must traverse the valley of “what could have been.” Otherwise, it is nothing more than a superficial act of making oneself feel good. Korban Todah demands that one confront head-on the abyss into which he could have plunged.
We now understand why Korban Todah shares structural commonalities with other korbanos. Gratitude, the Torah teaches, must be the product of humility. To celebrate survival, while ignoring vulnerability, is flawed gratitude. The Korban engraves this idea upon the person’s soul.
In Alei Shur, Horav Shlomo Wolbe, zl, writes that gratitude is not a reaction to success, but rather, a response to the fragility of life – the realization that one’s entire existence rests solely in Hashem’s hands. He adds that avodas Hashem begins with the recognition of reality – not as we would like it to be – but in its unvarnished, truthful essence. A person who was saved, but soon forgets the danger, is living a life of illusion. He lives a life of entitlement – not humility.
A person who does not have hakoras hatov is simply not a mentch. Part of being human is the awareness that we are beneficiaries of a benefactor – in all cases – Hashem, and we must express our positive feelings. The question is: Do we focus on the right things, or do we get bogged down with frivolous, non-essential demands, which, if not fulfilled, alter our perspective on gratitude?
Rabbi Dr. Abraham Twersky relates the following story. A woman was walking along the beach one day, when, suddenly, a violent storm broke out. Without warning, a giant wave came and swept away her young son. The distraught, helpless mother cried out to Hashem, “Please give me back my child!” She screamed this over and over again. Shortly thereafter, another giant wave came along and deposited her son, unharmed, in front of her.
One cannot put into words the overwhelming gratitude this woman felt. At first, she could not speak. She just embraced and held her child. Then, regaining her composure, she looked up at Heaven and cried out, “Thank You! Thank You, Hashem! Your kindness overwhelms me. My gratitude to You is eternal. I can never thank You enough for my son’s safe return.” Suddenly, she took a good look at her child, then once again lifted her head Heavenward and, in a demanding tone, called out, “But, Hashem, he was wearing a hat!”
We express gratitude, but – at times – we do not even understand for what. We worry about narishkeiten, foolish things, that have little substance and less value. Since we are petty, they become great things in our minds. It is our pettiness that attributes them significance.
] Yaakov Avinu yearned twenty-two years for his son. Finally, when he heard the words, “Yosef is alive!” he was not concerned with Yosef’s exalted position in Egypt. If Yosef was alive, everything else was superfluous.
It happens all the time. We are beneficiaries of profound favor from Hashem, and we express gratitude. Yet, we still remain dissatisfied, because, as good as it is, we still would like it to be better. It is not as if we do not have, we just want more. We have the child back in our arms, but we still demand the hat.
A very meaningful secular proverb states: “I complained because I had no shoes until I met a man who had no feet.” This powerful statement contains much truth. We should be thankful for so many things in life, but we take them for granted. It is only when they are beyond our reach that we become acutely aware of their significance. People do not feel the wonder, beauty and joy of life until it is almost taken away from them. It often takes a serious threat to our blessings to make us aware of them. How many of us complain about “no shoes,” but forget to pay gratitude for our “feet”? We have become lost in a sea of complacency with no compass to guide us. If we take the time to sit back and think about all the good fortune of which we are the beneficiaries, we would realize how much we owe Hashem. Once our “GPS” of life is focused in the right direction, the rest of the trip will have greater meaning and a more accurate orientation.
We have no shortage of gratitude stories. So, why repeat one which I have used before? It is because, not only does this story impart a powerful inspiration, it is also a lesson in the meaning of hakoras hatov and how one should express this emotion.
Many of us are granted reprieves and second chances at life. Do we understand the meaning, value and ramifications of these supplemental opportunities? Some of us do – for a while – until we return to business as usual, almost as if nothing had happened. I recently read a letter posted by an observant Jewish woman who had been at death’s door until she was the fortunate recipient of an organ from someone who was not as fortunate. When we hear of the tremendous mazel of the recipient, we tend to minimize/ignore the fact that someone had to die in order for this transplant to take place. While the recipient’s family is ecstatically celebrating, another family is mourning the death of their loved one.
The woman wrote a loving, poignant letter to the family of the organ donor. She expressed her gratitude to them and to their tragically mourned daughter whose lung now breathed in her body. She described how her life had been at its end. She could not go on. Even the most elementary and simplest tasks had become impossible for her to perform. Then she received the call: “A lung is available.” As she rode to the hospital with her own twenty-year-old daughter, she realized that someone else’s daughter had just died, and she was receiving her lung. So many ideas ran through her mind as the doctors prepped her for surgery and administered anesthesia. The next thing she knew, she was awake and breathing – on her own! A miracle had occurred.
How much she thanked Hashem! All of this is no surprise. We all thank Hashem – initially – but does it continue? Do we remember that we have been given a second chance? I, therefore, close with the sentence in this woman’s letter which was most moving and should be most memorable to all of us: “My promise to you is that I will never waste one moment of my life.”
