Hashem charged Aharon HaKohen and his descendants with conveying Hashem’s blessing to His people. The concept of the Kohen having koach ha’brachah, power of blessing, appears enigmatic on the surface. True, the Kohen is biologically holy, born into the Priestly family, but what about the talmid chacham, Torah scholar, who has a distinction of his own? He has earned his status. Through toil, effort, diligence in Torah study, the talmid chacham has elevated himself. His sanctity is acquired because it is the product of ameilus and mesiras nefesh. I am not suggesting in any way that the Kohen is not worthy of being the conduit for rendering blessing. I just wonder why he received precedence over the talmid chacham. After all, we visit gedolei Yisrael constantly to garner their blessings for our spiritual and physical needs.
The answer lies in the very text of the blessing: Mevareich es Amo Yisrael b’ahavah; “Who blesses His nation, Yisrael, with love.” It is not simply about rendering blessing, but, if that blessing is to be efficacious, the Kohen must render it with abiding love for Klal Yisrael. This does not in any way suggest that the Torah scholar’s love for Klal Yisrael is on a diminished status in comparison with the Kohen. It is just that the Kohen has love coursing through his blood.
The Kohen traces his lineage to the first Kohen – Aharon, who possessed a unique quality: oheiv shalom v’rodeif shalom, oheiv es ha’briyos u’mekarvan la’Torah; “He loved peace, loved people and brought them close to Torah.” What a wonderful legacy to possess and transmit to all future generations. Aharon HaKohen’s greatness was not exclusive to the Sanctuary. His boundless love for every Jew elevated him above his peers. His hereditary kedushah was essentially a legacy of love.
The conduit through which blessing flows from one person to another is love. The Kohen is born with it. The talmid chacham may plumb the depths of Torah and scale its towering heights. Yet, scholarship alone does not guarantee a heart that feels and empathizes with the pain of another. Likewise, feeling and joining in his friend’s simchah also requires (at times) unusual love. A brachah without love is similar to a body without a soul. While one may precisely articulate words with flawless pronunciation, the inner warmth which is the product of love may not be there. This will impede the spiritual current that carries the blessing.
When the Kohanim raise their hands in blessing, it is not mechanical, due to their position; rather, they raise them as heirs to a legacy of love. When blessing emerges from a heart suffused with love for a fellow Jew, it ascends with enduring impact.
At this point, I think it is critical to define the term ahavas Yisrael. To love a fellow Jew because he is my brother – because he belongs to my nation, my circle, my family – is noble, but it is not yet ahavas Yisrael. That may be, in subtle form, ahavas atzmi, love of self, extended outward. I love him because he is part of me. He reflects my identity. He enlarges my world.
This, however, is not the Torah’s definition of loving a fellow Jew. Ahavas Yisrael means that I recognize the Hashem-component within this person. Hashem created him. Hashem chose him. Hashem made him a part of His people. This individual is someone with whom Hashem identified, upon whom Hashem bestowed a neshamah, whom Hashem loves with an abiding, eternal love. How, then, can I not love Him?
If I love Hashem, I must love what is connected to Him. One who truly loves a father, loves his children – not because they are useful, not because they are similar, not because they enhance his reputation – but because they are the father’s children.
Aharon Hakohen embodied this perspective. He did not love Jews because they were admirable. He loved them because they were Hashem’s. Even when they stumbled, even when they disgraced the Jewish name, they remained Hashem’s children. Not all children are perfect; not all children act appropriately all of the time, but they continue to be children. Apparently, love is not selective and not conditional. Am Yisrael are Hashem’s children; this is why we love them.
While this dvar Torah touts the inherent, traditional love that Kohanim manifest for Klal Yisrsael, this in no way infers that Torah leaders are deficient in this area. Indeed, ahavas Yisrael is a cornerstone of their gadlus, greatness. I lack the space to record various vignettes concerning the love of our gedolim for each Jew. I cite one from Horav Yechiel Tzuker, shlita, and one of my own. Last, I will relate an amcha vignette about a “regular” Jew who manifested extraordinary sensitivity towards a fellow, even though (since he did not divulge the reason for his unusual behavior), as a result, he was viewed as “different”.
The saintly Belzer Rebbe, Horav Aharon, zl, was a holy man who lived an esoteric life. He had a large kehillah, following, in Europe that was tragically decimated by the Nazis. He was spirited out of Europe and brought to the Holy Land where he rebuilt his chassidus. He attempted to isolate himself, refraining from public limelight. Nonetheless, when he was needed to render his support to communal endeavors, he never said no. This was evident during the State’s campaign for giyus banos, drafting Jewish women into the army. The decree against the frum community was serious and had an enormous amount of support. (We must remember that, at that point in our country’s history, not many observant Jews were living in the Holy Land. The support for secular Judaism and Zionism was the religion of the day.)
The gedolei Yisrael decided that the only alternative they had to counteract the virulent emotions toward the chareidi community was to show support in strength with a powerful hafganah, protest, led by the gedolei Yisrael. Horav Menachem Porush, zl, Knesset member and a leader of Agudas Yisrael, visited the Belzer Rebbe to petition his support. At first, the Rebbe declined. Only after he was informed that the Brisker Rav, zl, and other notable gedolim would be in attendance did he agree.
He did, however, make one emphatic stipulation. Clearly, the emotions surrounding such a protest would run high, and people would get carried away. He had no problem with pretesting against the decree, but, Heaven forbid, should anything negative be said about a fellow Jew. He said, “There is no doubt that, in our generation (as we move closer to the advent of Moshiach), many neshamos have descended to this world for tikkun, spiritual repair. The sitra achra, yetzer hora, evil inclination/Satan, wages a relentless battle to prevent these neshamos from being repaired and turning them into observant Jews and what they represent. (Thus, they are able to distance them from us, from the possibility of their own return.) We must do everything to be mekarev, reach out to them, and bring them under the protective wings of the Shechinah. The Rebbe was not going to play into the wiles of the yetzer hora who was doing everything possible to prevent the secular Zionists from seeing observant Jews in a positive light. Is it any wonder that the blessing of a tzadik who had such control over what emerged from his mouth achieved such extraordinary efficacy?
The Belzer Rebbe’s oldest son, Rav Moshe, was thrown into the flaming Belzer shul with other chassidim. The Nazis burned them alive. He and the rest of the Jews went up as a korban olah, a sacrifice to Hashem. The mere thought can affect an emotional response. The Rebbe was present and he witnessed the holy conflagration. This alone, however, does not underscore the Rebbe’s gadlus. The Rebbe never observed his son’s yahrzeit, even though the date was seared into his mind. He would often say, “How can I observe my ben yachid’s (only son’s) yahrzeit when millions of my brothers have no yahrzeit to be remembered by?”
Reb Avraham ha’Chatzi, the half one, was a moniker given to a special Jew in Bnei Brak. He made a point to not only spend his day engrossed in Torah study; he made it his business to see to it that others were availed the opportunity to learn unhampered in a setting conducive to learning. To this end, he would prepare hot tea for the members of the class. It was for this gesture of chesed that he earned his nickname, which was rendered with pure love and appreciation. Reb Avraham brought tea to the class in cups that were only half filled. He would refill the cups when needed, but never did he pour more than half a cup. This practice piqued everyone’s curiosity, but Reb Avraham refused to divulge the reason for his actions. One day, he fell ill and required the services of his son to prepare and serve the tea. He had one condition: he could not pour more than half a cup.
At first, his son suspected that his father had succumbed to intense pressure. What could it be? His son questioned him, but he refused to explain his peculiar behavior. A son is difficult to ignore, and, when Reb Avraham’s son pestered him long enough, Reb Avraham deferred to his request. He explained that, at the corner of the table, sat one of the members of the shiur, who was plagued with Parkinson’s disease which made his hands shake uncontrollably. To give him a full cup would mean causing him embarrassment as he spilled the tea from his full cup. Therefore, he filled everyone’s cup only to the halfway mark. Better that people should think him strange than to cause embarrassment to a fellow Jew. Mi k’amcha Yisrael?
