What comes across as a simple statement – almost a mission statement for the Jew — is the basis for much penetrating insight into the quality and nature of life. When one peruses Chazal and the accompanying commentaries, he develops a perspective on life that explains how we have survived throughout the millennia, despite the many physical and spiritual challenges that have played a critical role in our connection to Hashem. I found one Chazal and a comment by the Alter, zl, m’Kelm, which are inspiring.
Devarim Rabbah (4:2), Ha’sayaf v’ha’sefer yardu k’ruchim m’ha’Shomayim… “The scroll and the sword descended from Heaven intertwined.” Hashem said to Klal Yisrael, “If you will do what is written in the scroll, you will be saved from this sword, but, if you do not, you will be killed by this sword.” The Midrash, even without elucidation, is in and of itself powerful. Hashem has given us a black and white choice – no gray area. We either abide by the scroll, or we will end up as a victim of the sword. The first challenge an intelligent, non-practicing Orthodox Jew will present is: “There are many of ‘us’ who do not adhere to the mandates of the scroll, and we seem to be walking around.” In response, let us begin with a clear distinction between the scroll and the sword. The sword symbolizes death; the scroll represents life. The two are bound together (hence b’rachah and klalah); as one advances, the other retreats. They descend intertwined because the destiny of one is dependent upon the other. When the scroll is a part of our lives, as we embrace its mandates, the sword loses its power. When we abandon the scroll, however, we must be prepared for the shadow of the sword to begin to cloud over man’s existence.
The Alter explains that these two symbols contain the entire struggle of human life. When one rises, the other falls. The spectre of death, the fear, the limitations it represents are all a part of the physical world. Torah, the scroll, represents eternal connectivity to Hashem and the immortality of the soul.
The following is true – despite the constant denials of its detractors. A person who lives only for the body experiences life as a slow surrender to death. From the very moment of birth, he begins to die. Every birthday marks the loss of another year of potential growth. He begins to fade; the body atrophies, his once talked about robust beauty rapidly fades with each passing day. Memories of our youth and strength are mere memories — for those who still remember. The sword has been working, advancing from the moment of birth until it puts an end to the façade of life.
The scroll measures life by a different barometer. It is not how long one lives, but how deeply one lives. The life of the spirit is one long continuum. Thus, an act of kindness today accompanies me to eternity. A moment of truth carries more weight than the void of years of unproductive emphasis. A Torah life affords the individual the ability to transform seventy/eighty years into eternity.
In short, one who embraces the scroll experiences death retreating before life. One who lives the life of the sword experiences the encroachment of death on a constant basis. He is not living; he is dying. Illness and death cannot remove a mitzvah. No grave can bury Torah. No passage of time can erode the goodness which the soul achieves. The sword takes everything we have in this world. Yet, something is left over which the sword has no power: the person we decide to become when we choose b’rachah/life, when we choose to determine our own destiny, who we want to be. Everything sacred that we do remains with us to eternity. As long as we embrace the scroll, we have nothing to fear from the sword.
An elderly maggid shiur entered the beis ha’medrash one winter evening long after seder had ended. The room was nearly empty. A lone student remained bent over a Gemara, struggling over a difficult passage. The boy looked exhausted. His clothes were worn; his face betrayed hardship.
The Rav approached him and gently asked, “Why are you still here so late?” The student hesitated before replying, “My father passed away this year. My mother works nights. It is difficult at home. When I learn here, I feel less alone.”
The Rav sat down next to the boy, and, for nearly two hours, he reviewed the sugya with him. The elderly rebbe applied his many years of experience to explain every line of the Talmud patiently, until the boy’s eyes lit up with understanding. Finally, he closed the Gemara and whispered to the rebbe, “Tonight you gave me chiyus. I feel alive like never before.” Decades later, that student had himself become a distinguished rebbe. At a gathering held in his honor, someone asked him which rebbe had influenced him most profoundly. He did not mention the famous Roshei Yeshivah from whom he had learned. Instead, he described that winter night in the empty beis ha’medrash. “What changed my life,” he said, “was not only the Torah I learned. It was the realization that Torah gives life to the person who carries it. I entered the room feeling broken. I left feeling eternal.” This is the power of the scroll.
