The Torah understands that the battlefield is not a place for everyone. A newly-wed should remain home with his new wife. This applies during their first year of marriage. In the previous parsha (20:6,7), the Torah addresses he who has betrothed a woman and has not yet had nessuin, which is the second phase of the marriage ceremony. The Torah underscores the reason for his return from the battlefield: he will be overly concerned that upon his death, his wife will marry someone else. In any event, the Jewish soldier appears to be preoccupied more with himself than with his wife. In our parsha, he is sent home to gladden his wife during their first year of marriage; in the previous parsha, we sent him home because his anxiety creates a risk for his fellow soldiers. Ostensibly, this all seems puzzling. This man is more concerned that another man will marry his wife than with her loneliness. Should his primary concern not be her potential widowhood and the pain and loneliness that would accompany it?
I have to emphasize that the Jewish soldier is in no way like his secular counterpart. To be accepted in Hashem’s army, one must be on an elevated level of yiraas Shomayim and virtue. No man is sin-free, but he has to strive for it. If he is such a good person, why is he not thinking of his wife?
Apparently, he understands how fortunate he was to have established a relationship with her in the first place. He is acutely aware of her grace, warmth and charm. He is certain that she will rebuild her life and remarry. This is not what frightens him.
At the core of every human being lies a desperate need for significance. A person can endure hardship and pain as long as he knows his life matters. Irrelevance crushes the human spirit. The soldier trembles at the possibility that, if he falls in battle, his memory will vanish with him. Another man will take his place, marry his wife and raise a family, with life continuing as if he had never existed.
Man fears more than death. He fears being forgotten. I have reiterated this idea numerous times: “A man dies twice: once when his coffin is lowered into the ground; and, again, when people no longer remember him.” Man yearns to know that his life mattered to someone, that he left an indelible imprint which time cannot erase. A person’s greatest need is not survival, but permanence. One needs to know that his life carried meaning beyond his own mortal journey. This is why Judaism places such emphasis on building a legacy of Torah, mitzvos and kindness. Wealth disappears; fame fades. Even monuments eventually crumble. A life that inspires others, a deed that uplifts another Jew, a child educated in the path of Torah, however, these become eternal testimonies that a person once lived and changed the world around him. A simple Jew who consistently lives with honesty and compassion may never become famous, and he may never have a banquet dedicated in his honor. Yet, his life reverberates forever. The Torah’s barometer for greatness is not, “How many people know your name?” but rather, “Whose life is different because you lived?”
Relevance is not about being seen, but about being needed. One does not become significant by drawing attention to himself, but by giving of himself to others. A person who is attached only to himself will fade with himself. One who connects with Torah connects with nitzchiyus, eternity.
Perhaps this is why loneliness is so painful. It is not merely the absence of people, but the gnawing fear that one’s existence has gone unnoticed. Thus, a single sincere relationship can resuscitate a withering soul, restoring life which had been characterized by melancholy. When we visit a shut-in, someone who is alone, we are in effect declaring, “You matter. Your existence means something.” The soldier, therefore, fears more than death. He fears erasure. He fears becoming a forgotten chapter, replaced by another. And the Torah, by acknowledging this fear, reveals one of the deepest truths about mankind: more than man wants to live a long life, he wants his life to live long after him.
After writing this, I realized that I may have an answer to a question that has always troubled me. Korach was a Jew with an illustrious lineage, all the wealth he would need for a number of lifetimes, fame, position, stature and all the accoutrements. If so, what provoked him to go over the deep end and rebel against Moshe Rabbeinu and Hashem? What about Moshe drove him to infamy? I think the answer is relevance. He knew that whatever he had would go to the grave with him. It was all fleeting. He needed something that would etch his name in the annals of Jewish history – forever. He wanted the Rabbeinu. He knew that, as the quintessential Rebbe of Klal Yisrael, his name would reverberate for all time. Apparently, he ignored that Rabbeinu is inexorably connected with “Moshe.” Korach just would not suffice. He sadly did achieve a lasting reputation, but not the one for which he had lobbied.
