The mitzvos were given for the sake of life – not death. Thus, if fulfilling a mitzvah entails danger to one’s life, such as pikuach nefesh— life-threatening issues which must be carried out on Shabbos – we act accordingly to prolong the individual’s life. Chiddushei HaRim has a notable homiletic twist on the exhortation of V’chai ba’hem, as reference to our attitude toward mitzvah observance (and life in general). We are commanded to perform mitzvos with zest, vigor and enthusiasm, as if they are our source of life. Perhaps, we can extrapolate and say that the area of life which gives us most refreshing life, from which we derive our greatest chiyus, should be mitzvah observance. Life without mitzvos is life without purpose, a life which is vacuous and offers no meaning. It is only when such life is embellished with mitzvah observance that it becomes meaningful.
The problem is how to convey this verity to the many wonderful Jews who live a full life, albeit devoid of Torah and mitzvos – who work, love, enjoy, travel and experience moments of happiness. How do we convey that, while pleasure is great and fun, it is not meaningful and does not contain enduring purpose.
I have seen — and am friendly with — people who began their life’s journey at the same point, in the same place. Their destinations today are worlds apart. Similar background, equal opportunities, but over time their paths have diverged – not because of talent or skill – but due to choice of focus and goal orientation. One placed Torah and mitzvos as his priority and core of his existence; the other built his life around experiences, family time focused on recreation – rather than learning and Shabbos/Yom Tov gatherings, during which their collective spiritual level and relationship are enhanced and elevated. Each one has had personal fulfillment. The difference is in their definition of “fulfillment.”
For years, the differences were subtle: one was frum; the other left much to be desired in terms of his religious observance. Obviously, the differences were manifest on an even greater level when we look at their children. Both appeared content, had nice families, and seemed to be going places. The continuity factor, however, is what highlighted the starkest contrast.
When Torah shapes one’s life, its values and message are shared naturally. We share the same Torah, language, commitment and purpose. The children continue in the path of their parents. It may sound boring, but it trumps the alternative. Children do not simply remember such parents; they both belong to the same team, and they share life’s choices. Such upbringing produces generations bound, not only by affection, but also by mutual identity. A life in which values are not clearly defined has very little to pass on. Memories fade, especially if those memories are of events and enjoyment that have produced little worth remembering.
We have no question that the person whose life choices do not represent v’chai ba’hem may perhaps enjoy life. Can that enjoyment be passed on? If all it did was fill time, what message does this transmit to the next generation?
Fast forward fifty years. The subtle differences are no longer subtle. One person is surrounded by a family tree of four generations of progeny who all adhere to the same values. Is it always perfect? No, but it is still a far cry from what the other fellow has produced with his life’s choices. He sadly may even find himself alone – failed marriage, children who have made even poorer choices than he did – all because he did not offer his descendants something larger than themselves. So now, all they have is “themselves.”
A life of V’chai ba’hem is not a life of restriction, but an enduring life that repeats itself throughout the coming generations. It is not sufficient to merely exist – one must live a life of values, or he and those who follow him have nothing.
I had occasion recently to ask a friend who, at an early stage in his married life, decided that the frum, observant lifestyle that had sufficed until now was obsolete, and his children deserved better. He wanted them to be exposed to the larger, secular society without the restrictions that Orthodoxy placed on them. “My children deserve better” was his excuse fifty years ago. “What about my children?” I asked. “Do you think I am depriving them of the good life?” His reply simply was, “You made your choice, and I made my choice. We will see how our divergent decisions materialize.”
Sadly, today he is the grandfather of seven grandchildren who are related to him biologically – since their mothers’ conversions were performed by a secular clergyman (if such a term applies). He is happily married (so he says) to his second wife, who used the same clergyman for her conversion. He complained to me that his grandson has no desire to celebrate his bar mitzvah at the kosel. I replied that he must be aware that patrilineal descent does not make a boy Jewish. It was probably his non-Jewish roots that were speaking. His children deserved better, he claimed. I think that my children did quite well for themselves.
It is all a question of perspective. Horav Ezriel Tauber, zl, relates that during the Holocaust, his family lived in Pressburg, Czechoslovakia. Because they did not appear Jewish, they were able to remain in the city under the watchful eyes of the Nazis, but no one knew their true race. Eventually, they escaped to Budapest, Hungary, where the ruse was finally discovered. During these difficult years, Rav Ezriel’s mother managed to bring four children into the world. (Three sons lived, and eventually had families. The youngest child, their sister, was murdered by the Nazis.)
Obviously, Mrs. Tauber’s friends thought that she had become unhinged. After all, who in their right mind would bring a child into such a cruel world? Who was to guarantee that they would live past early infancy? Her response was, “As faithful Jews, we must do our part to fulfill the will of Hashem. The rest is up to Him.”
Later on in life, Rav Ezriel asked his mother how she was able to do what she did – to bring children into the world knowing that they might soon be murdered. She replied, “We are Jews, and, as such, we believe in Techiyas HaMeisim, the Resurrection of the Dead. We do not lose a child whom we bring into the world. When a Jewish child is born, an eternal soul enters existence, becoming forever a part of the collective Klal Yisrael.”
Apparently, her understanding of the claim, “My children deserve better,” was very different than that of my friend. For her, denying life was not compassion. Granting eternity was.
