From covenant and responsibility to holiness, leadership, identity, and redemption, we have traced the deep conceptual continuities between these formative essays and Rabbi Sacks’ enduring contributions to Jewish thought.

I hope you have enjoyed the series and you can find the archive of all the essays here. If you want to show your appreciation, you are warmly encouraged to make a donation to the Chabad House at Cambridge University to help us provide a Judaism engaged with the world to all who come through our doors.

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I intend to turn my attention in the coming year to a number of projects, including many more translations of the writings of Rabbi Avraham Chein, an attempt to make the philosophy of Emmanuel Levinas more accessible to a broader audience, and to begin outlining a convincing argument for individuality. I can’t confirm how frequently I will be able to post, but my ambition is to build on this year’s productivity.

This final piece returns to a question that runs through both the Rebbe’s and Rabbi Sacks’ work: how to hold difference and unity together, not as opposites, but as stages in a single process. The Rebbe’s analysis of parshat Korach offers a profound reading of the episode, not merely as a rebellion against Moses and Aaron, but as a misreading of the structure of holiness and the function of division. What emerges from the sichah is not a demonisation of Korach, nor even a dismissal of his logic, but an acknowledgement that his argument contains a partial truth. I hope you enjoy.

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The portion opens with the words “And Korach took.” The Targum translates this as “And Korach separated himself.” The Rebbe builds on this to suggest that Korach’s error was not his ambition, nor even his personal desire for the priesthood. It was his failure to understand the purpose of separation.

Korach’s rebellion was not against priesthood per se, he even wanted the priesthood for himself. He did not reject the idea of holy roles, rather he rejected Aaron’s style of priesthood. He saw Aaron’s elevated status as an unjustified hierarchy, an offence against the spiritual equality of all Israelites.

But Aaron was not aloof. He kindled the menorah so that its seven branches, representing the diversity of Israel, could shine together. His holiness was not an end in itself but a conduit. Aaron’s “great love” was a spiritual gravity that lifted others with him. But Korach could not see this as a virtue. He viewed separation as a final state, not as the beginning of a relationship. He saw only difference, not direction. He viewed the priesthood as a role, not a responsibility.

Korach saw holiness in the people, and he was not wrong. “For all the congregation is holy,” he said, “and the L-rd is among them.” He saw each segment of the community as possessing its own inherent sanctity. This was true. But he saw only their holiness in isolation, not their connection to the source of holiness. This led him to misread Aaron’s elevation as the High Priest as an unwarranted exercise of power.

What he failed to grasp was that Aaron’s separation was not about power but about influence: a withdrawal in order to serve, a standing apart in order to draw others closer and higher.

Quoting Reb Elimelech of Lizhensk, the Rebbe introduces a striking analogy: the division Korach instigated is likened to the second day of creation, when G-d made a firmament to separate the upper and lower waters. That day alone, among the days of creation, lacks the phrase “And G-d saw that it was good.” Why? Because division, in and of itself, is not yet good. It only becomes good when it leads to connection. On the third day, when the waters gather and dry land appears, the missing “good” is repeated. Division is redeemed when it gives rise to deeper connections.

Korach, in this reading, is not evil in the conventional sense. He is a necessary figure, representing a stage in the development of holiness. He reminds us that difference must be acknowledged and that not all unity is virtuous. But he stops there. He declares the equality of differences but refuses the leadership that would unify them.

And yet, the Rebbe notes, the parshah is still called Korach. Despite his rebellion, his name is preserved as the title of the entire portion. Why? Because even error, when exposed, becomes part of the truth. Korach’s challenge leads to a deeper confirmation of the priesthood, not only as a status but as a covenant. The portion ends not with punishment, but with the enumeration of the twenty-four gifts of the priesthood. These are not mere privileges. They are symbols of responsibility, and expressions of the priest’s role as a servant of the people.

The gifts of the priesthood at the end of the parshah are not a refutation of Korach but a refinement of his claim. They are the Torah’s way of saying that separation has a purpose, that distinction must serve connection. They are the twenty-four ways in which the priest is bound not only to G-d but to the people. Without Korach’s challenge, the priesthood would not have been clarified in this way. His dissent provokes a re-articulation of its purpose.

This is the central claim. The rebellion was wrong, but its consequences were constructive. The division it introduced made space for a deeper unity. Just as the firmament eventually enabled the harmony of heaven and earth, so too Korach’s separation becomes the prelude to a reaffirmed connection between leadership and people, between priesthood and community.

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Similarly, one of Rabbi Sacks’ most resonant teachings is that every enduring relationship must begin with separation. In his essay ‘The Space Between’ on parshat Vayigash, he writes that “first separate, then connect” is not only the rhythm of relationship but the structure of creation itself. The first chapter of the Torah is a series of separations: light from darkness, upper waters from lower, sea from dry land. Only through separation can there be order. Only when boundaries are acknowledged can genuine connection begin. Relationships are born not out of fusion but distance. It is the space between us that allows us to see each other as individuals and to come together in mutual recognition and love.

Rabbi Sacks describes the process of building relationships through respectful distance. “In Judaism, kadosh, holy, means separation,” he writes. “To sanctify is to separate. Why? Because when we separate, we create order. We defeat chaos. We give everything and everyone their space.” This applies not only to cosmology or law, but to human relationships. Parents and children, spouses, friends, leaders and communities all flourish when their distinctions are acknowledged and not erased.

But it is not without its dangers. For the initial act of separation, if not understood as a phase, can be misread as the end. What was meant to be a prelude to connection can harden into division. What was meant to make space for the other can become a refusal to relate at all. Separation is not the goal, it is the beginning. The goal is connection, made possible precisely because difference is respected and dignified.

The tragedy of Korach is that he mistook separation for holiness. He thought that because each person has a spark of divinity, each should serve independently. What he missed is that holiness is relational. The priest’s separation is only meaningful when it brings others close. The sanctuary is holy not because it excludes, but because it radiates. A leader is not one who stands above, but one who stands apart in order to lift others.

The Rebbe teaches us to see Korach not as a simple villain but as an essential voice in the conversation. He reminds us of the importance of boundaries, of the need to resist false unities that suppress individuality. But he also reminds us of the danger of absolutising difference.

In contrast to a choice between a stifling sameness or a divisive separateness, the Rebbe’s reading of Korach, and Rabbi Sacks’ echo of it, offers an alternative. It tells us that difference need not mean rupture, that roles need not imply superiority, and that even rebellion and challenge, when acknowledged and responded to wisely, can lead to deeper clarity and connection.

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Maybe one of the most important contributions Rabbi Sacks made to contemporary Jewish thought was his reassertion of the idea of covenant. He argues how in contrast to a contract, which is entered into for mutual gain and can be dissolved once its terms are met, a covenant is an open-ended moral commitment. It is sustained not by self-interest but by loyalty, fidelity, and trust. For Rabbi Sacks, the most compelling metaphor for the covenant between G-d and the Jewish people is marriage. Like marriage, a covenant is a bond of mutual responsibility, grounded in love, faithfulness, and the willingness to share a common destiny.

This metaphor, drawn from biblical prophecy and rabbinic literature, was not uses as a mere rhetorical flourish but was for Rabbi Sacks a central lens through which he understood the Jewish relationship with G-d. He often cited Hosea, who described G-d’s relationship with Israel in the language of betrothal: “I will betroth you to Me forever; I will betroth you in righteousness and justice, in love and compassion. I will betroth you in faithfulness, and you will know the L-rd” (Hosea 2:19–20). This verse, Rabbi Sacks explains, captures the emotional and ethical core of covenant. It is not a transactional relationship, but an expression of mutual devotion and identity.

This week’s sichah by the Rebbe deepens this metaphor by applying it to the very nature of sin and return. The relationship between G-d and the Jewish people is not only likened to a marriage in moments of closeness, but also in moments of betrayal and suspicion. To speak of the covenant as a marriage is to acknowledge both its intimacy and its fragility, its promise and its pain.

By focusing on the case of the sotah, the woman suspected of adultery, the Rebbe offers a profound reading of the spiritual dynamics of failure, estrangement, and reconciliation. The Rebbe uses this passage to frame the nature of sin, not only as a breach of law but as an act of betrayal in a relationship. In doing so, he reframes transgression as spiritual infidelity and teshuvah as a form of reconciliation, restoring not just moral standing but the closeness of covenantal intimacy.

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The account of the sotah in parshat Naso describes a woman who is suspected by her husband of having committed adultery. There are no witnesses, but circumstances give rise to doubt her innocence, and a ritual is performed in the Temple to determine her innocence or guilt. This ritual involves humiliation and public exposure. Yet if she is found innocent, the Torah promises that she will be restored to her husband and will receive abundant blessings.

In its analysis of the laws of sotah, the Talmud (BT Sotah 3a) makes a sweeping and universal claim that every sin is the result of folly: “A person does not commit a transgression unless a spirit of folly enters them.” As evidence, it draws a connection between two Hebrew words that appear similar. The verse describing the sotah uses the word tisteh, meaning "to go astray." This is linked to the word shtut, meaning "foolishness." The comparison suggests that all transgression, regardless of its severity, stems from a moment of irrationality or spiritual confusion.

At first glance, this Talmudic phrase might appear as a simple psychological observation about human weakness. However, in this week’s sichah in Torah Studies, the Rebbe explores the profound theological and emotional world behind this statement. He shows that the Talmud’s choice to derive this idea specifically from the case of the sotah, the suspected adulteress, is not incidental. Rather, it reveals a deep truth about the nature of sin, human identity, and our relationship with G-d.

The Rebbe’s insight is that this story is not merely about one woman. It is presented in the Torah as the prototype of a certain kind of estrangement and return. The sotah is used as a metaphor for the entire relationship between the Jewish people and G-d. Just as adultery is a betrayal of marital faithfulness, so sin is a betrayal of the covenant between G-d and the people of Israel. And just as the sotah is not automatically divorced or cut off, but instead given the opportunity to return and even to experience new fruitfulness, so too the Jew who sins is not cast away. The connection with G-d remains intact, however strained it may temporarily become.

In this context, the Rebbe reinterprets the Talmud’s teaching about sin as “a spirit of folly.” The foolishness, he explains, lies in forgetting the depth of the relationship we are part of. It is not simply that sin is irrational in a utilitarian sense. It is irrational because it denies the very identity we hold as members of a sacred covenant. It invites us to look again at sin, not as lawbreaking, but as heartbreak. It is to act against the faithfulness that defines our spiritual bond with G-d.

According to the Rebbe, sin is not simply a lapse in behaviour. It is a moment of infidelity, of forgetting who we are in relation to G-d. But, and this is essential, it is only a moment. Just as the woman suspected of adultery can be restored to her husband, so too the sinner can be restored to G-d. The distance created by sin is never permanent.

In fact, the Rebbe goes further. Not only does return to G-d repair the relationship. It deepens it. The Torah promises that if the sotah is innocent, she will go on to conceive, and the commentaries explain that this blessing is not ordinary. It may include easier childbirth, or even fertility where there had been barrenness. The message is that reconciliation does not merely restore what was lost. It opens new possibilities.

The same is true of spiritual return. The person who has sinned and returns to G-d is not the same as they were before the sin. They are capable of new spiritual growth, new inner vitality, and a deeper relationship with the Divine.

The Rebbe’s commentary offers a radically hopeful vision of human failing. He suggests that our most serious mistakes, when met with honesty and return, can become gateways to transformation. The bond between G-d and the Jewish people is not fragile and is not dependent on perfection. It is covenantal, and therefore it is durable. It can hold the weight of failure.

In a world where relationships are often treated as contractual and conditional, the Torah tells us that we are not simply individuals negotiating outcomes. We are part of a sacred relationship that asks not what we can get, but what we can give. And when we lose our way, that relationship is not dissolved. It waits for our return, and when we do return, it promises not only restoration, but new life.

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By this point in our weekly series, it’s clear that Torah Studies was not just a translation project. Week after week, we’ve seen how Rabbi Sacks approached the Rebbe’s Likkutei Sichot with a remarkable combination of precision and sensitivity, rendering their depth in English without diluting their conceptual rigour. This week, rather than drawing out a particular theme or idea from the sicha, we turn our attention to the translation itself. Using the essay on Parshat Behar, I intend to highlight two moments where Rabbi Sacks’ choices, subtle but significant, shed light not only on the content of the sicha but on his approach as a translator. What emerges is a picture of a translator who remains deeply faithful to the original while taking just enough license to ensure that the ideas reach the reader with clarity and force.

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The Rebbe’s sicha on Parshat Behar explores the difference between two cycles in Torah law: the Shemittah (sabbatical year) and the Yovel (Jubilee). On the surface, these are legal structures: Shemittah every seven years, when the land rests; Yovel every fiftieth year, when property returns to its original owners and slaves go free. But beneath the legal scaffolding lies a spiritual architecture that, in the Rebbe’s analysis, maps a profound psychology of divine service and a historical account of the evolving spiritual condition of the Jewish people. These societal resets are not just agricultural or economic policies, they are reflections of an inner spiritual logic, a shift in how the soul relates to G‑d.

Drawing on the Babylonian and Jerusalem Talmuds, the Rebbe outlines three halachic epochs: the period of the First Temple, when both Shemittah and Yovel were fully observed; the period of the Second Temple, when Yovel was no longer practiced but continued to be counted; and the post-Temple exile, when even the counting of Yovel ceased. These legal shifts mirror a descent in the inner spiritual state of the Jewish people.

Shemittah, the seventh year, reflects bitul ha-yesh: the suppression of the ego in obedience to a higher will. The ego is not erased, but subordinated. There is tension, struggle, and spiritual intensity: “What shall we eat in the seventh year?” asks the voice of the anxious self.

Yovel, by contrast, represents bitul b’metziut: a fuller nullification in which ego-consciousness dissolves entirely. The release of all property and emancipation of all slaves signals a return not only of land and people to their origins, but of the soul to its source. One no longer serves G‑d through restraint but through inner freedom, a unity of self and service, where will and obedience are indistinguishable. It is a year not merely of release, but of liberty: from ownership, from separation, and from the illusion of autonomy.

The relationship between these two forms of divine service is then mapped onto Jewish history. During the First Temple era, both Shemittah and Yovel were fully observed, both forms of bitul were active and intertwined. In the Second Temple period, the Jubilee was no longer practised, but its presence still shaped the cycle: it was counted, if not lived. And in the present exile, even the counting of Yovel has ceased. Only Shemittah remains, not just legally, but existentially. Our avodah is defined by struggle: our egos restrained, not transcended.

The Rebbe’s analysis of Shemittah and Yovel begins with contrast: distinct halachic epochs; different types of divine service; two forms of bitul. But as the sicha progresses, the binary gives way to something more complex. Rather than ranking bitul b’metziut above bitul ha-yesh in a simple spiritual hierarchy, the Rebbe seeks to reveal how each contains a dimension of superiority over the other. While bitul b’metziut seems the loftier state, marked by unity, selflessness, and unbroken communion; it is bitul ha-yesh, with its struggle, effort, and conscious self-overcoming, that carries its own unique depth and greatness.

Bitul b’metziut, the nullification of the self through understanding, is quantitatively greater. It encompasses the whole of a person and it spreads throughout their faculties and becomes their nature. But bitul ha-yesh, the nullification of the ego through submission, is qualitatively more intense. Precisely because the ego remains intact and must be actively subordinated, it reflects a deeper kind of surrender.

To bring out this dynamic and distinction, the Rebbe uses the language of kamut (quantity) and eichut (quality). Here, Rabbi Sacks makes his first significant interpretive move. A literal translation might render these as “quantitative” and “qualitative.” But Rabbi Sacks opts instead for the more conceptually rich terms: extensive and intensive. To quote:

“Each of these levels has a certain merit vis-à-vis the other. Bittul bi-metziut, or the obedience that comes from understanding, has the advantage of being extensive. It encompasses the whole man in its orientation towards G‑d.

Bittul ha-yesh, or the obedience that comes from an effort of will, has the advantage of being intensive. It is an intense spiritual struggle within the soul of man.”

This choice is subtle but effective. It does more than clarify the original, it illuminates it. In Rabbi Sacks’ phrasing, bitul b’metziut is extensive: it spreads through the whole of one’s being. It is a love and understanding that transforms every aspect of the self, not through struggle but through integration. By contrast, bitul ha-yesh is intensive: focused, effortful, localised. It is not the absence of ego, but the conscious confrontation with it. The work of self-transcendence in the face of resistance.

This distinction allows Rabbi Sacks to preserve the Rebbe’s conceptual depth while casting it in a register that resonates beyond the Chassidic lexicon. It frames the spiritual life not as a ladder with higher and lower rungs, but as a dialectic between intensity and expansiveness, between struggle and serenity, each with its own kind of nobility.

This dialectic between extent and intensity, between kamut and eichut, could easily be read as a balancing act: each has merit, neither is supreme. But the Rebbe’s move is subtler and more radical. In a footnote, he cites another sicha on Parshat Eikev (Likkutei Sichot Vol. 9, p. 72), where this tension is framed through an analogy from Samech Vav, a classic Chassidic work of the Rebbe Rashab. There we find the image of two servants: one, a faithful servant, whose inner self aligns entirely with his master’s will; the other, a simple servant, who obeys despite an inner resistance.

This analogy does not appear in the body of the sicha on Behar, but Rabbi Sacks draws it into the main text of his English adaptation:

“There are two kinds of relationship between a servant and his master. There is the ‘simple’ servant, whose real desire is to be free, but who serves because he accepts the burden of his situation. And there is the ‘faithful’ servant, who serves his master out of love and a genuine desire to obey. Whereas the obedience of the latter is more complete, since his whole nature affirms his service, the obedience of the former is more intense because it is a result of a deliberate subjugation of part of his character. It cost him more in terms of inward effort.”

This is not merely a rhetorical flourish. It is a careful act of interpretive translation. Rabbi Sacks recognises that this analogy, tucked away in a footnote and drawn from another sicha, contains the key to the Rebbe’s spiritual revaluation. For although the faithful servant’s obedience is more complete since it reflects a unity of nature and service, the simple servant’s obedience is more intense. His service emerges from tension, from inward effort, from the deliberate subjugation of the self. ‘It costs him more.'

And that cost is precisely what lends his service its depth.

What Rabbi Sacks brings to light through the insertion of this analogy is the Rebbe’s larger move: to elevate the avodah of bitul ha-yesh, not as a lesser form of religious life, but as the defining mode of divine service in our time. The faithful servant corresponds to the Jubilee, to bitul b’metziut, to an era when the self can dissolve in spiritual clarity. But exile is the time of the simple servant. The Jubilee is no longer practiced; its inner experience has receded. What remains is Shemittah and the hard-won struggle of will and faith. And the Rebbe’s claim, amplified by Rabbi Sacks, is that this is not a deficiency, but a dignity.

Our calling is not necessarily to erase the ego, but to sanctify it. In drawing on the Samech Vav analogy, Rabbi Sacks does not simply clarify a subtle distinction, he brings to the surface a quiet revolution: that the effort of the servant who struggles is, in some sense, greater than the peace of the one who no longer does.

What emerges from this week’s exploration is not just a closer reading of the sicha on Behar, but a sharper picture of Rabbi Sacks’ role as a translator not merely of words but of ideas, frameworks, and spiritual sensibilities. His choice to render kamut and eichut as “extensive” and “intensive,” and his decision to elevate a footnote analogy from another sicha into the body of the English text, are not incidental. They are deliberate interpretive acts that reveal both fidelity and creativity: fidelity to the Rebbe’s conceptual architecture, and creativity in how that architecture is framed for a new audience.

These are not embellishments, but carefully calibrated moves that allow the ideas to carry weight beyond their native idiom. In both cases, Rabbi Sacks translates the Rebbe’s ideas into categories that resonate with the philosophical and psychological language of the contemporary reader, without sacrificing the spiritual depth of the original.

By foregrounding the dignity of struggle, and re-presenting bitul ha-yesh not as a diminished state but as a form of service marked by intensity, inner effort, and existential weight, Rabbi Sacks sharpens the Rebbe’s radical move: to affirm that our avodah in exile is not second-best, but singular in its own right. And in doing so, he shows us what it means to to carry forward not only the words of the Rebbe’s Torah, but its vision for the spiritual life of our time.

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Parshat Acharei Mot opens with a reminder of a tragic episode that casts a long shadow over the sanctity of the Tabernacle: “And the L-rd spoke to Moses, after the death of the two sons of Aaron, when they drew near to the L-rd and they died” (Vayikra 16:1). The reference is to the deaths of Nadav and Avihu, as first recounted in Shemini, where they brought an “unauthorised fire before the L-rd” and were consumed by divine fire.

Yet the circumstances surrounding their death are shrouded in ambiguity. On the one hand, the Torah presents it as a punishment for overstepping the bounds of the sacred. On the other hand, a striking Midrash claims that Nadav and Avihu were holier even than Moses and Aaron, and died not out of guilt but out of spiritual ecstasy, “when they drew near to the L-rd.”

This paradox is already encoded in the verse itself, which ends with an apparent redundancy: “and they died.” If the Torah has already stated “after the death of the two sons of Aaron,” why add “and they died”? The repetition suggests that their very act of coming close to G-d was, in their case, a form of overreaching that led not to life, but to death.

The Rebbe’s reading stands apart from traditional moralistic interpretations. He does not seek to diminish Nadav and Avihu, who were, after all, described by Moses as greater even than himself and Aaron. Their “sin” lay not in intention but in imbalance: they wanted G-d so much that they abandoned the task of bringing G-d into the world.

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Nadav and Avihu desired not rebellion but elevation. Their flaw wasn’t insubordination for its own sake, but a miscalibration of role and timing. They were intoxicated with a vision of spiritual immediacy, seeking to climb to G-d without waiting for G-d to call them.

Nadav and Avihu’s sin was their desire to ‘come close to G-d and to die,’ to escape the body, to leave the world of embodiment and duty behind, to cleave to the divine in a state of pure spiritual yearning. Their death was not only a punishment but the consummation of their own will: Ratzu b’li Shuv—they ran toward G-d without returning to their worldly mission. They entered the sanctuary not to sanctify the physical but to transcend it.

This is the tragedy of Nadav and Avihu. Not that they desired something bad, but that they desired something good in the wrong way, at the wrong time, from the wrong place.

In his essay ‘The Dangers of Enthusiasm,’ Rabbi Sacks draws a powerful parallel between the tragic fate of Nadav and Avihu and the original meaning of the word "enthusiasm," not as we know it today, but as it was used in the 17th century to describe religious zealots who believed themselves possessed by divine inspiration and therefore above the law. Their sin, in this light, was not simply the offering of unauthorised fire, but the deeper belief that spiritual ecstasy could override the structured constraints of halachic worship. This, Rabbi Sacks argues, is precisely what makes their act so dangerous: they were not rebelling from without, but reaching too close from within, collapsing the necessary distance between human passion and divine presence.

Far from diminishing their spiritual stature, this reading frames Nadav and Avihu as deeply pious but fatally misguided "enthusiasts," whose very desire to draw near to G-d led them to bypass the essential boundaries of priestly service. Their fate serves as a warning that intense religious feeling, if not disciplined by law and form, can become volatile and destructive. In this way, their story becomes not only a personal tragedy but also a foundational lesson: the closer one comes to the sacred, the more one must be governed by humility and restraint.

In another essay, Rabbi Sacks takes this insight and draws it into a broader conceptual framework that helps illuminate the structural tensions at the heart of Judaism itself. He observes that Nadav and Avihu were not simply overzealous; they confused the role of the Prophet with that of the Priest.

“Why was spontaneity wrong for Nadav and Avihu but right for Moshe? Because Nadav and Avihu were Kohanim, Priests. Moshe was a Navi, a Prophet. These are two different forms of religious leadership. They involve different tasks, different sensibilities, indeed different approaches to time itself.”

In the prophetic mode, spontaneity is not just tolerated, it is essential. Moshe, upon seeing the people worshipping the Golden Calf, shattered the Tablets without first consulting G-d. He acted on impulse, out of moral outrage. And yet, G-d affirmed his act: “Yasher koach sheshibarta”—“More power to you for breaking them.” Prophets are guided by the moment, by inner sensitivity to divine will as it moves through history.

But priests are not. Their task is to preserve continuity, to serve G-d through an eternal and unchanging structure. The priest does not innovate, he follows procedure, not because he lacks passion, but because his role is to preserve the eternal form. His service is an enactment of constancy, a submission not to impulse but to order. And in that world, “spontaneous fire” is a betrayal of vocation, not an expression of devotion.

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The tragedy of Nadav and Avihu, then, is not merely a cautionary tale about enthusiasm without discipline. It is a lesson about the sacred boundaries of role, identity, and calling. They erred by acting like prophets when they were, in fact, priests.

Yet the enduring brilliance of the Torah is that it does not force us to choose between structure and inspiration, between halachah and heart. It teaches us how to live within both, how to hold in tension the longing to ascend with the responsibility to return. As Rabbi Sacks puts it, “Without structure, Judaism would have no continuity. But without spontaneity, it would have no fresh life.”

This theme is central to the Rebbe’s vision of Judaism. The goal is not to escape the world in pursuit of holiness, but to draw holiness down into the world. Dirah betachtonim—making a dwelling place for G-d in the lowest realms—is not a mystical abstraction. It is the Rebbe’s definition of the Jewish mission. This is why, as Rabbi Sacks recalled, it was the Rebbe’s teaching on the meraglim (the spies) that had such an “electrifying effect” on him. The spies were not afraid of defeat—they were afraid of success. They knew that entering the Land meant leaving behind the cloud-wrapped spirituality of the desert. They feared the profane world, and so they preferred to stay in G-d’s embrace.

The Rebbe’s radical insight was to call this a holy mistake. The spies were somewhat right about the cost, but wrong about the goal. G-d does not want us in the desert. He wants us in the land, in the field, in the city. Holiness is not found in fleeing the world, but in transforming it. And that message became the core of Rabbi Sacks’ thought. Again and again, in his writings on politics, education, responsibility, and hope, he returned to the idea that the role of the Jew is to be in the world, shaping it and sanctifying it.

That is the key. Religious life is not about escaping earth for heaven, but bringing heaven down to earth. But the more precise formulation, rooted in this week’s sichah, is that the Rebbe changed the Jewish definition of holiness: from withdrawal to involvement, from vertical transcendence to horizontal impact. And it is that redefinition, anchored in the Rebbe’s interpretation of Acharei Mot, that helped shape Rabbi Sacks’ own spiritual imagination.

Nadav and Avihu’s “unauthorised fire” becomes, in the hands of Rabbi Sacks and the Rebbe, a mirror: not of their sin alone, but of the delicate spiritual balance each of us must maintain. The flame of the soul must burn, but within the vessel of responsibility. The greatest sanctity is not in dying before G-d, but in living with G-d in the world and among others, faithfully fulfilling the role we are called to play.

Passion must never outpace purpose.

In last week’s essay we explored the dynamic between itaruta de-letata (the awakening from below) and itaruta de-le’eyla (the awakening from above), contrasting and harmonising the Rebbe’s and Rabbi Sacks’ approaches. This week’s sicha on parshat Tazria offers a new depth to that dialectic by reframing the entire question: not as a directional relationship between human initiative and divine response, but as a qualitative revaluation of what human initiative actually is.

Here, the Rebbe introduces an interpretive layer that doesn’t merely validate human creative effort, it elevates it to the highest expression of creation's purpose. And while Rabbi Sacks’ adaptation of the sicha in Torah Studies gestures toward this idea, its translation underplays the radical weight of what the Rebbe is doing: reframing the nature of human greatness not in terms of what we are, but what we become. It is here, in this easily missed dimension, that the Rebbe’s thought augments most profoundly Rabbi Sacks’ sustained focus in his mature writings on affirming the dignity of effort, the creativity of service, and the moral grandeur of transformation.

In this week’s essay, we will return to the Rebbe’s sicha on Tazria to highlight this largely overlooked theme: the elevation of human initiative as the defining expression of divine purpose. This will provide deeper insight into how this idea later surfaces in Rabbi Sacks’ theology of moral dignity and creative transformation.

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The Rebbe opens by asking why the parshah is called Tazria (“conceives”) rather than Ishah (“woman”), which seems more thematically fitting given the opening verse: “If a woman conceives and gives birth…” The answer, he argues, lies in the deeper meaning of conception. Tazria signifies initiative, the beginning of a transformative process, effort that culminates in a new creation. This sets the tone for the parshah as a whole, which shifts from laws about animals in last week’s parshah to laws about human beings. The transition is not just about subject matter but about moral and spiritual challenge: animals are what they are, but humans must become what they are meant to be.

This provides the background to Rav Simlai’s Midrashic comment quoted by Rashi that “just as” humans were created after the animals, so too their laws come after theirs. The Rebbe focuses on that phrase “just as” — not because, but for the same reason. In other words, humans are not legislated about last as a consequence of being created last. Rather, in both creation and law, the human being comes last because their spiritual task is greater.

Drawing on the Tanya, the Rebbe explains that this is due to humankind’s moral vulnerability: animals do not sin, but humans can. Their sanctification is straightforward; ours is fraught. Animals, incapable of sin, require no inner work. Humans, uniquely capable of transgression, are summoned to a life of avodah, of creative struggle and moral self-construction.

The Torah reflects this by beginning with the "easier" task of separating kosher and non-kosher animals in parshat Shemini and only afterward moving to the more complex and spiritually demanding task of refining human beings in parshat Tazria. The laws of human purity come last because they represent the harder task, to elevate the being with the greatest potential for descent.

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The Rebbe sharpens the contrast by framing two models of virtue:

• Innate virtue: the soul’s Divine origin - a gift that precedes effort.

• Acquired virtue: the product of avodah - achieved through service, repentance, and inner transformation.

The former, like inherited nobility, is undeniably impressive but passive. The latter, however, is transformative and inwardly integrated. The Rebbe’s insight is not merely that earned greatness is admirable, it’s that it surpasses inherited greatness in depth and meaningfulness. The soul may be from G‑d, but through avodah, it becomes for G‑d. (See ‘Two Types of Religious Encounter’ for Rabbi Sacks’ presentation of this idea)

This idea ties directly to the figure of Rav Simlai, who lacked distinguished lineage. His own life story gave him a sensitivity to acquired greatness, and thus to an interpretation of creation and legislation that privileges earned over inherited stature. A person’s greatness is not their innate soul, but their capacity to transform themself through struggle. That, too, is the meaning of calling the parshah Tazria, the human being as a spiritual labourer, capable of bringing something new into existence: the self remade through avodah.

At this point, the Rebbe adds another layer by invoking the mystical principle from the lecha dodi prayer: "The end result was in the original thought."

This principle reverses appearances. Human beings may be last in action, but they were first in divine intention. The purpose of creation, the reason for all that precedes, was humankind. Even the Rav Simlai’s Midrashic reading that lowers humans by highlighting their placement after the mosquito in creation doesn’t contradict this; it enhances it. Why? Because the highest purpose lies not in where one begins, but in what one can become. And when that becoming emerges from a place of lowliness, the transformation is not diminished but deepened.

The Rebbe concludes by returning to the linguistic and existential duality of Adam:

• Adamah: earth, passivity, lowliness.

• Edameh le-Elyon: "I will resemble the Most High" (Isaiah 14:14) — aspiration, transformation, creativity.

Through avodah, humans become creators, not of worlds, but of themselves. Just as conception gives rise to a new life, human service creates a new being. This act of self-creation does not merely reveal the soul; it redeems it from being a passive gift and transforms it into an earned reality.

This is the Rebbe’s most profound move in the sicha: to reconcile a person's lowly beginnings with their exalted purpose, and to suggest that greatness is not despite one’s lowliness, but because of it. What emerges is a theology not of static holiness but of dynamic becoming.

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A striking footnote on this final point in the original sicha deepens the philosophical frame of the Rebbe’s argument. He quotes a teaching from the Rebbe Rashab that encapsulates one of the core ideas of Chabad thought, that transformation of the lowest aspects of the self is not merely a repair, but a radical act of creation. The Rebbe Rashab writes:

“The capacity to refine the utterly material nature of the animal soul is in the category of total innovation, like the creation of something from nothing (yesh me’ayin). And this is possible because in the soul, precisely by virtue of its descent to the lowest levels (into the body and the animal soul), resides the power of atzmut, the Divine Essence.” (Hemshekh 5666, p. 354-5)

This idea, that the soul’s descent into bodily and emotional materiality is not a fall but a disclosure of its deepest power, reshapes how we view spiritual struggle. The challenge is not simply to resist the animal soul, but to reconfigure it, to draw out of it a holiness that could not exist without it. The soul’s descent is not a deviation from its purpose but the very condition that allows it to act as a true creator, transforming base matter into something aligned with the Divine.

Rabbi Sacks, who studied this sicha in the original, absorbed this idea deeply and it resonates throughout his later writings. His emphasis on responsibility and creativity, especially his insistence that our role is not merely to follow but to help co-author the moral world, echoes the theme of the Rebbe’s sicha.

In Rabbi Sacks’ language, this becomes the assertion that G-d empowers us to become His partners “in the work of creation." But behind that familiar phrase lies a theology of descent as empowerment, a concept he encountered in embryonic form in this very footnote.

By interpreting the choice of naming the parshah Tazria not as a biological moment but as a spiritual metaphor, the Rebbe reframes the nature of human greatness. We are not great because we were created last, nor despite it. We are great through it, because it places us in the unique position to become the culmination of creation, not by origin but by achievement.

In the dialectic between itaruta de-le’eyla and itaruta de-letata, this week’s sicha shifts the conversation. When it is not just about whether initiative comes from above or below, but about the very value of human initiative itself, the dignity of effort is revealed as maybe the deepest truth of creation.

Our parshah, Shemini (the eighth) draws its name from a moment charged with significance: the day Aaron and his sons were consecrated as priests of the Mishkan, and the day G-d’s presence descended in revelation. Yet a question lingers. Why call it the eighth day? The seven days prior were marked by human striving, a disciplined effort to sanctify the Sanctuary and draw near to the divine. The eighth day, by contrast, is all about G-d’s response: "for today G-d is appearing to you.’" (Leviticus 9:4), a moment of infinite divine revelation that transcends the finite human labour of the days before. How, then, can the Torah speak of this as merely the eighth day, as if infinite divine revelation were simply the next step after finite human preparation?

Beneath the language of days and offerings lies a deeper dialectic, the relationship between itaruta de-letata and itaruta de-le’eyla, between the awakening from below and the response from above. In Chassidic thought, these are not merely chronological stages but spiritual postures: one grounded in human initiative, the other in a divine response that transcends it. Revelation does not simply descend; it is drawn down through the spaces we prepare. And yet, however much we prepare, what we receive always exceeds what we deserve. The eighth day of the inauguration of the Mishkan, then, is not just a historical event but a paradigm, a moment where the finite gestures of human striving open a channel for the infinite. It is this interplay between below and above, between effort and epiphany, that animates both the Rebbe’s and Rabbi Sacks’ readings of Shemini.

For Rabbi Sacks, the eighth day marks the beginning of human creativity within a divine partnership. For the Rebbe, it gestures towards the culmination of human effort, a revelation far beyond the limits of human endeavour. Taken together, they map two spiritual movements within the covenant, human initiative from below and divine transcendence from above, interlocked in a dynamic cycle of spiritual transformation.

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Quoting the Kli Yakar’s question: why call it the eighth day if it inaugurates something entirely new? The Rebbe explains that the seven days of consecration symbolise human effort. The eighth is G-d’s response: "for today G-d is appearing to you." It is not merely a continuation of the week that preceded it, but the point at which divine presence enters a space made ready through devotion and discipline.

For the Rebbe, seven represents the realm of human action: the seven days of creation, the seven weeks of the counting of the Omer. Eight signifies something beyond, lamalah min hateva, a dimension of holiness that transcends the natural order. This is why circumcision, performed on the eighth day, overrides Shabbat. "Shabbat is part of human time," the Rebbe writes, "but circumcision belongs to the realm of the holy." So too the Messianic harp will have eight strings (BT Arakhin 13b,) signalling a future where the divine will dwell not merely within the world but beyond it in a higher, more complete revelation.

Yet this revelation does not come unearned. "G-d gives His gift to man only after man has done all within his power to consecrate himself." The Rebbe’s principle is clear: G-d’s presence does not descend into a vacuum, it is drawn down through sustained human preparation. The seven weeks of the Omer lead to the fiftieth day of revelation at Sinai. The seventh day of each week brings Shabbat not as a given, but as a gift we must be ready to receive. The eighth day of the inauguration of the Mishkan follows this same pattern. It is not just G-d’s initiative. It is G-d’s answer.

And this is precisely why the Torah calls it the eighth day: not to downplay its newness, but to underscore that revelation is not arbitrary, it emerges from the sequence of human effort that precedes it.

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Rabbi Sacks sees the eighth day from a different angle: not as the resulting revelation made possible by human initiative, but as the moment when humans begin to act as co-creators with G-d. In his essay "The Light We Make," he draws attention to the havdalah candle, a flame kindled by human hands at the end of Shabbat, marking the transition into a new week. Havdalah inaugurates the eighth day, the day after the seven of creation, signalling the point at which human creativity begins. "Just as G-d began with the words, ‘Let there be light,’" he writes, "so humans begin their creative week by making light." This gesture affirms our role not as passive recipients of the world, but as its active shapers, partners in a creation that continues through us.

Nowhere is this more evident than in the building of the Mishkan and its inauguration on the eighth day. Just as havdalah marks the beginning of the eighth day, the moment when humans resume creation where G-d paused, the eighth day of the Mishkan marks the continuation of creation in sacred space. Rabbi Sacks notes the deliberate echoes of the Genesis creation story in the account of the Mishkan’s construction. The Sanctuary becomes a microcosm, a world fashioned by human hands as a mirror of the divine cosmos. "The eighth day is when we celebrate the human contribution to creation," when the work of our hands is elevated into holiness, and creation becomes not only something received but something renewed.

This theme also recurs in his reading of circumcision in next week’s parshah. It is performed on the eighth day not because of medical reasons, but because G-d deliberately left this act incomplete. "G-d did not cause male children to be born circumcised, because He deliberately left this act, this sign of the covenant, to us." Like the Mishkan, circumcision is a human act of sanctification, a ritual that transforms what is natural and given into something meaningful and chosen. It is not merely a biological fact but a spiritual statement: that holiness does not reside only in what we receive from G-d, but in how we respond. In leaving this sign of the covenant to human hands, G-d invites us to partner in the work of creation not only to inhabit the world, but to refine it, mark it, and make it sacred.

We see this idea echoed in the Rebbe’s interpretation of the Second Temple, a reading we explored in our Vaetchanan essay—“Taking the Initiative.” There, the Temple’s sanctity endures not because it surpassed the First in spiritual grandeur, but because it was built through a slower, harder process of human resolve. Without prophecy, without miracles, the people nevertheless laboured to draw the divine presence into a desecrated world. The Rebbe presents this as the ultimate expression of itaruta de-letata, an awakening from below. And it is precisely this that Rabbi Sacks identifies as the heart of covenantal life: a holiness born not of epiphany but of effort, not of inspiration but of perseverance.

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Both the Rebbe and Rabbi Sacks place the eighth day at the heart of the covenantal relationship between G-d and the Jewish people. But each sees it through a different lens. Rabbi Sacks highlights the beginning of human agency, the moment when we step into our role as partners in creation. The Rebbe highlights the culmination of human effort, the point where our work paves the way for the divine presence.

Yet these perspectives are not in tension. They are cyclical. The Rebbe’s eighth day revelation depends on the kind of disciplined preparation Rabbi Sacks calls sacred. And Rabbi Sacks’ eighth day, the start of human creativity, finds its full meaning only within the context of divine response. One emphasises what we offer. The other, what we receive.

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The eighth day is not a date on the calendar. It is a way of living. It teaches us that the covenant between G-d and humanity is not static but dynamic: we strive, and G-d reveals; we build, and G-d blesses; we act, and the holy appears.

The Rebbe shows that divine light descends only into the spaces we have prepared, but in a way that far exceeds the constraints and limitations of human effort. Rabbi Sacks emphasises that preparing those spaces is a sacred act of paramount importance. Together, they offer a vision of covenantal life that is both disciplined and daring—where each mitzvah, each spark of soulful creativity, is both an offering and an invitation.

The Sidra of Vayikra is about sacrifice: The offerings that were made in the Sanctuary, and the procedure that surrounded them. What does it mean to us today, when there is no Temple? Two Temples were destroyed. But many millions were not, and could not be. These are the temples which every Jew possesses within himself, the holy place of the soul where his worship of G‑d takes place. Judaism is invulnerable, because it has as many Sanctuaries as there are Jews. But what is the service of this inner sanctum? The answer lies in this week’s Sidra, where every instruction has a double significance: Firstly, to guide the priests in their service, and secondly, to guide us in ours. The private Sanctuary of the present is a precise counterpart of the public Sanctuary of the past. The Rebbe takes us through the act of sacrifice, translating the priestly procedure into terms of immediate bearing on our spiritual life. It is a classic example of the power of Chassidut to transform our understanding of neglected parts of the Torah into exact and striking pictures of the path of religious experience.
(Rabbi Sacks, Introduction to Torah Studies: Vaykirah)

The Torah’s language is rarely incidental; its every inflection carries intent. In Vayikra, the laws of sacrifice are not mere prescriptions; they encode a vision of human purpose, a bridge between the mundane and the divine. It is here, in the opening verses, that an understated irregularity emerges, inviting us to look beyond the surface of the altar to the soul that stands before it. What begins as a procedural directive unfolds as a profound inquiry into the self and its capacity for transformation.

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Rabbi Shneur Zalman of Liady, the founder of Chabad thought, highlights a grammatical irregularity at the beginning of the parshah: Adam ki yakriv mikem korban laHashem—“When a man brings from you an offering to G‑d.” The phrase mikem, “from you,” disrupts the expected flow. A simpler construction—adam mikem ki yakriv, “when a man from among you brings”—would align with convention, yet the Torah chooses this anomaly. That deliberate shift suggests the offering is not merely an external act, but an expression of the self, drawn from within.

The Rebbe, in his analysis in Torah Studies, identifies this as the essence of korbanot. Sacrifice, he teaches, is not defined by the animal or grain placed on the altar, but by the transformation it demands of the individual. Korban shares a root with קרב—drawing near—indicating that the true movement is inward: the person, not the object, approaches G‑d. The verse reframes the ritual as a process of self-refinement, where the act of giving becomes a means of becoming.

This interpretation hinges on a central Chassidic principle: the duality of human nature. A person harbours two souls in tension. The nefesh habeheimit, the animal soul, drives physical needs—hunger, survival, instinct. It is not evil, but unrefined, rooted in the material. The nefesh ha’elokit, the divine soul, seeks connection to G‑d, a fragment of the infinite within the finite. The task of life lies in aligning these forces, channeling the animal soul’s energy toward the divine soul’s purpose. In this light, the korban is both symbol and tool: the animal offered represents the baser self, its sanctification on the altar a model for elevating the human.

This reading of the verse leads to a deep psychological dimension in the Rebbe’s thought. Just as an offering must be without blemish, so too, in the inner world of a person, self-offering demands a process of purification. But true introspection is not always comforting. As one looks inward, past failings—some long forgotten, others persistent—rise to the surface. One sees that the past has not been fully rectified, that the scars of spiritual failures remain. At such moments, the whole enterprise of being a korban, of drawing near to G-d, feels impossible. The weight of one’s shortcomings makes the very idea of elevation seem beyond reach.

Yet the Rebbe insists that this is precisely where the journey begins. “The sacrifice is not only of ‘you’; it depends on ‘you.’” A Jew must never fall into despair or doubt his capacity to draw near. The fact that one sees one’s own deficiencies is not a sign of unworthiness but a call to action. The korban is not the broken self, but the self that refuses to remain broken. Every Jew, regardless of their past, possesses the ability to refine themself, to remove their blemishes, and to ascend.

The Rebbe’s teaching underscores a key Chabad axiom: holiness arises not from rejecting the physical, but from refining it. The nefesh habeheimit is not to be suppressed, but redirected; the material world, not abandoned, but transformed. Adam ki yakriv mikem thus transcends its ancient context, framing sacrifice as an enduring call to refine the self, to offer not merely possessions, but will and intent.

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The Rebbe’s insight lays a foundation that Rabbi Sacks extends in his essay ‘Why Do We Sacrifice?,’ anchoring his argument in this same grammatical nuance. He interprets mikem as evidence that sacrifice concerns the giver, not the gift—a shift from object to subject. Rabbi Sacks extends this into a broader human struggle: the conflict between instinct and aspiration. He draws on Desmond Morris’ The Naked Ape, which presents humanity as biologically driven, and reinforces the point with a line from the 1951 film The African Queen: “Nature… is what we were put in this world to rise above.”

While these sources aren’t contemporary, their enduring resonance deepens the Rebbe’s spiritual focus, reframing the korban as an act of self-mastery that transcends biological determinism and connects to universal ethical challenges. His approach expands on the Rebbe’s insight, translating it into a form that resonates with modern sensibilities while preserving its depth. Yet both perspectives affirm the same core idea: the value of the korban lies not in what is given up, but in the person who emerges from the act—transformed, purposeful, and open to the divine.

Adam ki yakriv mikem thus endures as a profound directive. It calls not for the relinquishment of the self, but for its elevation—a disciplined offering of instinct into intention, a crafting of the human into the holy.

This carries a pressing implication. The call of mikem is a summons to intentionality, urging a Judaism that reshapes the practitioner—turning the nefesh habeheimit’s impulses into the nefesh ha’elokit’s purpose, the mundane into the meaningful. The korban’s legacy lies not in its ashes, but in its challenge—to harness the self’s tensions, not merely to perform, but to transform. Only through such presence can Jewish life fulfil its promise: a continual drawing near to G‑d.

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What does it take to create a space for the Divine? The Rebbe’s reading of Vayakhel and Pekudei reveals a striking answer: holiness is not something we build—it’s something we make space for. In this essay, I explore how the Rebbe distills this idea into the language of itaruta diletata and itaruta dile’eila—human initiative met by divine revelation—and how Rabbi Sacks, with his characteristic clarity, unpacks its full theological force. Holiness, he shows, is not about self-expression but self-limitation. It is the space we clear, the void we create, that allows the Divine Presence to enter. Through this lens, the construction of the Mishkan becomes more than a historical event; it becomes a profound spiritual paradigm—one that challenges us to rethink how we invite G‑d into our own lives.

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In Torah Studies: Pekudei the Rebbe highlights how in the Torah, no detail is coincidental, and the division of the Sidrot are no exception. Vayakhel and Pekudei, though thematically related, contain distinct messages. Both deal with the construction of the Sanctuary, but their significance lies in different dimensions of the process—human effort and divine revelation.

Vayakhel begins with Moses rallying the Israelites, urging them to bring their offerings and labour to create the sacred space of the Mishkan. The focus here is on human initiative—how the people offer their property, their bodies, and their souls to build the Sanctuary. It’s a powerful expression of human dedication. The Mishkan is not simply a physical structure; it becomes a vessel for divine presence, a space prepared for divine presence.

But the full story unfolds in Pekudei, where the Sanctuary is consecrated and anointed, and the Divine Presence fills it. This moment is a response to the human effort in Vayakhel, but it transcends anything the Israelites could achieve on their own. The difference is stark: while Vayakhel is about preparation, Pekudei is about divine revelation—the culmination of human action into a space of sanctity.

This distinction between preparation and consecration is no accident. The structure of the Torah’s narrative reveals a profound truth: while human effort is essential, it is incomplete without divine response. The people’s efforts in Vayakhel prepare the Mishkan to receive the Divine Presence; it is only through Pekudei that holiness is realised. As the Rebbe succinctly teaches in the original Yiddish version:

"Parshat Vayakhel relates Moshe’s instructions to the Jewish people, and describes how they were fulfilled, i.e., man’s endeavours and the concomitant arousal from below. And Parshat Pekudei refers to a higher level of arousal from above which comes after the arousal from below."

The Rebbe’s words, though brief, point to the mystical dynamics that structure this process. Vayakhel represents the arousal from below—human initiative and action, the space we create for holiness. Pekudei, by contrast, is the arousal from above, the Divine response that sanctifies and fills the space we have prepared.

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The Rebbe’s formulation relies on the reader’s familiarity with the Kabbalistic concepts of itaruta diletata (arousal from below) and itaruta dile’eila (arousal from above). Rather than elaborating on these mystical dynamics, the Rebbe presents them as self-evident: Vayakhel is framed as the realm of itaruta diletata, human initiative in constructing the Mishkan, while Pekudei signals the response from above, the divine completion of that work.

Rabbi Sacks takes the Rebbe’s brief formulation and drawing on his broader knowledge of Chabad thought gives it expansive clarity, unfolding the mystical structure that underlies the transition from Vayakhel to Pekudei. He does not merely state the concepts of itaruta diletata and itaruta dile’eila but articulates their theological significance, framing them within a relational dynamic between G‑d and man. The Rebbe’s words assume the reader’s familiarity with these ideas; Rabbi Sacks, by contrast, uses his translator’s discretion and makes them explicit, describing them as “the three stages in the dialogue between G‑d and man, the three phases through which their relationship progresses.”

He begins with the first stage, “the Divine initiative, the ‘awakening from above,’” which corresponds to the initial command to build the Mishkan. This is the itaruta dile’eila that opens the possibility for man to respond. But the focus of his elaboration is on the second stage, “the human response, the ‘awakening from below’ in which he rises to the challenge of obedience and creates within himself and his world a hallowed space.” Here, Rabbi Sacks gives thoughtful expression to the Chassidic understanding of itaruta diletata. He does not describe it merely as human effort but as an existential movement, “hollowed out, as it were, from his delusions of self-sufficiency, for G‑d to enter and make His habitation.” This phrase captures an essential dimension of Chabad thought, where the ultimate purpose of human initiative is not just action but bitul, self-effacement, creating a space for the Divine.

Rabbi Sacks, in his engagement with this theme, deepens our understanding of this interaction. He elucidates the itaruta diletata not only as human action, but as the creation of an internal emptiness, a deliberate self-effacement that makes room for the Divine. It is not just an external task but an internal transformation, an act of spiritual humility where the self is made empty to allow for Divine presence. This is not a passive action, but a radical engagement with the Divine. The space created through itaruta diletata is not merely a void—it is a sacred vacancy, a space where G-d’s presence can dwell.

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[This interpretation has echoes of themes from my essay ‘The Silence of the Self’ and ‘Labour Relations.’ See also Rabbi Sacks’ essay ‘Two Types of Religious Encounter’ where he highlights a different dimension of the itaruta dile’eila/itaruta diletata dynamic and my reflections on that dimension in my essay ‘Taking the Initiative’]

Finally, he describes the culmination of this process, where itaruta dile’eila returns on a higher plane: “the concluding response of G‑d is a voice from within, flooding the human sanctuary with ‘the glory of the L-rd.’ This is the voice of Pekudei.” The transition from Vayakhel to Pekudei, which the Rebbe signals in a few measured words, is here developed into a full theological movement. Pekudei is not simply the completion of the Mishkan’s construction but the Divine reply to man’s initiative—a revelation that transforms human action from within, transmuting it from obedience into encounter.

This process of human initiative followed by divine revelation carries far-reaching significance for spiritual growth. Rabbi Sacks expands on the Rebbe’s teaching in his Vayakhel-Pekudei essay ‘Making Space,’ where he speaks of holiness as the result of self-limitation—the human counterpart to G‑d’s tzimtzum (contraction). He writes:

"Kodesh is the result of a parallel process in the opposite direction. It is the space vacated by us so that G‑d’s presence can be felt in our midst. It is the result of our own tzimtzum. We engage in self-limitation every time we set aside our devices and desires in order to act on the basis of G-d’s will, not our own."

In both his explanation of the Mishkan and his broader spiritual teachings, Rabbi Sacks illustrates that the highest form of holiness does not come from self-expression, but from the act of making space for the other:

“The highest achievement is not self-expression but self-limitation: making space for something other and different from us.”

This mirrors the Rebbe’s insight that our efforts, through itaruta diletata, open the way for the Divine response, an itaruta dile’eila. When we empty ourselves of ego and pride, we prepare a vessel for G-d’s glory to fill.

Rabbi Sacks thus carries forward the Rebbe’s profound insight, transforming it into a powerful tool for spiritual growth. By understanding itaruta diletata as an act of self-effacement, the reader is invited to see that true transformation occurs not in action alone, but in the humility of making room for something greater than oneself. This, in turn, invites the Divine response, a revelation that fills the very space we have vacated. The interplay between itaruta diletata and itaruta dile’eila is not just a mystical framework; it is a transformative process that invites serious change in the soul, a dynamic that is central to the creation of holiness in both the Mishkan and in ourselves.

In this way, we are invited into a significant spiritual journey, one that requires both our effort and G-d’s response, and one that ultimately leads to the revelation of holiness in our lives.

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In his essay The Sabbath: First Day or Last? on last week’s parshah, Rabbi Sacks invites us to see Shabbat as more than just a pause from labour but as a glimpse into the end of history, an anticipation of the Messianic age. “On it, we recover the lost harmonies of the Garden of Eden,” he writes, “we do not strive to do; we are content to be.” Shabbat is not merely a cessation of work but a return to a deeper sense of being, a space where we are not preoccupied with the endless demands of life. It is a day of celebration, where we recognise the world as G-d’s supreme work of art. In this sacred time, there is no hierarchy—rich and poor alike inhabit the day with equal dignity, free from the burdens of work and power. It is a rehearsal for the ideal society we yearn for, where peace and harmony reign, and all creation is united in its purpose. This vision of Shabbat, Rabbi Sacks suggests, is not just a day of rest but a weekly rehearsal of the redemption to come, a future we can taste, if only for one day.

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Now, as we turn to the Rebbe’s Torah Studies on Vayakhel, we are about to encounter a radical shift in our understanding of Shabbat. Rabbi Sacks presents Shabbat as a rehearsal for the Messianic age, a day when we are granted a taste of the world to come. But the Rebbe doesn’t merely ask us to wait for that future. He challenges us to enact it. Shabbat, in the Rebbe’s view, is not just a reflection of the world to come; it is a call to bring that world into the present. It is a day that challenges us to step out of the struggle and into the sanctity of being, not in anticipation of what will be, but as a living expression of what can already be. This is not just a rehearsal but a profound invitation to begin the work of redemption

The difference is subtle but profound. Not only is Shabbat a vision of the future, an interval of sacred time in which we momentarily step beyond history, touching something of what the world will one day become. Where the work of the six days is unfinished; redemption is not yet here. We pause, but we do not yet arrive. For the Rebbe, this is not enough. Shabbat is not merely a respite from history—it is an intrusion of redemption into history. The Messianic era is not seen as a distant horizon, something we glimpse before returning to the grey toil of the week. It is something we are enjoined to live now.

(See Three Versions of Shabbat and A Holy Nation where Rabbi Sacks’ vision of Shabbat is perhaps more aligned with the Rebbe’s ideas here.)

Throughout the Torah, the command to rest on the seventh day is always paired with the permission—or, the requirement—to work for six. The six days aren’t just an afterthought; they’re the necessary buildup, the hard work, the sweat, the effort that creates the space for the sacred pause. Without those six days of work, Shabbat would lose its meaning. The rest comes not from mere exhaustion but from purpose. It is in the six days of toil that Shabbat finds its true sanctity, for work makes room for the cessation of work, and only through the labour of the week can the soul taste the full sweetness of rest.

But Vayakhel introduces a subtle shift in language. The Torah does not say, as it does elsewhere, “Six days shall you work.” Instead, it says, “Six days shall work be done.” The shift from active to passive is subtle but powerful. It’s as if the work is happening without the person being consumed by it, without drowning in it. The six days of work aren’t a frantic scramble to fill the time; they’re part of a greater flow. The passive form suggests that work happens on its own terms, almost as if it’s being carried out by some divine hand. As the Mechilta explains, when we do G-d’s will, the work is done for us. This isn’t an excuse for laziness; it’s a call to live with purpose. You can toil, but you don’t need to be swallowed up by it. You can “be occupied, but not preoccupied.”

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This has profound practical and existential implications. In a world that worships productivity, we are often defined by what we do. We are told that our value is measured by our output, our usefulness, our ability to produce. Shabbat dismantles this illusion. It is the great negation of the modern condition—the refusal to be valued by what we make, the refusal to be enslaved by the tyranny of work. But the Rebbe takes it one step further: Shabbat is not just a negation; it is an assertion. It is not just the rejection of doing; it is the affirmation of being.

This does not make the six days of work redundant. On the contrary, it transforms them. When we recognise that our work is not ultimate—that we are not the masters of history, but its participants—then work itself becomes transformed. It is no longer a burden we must escape from, but a means through which we reveal G-d’s presence in the world. The six days of creation lead into Shabbat—but when Shabbat is lived properly, it transforms those six days in return.

This shifts the way we experience time itself. In Rabbi Sacks’ formulation, Shabbat is an anticipation. It is a reminder that the present is incomplete, that we are yearning for something beyond. It is, in his words, a not yet. But in the Rebbe’s vision, Shabbat is not a not yet—it is an already. It is a day when we step into redemption, not as a preview but as a reality. If we are always looking forward to the future, we live in a state of perpetual incompletion, always striving, never arriving. But if Shabbat is an enactment of redemption, then the six days of work are not merely a prelude to something better; they are part of the process of bringing that future into being. Shabbat gives work its meaning. It tells us that the struggle is not endless, that we are not condemned to an existence of toil without rest. The sanctity of Shabbat spills over into the week, shaping the way we work, live, and see the world.

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Shabbat, then, is not merely a break from history; it is a declaration that history is not the ultimate reality. It is the weekly assertion that the world can be redeemed, is redeemed, if we would only live that way. Rabbi Sacks shows us how Shabbat allows us to glimpse redemption; the Rebbe calls on us to step into it.

We do not wait for the future to arrive; we bring it into being. It is not a taste of what will be, but an invitation to be—now, in the present, as if the world had already arrived at its destination. Because in the deepest sense, it already has.

Rabbi Sacks frequently emphasised that the Torah contains a concealed counter-narrative—one that challenges conventional readings and reveals a deeper moral or theological truth. Rabbi Sacks’ counter-narrative is not simply about dramatic reversals or unlikely heroes, but about a deeper structure of meaning embedded within the text itself. The surface reading seems to tell one story, but beneath it, a counterpoint challenges our assumptions, requiring careful attention to the text’s nuances.

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(For a careful reading of some of the stories of Bereishit using counter-narrative as an interpretive tool see Not in God’s Name (107-173) and The Face of the Other: The Curious Nature of Biblical Narrative. For a similar approach to Vayikrah see the introductory essay to Covenant & Conversation: Leviticus, ‘The Democratisation of Holiness’ (1-49))

For Rabbi Sacks, the Tanakh constantly plays on this tension between appearance and reality. What seems like a simple moral tale is, upon closer reading, a layered and often subversive commentary on human nature, justice, and divine providence. This sensitivity to the text’s hidden dimensions allows us to return to familiar stories and discover, again and again, that the real meaning lies beneath the surface.

This sensitivity to hidden meanings is crucial for understanding the Rebbe’s reading of the Purim story, where he, too, uncovers a counter-narrative—one that transforms our perception of the Megillah and of Jewish history itself.

The Rebbe’s Purim essay in Torah Studies unfolds within a conscious inversion of dominant assumptions about history, causality, and divine presence. If Purim is commonly read as a story of political intrigue and improbable deliverance, the Rebbe compels us to see in it the structure of Jewish existence in exile and the nature of redemption itself.

The Rebbe begins with the teaching of the Baal Shem Tov: one who reads the Megillah “backwards” (i.e., as a retrospective account) has failed to grasp its message. The story of Purim is not a contained event from a distant past; it is a continuous, ever-relevant reality. The counter-narrative here is temporal: Purim is not merely a remembrance of past salvation but a blueprint for Jewish action in every age. What appears to be a mere historical episode is, in fact, an enduring paradigm.

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This framework extends to the name Purim itself. Unlike every other Jewish festival, its name does not reference divine intervention or Jewish deliverance. Instead, it recalls the lot cast by Haman to determine the Jews’ destruction. Moreover, the very name of the holiday is Persian and appears to enshrine the enemy’s perspective—yet in this subversion lies its deeper truth. The lot (pur) that Haman cast symbolises randomness, a world devoid of meaning, yet its very occurrence becomes the instrument of divine reversal. The counter-narrative here is conceptual: what appears to be random chance—a lottery cast by an enemy—turns out to be the mechanism of divine intervention. What seems like exile’s chaos is, in reality, the unfolding of redemption and thus the name of the festival.

The most striking element of the Megillah is the absence of G‑d’s name. In every other book of the Torah, divine presence is explicit; here, it is concealed. The text itself mirrors the historical condition it describes: exile, a world in which G‑d’s presence is not immediately apparent. Esther’s name, derived from the root hester (concealment), encapsulates this condition.

Megillat Esther—translated as 'the revelation of concealment'—embodies Purim’s greatest inversion: divine absence is itself a mode of divine presence. The natural order does not replace miracles; it reveals them in disguise. The natural order is not a space devoid of G‑d, but rather one in which His workings are hidden. The absence of miracles in the conventional sense does not indicate a lack of divine intervention; rather, it marks the point where the hidden and the revealed merge. This is the great theological inversion of Purim: what appears as divine silence is actually a deeper mode of communication.

The behaviour of Mordechai and Esther further exemplifies this counter-narrative. Facing the decree of annihilation, the immediate and pragmatic response should have been political manoeuvring. Mordechai, as an advisor in the Persian court, and Esther, as queen, had direct access to power. Yet, their first action was not diplomatic but spiritual. Mordechai donned sackcloth and ashes, and Esther fasted for three days before approaching the king.

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This prioritisation challenges conventional political logic. The Rebbe highlights that Haman’s decree was not a mere geopolitical event but the outcome of a deeper spiritual failing—the Jews’ participation in Achashverosh’s banquet, an act of assimilation. The decree was not an arbitrary misfortune; it was a consequence. The cure, therefore, had to match the cause. The fasting and repentance of the Jewish people did not merely accompany the political effort; they were the decisive factor in its success. The Rebbe here offers a counter-theory of Jewish survival: political efforts are necessary, but they are only conduits. The real battle is always waged on a spiritual plane.

The Rebbe’s final inversion is perhaps the most radical: exile is not a deviation from divine involvement but its ultimate test. Purim occurred not in the era of the Temple, when miracles were overt, but in exile, when divine presence was veiled. And yet, it is specifically in this setting that redemption occurred—not through overt miracles but through hidden divine providence.

This is why Purim, more than any other holiday, is linked to the future redemption. Unlike other festivals, which will be overshadowed by the coming of Mashiach, Purim will endure. For it is Purim that teaches the deepest truth: that even when G‑d is concealed, He is fully present. It is in the darkest moments that the ultimate revelation is found.

The Rebbe’s Purim discourse is not merely a textual interpretation; it is a reframing of how Jews are to see history, exile, and redemption. In every facet—name, narrative structure, theological content, and historical application—Purim subverts conventional expectations. It takes the language of exile and turns it into the vocabulary of redemption. It finds G‑d not in miracles but in history itself. It reveals that concealment is not absence but presence in another guise.

Purim, then, is the holiday of counter-narrative par excellence. It teaches that the world, as it appears, is only half the story. Beneath the surface, beneath the randomness of events, lies the hand of G‑d, guiding history toward its ultimate fulfilment. Purim is the festival that teaches the Jew that he is never truly bound by the forces of history, culture, or politics. Even when speaking another language, even under foreign rule, even when G‑d's name seems absent—his identity is not diminished but deepened.

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The final Mishnah of Tractate Chagigah, which discusses the altars of the Temple first discussed in this week’s parshah, serves as the foundation for this week’s Torah Studies essay. What appears at first glance as a halachic discussion about ritual impurity becomes, in the Rebbe’s hands, a profound meditation on the nature of spiritual resilience. The altar, the locus of sacrifice, remains immune to impurity, a truth that speaks not only to the laws of the Temple but to the inner life of the Jew. This insight, as translated and interpreted by Rabbi Sacks, offers a striking reframing of Chassidic ideas within the language of moral philosophy. By tracing the Rebbe’s explanation and Rabbi Sacks’ translation choices, we uncover a deeply resonant message: that the essence of sacrifice is not self-negation but transformation, and that the love it embodies is not fleeting but enduring.

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“All the vessels that were in the Temple required immersion after the Festival, apart from the golden altar and the bronze altar, because they are considered like the ground and therefore, like land itself, not susceptible to impurity. This is the statement of Rabbi Eliezer. And the Rabbis say: It is because they are coated.” So concludes the Mishnah at the end of tractate Chagigah (3:8). Rabbi Eliezer explains that this is because they are like the earth, which is impervious to impurity. The Sages, however, argue that since their metal covering is secondary to their wooden core, and since wood without a receptacle cannot become impure, neither can the altars. At face value, this is a legal discussion concerning Temple vessels. But the Torah speaks in the language of eternity—its laws contain a moral architecture that maps onto the inner life of the Jew.

The Temple, once a physical structure, is now an internal reality. “And they shall make Me a Sanctuary, and I will dwell in them” (Exodus 25:8)—not “in it” but “in them.” The Jew themself is the dwelling place of the Divine. Their faculties—intellect, emotion, will—mirror the vessels of the Sanctuary, each with its function in spiritual service. But just as the Temple’s vessels could contract impurity, so too can a person’s inner life be tainted by self-interest or sin. Purification is required; refinement is necessary.

Yet the altar is different. It is the site of sacrifice, where the ego is consumed in the fire of divine longing. And the Mishnah makes no distinction between the golden altar of incense of the inner sanctuary and the copper altar in the outer courtyard: both are immune to impurity. Some people are golden—radiant in their righteousness, their every act a precious offering. Others are copper—coarser, burdened by struggle. But the altar does not change. The fire may burn high or low, but the spark—the essential Jewish bond with G‑d—remains untouched.

The altar’s imperviousness to impurity is not merely a legal detail but a profound insight into the nature of sacrifice. The Torah calls it a mizbeach adamah, an altar of earth—earth, which endures through all seasons, symbolises permanence and resilience. Likewise, the altar represents an enduring quality within the Jewish soul: the capacity for sacrifice. But sacrifice, in this sense, is not about destruction; it is an act of transformation. In the Rebbe’s explanation, the altar is the site where the animal soul—the unrefined instincts of a person—is offered up in the fire of divine passion.

True love requires self-refinement because love, in its deepest sense, is not merely about emotion or attraction but about becoming worthy of the relationship. Genuine love demands that a person transcend their natural self-centredness, refining their instincts, desires, and impulses to create space for another.

In the Rebbe’s explanation, the korban (sacrifice) on the altar symbolises this process. The animal soul—representing raw, unrefined drives—is offered up, not to be annihilated but to be sanctified. Love in its highest form is not about indulging one's natural tendencies but about shaping them in a way that makes one a better giver, a better partner, and ultimately more aligned with something greater than oneself. True love is thus a form of avodah, an ongoing process of self-work that allows love to endure and deepen. Sacrifice, then, is not about loss but about elevating the lower self into something higher.

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Rabbi Sacks’ translation of the Rebbe’s words in this section is striking. When describing the spiritual state of one who sees themselves as an altar he writes:

“Just as the earth which we tread on is a symbol of humility, so our soul becomes void of any will except the will of G‑d, as expressed in the Torah.”

Rather than leaving this as a statement about bitul or self-nullification, Rabbi Sacks translates the idea directly into the language of humility which is not present in the original Yiddish. His choice to emphasise humility reinforces the conceptual transition we observed last week—where kabbalat ol (accepting the yoke of Heaven) was not merely about obedience but about a state of receptivity, an openness that allows G‑d’s will to shape one's life. Here, that same state of openness is articulated in the imagery of the earth—something that, in its lowliness, has no self-assertion but serves as the foundation for all life.

This understanding of humility as radical receptivity finds its most striking embodiment in Rabbi Eliezer himself. Though known as “Rabbi Eliezer the Great,” his humility was not a passive trait but an active principle that shaped his entire intellectual posture. His greatness was universally acknowledged—“if all the sages of Israel were in one scale of the balance, and Eliezer the son of Hyrcanos in the other, he would outweigh them all” (Pirkei Avot 2:9)—and yet, “he never said anything which he had not heard from his teachers.” (BT, Sukkah 27b) His greatness lay in his absolute fidelity to the teachings of his masters—so much so that he refused to innovate beyond what he had received. His intellectual power was inseparable from his humility, because his wisdom was not an assertion of self but a perfect receptivity to truth.

His view of the altar as immune to impurity reflects his own absolute conviction in the unchanging essence of holiness. He saw the Jewish soul, like the altar, as something that could never be tainted—an identity that transcends even human failings. The Sages, however, took account of surface realities. Jews falter. The gold may tarnish, the copper may corrode. Yet, they argued, these are but coverings—secondary, transient. The altar itself remains uncontaminated, and in the end, it is the altar that prevails.

The Rebbe’s words suggest that the altar’s imperviousness to impurity stems from a kind of existential bitul—the soul’s identification with the earth, its willingness to be utterly transparent to G‑d’s will. Rabbi Sacks, however, renders this in the language of humility. Rabbi Sacks’ choice to translate bitul as humility rather than self-nullification is not merely a linguistic shift but a conceptual one. Bitul, as understood in Chassidic thought, does not mean self-erasure but rather the alignment of one’s will with something higher. It is not the negation of the self but its transformation. By framing this in terms of humility, Rabbi Sacks moves away from the mystical language of self-transcendence and into a moral and psychological framework more familiar to Western thought. Humility, in his writings, is not about thinking less of oneself but about being open to something beyond oneself—a state of receptivity that allows one to serve as a conduit for truth. In this way, his interpretation does not dilute the Rebbe’s message but rather translates it into a form that resonates with a broader audience.

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Rabbi Sacks, in Understanding Sacrifice, frames sacrifice within a broader philosophical and societal context but ultimately arrives at a similar core idea: “We love what we are willing to make sacrifices for…To love is to give. Sacrifice is the choreography of love.” Rabbi Sacks recognises that the site of the altar and the act of bringing sacrifices serve as the articulation of this love. True love is not transient emotion but an enduring commitment, expressed through giving and devotion.

The framework provided by the Torah Studies essay clarifies the deeper significance of sacrifice in Rabbi Sacks' thought. They both converge on the idea that sacrifice is not merely an external act but an internal transformation, an expression of an enduring love, and the means by which relationships—whether between man and God or between human beings—are sustained.

The altar is not only a place where external offerings are burned; it represents an inner process within the Jew:

“The sacrifice is of himself. The animal is his ‘animal soul,’ his egocentric desires. And the fire which consumes them is the fire of the love of G‑d Whose undying source is the spark of holiness at the essential core of his soul.”

Here, sacrifice is not transactional but transformational. It is the means by which a person subdues and refines their lower instincts, bringing their natural self into alignment with a higher divine calling. The soul possesses an enduring and eternal love for G‑d, one that can never be extinguished and always has the power to overcome the desires of the animal soul. This explains why the altar can never become contaminated—because it represents this eternal bond, a love that remains untouched by impurity.

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The Mishnah’s final ruling—that the altar remains impervious to impurity—stands as a powerful conclusion not just to a legal discussion but to the entire conceptual arc we have explored. The altar is not merely a physical structure; it is a symbol of the soul’s eternal love for G‑d, a love that cannot be extinguished by sin or failure. In both the Rebbe’s and Rabbi Sacks’ teachings, sacrifice is not about loss but about transformation, not about destruction but about deepening one’s connection to something greater. Just as the fire on the altar must never be extinguished, so too does the soul’s fire burn continuously, sustaining the covenant between G‑d and the Jewish people. The altar is not only a place of sacrifice but a testament to the enduring power of love—one that neither time, failure, nor impurity can diminish.

Among the many essays in Torah Studies, the one on parshat Terumah stands apart. Most of the essays in the collection are direct translations of the Rebbe’s talks, preserving the structure and formulations of the original. But in this case, the essay is explicitly described as an adaptation rather than a strict rendering. This distinction is more than technical. It signals that here, perhaps more than elsewhere in the volume, we encounter a synthesis—not only of ideas but of voices. The Rebbe’s thought is dominant, but refracted through Rabbi Sacks’ interpretive lens.

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The essay offers a glimpse into Rabbi Sacks’ own intellectual instincts, revealing the ways in which he absorbed, reworked, and extended the Rebbe’s insights. Nowhere is this more striking than in his treatment of kabbalat ol—acceptance of the divine yoke. In his adaptation, this foundational concept is presented with an emphasis that anticipates one of the central themes of his later work: humility. A close reading of this adaptation, alongside Rabbi Sacks’ later writings, reveals an arc of development—a set of ideas that emerge in embryonic form in Torah Studies and later find full expression in his own moral and political philosophy.

The Rebbe’s original sicha on Terumah begins with the Mishkan—the sanctuary constructed in the wilderness. But as is characteristic of his thought, the discussion quickly transcends the historical and architectural dimensions of the text. The Mishkan becomes a metaphor for the inner life of the Jew. Just as the sanctuary was composed of many different materials, donated by individuals of varying means and capacities, so too the spiritual edifice of a person is built from diverse faculties—intellect, emotion, and deed. These elements, however, require a foundation, represented in the Mishkan by the adanim, the sockets of silver into which the wooden planks were fixed.

It is here that the Rebbe makes a crucial move: the adanim, he argues, correspond to kabbalat ol, the bedrock of all religious life. Before one’s intellect and emotions can be engaged in divine service, there must first be submission—the act of surrendering autonomy to become a vessel for something higher. Without this foundation, the entire structure is unstable. The Mishkan, both as a physical entity and as a spiritual paradigm, rests on an acceptance of divine authority.1

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Rabbi Sacks’ presentation of kabbalat ol is as follows:

“If we are to find their analogues in the inner life of the Jew, the adanim must be the original act of kabbalat ol—the gesture of submission to G‑d’s will, when one foregoes one’s independent existence and becomes a vehicle through which the Torah flows. For this act is one in which all men are equal—it does not depend on the particularised capacities of intellect or emotion; it is not the exercise of a power but a state of receptivity. And it is the foundation of all true service, for without it a man is always distant from G‑d. If his thoughts and desires form a closed circle, there is no gap through which revelation can enter.”

This passage is striking not only for its conceptual clarity but for its anticipatory quality. In later years, Rabbi Sacks would articulate a philosophy in which humility is not merely a virtue but the very foundation of faith, wisdom, and moral leadership. His early formulation of kabbalat ol—as an act of relinquishing ego and making oneself a vehicle for Torah—finds a striking parallel in his later reflections on humility.

In Humility, he writes:

“Humility is not self-abasement. It is not self- anything. It is the ability to stand in silent awe in the presence of otherness – the Thou of God, the otherness of other people, the majesty of creation, the beauty of the world, the power of great ideas, the call of great ideals. Humility is the silence of the self in the presence of that which is greater than the self.”

And in The Greatness of Humility he goes further to say:

“Humility means living by the light of that-which-is-greater-than-me. When God is at the centre of our lives, we open ourselves up to the glory of creation and the beauty of other people. The smaller the self, the wider the radius of our world.”

This reflects how the Torah Studies passage describes kabbalat ol: as a “state of receptivity,” the act of opening oneself to G-d’s will by dissolving self-enclosure. As Rabbi Sacks writes in From Pain to Humility:

“We now understand what humility is. It is not self-abasement. A statement often attributed to C. S. Lewis puts it best: humility is not thinking less of yourself. It is thinking of yourself less.

True humility means silencing the “I.” For genuinely humble people, it is God and other people and principle that matter, not me. As it was once said of a great religious leader, “He was a man who took God so seriously that he didn’t have to take himself seriously at all.”

In both cases, what is being described is a negation of the self as a barrier—a shift from self-assertion to self-transcendence. This is the essence of both kabbalat ol and humility.

This is the conceptual transition: kabbalat ol begins as the willingness to relinquish selfhood in deference to G-d’s authority, and it reemerges in Rabbi Sacks’ mature thought as humility. Just as kabbalat ol is the foundation of divine service, humility becomes, in Rabbi Sacks’ later philosophy, the foundation of wisdom, leadership, and moral growth.

Rabbi Sacks did not merely theorise humility; he encountered it in its purest form in two towering figures in his life: his father and the Rebbe. He describes his father as an unassuming man of deep faith, who embodied a quiet, steadfast humility. Though he lacked formal Jewish education, he possessed an unshakable sense of duty. For Rabbi Sacks, his father’s humility was expressed not in words but in deeds—in his willingness to serve, to listen, and to let his faith guide his life without fanfare or self-importance.

Yet if his father was his earliest example of humility, the Rebbe became its most profound embodiment. Rabbi Sacks often recounted his encounters with the Rebbe, reflecting on how a leader of unparalleled vision and influence could simultaneously exude absolute humility. What struck him most was how, in the Rebbe’s presence, who he described as one of the most humble people he had ever met, one did not feel the weight of his greatness pressing down on them but rather the extraordinary way in which he lifted others up.

“As I left the room, it occurred to me that it had been full of my presence and his absence. That is what listening is, considered as a religious act. I then knew that greatness is measured by what we efface ourselves towards. There was no grandeur in his manner; neither was there any false modesty. He was serene, dignified, majestic; a man of transcending humility who gathered you into his embrace and taught you to look up.”

This was not merely the humility of self-effacement but the humility of making space for another. The Rebbe’s presence was an act of receptivity, a complete openness to the needs, struggles, and potential of every individual. Rabbi Sacks saw in this the truest fulfilment of the kabbalat ol described in Torah Studies: not a negation of the self, but a willingness to become a vessel through which something far greater—Divine wisdom, moral clarity, and a relentless sense of mission—could flow. This was humility not as weakness but as strength—the power to transcend the self in order to elevate others.

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This brings us to a final, almost playful observation. In How the Light Gets In, Rabbi Sacks draws on Leonard Cohen’s famous 1992 lyric:

“There is a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.”

He uses this as a metaphor for divine revelation—the idea that brokenness and imperfection are not obstacles to holiness but conditions for its entry. This is a profound theological insight, but what makes it especially intriguing is that, in a sense, Rabbi Sacks had already anticipated it decades earlier in his adaptation of the Rebbe’s sicha:

“If his thoughts and desires form a closed circle, there is no gap through which revelation can enter.”

It is difficult to resist the comparison. In 1974, Rabbi Sacks described kabbalat ol as the opening that allows divine truth to enter human life. Two decades later, Cohen would give poetic expression to the same idea. The coincidence is striking, but it is also revealing. It suggests that from the very beginning of his intellectual journey, Rabbi Sacks was drawn to the notion that faith is not a fortress but an aperture—that revelation enters not through strength but through surrender, not through certainty but through humility.

The Terumah essay in Torah Studies is more than just an adaptation. It is a window into the intellectual development of Rabbi Sacks, and an early articulation of themes that would define his thought. If we are to trace the arc of Rabbi Sacks’ thought, this essay stands as an early inflection point—a place where the voice of the Rebbe and the emerging voice of Rabbi Sacks momentarily converge before setting off on distinct but intertwined paths. It is, in its own way, a kind of adanim, a foundational point on which a lifetime of wisdom was built.

In 1993, Rabbi Sacks delivered the Warburton Lecture on “Law, Morality and the Common Good,” a seminal reflection on the role of law in shaping society. The lecture was given in response to a broader contemporary debate: should law be understood as a minimal framework that merely prevents harm and maintains social order, or does it serve a more expansive purpose in cultivating moral and civic responsibility? Rabbi Sacks argued that Judaism presents a striking contrast to the prevailing legal philosophies of the modern West. Whereas contemporary thought often treats law as a pragmatic tool for managing competing interests with minimal intrusion into personal autonomy, Judaism sees law as a covenantal system designed to shape character, bind a community together, and direct individuals toward moral and spiritual refinement.

At the heart of his argument is the distinction between two conceptions of law:

• The minimalist approach views law as a safeguard against anarchy, a necessary restraint on human behaviour to prevent harm. This idea holds that the role of law is to mark the boundaries of personal freedom without imposing moral or religious values.

• The maximalist approach, by contrast, sees law not merely as a protective mechanism but as a transformative force. In Judaism, law is not external to moral and spiritual development; it is its very vehicle. Divine law is not a set of rules imposed from without but an all-encompassing framework through which individuals and society as a whole cultivate justice, responsibility, and the common good. For Rabbi Sacks, Jewish law is not a concession to necessity but an articulation of the highest ideals, extending beyond the courtroom into education, ethics, and personal discipline.

With this framing, we can turn to the Rebbe’s essay on parshat Mishpatim and the rational commandments, with heightened sensitivity to these critical themes. The Rebbe’s discussion of the phrase “lifneihem” (before them) from the first verse of the parshah, touches on three dimensions of law that resonate deeply with Rabbi Sacks’ maximalist framework: law as a distinct covenantal identity, law as education, and law as a force that must shape not only external behaviour but the innermost depths of the individual. By considering the Rebbe’s ideas through the lens of law, covenant, and moral formation, we gain a fresh perspective on the deeper role that Jewish legal thought plays in shaping both society and the self.

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“And these are the laws which you shall set before them.” (Shemot 21:1) The phrase “before them” has been understood in multiple ways, each shedding light on the nature of law and its role in shaping both the individual and society.

One interpretation (BT Gittin 88b; cited by Rashi) emphasises that all legal matters among the Jewish people should be adjudicated within the framework of their own legal tradition, rather than submitted to external courts. This is not merely a technical concern—it speaks to the fundamental distinction between law as a contract and law as a covenant. In a contractual system, justice can be determined by any competent authority. But in a covenantal system, law is more than procedure; it is an expression of collective identity and shared moral responsibility. To bring disputes before another legal framework is not just an administrative misstep; it is to risk detaching law from its moral and covenantal context.

A second interpretation (BT Eruvin 54b) sees “before them” as referring to legal instruction. The law must not only be legislated but taught—explained in such a way that its underlying principles are understood. A legal system that does not educate fails in its task, for law is not merely a set of decrees to be obeyed but a moral vision to be internalised. If people follow laws only out of fear or habit, the moral purpose of the legal order is lost.

A third reading (Torah Ohr, Mishaptim) suggests that law must reach not only the intellect but the deepest recesses of the human personality. If law remains external—an obligation imposed from without—it can be observed mechanically but not lived authentically. The true aspiration of law is not only compliance but transformation. The law must enter the inner life of its adherents, shaping their character, refining their will, and creating a society in which justice is not merely enforced but embodied.

The Torah distinguishes between three types of law: mishpatim (rational laws), eidot (witnessing laws), and chukim (transcendent laws).

• Mishpatim are laws that reason alone might have deduced—prohibitions against theft, laws of restitution, principles of fairness. These are the foundation of any legal system.

• Eidot are laws that commemorate, that bear witness to historical or metaphysical truths—Shabbat, festivals, rites of remembrance. They are rationally comprehensible, yet they derive their authority not from logic but from revelation.

• Chukim are laws that transcend human understanding. They remind us that law is not merely a social construct but an encounter with something beyond reason, a call to obedience that exceeds explanation.

The phrase “before them” is attached specifically to mishpatim—why? Would it not be more necessary to insist that laws beyond reason be explained, rather than laws that are, by their nature, intelligible? And if the deepest inner commitment is required, surely it is for those laws that defy human logic rather than those that can be justified by reason?

The answer lies in a fundamental truth about the nature of legal and moral obligation.

On the one hand, law is an external system, a structure of command and consequence. A person may obey the law simply because it is the law. But a legal system that rests entirely on external enforcement is inadequate. Law must also become internal—part of the moral identity of those who live by it.

And yet, paradoxically, the very laws that seem most obviously rational pose the greatest risk of being detached from their deeper source. A person may not steal because reason dictates that property must be respected—but if rationality alone is the foundation of morality, then law is always contingent, subject to revision in the name of new rationalities. If ethical obligation is derived solely from human logic, it can never be absolute. This is why even mishpatim, laws that seem to require no divine mandate, must be “set before them”—taught, explained, and internalised not merely as rational policies but as expressions of a covenantal moral order.

This is also why legal education is not simply a matter of intellectual comprehension. A student of law does not merely learn rules; they absorb a way of thinking, a way of being. Law, in the covenantal tradition, is not a series of regulations but an ongoing conversation across generations about justice, responsibility, and the common good. The legal order survives not because it is enforced but because it is embraced.

At the heart of the covenantal vision of law is the fusion of reason and faith, intellect and inner commitment.

When the Ten Commandments were given at Sinai, they contained both the highest theological affirmations (“I am the Lord your God”) and the most pragmatic legal statutes (“You shall not steal”). This juxtaposition is deliberate. A society governed only by theology risks becoming detached from the realities of justice. But a society governed only by legal rationality loses its foundation, reducing morality to an instrument of human calculation.

The phrase “And these are the laws” follows immediately after the revelation at Sinai to teach that law is not separate from the sacred but an extension of it. Even the most rational laws—those that could exist in any society—derive their authority not from logic alone but from the divine imperative. We do not observe them merely because they make sense, but because they are part of a greater moral framework, one that binds reason to revelation, law to covenant, justice to faith.

This is why legal disputes must be resolved within the covenantal system, rather than outsourced to an external framework. It is why law must be taught with depth, not merely imposed. And it is why law must reach beyond the mind to the innermost self, so that justice is not only enacted but lived.

A society that builds its legal system purely on reason is vulnerable to erosion—today this seems just, tomorrow it does not. Law, when rooted in covenant, becomes more than a social construct; it becomes the means through which a people sustain their moral and spiritual identity across generations.

This, ultimately, is what it means to “set before them” the law: not merely to legislate, but to educate; not merely to command, but to shape the soul.

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The Rebbe’s essay offers an extensive exposition of a maximalist approach to law, demonstrating how Jewish legal thought does not merely prescribe behaviour but seeks to transform the individual and society from within. His careful analysis of mishpatim, particularly through the lens of lifneihem—law as adjudication, education, and inner transformation—encapsulates the very principles that Rabbi Sacks articulates in his Warburton Lecture. By insisting that even rational laws must be understood as divine commandments, internalised through learning, and lived as a covenantal responsibility, the Rebbe provides a foundational structure for the argument that law in Judaism is not merely regulatory but formative. Rabbi Sacks' lecture, in turn, situates this within a broader philosophical and societal context, showing how Judaism’s legal vision contrasts with modern minimalist conceptions of law. In reading the Rebbe’s essay through this lens, we gain a deeper appreciation of how Jewish law is not just a system of governance but a means of shaping moral character and sustaining a society built on justice and covenantal obligation.

I’ve written at length in previous essays—The Listening Ear and The Integrated Self—about the recurring theme of seeing and hearing in the thought of the Rebbe and Rabbi Sacks. Both of them return to this sensory metaphor again and again, but they do so in strikingly different ways. For the Rebbe, hearing and seeing are not opposites so much as complementary dimensions of spiritual experience, each revealing a different aspect of reality. Hearing conveys depth and continuity, while seeing offers clarity and immediacy—a direct, unmistakable encounter with truth. In the Rebbe’s model, both senses are essential; the real challenge is learning how to integrate them.

Rabbi Sacks, however, takes a different approach. His writings often present seeing and hearing as a profound dichotomy—two modes of perception that reflect competing worldviews. Seeing is the way of power, hierarchy, and control; it corresponds to ancient shame cultures, where everything depends on appearances. Hearing, in contrast, is the path of covenant and dialogue. Rabbi Sacks develops this contrast into a sweeping cultural critique, drawing clear boundaries between the two. (See ‘The Art of Listening’, ‘Listen, Really Listen’, ‘Listen O Israel’, ‘Seeing and Hearing’, 'The Spirituality of Listening', 'To Lead is to Listen', 'The Sound of Silence', and 'Doing and Hearing')

While there’s much to admire in Rabbi Sacks’ powerful analysis, I’ve often felt there’s room for a more integrative perspective—one that doesn’t draw such sharp lines but instead seeks to harmonise these sensory experiences. And this week’s Torah Studies essay, which Rabbi Sacks himself describes as “elaborate and profound,” provides a perfect opportunity to explore that possibility. The Rebbe offers a sustained and subtle treatment of the seeing/hearing theme, one that not only deepens our understanding of the revelation at Sinai but also accentuates the differences in his and Rabbi Sacks’ approaches. In many ways, it offers a model for how to hold opposites together—to see and hear simultaneously—and it’s this integrative vision that I want to explore more fully here.

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In this week’s parshah the Torah relates how “And all the people saw the voices and the torches” (Shemot 20:15). At first glance, this statement appears perplexing: voices, by their very nature, are heard, not seen. Rabbi Yishmael posits that the people experienced nature in its customary form—they beheld the visible lightning and heard the resonant thunder. Yet Rabbi Akiva presents an alternative understanding, one that suggests a radical inversion of the senses: the Israelites “saw what is normally heard” and “heard what is normally seen.” In this ecstatic state, the ordinary hierarchy between the physical and the spiritual was inverted. The normally intangible voice of G‑d became a clear vision, while the visual image of lightning faded into a distant sound.

This remarkable reordering of sensory experience serves as a metaphor for two models of divine service. The first model of Rabbi Yishmael is rooted in the conviction that sanctity is achieved by integrating the Divine into the world as it is. Here, the miracle of Sinai is appreciated in its most immediate form—the Almighty’s descent upon the mountain is a tangible event, witnessed through the ordinary operations of the human senses. In this view, holiness is not abstract or remote; rather, it is manifest in the very fabric of creation. The natural order is not negated but rather suffused with the presence of G‑d. The revelation is experienced as an invitation to sanctify the everyday—to recognise that the Divine, even when it appears in forms comprehensible to our limited perception, can elevate the mundane to the realm of the sacred. (For more on this model see last week’s essay ‘The Nature of Miracles’)

In contrast, the second model of divine service is marked by an aspiration to transcend the limitations imposed by material existence. This approach of Rabbi Akiva finds its expression in the radical sensory transformation at Sinai, where the Israelites did not merely observe the world as it is but reimagined it. To “see what is normally heard” is to experience the spiritual realm with the immediacy and certainty of vision, while “hearing what is normally seen” suggests that the normally perceptible physical dimension of the world is something we merely hear about as a vague possibility.

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This difference of approach between Rabbi Yishmael and Rabbi Akiva is reflected in their interpretation of the seemingly superfluous ‘saying’ in the introductory verse of the Ten Commandments: “And G‑d spoke all these things, saying…” (Shemot 20:1). According to the Midrash, the word ‘saying’ indicates how the revelation at Sinai was not a unilateral decree but an interactive covenant: each commandment was met with a response—a resounding affirmation or negation. Rabbi Yishmael holds that the Israelites answered “yes” to the positive commandments and “no” to the negative ones, while Rabbi Akiva contends that they responded in the affirmative for both the positive and the negative commandments. These divergent responses are not arbitrary but illuminate their two distinct models of divine service—one that sanctifies the world as it is and another that strives to transcend its material limitations. Rabbi Yishmael, “who sees the ultimate achievement in translating G‑dliness into this world,” is conscious of the ways a positive command is distinguished from a negative one. Whereas for Rabbi Akiva, every element of a divine commandment—whether a directive to act or a prohibition against certain actions—is affirmed as an expression of an ultimate, transcendent will. Even what appears to be a negation, a command to refrain, is reinterpreted as a positive affirmation of the oneness and singularity of G‑d.

This dual framework resonates in the very structure of the commandments themselves. Each mitzvah, as presented in the Torah, carries a dual character. On one level, it is a specific directive aimed at particular behaviours and aspects of communal and personal life. On another level, however, it is an expression of the universal will of G‑d—a call that transcends the particulars and points toward an ultimate, unifying reality. The integrative model highlights the former, celebrating the diversity and concreteness of the world. The transcendental model, by contrast, illuminates the latter, revealing that even prohibitions, when understood in their deepest sense, can become vehicles for elevating the soul beyond its material confines.

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The contrast between these two models is not merely theoretical but carries profound implications for the nature of divine service. The model that integrates the Divine into the world emphasises the immanence of holiness. It is a path suited to those who find their spiritual strength in engaging directly with the world’s tangible realities. Under this approach, the miraculous is not a departure from nature but its consummation; the Divine is brought down and revealed within the very confines of the natural order. This perspective encourages a mode of service that seeks to sanctify everyday life, transforming the ordinary into an expression of the sacred.

Conversely, the transcendental model calls for a radical reordering of perception. It is the pathway of the aspirant who, aware of the constraints of the material, endeavours to elevate the inner life beyond these bounds. In this vision, the sensory experience at Sinai becomes emblematic of an inner revolution—a reawakening of the soul to a reality that surpasses the physical. By affirming every commandment, regardless of its apparent negative or positive formulation, this model posits that every aspect of divine will contains within it the seed of transcendence.

The interplay between these two models, then, offers a comprehensive vision of divine service. On one hand, there is the grounded approach that invites one to see G‑d’s imprint on the world as it is, recognising that even the most ordinary aspects of creation are imbued with sacred potential. On the other hand, there is the visionary approach that challenges one to rise above the material, to internalise and transform one’s very modes of perception so that the boundary between the seen and the heard is effaced. The two models are not in opposition but are complementary; they reflect different aspects of a dynamic relationship with the Divine. The highest ideal, it seems, is not to choose one over the other but to integrate both: to aspire to an inner reality that transcends its limitations while also sanctifying the world as it is.

In reflecting on the Sinai revelation, we are thus invited to consider our own approach to divine service. It challenges us to recognise that the call to holiness is not a static command but a dynamic, multifaceted journey—one that asks us to both immerse ourselves in the world as it is and to elevate our inner life beyond its apparent confines. In light of the Rebbe’s interpretation, we can revisit Rabbi Sacks’ dichotomy of seeing and hearing. Rather than opposing forces, they can be seen as complementary dimensions of divine service—calling us to experience the Divine in all its paradoxical beauty: immanent and transcendent, visible and audible, grounded in the material yet soaring above it.

A miracle is an encounter with the divine that disrupts the expected order of things. Yet such disruptions need not be overtly supernatural; they can emerge within the framework of the natural world itself. Two perspectives on the splitting of the sea—one emphasising the suspension of natural law, the other highlighting the unfolding of events within natural processes—capture this tension. The difference is not merely a matter of physics but of perspective: what defines a miracle is not necessarily that it defies nature, but that it reveals a deeper truth embedded within it.

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The miracle at the sea is framed in the Midrashic mind not as a momentary suspension of natural law, but as its fulfilment. The Midrash (Shemot Rabbah 21:6) reads the phrase "the sea returned to its former strength" (Exodus 14:27) as "the sea returned according to its condition", playing on the Hebrew word le'eitano (strength), which shares letters with tenai (condition). This implies that the sea’s splitting was not a deviation from its essence but embedded in its original nature. From the moment of creation, its very existence was contingent on this future event: it would exist as a sea only so long as it obeyed the divine will when the time came.

The Rebbe, in his essay in Torah Studies on this week’s parshah, notes how at first glance, this reading seems problematic. The verse does not describe the sea parting but returning to its natural state. If the splitting fulfilled its original condition, why is this fulfilment apparent only when the waters close upon the Egyptians? This difficulty, far from incidental, reveals a profound truth about miracles and the structure of reality itself.

A miracle can be seen in two ways: as a temporary rupture in natural law or as the revelation of a deeper natural order. The distinction is subtle but transformative. Some miracles override nature, requiring a second act to restore the world to its prior state. When Moshe’s hand turned leprous and was later healed (Exodus 4:6–7), each step was a separate disruption. The miracle negated the natural state, and then another miracle reinstated it.

Other miracles, however, are no more than a shift in the external expression of nature while its essence remains unchanged. When the Nile turned to blood (Exodus 7:17–21), the water remained fundamentally water—hence, it reverted effortlessly once the plague ended. The Midrash’s insight implies that the splitting of the sea belongs to this second category. The sea was never transformed into something unnatural; its parted state was as intrinsic to its being as its flowing state. It did not require a second miracle to return it to normal—it simply continued in the fullness of its reality.

This is why the Torah emphasises that "a strong east wind blew all night" (Exodus 14:21). Unlike a sudden, inexplicable rift in nature, the event unfolded through a recognisable process, reinforcing that the miracle was woven into the very fabric of creation rather than imposed upon it from the outside.

The splitting of the sea was not an aberration; it was the moment when the sea fulfilled its ultimate purpose. This does not mean that nature is at odds with divine will, but rather that its deepest reality is expressed when it aligns with it. Its continued existence depended not only on its physical properties but on its willingness to manifest the divine will at the appointed time. Had it refused, it would not merely have ceased to exist—it would have never existed at all. Just as a legal contract that fails its conditions is deemed null from the outset, so too, creation itself is only validated when it fulfils its purpose.

Thus, the sea’s return to its strength was not a reversion but a confirmation. When it stood as walls, it had yet to prove the truth of its condition. Only when it flowed again—strong, undiminished—was it evident that its miraculous transformation had not been a distortion but a realisation of its deepest purpose.

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This theme of realising the divine will as it is revealed from within the natural order repeats itself in Rabbi Sacks’ commentary on the splitting of the sea (see here, here and here.) He writes: “The supernatural explanation—that the waters stood upright—is immensely powerful, and so it entered Jewish memory. But the natural explanation is no less compelling.” One explanation emphasises the supernatural: waters standing as walls, the sea transforming into dry land, nature itself suspended. The other presents a more natural sequence: an east wind blowing through the night, exposing a pathway, the Egyptian chariots mired in the mud before the waters return. The division of the sea stands as the defining miracle of the Exodus, recalled daily in prayer and enshrined in the national memory. Yet the Torah’s account oscillates between these two distinct perspectives.

Rabbi Sacks explains that the tension between these two accounts is deliberate. It underscores that miracles do not necessarily entail the abrogation of nature; rather, they integrate the miraculous within the natural order: “a miracle is not necessarily something that suspends natural law. It is, rather, an event for which there may be a natural explanation, but which – happening when, where and how it did – evokes wonder, such that even the most hardened sceptic senses that G-d has intervened in history.” The same event that appears as an open rupture of the laws of nature can, from another vantage point, unfold within a causal framework.

The very strength of Egypt—its technological and military superiority—becomes a source of weakness. The chariots, symbols of Egyptian might, become their undoing. The Israelites, seemingly powerless, gain the upper hand precisely because they lack these advantages. Rabbi Sacks writes: “the fact that there was a naturalistic explanation did not make the event any less miraculous. That the Israelites should arrive at the sea precisely where the waters were unexpectedly shallow, that a strong east wind should blow when and how it did, and that the Egyptians' greatest military asset should have proved their undoing—all these things were wonders, and we have never forgotten them.” The order of history is upended: the strong are ensnared by their own strength, the weak are lifted by forces beyond their control. The hand of G-d is not visible in defiance of nature but through its very workings, orchestrating events with perfect precision.

This paradigm is not confined to the past. The purpose of miracles is not to suspend the natural world but to illuminate its true potential. The Messianic era is not depicted as a world broken free from nature but as one in which nature itself is elevated. "As in the days of your going out from Egypt, I will show wonders" (Micah 7:15) does not suggest a return to the miraculous as an external imposition, but rather the emergence of a world in which the miraculous is seamlessly integrated within nature itself.

The lesson of the splitting of the sea is not that divine intervention disrupts reality but that reality itself is intervention. The miraculous is not imposed upon the natural order—it is the natural order, when seen from the right perspective.

This duality—miracle as both suspension and fulfilment of nature—is a recurrent theme in Jewish thought. The miraculous is not an aberration but embedded within the world itself, revealing an underlying order beyond human perception. The miraculous is not merely the extraordinary; it is the point at which history discloses its ultimate purpose.

So, too, will the future redemption be a reward for faith - the faith which disregards the great concealments of G‑d that our exile brings, and which still holds firm to the belief in the Messiah; a faith which does not hover at the outer edges of our minds, but which constitutes our most inward certainty and extends to every facet of our being.
(The Rebbe, Torah Studies, p.96)

Jews were and are still called upon to be the voice of hope in the conversation of humankind
(Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, Future Tense, p.252)

This week I listened to an episode of the exciting new Books & Beyond podcast where fellow Sacks Scholars Dr Tanya White and Dr Mijal Bitton had a great discussion on Rabbi Sacks’ 2009 book Future Tense: A Vision for Jews and Judaism in the Global Culture. I was particularly interested in the way they grappled with Rabbi Sacks’ sense of hope and whether he would express himself in the same way today as he did then in light of recent events. In this week’s essay I want to make a contribution to that discussion by highlighting a significant feature of hope in Rabbi Sacks’ thought and its possible genesis in the Rebbe’s teachings on this week’s parshah.

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In this week’s Torah Studies essay, the Rebbe focuses on the tenth plague - the slaying of the firstborn. Unlike the preceding plagues, this act was not merely a demonstration of G‑d’s control over nature; it exposed the deepest truths of divine love and justice, transcending all boundaries of reason. Unlike the previous plagues, which had unfolded within a framework of discernible justice - measured, targeted, even pedagogical - this final act seemed to transcend all categories. Yet, this extraordinary moment demanded extraordinary human preparation - faith and supra-rational devotion. It required of the Israelites not only belief but action, a response that reached beyond rational comprehension.

The Torah describes the night of the plague in vivid terms: “It is the Passover offering to the Lord, for He passed over the houses of the Israelites in Egypt when He struck the Egyptians and spared our homes” (Exodus 12:27). G‑d’s intervention was universal in its power, yet selectively applied. The earlier plagues were directed and measured, each serving as a revelation of G‑d’s power to the Egyptians. In contrast, the tenth plague was an unrestrained release of destructive force, a judgment that could potentially affect anyone. (See Rashi, Exodus 12:22)

The Rebbe points out how unlike the earlier plagues, which were preceded by general warnings, Moses specified that this plague would occur at “about midnight.” This raises a critical question: why was it necessary to mention the timing? The Rebbe argues that the connection between midnight and the tenth plague is intrinsic, reflecting a deeper spiritual significance.

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Midnight represents a moment of transcendence, harmonising opposing forces: the midway point between the descent from light into darkness and the ascent from darkness into light, that stands above the temporal flow of night and day. Midnight is neither the descent into darkness nor the first glimmer of dawn; it is the suspension of opposites, a moment that transcends boundaries. It was at this precise juncture that G‑d revealed His essence - a love for His people that could not be measured, explained, or earned.

Yet, even at this transcendent level, human action was required. The Rebbe explains that drawing down divine revelation into the physical world demands a response from below, actions that mirror the supra-rational nature of G‑d’s love.

Two signs were demanded: the blood of the Paschal lamb and the covenant of circumcision. Both acts challenged the Israelites to express a commitment that went beyond fear. The lamb was an Egyptian deity; its public slaughter was an open act of defiance, a risk that made no sense within the parameters of survival. Circumcision, performed even on an infant incapable of conscious assent, expressed a bond that existed prior to reason. Their willingness to circumcise themselves at this precarious moment underscores their trust in G‑d’s redemption, despite all appearances to the contrary. These acts of devotion demonstrated a supra-rational faith that transcended fear and self-preservation. It was a profound statement of allegiance to G‑d, even in the face of mortal danger.

To believe in redemption when no evidence points to its possibility is not merely to hope - it is to act on the premise of hope’s truth. The Israelites, enslaved and broken, believed not because they saw a path to freedom but because their bond with G‑d was deeper than the logic of their circumstances. This faith was no abstract ideal; it demanded embodiment, action that transformed belief into reality.

For even a divine revelation that transcends reason does not nullify human agency. The Israelites’ role in the redemption was essential, not as a condition but as a channel. The blood on the doorposts was not for G‑d’s sake but for theirs, a tangible expression of their willingness to step into the unknown. It was an act that transformed their homes into sanctuaries and their fear into trust.

The Israelites’ faith and actions were not merely prerequisites for redemption; they were the vessels through which G‑d’s infinite love could be revealed in the finite world. The Exodus was not simply a historical event but a paradigm for the ultimate redemption, which will similarly depend on faith that transcends reason. This interplay between human devotion and divine revelation offers a template for understanding redemption as a whole.

Redemption is not simply a restoration of order or a resolution of wrongs; it is the emergence of something entirely new, something that defies the patterns of history. In Egypt, the revelation of G‑d’s essence was both the catalyst and the guarantee of this new reality. It bypassed the moral calculus that might have rendered Israel unworthy, insisting instead on a relationship that could not be quantified.

Faith, then, is not merely a passive belief in the future but an active force that bridges the gap between exile and redemption. The Israelites’ willingness to take the Paschal lamb, to circumcise themselves, and to mark their homes with blood demonstrated a faith so powerful that it drew G‑d’s essence into the world. This same faith, the Rebbe teaches, is the key to revealing the divine essence in the future redemption.

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Hope, like faith is not a rational conclusion. Quoting the sociologist Peter Berger, Rabbi Sacks calls hope a “signal of transcendence.” He describes it as “a point at which something beyond penetrates into the human situation. There is nothing inevitable or even rational about hope. It cannot be inferred from any facts about the past or present.” For Rabbi Sacks, hope is the expression of a covenantal relationship with an infinite G-d that is not bound or limited by any rational assessment of the present moment.

To hope is to affirm that the future can be different from the past, that the arc of history is not bound by its apparent trajectory. It is, in many ways, the human echo of the divine act of redemption - a refusal to accept the world as it is. The Exodus narrative is, above all, a story of hope, not because it was inevitable but because it was unimaginable. For slaves to believe in freedom, for a nation to walk into the desert with nothing but a promise - this is hope at its most radical.

Hope is not passive. It demands action, often in defiance of logic. The Israelites’ preparation for the Exodus - slaughtering the lamb, marking their homes, preparing to leave - was an act of hope, a declaration that the future was already breaking into the present. The future redemption, like the first, will emerge not from within the constraints of history but from its rupture. It will demand of humanity the same supra-rational faith, the same willingness to act on a promise that seems impossible.

In that vein, I would suggest that Rabbi Sacks’ response to our current predicament would be to double down and insist even more forcefully for us to remain hopeful. Our future redemption is bound to the present not by logic but by hope. To live with hope is to live as though redemption is already unfolding, even when the evidence suggests otherwise. It is to engage with the world not as it is but as it could be. The blood on the doorposts, the slaughtered lamb, the faith that defied oppression, were templates for a life lived in covenant with the transcendent. To hope, then, is not to escape reality but to transform it, to align the finite with the infinite, and the human with the divine.

Moses’ outcry, “Why have You dealt badly with this people?” at the end of last week’s parshah, stands as a moment of spiritual crisis, reflecting a tension at the heart of human experience. How can redemption, the ultimate good, emerge from such profound suffering? The Rebbe draws from this moment to explore the inherent conflict between intellect and emotion, highlighting their contrasting tendencies and the necessity of their synthesis. Rabbi Sacks, in his groundbreaking 1973 Tradition article “Alienation and Faith,” further develops this theme, showing how Jewish thought in its Chasidic form integrates intellectual abstraction with worldly engagement. Together, their insights present a vision of divine service that reconciles opposites, transforming tension into unity.

The Rebbe’s essay begins with a focus on the divergent paths of intellect and emotion. Intellect, represented by Moses, can be detached and abstract. It seeks clarity, coherence, and a system of understanding that aligns with the divine order. Yet, in its pursuit of truth, intellect can become isolated from practical reality. It observes the world from a distance, struggling to reconcile the complexities of human existence with the lofty ideals of divine justice. Moses’ cry reflects this tension. His intellect demands an explanation for the suffering of the Jewish people, unable to integrate the apparent contradictions between G‑d’s promises and their harsh reality.

Emotion, by contrast, is grounded in immediacy and connection. The patriarchs—Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob—serve G‑d with love, awe, and compassion, embodying the emotional faculties (middot). Their faith does not require intellectual resolution; it thrives in the presence of paradox. Abraham’s willingness to sacrifice Isaac, Isaac’s acceptance of his role, and Jacob’s perseverance through trials all reflect a service rooted in a simple, unshakable commitment to G‑d. For them, the concealment of the divine does not weaken their bond with G‑d; it deepens it.

Moses is thus introduced to the name Havayah, which transcends nature and signifies G‑d’s absolute essence. The Rebbe explains that this transition reflects the higher calling of Moses’ service: to bridge the divide between intellect and emotion, uniting the abstract with the immediate, the transcendent with the immanent.

Yet this synthesis does not come easily. The Rebbe emphasises that intellect, left to its own devices, tends toward isolation. It is self-contained, prioritising detachment over connection. Emotion, while more integrated with the world, can be impulsive and unfocused. True divine service requires the blending of these faculties: intellect must inspire and guide emotion, while emotion must ground intellect in the lived reality of human experience. This interplay is epitomised by the Jewish people’s redemption, where the clarity of G‑d’s plan is revealed not in isolation but through its impact on the physical world.

In a critical section of Rabbi Sacks’ article (VII) he offers a broader meditation on the integration of intellect and emotion in the service of G‑d. He frames devekut as a point of tension in Jewish philosophy, tracing its development through the perspectives of Ibn Ezra, Ramban, Maimonides, and the Kabbalists. Ibn Ezra views devekut as a mystery, attainable only at the end of life. Maimonides similarly confines it to moments of seclusion, achievable through intellectual abstraction and meditation. In these traditions, devekut is seen as incompatible with worldly engagement. The intellect, in its quest for communion with G‑d, must withdraw from the practical realities of life.

Rabbi Sacks notes that Chassidut transforms this paradigm. Drawing on the unity of G‑d, Chassidut teaches that devekut is not confined to seclusion but can be achieved in the midst of action. By fulfilling G‑d’s will in the world, the Jew not only recognises but experiences divine unity. Just as intellect must descend to engage with the emotional and practical dimensions of life, devekut must move beyond moments of abstraction to permeate the entirety of one’s existence.

The Rebbe’s distinction between the faculties of intellect and emotion finds a parallel in Rabbi Sacks’ treatment of devekut. For both, the challenge lies in transcending the natural tendencies of each faculty. Intellect must overcome its detachment, engaging with the messiness of human experience without losing its clarity. Emotion must channel its immediacy into purposeful action, guided by the higher vision of intellect. This interplay mirrors the Chassidic redefinition of devekut as a state that encompasses both contemplation and engagement, the spiritual and the material.

Rabbi Sacks’ discussion of Maimonides further illuminates this synthesis. Maimonides distinguishes between two levels of devekut: the lower, achieved through deliberate effort, and the higher, granted as an act of divine grace. The former requires seclusion; the latter, exemplified by Moses and the patriarchs, transcends this limitation. Yet Chassidut redefines even the lower level, showing that it can be achieved through action in the world.

The Rebbe and Rabbi Sacks thus converge on a profound vision of divine service. The tension between intellect and emotion, abstraction and action, Majesty and Covenant, is not a contradiction to be resolved but a dynamic to be embraced. The Jew is called to live in this tension, holding opposites together: the intellect that seeks understanding and the emotion that accepts mystery, the mind that contemplates and the hands that act. Redemption lies not in escaping these tensions but in transforming them into unity.

Moses’ question and G‑d’s response offer a blueprint for this transformation. To serve G‑d is to integrate the clarity of intellect with the resilience of emotion, the abstraction of thought with the concreteness of action. It is to cleave to G‑d not only in moments of seclusion but in every aspect of life. This unity is the essence of Jewish faith, a fusion that reveals the divine within the human and brings redemption into the world.

In parshat Shemot, the profound dialogue between G‑d and Moses at the burning bush sets the stage for an exploration of redemption, leadership, and spiritual transformation. When G‑d commands Moses to lead the Jewish people out of Egypt, Moses responds with a plea: “Send, I pray You, by the hand of whom You will send.” The Midrash interprets this as Moses requesting that the Messiah take on the mission instead. This request highlights a deep connection between Moses, the redeemer of the past, and the Messiah, the redeemer of the future, emphasising the continuity of the redemptive process. This week’s essay will explore the nature of this connection as examined by the Rebbe, and how it relates to the future-oriented theology of Rabbi Sacks. By analysing their perspectives on redemption, Oneness, and the role of the Jewish people, we will uncover our collective mission to transform the world into a vehicle for the Divine.

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The Rebbe explains how Moses’ task was to redeem the Jewish people from physical bondage, creating the conditions for their spiritual transformation through the giving of the Torah. The Messiah, in contrast, will bring about the ultimate redemption, in which the entire world will be aligned with its Divine purpose. G‑d’s insistence that Moses alone must lead the Exodus emphasises that each redemptive mission is unique, yet they form part of a single, continuous process of revealing G‑d’s presence in the world.

This relationship is encapsulated in the Rabbinic teaching, “Moses was the first redeemer, and he will be the last redeemer.” While this does not mean Moses himself will be the Messiah—since Moses is from the tribe of Levi and the Messiah descends from King David of the tribe of Judah—it reflects a profound spiritual continuity. As the Rebbe explains, the Messiah’s redemptive power is rooted in Moses’ unparalleled connection to Torah. Rambam teaches that the Messiah will embody the highest levels of Torah scholarship and observance, drawing strength from the Torah that Moses received and transmitted.

The connection between Moses and the Messiah finds further expression in the mystical dimension of Torah. The verse “The sceptre shall not depart from Judah… until Shiloh comes” (Genesis 49:10) is understood as a reference to the Messiah. The numerical value of the word "Shiloh" equals that of "Moses," while the term "yavo" (he will come) matches the value of "Echad" (one). The Rebbe explains that this equivalence reveals a deeper truth: both Moses and the Messiah are united in their mission to reveal Divine Oneness. Moses initiated this process by giving the Torah, which provides the framework for aligning human action with G‑d’s will. The Messiah will bring it to completion, transforming the world into a home for the Divine. Moses introduced this idea through the Torah, but its full realisation will occur in the Messianic era, when this unity will permeate every facet of creation.

This mystical vision has profound practical implications for every Jew. Through Torah study and mitzvah observance, one harmonises the disparate elements of their existence, aligning the physical with the spiritual. Each mitzvah performed becomes an act of revealing Oneness within the world. In this way, every Jew contributes to the continuum of redemption initiated by Moses and destined to be fulfilled by the Messiah. This collective responsibility underscores the Jewish mission to transform the world into a vehicle for the Divine.

The Rebbe’s exploration of the relationship between Moses and the Messiah illuminates the unfolding process of redemption—a journey that is not merely historical but deeply connected to the ongoing transformation of the world. This dynamic view of redemption, which spans from Moses’ mission to the ultimate Messianic fulfilment, mirrors the future-oriented vision that Rabbi Sacks describes in his essay Faith in the Future.

Rabbi Sacks provides a complementary perspective on the transformative vision introduced by the story of the encounter of Moses with G-d in the wilderness in this week’s parshah. He describes how Judaism redefines history, time, and human potential, orienting them toward the future rather than the past. This shift is encapsulated in the cryptic phrase G‑d uses to identify Himself to Moses at the Burning Bush: Ehyeh asher Ehyeh (Exodus 3:14), most accurately translated as “I will be what I will be.” Rabbi Sacks contrasts this with the Greek (ego eimi ho on) and Latin (ego sum qui sum) translations, which render the phrase in the present tense and focus on ontology, portraying G‑d as an immutable being. These translations reflect the Greek philosophical view, epitomised by Plato and Aristotle, which is fundamentally different from the dynamic, relational G‑d of the Hebrew Bible. For Rabbi Sacks, ‘Ehyeh asher Ehyeh’ reveals the future-oriented nature of G‑d as actively engaged in transforming reality.

This theological innovation carries profound implications for human freedom and responsibility. The Exodus narrative rejects the inevitability of slavery, empire, and hierarchical structures, emphasising instead that history is a journey of change and transformation. The Torah consistently highlights the future as a goal to be achieved, not a given reality. Even Moses does not enter the Promised Land, underscoring that the ultimate destination lies beyond the horizon, always “soon but not yet.”

Rabbi Sacks connects this future-oriented theology to the concept of the Messianic age, which envisions a golden age in the future rather than in the past. This vision profoundly shapes Jewish identity, inspiring hope, freedom, and the potential for human beings to change themselves and the world. The future is the realm of human freedom because it is open to choice and action, unlike the past, which is fixed and unchangeable.

The Messianic vision calls on individuals to participate in G‑d’s work of redemption. Every act of Torah and mitzvot contributes to this process by revealing Oneness in the world. Similarly, the future-oriented nature of Judaism empowers individuals and communities to shape a better tomorrow. In this shared vision, Moses and the Messiah represent not only extraordinary leaders but also the collective mission of the Jewish people to transform the world and align it with its Divine purpose.

The redemption is not confined to the past or the future; it is a living process that unfolds through the efforts of every individual. Together, Moses and the Messiah embody the journey of humanity toward a world fully attuned to its Divine potential—a journey that each of us is called to continue every day.

The book of Genesis closes with an enigmatic silence. Jacob, patriarch of the twelve tribes, gathers his sons at his deathbed, poised to impart a revelation of transcendent significance:

"Gather together, and I will tell you what will happen to you at the end of days." (Genesis 49:1)

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But the anticipated words never come. The Torah does not record a vision of redemption or a forecast of the messianic era. Instead, Jacob offers blessings—complex, opaque, and fragmented utterances. The Midrash (Bereishit Rabbah 98:2) explains this rupture in startling terms: as Jacob prepared to reveal the “end of days,” the Shechinah, the Divine Presence, departed from him.

The Rebbe interprets this episode with profound sensitivity to its textual and spiritual nuances. Jacob’s call to his sons to “gather together” was not merely physical but spiritual—a call for spiritual cohesion. This cohesion, the Rebbe explains, was the necessary condition for Jacob’s revelation to be realised. For Jacob, the “end of days” was not a distant, eschatological event but a vision that could have manifested in the present moment, had his sons been spiritually prepared. Jacob believed their journey was complete, that their collective refinement and unity as the twelve tribes of Israel had made them fitting vessels for this ultimate revelation.

Yet, as the Midrash recounts, this was not the case. While physically gathered, Jacob’s sons lacked the necessary spiritual alignment. Their failure did not reflect personal inadequacy but an incompletion in their collective spiritual work. The departure of the Shechinah thus signalled not the impossibility of the vision but its deferral.

For the Rebbe, this episode highlights a profound dynamic: the leader’s vision, no matter how lofty, is intrinsically tied to the spiritual state of their community. Revelation is not imposed from above; it must find its vessel in the readiness of the people. Jacob’s silence, then, is not an absence but an eternal presence, recorded in the Torah to empower future generations. By including Jacob’s unspoken intention in the biblical narrative, the Torah imbues it with eternity, making it a challenge and a promise for all time.

This empowerment is Jacob’s legacy. Though he could not articulate the “end of days” in his lifetime, his intention to share this vision invites every generation to strive toward it. The Rebbe emphasises that Jacob’s silence is itself a revelation: it affirms that the task of redemption does not belong to a single time or person but to the enduring covenant between G-d and Israel.

Rabbi Sacks, while reflecting on the same episode, frames it within a broader philosophical discourse on freedom and the openness of the future. For Rabbi Sacks, Jacob’s inability to articulate the “end of days” is not a function of the community’s spiritual readiness alone but a deeper feature of the human condition: the future is unwritten, shaped by human choice rather than predetermined destiny.

In his parshah essay, Rabbi Sacks contrasts the biblical worldview with that of ancient Greece, where fate ruled supreme. Greek tragedy, epitomised by the story of Oedipus, portrays a world in which human actions inevitably fulfil an unalterable destiny. Judaism, by contrast, rejects this fatalism. A Jewish prophet, Rabbi Sacks insists, is not a predictor but a guide, whose role is to inspire transformation rather than resignation.

This idea resonates deeply with the name G-d reveals to Moses at the burning bush: Ehyeh Asher Ehyeh—“I will be what I choose to be.” The G-d of Israel is a G-d of freedom, and humanity, created in His image, shares this divine capacity for choice. Jacob’s silence, then, is not a failure but a testament to human agency.

While the Rebbe interprets Jacob’s unfinished revelation as a challenge to realise redemption through spiritual cohesion, Rabbi Sacks reframes it as a declaration of trust in human potential. Jacob does not impose a vision of the “end of days” because doing so would undermine the essential partnership between G-d and humanity. Redemption, Rabbi Sacks teaches, is not preordained; it is the product of countless individual choices, an unfolding story that each generation must write anew.

For the Rebbe, it is an eternal empowerment, a spiritual charge that affirms the enduring potential for redemption. For Rabbi Sacks, it is a testament to the dignity of human freedom and the radical openness of the future. In both readings, Jacob’s unspoken words resonate across time, challenging every generation to partner with G-d in shaping the destiny of the world.

Joseph’s narrative in the Torah presents a profound model of moral and spiritual greatness, encapsulated in his capacity to transcend personal grievance and act with compassion. The Rebbe’s essay in Torah Studies: Vayigash highlights the theological and ethical significance of Joseph’s actions, demonstrating how they serve as a paradigm for Jewish life and divine-human relations.

This theme resonates deeply with the Alter Rebbe’s Tanya, which articulates the principles of emotional mastery and intellectual governance embodied in Joseph’s life. Rabbi Sacks expands on these insights, situating Joseph as a precursor to modern psychotherapy and connecting his actions to the enduring relevance of Chabad thought.

Joseph’s defining act is recorded in Genesis 47:12: “And Joseph sustained his father and his brothers and his father's entire household [with] bread according to the young children.” Despite being betrayed and sold into slavery by his brothers, Joseph not only forgave them but also provided for them during the years of famine. This act of sustenance is so esteemed that the Jewish people are collectively called “Joseph” in Psalms (80:2) - “He Who leads Joseph like flocks” - reflecting his enduring spiritual legacy.

The Midrash on this verse goes further and reads the verse as an instruction to G-d to behave like Joseph - “Lead your flock like Joseph.” Based on this reading the Midrash delineates three requests made by the Jewish people to G‑d, modelled on Joseph’s conduct:

1. Provision from Abundance: Just as Joseph stored food during years of plenty for times of famine, the Jewish people ask G‑d to store blessings for them in this world to enjoy in the world to come.

2. Judgment by Deeds: Just as Joseph provided for others based on their deeds, they ask G‑d to judge them by their actions rather than their motivations.

3. Mercy Over Wrongs: Just as Joseph repaid his brothers’ wrongdoing with kindness, they ask G‑d to transform their sins into merits through His mercy.

The Rebbe engages with the complexities of these requests. The first request draws on the idea that the reward in the world to come is a revelation of what one’s actions achieved in this world. The “time of plenty” of earthly existence allows the creation of spiritual sustenance for the “years of famine” in the afterlife. The Mishnah asserts that “an hour of repentance and good deeds in this world is better than all the life of the world to come,” underscoring the primacy of actions performed in the physical realm.

The second request reflects Joseph’s judgment of his brothers based on their actions’ outcomes rather than their intentions. While their intent was harmful, their actions ultimately positioned Joseph to save many lives. This aligns with the principle that even acts performed with imperfect motives can bring about divine blessings, as the external act aligns with G‑d’s will.

The third request invokes G‑d’s mercy to transform sins into merits, akin to Joseph’s ability to repay his brothers’ harm with goodness. The Midrashic prayer is for G‑d to view repentance as retroactively redefining past misdeeds, granting them transformative power.

Through Joseph’s model, the Rebbe underscores the transformative power of transcending grievances, judging others favourably, and embodying divine mercy in our relationships, offering an inclusive vision of ethical and spiritual leadership.

Joseph’s behaviour aligns with the ideal described in Chapter 12 of Tanya of the benoni - a person who achieves mastery over their thoughts, speech, and actions despite the ongoing inner struggle between their divine and animal souls. While the benoni is not free from the desires and impulses of the animal soul, they maintain complete control over their behaviour, ensuring that only the divine soul's “garments” (thought, speech, and action) influence their conduct.

The benoni is distinct from the tzaddik in that the essence of their animal soul remains undiminished, continually generating desires for material pleasures, whether permissible or forbidden. However, the benoni consistently prevents these impulses from manifesting in their behaviour. This is achieved through the inherent power of the intellect over the emotions, a fundamental principle in the Alter Rebbe’s framework.

The benoni experiences heightened states of spiritual connection during prayer, when their intellect is deeply immersed in contemplating the greatness of G‑d. This meditation evokes a burning love for G‑d, temporarily nullifying the desires of the animal soul. However, this elevated state is transient. After prayer, the desires of the animal soul reawaken, and the benoni must rely on the natural superiority of the intellect over the heart to subdue these impulses.

A key insight of this chapter is the benoni’s ability to control negative emotions and act contrary to the inclinations of the animal soul. For example, even if feelings of animosity, jealousy, or anger arise within the heart, the benoni uses their intellect to suppress these emotions, instead choosing to act with kindness, love, and forgiveness. This capacity for self-mastery is exemplified by Joseph’s behaviour toward his brothers. Despite their betrayal, Joseph harboured no resentment and treated them with compassion, ensuring their survival during the famine.

The Tanya connects this to the Zohar’s teaching that one should emulate Joseph, who repaid his brothers’ malice with goodness. For the benoni, this emulation is not merely a moral ideal but a practical application of the principle that intellect governs emotion. When negative thoughts or feelings surface, the benoni immediately rejects them, refusing to dwell on or act upon these impulses. This ongoing vigilance ensures that their inner struggles never translate into sinful behaviour.

Ultimately, the benoni represents the ideal of sustained effort and mastery over one’s inner conflicts. Unlike the tzaddik, whose animal soul is transformed, the benoni must engage in a lifelong struggle, relying on the divine soul’s wisdom and the mind’s innate dominance over the heart. This model, as demonstrated by Joseph, emphasises that true spiritual greatness lies not in the absence of conflict but in the ability to overcome it, consistently choosing holiness and virtue in thought, speech, and action.

Rabbi Sacks builds on these themes, identifying Joseph as the Torah’s first cognitive therapist. In two essays, Rabbi Sacks highlights Joseph’s life as an archetype of emotional and spiritual transformation through reframing—an idea deeply rooted in the Alter Rebbe’s Tanya. Joseph’s ability to reinterpret his suffering and rise above resentment reflects the central principle of Tanya’s Chapter 12: the mind’s power to govern emotions. Rabbi Sacks argues that this insight not only defines Joseph’s greatness but also prefigures the foundational principles of modern psychotherapy. He writes:

“Unlike other Chassidic movements, which emphasised the emotional life, Chabad Chassidism focused on the power of the intellect to shape emotion. It was, in its way, an anticipation of cognitive behavioural therapy.”

Rabbi Sacks presents Joseph as someone who transformed his life’s narrative by reframing his experiences. Despite his brothers’ betrayal and the hardships of slavery and imprisonment, Joseph ultimately saw his suffering as part of a divine mission to save lives. When he revealed himself to his brothers, he said, “It was not you who sent me here, but G‑d” (Genesis 45:8). This reframing allowed him to forgive his brothers and act with compassion, transforming pain into purpose.

Rabbi Sacks situates Joseph’s reframing within the broader context of Jewish and modern thought, drawing parallels to the work of Viktor Frankl, Aaron T. Beck, and Martin Seligman. Rabbi Sacks notes that these modern approaches echo the teachings of the Alter Rebbe, who emphasised the intellect’s capacity to govern and transform emotions. He writes:

“These are very different approaches but they have one thing in common. They are based on the belief – set out much earlier in Chabad Hassidim in R. Schneur Zalman of Liadi’s Tanya – that if we change the way we think, we will change the way we feel.”

Joseph’s reframing of his circumstances aligns with this principle, demonstrating how intellectual reframing can liberate individuals from emotional prisons of anger or despair.

Central to Rabbi Sacks’ analysis is the idea of human freedom—the ability to choose one’s response to adversity. This echoes the Tanya’s depiction of the benoni as someone who exercises constant vigilance over their thoughts and actions, ensuring they align with the divine soul’s aspirations. For Joseph, this vigilance manifested in his refusal to be defined by his brothers’ betrayal. Instead, he reframed his life as a mission, enabling him to act with love and forgiveness. He writes:

What links all three thinkers is their belief that (1) there is always more than one possible interpretation of what happens to us, (2) we can choose between different interpretations and (3) the way we think shapes the way we feel. This gives all three a marked resemblance to a particular kind of Jewish thought, namely Chabad Chassidut, as developed by the first Lubavitcher Rebbe, Rabbi Shneur Zalman of Liady (1745-1812).

By connecting Joseph’s story to the Alter Rebbe’s insights, Rabbi Sacks shows how Jewish thought offers an enduring framework for emotional resilience and moral greatness. Both Tanya and modern psychology affirm the transformative power of reframing, teaching that by changing the way we think, we can transcend pain and shape a meaningful future. He writes:

We can’t all be Joseph, but thanks to R. Shneur Zalman of Liady in spiritual terms, and to Frankl, Beck and Seligman in secular ones, we can learn what it is to change the way we feel by changing the way we think, and the best way of doing so is to ask, “What does this bad experience enable me to do that I could not have done otherwise?” That can be life-transforming.

Joseph’s greatness, as illuminated by the Rebbe, Tanya, and Rabbi Sacks, is accessible to anyone willing to strive for intellectual and emotional mastery. His story challenges us to transform pain into purpose, fostering a vision of life that is as compassionate as it is resilient.