In the previous articles of this series, I have generally taken a concept from hashkafa, how we should lead our lives, and used it to understand how to better deal with eating issues. This month, we are going to try to learn something from eating that we can apply to the rest of our lives.
In the recently published book, A Divine Madness, from a manuscript written by Rav Avigdor Miller and edited by Daniel Zaslow, my “antennae” for eating-related themes perked up at this statement: “The loyal Jewish Nation had always considered the Torah as eternal, coming from the Eternal G-d. Just as the sunrise and sunset continued eternally, and just as eating continued (eating never became ‘old-fashioned’), so, also, are G-d’s laws given to be upheld forever without alteration.”
We have all heard lectures telling us not to perform Hashem’s commandments as mitzvas anashim melumada, an act of habit (Yeshaya 29:13). There is supposed to be newness to our approach to Torah and mitzvos. In Shema, we say “…these things that I command you today (hayom)….” Rashi comments that we should regard the mitzvos, and Hashem’s words in general, as though they were given today. Torah should have a freshness. Not only should it not become “old-fashioned” in the sense that it was historically given over 3,000 years ago, but there should be an understanding that it deals with the issues of today with a clarity and vision that becomes obvious when one immerses oneself in it.
So why doesn’t eating feel old-fashioned? Even if we acknowledge that we have a strong life-force, passion, or ta’ava – call it what you will – impelling us to eat (with the underlying goal of sustaining our lives), that does not adequately explain how we feel about eating. For example, I don’t remember ever feeling, oh why do I have to eat something this morning? For probably 25 years of my life, I ate corn flakes with banana and milk for breakfast. I happened to like it a lot, but there was really nothing exciting about it. There was nothing novel about this breakfast, yet I always felt good about eating it. Similarly, I have never thought, “What a pain to have to stop and eat lunch.” Eating simply has never been a chore for me; it is something I enjoy. The predictability of the taste – be it corn flakes, chocolate chip cookies, or the favorite recipes my mother, a”h, used to make – added to the pleasure of eating. Eating was never old-fashioned, never boring. There was a sense of freshness, and excitement, despite the constant repetition.
Why don’t we always feel the same way about mitzvos or learning, then? I think we have to say that we don’t regularly treat learning and mitzvos as a source of joy and a source of pleasure. If we did, we would be enthusiastic about davening, learning, and doing mitzvos. The repetition does not have to detract from this; in fact, the anticipation of the familiar pleasure we will get should enhance our approach to what we are doing.
I recently came across an article in honor of Rav Aharon Kotler’s 50th yahrtzeit in an old Mishpacha or Hamodia. In it, Rav Malkiel Kotler recounts a story: A man came to Rav Aharon Kotler and told him that he was training his son to be a Zevulun (i.e., a financial supporter of Torah learning while not necessarily engaging in it himself) so he would merit Olam Haba (the World to Come). Rav Aharon said to him, “But what about Olam Hazeh (this world)?” That is, how can you forsake the pleasures of learning that we get from the act of learning itself? This attitude toward learning and mitzvos is the antidote to just doing things out of habit. We pray for this every morning in birchas haTorah: “Veha’arev na Hashem Elokeinu… – Please, Hashem our G-d, sweeten the words of Your Torah in our mouth and in the mouth of Your people….” If Torah and mitzvos are sweet, if they “taste good,” we do not have to worry about them feeling old-fashioned.
My father, z”l, brought us up this way. He had only limited formal Jewish education. But he loved going to the shiurim of his dear lifelong friend, Rav Sholom Klass, z”l, the publisher of the Jewish Press. My father worked a long hard week, but every Friday night after the Shabbos meal, he would sit down to learn Chumash and Rashi. He conveyed to me and my sister that his chief joy was when we would sit together with him and learn. He lived “veha’arev na,” and merited daughters, sons-in-law, grandchildren, and now great-grandchildren whose Olam Hazeh is sweetened by Torah and mitzvos.
I am writing this just before my daughter’s wedding. She and her chassan live this way, and Torah is sweet and always fresh for them. May this continue to be the way they live their lives and build their home in Israel.
