In speaking about the parsha this week, Rav Natan Siegel, pointed out a peculiar verse in Bechukotai. The parsha begins with an enumeration of the blessings we'll receive when we "go in [God's] decrees and observe [God's] mitzvot and perform them (Lev:26:3)." One of these blessings is "my soul will not loathe you." Gee, thanks. Imagine, Rav Natan mused, that you're on a date, expounding on the degree to which you can be counted on to be a faithful companion. "And I promise to love you and cherish you, to wash the dishes and feed the children, to adorn you with praises… oh, and I won't loathe you." Interesting choice of words. Why is this the blessing we're to receive when we go in God's decrees?
What exactly does it mean to "go" in God's decrees? Rashi comments that it means struggling, laboring in the Torah. On that, the Maharal says "you will go" connotes movement from place to place. No matter where we are, God is telling us to strive to bring our Torah there with us, expand it to encompass the place we are. Torah is not a fixed thing. It has no one place, on one time, no one message. God made a point to give us the Torah in "no man's land," in the desert, not in Israel. "They shall make a sanctuary for me so that I may dwell among them (Ex:25:8)." Even when we built the Mishkan in the desert, God and Torah were never limited to that one location… we're wandering Jews, and the Torah wanders with us, for it's inside us.
Maybe that's why God can't leave. As far as we try to push away, we'll never be divorced. And as far as we go from the synagogue, the study hall, the land of Israel, it will never be too far. Being a holy people doesn't even mean we must be sitting in shul or learning in yeshiva. What does it mean? In his weekly column on the parsha, Rabbi Berel Wein explained that when you're a Jew looking for holiness, even a banana peel has to be holy. This year is a Shmitta year in Israel, a year when all the produce of the field is invested with a higher level of holiness, to the extent that you can't throw away food in a disgraceful way. Rav Seigel also taught the Pri Tzaddik's connection between Shmitta and Shabbat. Shabbat isn't as much about us resting (with all the praying and eating and singing) as it is about recognizing the holiness in the week. And Shmitta isn't so much about the land resting (since you could let a portion of your field lie fallow each year instead of having to struggle to feed your family from an entire field that's unsewn and untended) as it is about remembering that the land is holy. We're being reminded of a need for holiness in our lives, because when we recognize the holiness, we recognize that God really never left.
Shlomo Carlebach relates an amazing story that he discovered in a book of Italian folktales. After years and years of a marriage in which a couple loved each other so much that they fought constantly, they decided to separate. She would leave their home in Florence and go to her family in Rome, while he would travel. But he promised to write every week. So week after week, she got a letter describing the magnificence of the wine, women, and culture in one of Europe's tremendous cities. After a month, she couldn't open the letters anymore; it was too painful to read of all the fun he was having. Meanwhile, her parents were driving her crazy, asking her what's to be with them. So she returned to Florence. When she opened the door, she saw a light coming from his study. "Robbers?" she thought, "or maybe we just left the light on all this time." She crept closer and peered inside. What do you know… there was her husband, sitting at his desk, writing the letters! "What are you doing here?!" "What am I doing here?" he replied. "Did you really think I could leave? My heart is here. Despite all the fighting, I've always loved you, I guess I never knew quite how to say it."
God has been writing us letters ever since creation. We got a letter from Spain in 1492. We got a letter from Chmelnitsky in 1648. We got a long letter from Germany in 1939. When we're in exile, it always sounds like God likes someone else better. But when we come home, we find that God never loathed us, and never wanted us to leave. We find, rather, that God has really been here all along… waiting for us.
There are huge parts of me that are in exile from myself. Each time I notice that, I want to withdraw, I want to avoid the struggle. But that's the only way to come home. One foot in front of the other, laboring, loving, and even laughing "weee, weee, weee…all the way home."