When It Hurts
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When It Hurts
Harav Y. Reuven Rubin Shlita
A few years ago, I had a minor accident. It was one of those domestic incidents that sound awkward and clumsy but leave their mark all the same. Rubin was reaching up to a high shelf to get a box of buttons (yes, those common domestic fasteners we all have), but due to my extreme talent for balancing myself on my tiptoes, combined with an errant electric cord, I fell, crashing to the ground, landing on my right shoulder. Amidst the hundreds of odd-shaped buttons I lay, swimming in my own pain and embarrassment. This accident happened whilst I was alone in the house, so I wreathed there in pain for some time until my children came home. Why didn’t I call anyone? Well, truth be told, my phone was in another room, and I couldn’t really get up. Besides, I didn’t want the embarrassment of calling Hatzala, just to have one of my own chevre breaking down the front door to rescue their clumsy rav. Having painted this picture of my encounter with the forces of gravity, allow me to allay any fears. Yes, I was hurting, but the damage was limited to my shoulder, which I mutilated in ways I never dreamt possible. After years of all sorts of treatments, I sit today pecking out these words on my computer, still prone to pain with each strike on the keyboard, but thankful to Hashem that I didn’t suffer anything worse.
Life is strewn with pitfalls, events that can be painful both physically and perhaps more damaging, emotionally. Golus is the garden in which we must each tend to Hashem’s Will for our unique tikun in life; nothing is half-hazard, all is meaningful. We must take each challenge and allow it to bloom into something strengthening, something that will give life to Hashem’s promise.
There is a shmooz from the Piaseczner Rebbe Ztl that was first given on Chanukah 1941. In the midst of those unimaginable dark times, the Rebbe spoke about the subject of pain. He tells us that Pain is not a problem. The problem is that people think that pain is the problem. They believe that pain is bad. The Rebbe goes on to explain that pain may be undesirable, but it is not bad. Humans often do things to themselves that hurt. Life isn’t always convenient, and life calls forth lots of effort. Humans do not mind pain; what we do mind is pointless pain. In his wondrous sefer, ‘A Fire in the Darkness,’ Rabbi Meir B Kahane draws an example of what the Rebbe means.
“Imagine a man put a gun to your head and forced you to climb a steep mountain. In fear for your life, you would climb it, but every step would be painful. You would be angry and resentful. Imagine though, that when you got to the top of the mountain, there was a treasure chest of gold and jewels, and that was why the man wanted you to climb it. How would you feel then? Overjoyed? Elated? What happened to the anger? The climb was still painful. What we see here is that human beings don’t really mind pain. They mind pointless pain. A person is willing to hurt for a worthwhile goal. Climbing a mountain is painful. Climbing a mountain to find a treasure chest is just as painful, but worth it.”
A Yied must understand that all life’s challenges are footsteps up that mountain and that upon reaching the top, we will be elated to find the treasure chest of closeness with our Creator. I don’t want to sound trite, our challenges can be gut-wrenching, yet they are not for the bad, but for our growth. We Yieden are old hands on persevering and it is because of this that we are still thriving.
I know that, like all of you, we are shocked and saddened by the barbarous events that took place in Australia the first night of Chanukah. Every Yied, no matter where they sat that first night, did so with a broken heart. Allow me to share my personal moment with you.
Our custom is to sit by the menorah for half an hour after the kindling. We say certain prayers and then, well, often as not, there is time left for reflection and quiet private prayer. As I sat the first night, looking into the flickering candlelight, I was caught up with a sense of sadness. I was raised in a world of hope, a feeling that our enemies were occupied with other matters and we could live in comparative stillness. The current hate started to seep into our reality two years ago, slowly we have seen this hostility percolate, Yom Kippur in Manchester, fire bombs in various shuls in America, and now this horrendous calamity. As I sat there with eyes wet with silent tears, a little girl of seven instinctively came over to me. I didn’t see her; I was caught up in my own moment. However, this little girl, my lovely great-granddaughter, wordlessly wrapped her arms around me and gave me silent strength. My heart lifted; here was the promise for our future. Our children are the treasure awaiting at the peak of our efforts. Today’s pain beckons our steps to take us closer and higher to Hashem. Our children embrace us with this hope. May we all share in the light of the Moshiach together with them soon.