THE REWARD OF A MITZVAH
A famous Rabbinic quotation from Ethics of the Fathers reads: “the reward of a Mitzvah is a Mitzvah.” I always took this saying to mean that deeds feed on themselves—for better of for worse. We get into routines; we get into ruts. If we bend the rules in one instance, then the next time, we may go a little further, until we have flagrantly transgressed. However, if we go out of our way for someone once, it’s easier to do so again, until pretty soon we are habitually helpful. This week, I read an exquisite teaching of the Me’or Einayim, one of the earliest Chasidic sages. The Me’or Einayim interprets the Rabbinic saying differently. He writes: “the reward of a Mitzvah is a Mitzvah. This means that the commandment is rewarded by the [pleasure] that the one who performs it feels, the joy of spirit that lies within the deed.” (Jewish Mysticism and the Spiritual Life, p. 4)
Recently, a member of our Chesed Committee went to see a JCOGS member in rehab. She reported back to the group: “My visit yesterday was the quintessential experience of doing something that you hope will benefit another, when it turns out that, in the end, you benefited equally, if not more. I could not have been more pleased that I went.” It got me to thinking: why did I become a Rabbi anyway? Leading the congregation for Ne’ilah, my favorite worship service of the year—what a thrill, what a rush (particularly on an empty stomach)! Then there are the quieter occasions, the moments of immense satisfaction when someone in pain reaches out to me for help. Would I be doing this if I didn’t love it? I mentioned these musings to my Rabbinic colleague and best friend. She replied: “My twenty-year-old son, cynical college student that he is, maintains that there’s no such thing as true altruism. There’s always an ulterior motive.” She paused, and then added: “I think it’s because he’s never really been in love yet.” “How will you know?” I asked. “The day he gives a gift to his girlfriend and, rather than priding himself on the gift itself, he takes pleasure in the look on her face as she unwraps it, that’s when I’ll know.” “Yes, but it’s still taking personal pleasure, so it’s still not completely selfless,” I added, a little mischievously.
In its origins, Chasidism was a countercultural spiritual revival movement. It developed in late 18th century Poland in reaction to a prevailing Judaism that had grown increasingly perfunctory, sterile, and devoid of meaning. What was the point of following commandments if there was no vitality in them? The great rallying cry became ivdu et ha-Shem be-simcha, “serve God in gladness, come into God’s Presence with shouts of joy.” (Psalm 100:2) For the early Chasidim, there is no higher pleasure that one can ever hope to attain than ecstatic communion with the Transcendent. According to Chassidic teaching, the human body comes from the earth, but the human soul is part of God above. Religious devotion stems from the longing of the soul to be reunited with its Source. Nor is worship relegated only to prayer. Commenting on the Me’or Einayim, Rabbi Nancy Flam writes: “we learn [from him] that to be actively engaged in the world through Mitzvot and other acts of chesed is a high level of worship. In the midst of these very actions, we experience our inner divine substance and we connect with the Soul of the universe.” (Jewish Mysticism and the Spiritual Life, p. 6)
The Me’or Einayim’s paradigmatic model for experiencing the pleasure of spiritual union through ordinary action is the story of Abraham welcoming the angels (only Abraham doesn’t know that his mysterious guests are angels). According to the narrative in Genesis, Abraham is sitting at the entrance to his tent in the hot midday sun, when he sees three strangers come out of the desert. He exclaims: “Pass not away, I pray you, from your servant,” (Genesis 18:3) meaning: “wait here, while I run and fetch some refreshments for you.” Only in the Me’or Einayim’s imaginative re-rendering of the tale, Abraham is not just sitting in his tent at high noon, he is engaged in intense communion with God, when he sees three strangers come out of the desert. He entreats, not his guests, but God, saying: “Pass not away, I pray You, from your servant,” meaning: “please, God, don’t leave me while I go and attend to my guests. Let me stay connected to You even while I go about serving others.”
In a real sense, we human beings will always pursue happiness when given the chance. It’s the way we are constituted. By the pleasure/pain principle, we are hardwired to avoid pain and seek pleasure. The question the Me’or Einayim asks of us is: what is our focus? Are we focused only on ourselves, or are we focused outside of ourselves? When we perform a good deed, does our satisfaction derive from feeding a narcissistic image of our own righteousness, or does it derive from attaching ourselves to a higher purpose? It’s the difference between Abraham turning away from God in order to serve his guests, and Abraham remaining attached to God even while he is attending to his guests. It’s the difference between fulfilling a Mitzvah out of obligation and “coming into God’s presence with shouts of joy.” It’s the difference between taking pride in a gift and taking pleasure in its recipient. To use another analogy, it’s the difference between having sex and making love. There’s nothing wrong with pleasure. After all, Judaism frowns upon asceticism, and Chasidism in particular encourages joy. Only let the joy penetrate us from outside ourselves. Let it derive from our connection to the souls of others and to the Soul of the universe.
The Me’or Einayim writes: “the reward of a Mitzvah is a Mitzvah. The good deed is rewarded by the joy of spirit that lies within it.” My blessing for you, and for all of us, is that which the JCOGS Chesed Committee member received, when she wrote: “I did something that I hoped would benefit another, and it turned out that, in the end, I benefited equally, if not more. I could not have been more pleased.” May we experience such pleasure in all that we do.
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