Rabbi Bentzion Shafier

The Script of the Soul

The Gemara (Taanis 25a) tells us about Rabbi Elazar ben Pedas, one of the great Amoraim of his generation. Despite his extraordinary greatness in Torah, he lived a life of extreme poverty. The Gemara describes him as someone who endured continual hardship. Not only was he destitute, but he was also physically frail, afflicted with illness and constant suffering. His was a life marked by both material deprivation and personal pain.

The Gemara relates that on one occasion Rabbi Elazar underwent a medical procedure. After returning home to recover, he searched for something to eat but found that his house was completely bare. "Nothing to eat" did not mean deciding between meat or chicken for dinner. It meant exactly that: there was nothing. Finally, he found a single clove of garlic. It was the only food in his home. He placed it in his mouth, and from weakness and starvation, he collapsed unconscious.

News quickly spread throughout the city that the great Rabbi Elazar ben Pedas had fallen unconscious. The leading sages gathered around him, deeply concerned for the welfare of one of the generation's greatest Torah scholars. As they stood beside him, they witnessed something remarkable. First, he began to cry. Then, he began to laugh. And then, a radiant beam of light appeared to shine forth from his forehead.

When Rabbi Elazar regained consciousness, the sages asked him, "What happened? What did we witness? Why did you first cry, then laugh, and why did a heavenly light emanate from your head?" Rabbi Elazar answered, "Hakadosh Baruch Hu Himself was with me. I said to Hashem, 'Ribbono Shel Olam, how much longer must I suffer in this world?' Hashem replied, "Elazar, My son, would you like Me to return the universe to the moment of creation, so that perhaps you will be born at a different time; one in which your sustenance will be provided?" Rabbi Elazar then asked, "Tell me, have I already lived most of my life, or do I still have the majority of my years ahead of me?"

Hashem answered, "You have already passed the halfway point." Rabbi Elazar responded, "Then I do not wish for the world to begin again."

Hashem then said, "As your reward, in the World to Come you will receive an estate of unimaginable beauty; so vast that thirteen rivers of precious balsam oil will flow through it."

Rabbi Elazar replied with an astonishing question: “Is that all?" Hashem answered, "If I give you more, what will remain for your colleagues?" Rabbi Elazar then said, "Then give me the portion of someone who failed to earn his." The Maharsha explains that every Jew is created with a designated portion in Gan Eden. If a person merits it, that portion becomes his. If he does not, it remains unclaimed.

Rabbi Elazar therefore said, "Give me from those unclaimed portions." At that moment, the Gemara relates, Hashem gently touched him on the forehead and, as it were, responded with affectionate amusement, as though saying, "Well said, Elazar, My son."

That is the Gemara.

If we spend a few moments trying to understand this extraordinary conversation, I believe it offers an insight that can fundamentally change the way we think about suffering, reward, and our relationship with Hashem.

Let me begin with two questions. The first question is this.

Here is one of the greatest Torah scholars of his generation. He is speaking directly with the Creator of Heaven and earth. Hashem Himself tells him that his reward in the World to Come will be beyond imagination; a magnificent estate with thirteen rivers flowing through it. How does Rabbi Elazar respond?  Not, "Thank You." Not, "How extraordinary." Instead, he says, "Hai v'su lo? Is that all?" At first glance, that response sounds almost startling. It seems ungrateful, even greedy. One would expect a person standing before the Ribbono Shel Olam to respond with overwhelming gratitude. Instead, he asks for more.

Yet Hashem does not rebuke him. Quite the opposite. When Rabbi Elazar asks to receive the portions of those who failed to earn theirs, Hashem responds almost playfully, touching him on the forehead as if to say, "Touché. Well said." Why? Why is this not considered greed? Why is it not viewed as an inappropriate response to the greatest promise imaginable? That is the first question.

The second question is even more profound.

Rabbi Elazar is not an ordinary individual. He is one of the holiest men of his generation—a towering tzaddik who devoted his life entirely to serving Hashem. Yet he is suffering terribly. He is impoverished, sick and hungry.  And when he finally turns to Hashem, what does he ask for? Not wealth and not comfort. Simply enough food to survive.

Hashem's response, however, seems entirely unrelated to the request. "Would you like Me to recreate the universe from the very beginning? Perhaps then you would be born at a different time, one in which you would have sustenance." But that is not what Rabbi Elazar asked. He did not ask for history to be rewritten. He did not ask for a different destiny. He simply needed something to eat.

One might have expected the response to be far more straightforward. "Here is a loaf of bread and a cup of water." Instead, Hashem speaks about reversing creation itself. It is a striking and deeply puzzling exchange. What is Hashem teaching Rabbi Elazar? And what is the Gemara teaching us?

To answer those questions, we first need to understand a fundamental principle that lies beneath this entire conversation.

A Tour of Life

I’d like to take a brief tour of what I like to call Life. And I'd like to begin with a parable that, in many ways, captures the essence of what life truly is.

Imagine, for a moment, that Harrison Ford receives a phone call from his agent. "Harrison," the agent says excitedly, "we've got an incredible script. It's going to be a phenomenal film. I'm sending it over to you. Read it, sign on the dotted line, and let's make history." The script arrives. Harrison reads it carefully, then calls his agent back. "So," the agent asks, "what do you think? Are we doing it?" "No." "What do you mean, no? Is it the money? We'll pay you more." "It's not the money." "The cast? We'll change the cast." "It's not the cast." "Harrison, it's one of the finest scripts I've ever read. What's the problem?" Harrison replies, "Don't you understand? If I play this character, the entire world is going to see me as a failure and a broken, defeated man. They'll think I'm a loser. I can't live with that. I'm not taking the role."

Of course, that conversation never happened. Why?

Because every actor understands something fundamental. And so does every person sitting in the audience. An actor is playing a role. Nothing more. Nothing less. The audience never confuses the character with the person. In fact, the very measure of a great actor is not whether the character is successful or unsuccessful, admired or despised. The measure is whether the actor played the role convincingly. If the role is that of a struggling outcast, but he portrays it brilliantly, he may walk away with an Academy Award. If the role is that of the most brilliant, charismatic, sophisticated individual imaginable, yet he performs it poorly, critics will tear him apart. The applause or the criticism is never about the role itself. It is about how faithfully the actor fulfilled the role he was given.

I believe that is one of the most powerful metaphors for life. Each of us has been cast in a role. We are, in a sense, actors on the stage of this world. Some are given wealth. Others poverty. Some are blessed with health and others must struggle with illness. Some are born into positions of influence and others live lives that are almost entirely unnoticed. Those are not the criteria by which we will ultimately be judged. At the end of our lives, each of us will stand before Hashem. The question will not be, "Why weren't you someone else?" The question will be, "What did you do with what I entrusted to you?"

You were given certain talents, certain opportunities and certain challenges. You were placed into one precise set of circumstances that no one else in history has ever occupied. What did you do with them? I will not be judged by your life. You will not be judged by mine. Each of us will be measured against the potential Hashem placed within us. And in many ways, that is a far more demanding standard.

Like an actor, we are not evaluated by the part we were assigned. We are evaluated by how faithfully we performed it.

The Torah That Went to Space

I believe this perspective changes the way we look at life, because so many people spend their years wishing they had someone else's role instead of embracing the one Hashem wrote specifically for them.

Let me share an illustration.

Not long ago, I spoke at my son's bar mitzvah, and I told the guests the following story. There once was a twelve-year-old boy named Joachim Yosef. One day, Rabbi Dasberg approached him and said, "I'm going to teach you how to lein. I'm going to teach you to read from the Sefer Torah, and on your bar mitzvah, you will stand before the congregation and read."

At first, that sounds like a perfectly ordinary story. Except for one detail.

That bar mitzvah took place in Auschwitz. Joachim Yosef was not an ordinary twelve-year-old boy. He was an inmate. Rabbi Shimon Dasberg had somehow managed to smuggle a Sefer Torah into Auschwitz. Hidden away under unimaginable circumstances, he carefully taught young Joachim Yosef how to lein. When the time came, they gathered a small minyan, and there, in the shadow of Auschwitz, a twelve-year-old Jewish boy stood and read publicly from the Torah.

One can scarcely imagine a more powerful declaration of Jewish eternity. At the conclusion of the service, Rabbi Dasberg turned to the young boy and said something he would never forget. "I am an old man," he told him. "It is unlikely that I will survive this place. I want you to take this Sefer Torah, and one day, you must tell the world its story."

Joachim Yosef was overwhelmed. "I can't," he replied. "I'm only a child." Rabbi Dasberg looked at him and repeated, "You must. You have to preserve this Sefer Torah, and you must make sure the world knows its story."

Years later, Joachim Yosef survived the camps and eventually settled in Israel. Faithful to his promise, he kept that Sefer Torah safe. For fifty-nine years it remained hidden in a small closet in his home.

Then one day, an unexpected visitor arrived. His name was Ilan Ramon. At the time, Ramon was preparing to become Israel's first astronaut. During their conversation, the discussion turned to the Sefer Torah that had survived Auschwitz. Ramon immediately understood its significance. "I want to take it with me," he said. And so, decades after it had been carried through the darkness of Auschwitz, that tiny Sefer Torah was carried into space.

Tragically, it was aboard the Space Shuttle Columbia, which disintegrated during re-entry on February 1, 2003. Yet Rabbi Jasberg's request had been fulfilled. The world heard the story of that Sefer Torah. A Torah scroll that had survived Auschwitz became a symbol of the indestructibility of the Jewish people.

The reason I shared that story with my son at his bar mitzvah was because I wanted him to understand a lesson that every Jew, and, indeed, every human being, must learn. I said to him, "You were born in this country, in this family, in this generation. But none of those decisions were yours. You could just as easily have been born in Poland in the 1920s. You could have been born in another century. Another continent and another family. You did not choose your parents, your siblings or the era into which you entered this world. None of it was your decision. Yet none of it was accidental.

Before each of us entered this world, Hashem chose the precise circumstances in which we would live. The exact generation, exact family, exact birth order, exact personality, exact strengths and exact challenges. Every detail was selected because it provided the perfect setting for us to fulfill the unique mission for which we were created. That realization changes the way we look at life. Because no one chooses the role they are given. No one decides to be tall or short. No one chooses to be naturally gifted or intellectually average. No one asks to be born into wealth or poverty. Many of the qualities for which we take credit were never our accomplishments at all. I have yet to meet the person who stood before Hashem and requested, "Please create me with an IQ of 160." Or, for that matter, "Create me with an IQ of 60." Those are gifts. Those are assignments. Those are part of the role. The question is never what role we received. The question is what we did with it.

There is a remarkable illustration of this idea from the Chazon Ish.

The Chazon Ish was not known for rising in honor of people, even distinguished scholars. Yet those close to him noticed something unusual. Whenever an individual with a severe intellectual disability entered the room, the Chazon Ish would immediately rise to his full height. Someone once asked him, "Rebbe, you remain seated for many great people. Why do you stand for someone who lacks full mental capacity?"

The Chazon Ish answered with extraordinary humility. "If a person enters this world without full intellectual faculties," he said, "it may well be because that soul has already lived before. Most of its mission has already been completed. Only a small part remained unfinished, and for that purpose the soul returned."

He then added words that are breathtaking in their humility: "Who am I to know whether I have reached that person's spiritual level? Perhaps he has already accomplished far more than I have."

And for that reason, the Chazon Ish stood. He understood something that we so often forget: we are not measured by the role we are given. We are measured by how faithfully we fulfill the role that Hashem chose for us.

Why Your Life Is Not an Accident

This offers a profoundly different way of looking at life.

Most of us assume that what defines us is our intelligence, our personality, our talents, our opportunities. But if we stop to think about it honestly, we quickly realize that very few of those things were ever our choice.

I had an Aunt Alice who spent thirty-eight years teaching kindergarten. One day she shared an observation with me that I have never forgotten. "I taught the children,” she said. “Years later, I taught their children. Eventually, I even taught some of their grandchildren." Three generations. And then she said something remarkable.

"The grandchildren were often astonishingly similar to the parents and to the grandparents."

Many of the characteristics we think of as "ours" are already present from the very beginning of life. Developmental psychologists tell us that by the time a child is less than two years old, many aspects of temperament are already clearly visible. Some children are naturally cautious. Others are fearless. Some are quiet and reflective; others are energetic and outgoing.

These are not qualities a child consciously chose. They are part of the life with which that child entered the world. Which raises a fascinating question. Who among us ever stood before Hashem and said, "I know exactly what I need. Please place me in this family, in this generation, with this personality, this level of intelligence, these strengths, and these struggles." None of us did. Yet none of it is random.

Hashem takes each neshama and, as perfectly as a hand fits into a glove, places it into the precise life for which it was created. Every detail is chosen because it creates the ideal environment for that particular soul to fulfill its mission.

That is one of the great keys to understanding life. Sometimes we look around and wonder why life seems so unequal. Why does one person appear to have everything come effortlessly, while another struggles at every turn? I have seen brothers raised in the very same home, by the very same parents, with the very same opportunities. It is tempting to compare and ask, "Why him and not me?" But comparison misses the point, because they were never given the same role to play. Each was given a different mission.

That is precisely what the Gemara is teaching through Rabbi Elazar ben Pedas. Poverty is an enormous test. When a person does not know how he is going to pay next month's bills, and then one evening he accidentally damages someone else's car with no witnesses around, whether he leaves a note with his phone number becomes an extraordinary moral test. But wealth is no less a test. A person blessed with great success can easily begin to believe, "I don't need anyone. I don't need my family. I don't need my community. I don't even need Hashem."

Prosperity can produce a sense of self-sufficiency that is every bit as spiritually dangerous as poverty. Both are tests.  And that is what Hashem was teaching Rabbi Elazar. His poverty was not an accident. It was not because Heaven had somehow run out of resources. When Hashem said, "Would you like Me to return the world to the moment of creation so that perhaps you would be born into circumstances of greater prosperity?" He was revealing something far deeper. He was saying, "The life you were given was chosen with precision. If I were to reshuffle creation itself, perhaps I could find another life in which you would have greater material comfort." "But only perhaps." The Gemara's word is efshar—perhaps. Why "perhaps"? Because it is far from obvious that another life, even a wealthier one, would provide the same opportunity for your soul to fulfill its mission.

The circumstances were not arbitrary. They were carefully chosen. The poverty was part of the assignment. Each soul receives the life that gives it the greatest opportunity to become what Hashem created it to be.

And once we understand that, the question changes. Instead of asking, "Why wasn't I given someone else's life?" we begin asking the far more important question: "What does Hashem want me to accomplish with the life He gave me?"

That is exactly the message Rabbi Elazar ben Pedas came to teach us.

And that is one of the most important lessons all of us can carry into our life every single day.