God’s Silent Voice: Divine Presence in a Yiddish Poem by Abraham Joshua Heschel

Ariel Evan Mayse

N.B.
The present English introduction represents a precis of the Yiddish essay that
appears directly thereafter. Hoping to summon up something of Heschel’s poetic
sensibility through sustained engagement with his work in its original language,
the reader is invited to turn there after examining these remarks. Comments,
criticism, and further discussion most welcome.

The youthful poems of Abraham Joshua Heschel (1907–1972) bespeak the spiritual peregrinations of their author’s life. [1] Born in Eastern Europe and raised in an environment infused with mystical spirituality, the themes that dominate Heschel’s poetic works reflect his traditional Hasidic upbringing. His poems articulate a keen personal awareness of God’s presence, one that is infused with biblical language and theology as well as the ethos of Hasidism, [2] but they are far more than liturgical compositions or pietistic odes. Like his Neo-Hasidic predecessor Hillel Zeitlin, Heschel’s poems employ mystical themes in a modern key, fusing the language tradition with modern aesthetics in order to expand the vocabulary—and boundaries—of religious realm. [3] Heschel left the cloistered world of Hasidic Warsaw to study in the secular academies of Vilna and Berlin, but his bold poetry straddles modernity and tradition by translating his spiritual experiences, including those of his youth, into a modern poetic style.

Heschel’s first and only volume of poetry, The Ineffable Name: Man (Der Shem haMeforash: Mentsh), drew together a range of pieces that had appeared in literary journals and newspapers. [4] The collection was first published in Warsaw in 1933, at the time Heschel was completing his dissertation in Berlin about the phenomenology of biblical prophecy. This subject permeates much of his poetry, which evinces a sonorous prophetic quality that echoes biblical language and concerns. Many of the poems in The Ineffable Name evoke God’s immanence in the world, a bedrock aspect of Hasidic piety and devotion. Heschel does so, however, by suggesting that God’s sublime presence is both ineffable and yet inescapable. This holds true, says Heschel, even as one attempts to move away from God and across the modern landscape.

This paradox of divine immanence and invisibility undergirds his poem “God Follows Me Everywhere” (Got Geyt Mir Nokh Umetum, 1929), a work that is among the theological qualities of Heschel’s poetry. [5] Throughout its verses, the author struggles with the difficulty of the quest to recognize Divine immanence in the modern world. [6] For the contemporary seeker, it seems, God is paradoxically hidden and revealed. [7] The Divine pursues the narrator throughout his travels, but God’s mysterious presence is simultaneously unavoidable and unrecognizable, defying discernment as well as expression:

God follows me everywhere –

spins a net of glances around me,

shines upon my sightless back
like a sun.

God follows me like a forest
everywhere.

My lips, always amazed, are truly
numb, dumb,

Like a child who blunders upon an
ancient holy place.

God follows me like a shiver
everywhere.

My desire is for rest; the demand
within me is up: Rise up,

See how prophetic visions are
scattered in the streets.

I go with my reveries as with a
secret

in a long corridor through the
world –

and sometimes I glimpse high
above me the faceless face of God.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –
– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

God follows me in tramways, in
cafes.

Oh, it is only with the backs of
the pupils of one’s eyes that one can see

how secrets ripen, how visions
come to be.

Dedicated to my teacher David
Koigan, may his soul be in paradise.[8]

Heschel’s intensely personal verses convey the inner turmoil of an individual who is keenly aware that God’s presence, constant and universal though it may be, cannot be articulated or directly envisioned. Written in the first person, the poem seems to be an introspective, and likely autobiographical, exploration of the narrator’s inability to escape God’s infinitude. The motion of this journey to step beyond the Divine, and God’s subsequent chase, propels the poem forward from beginning to end. But there is another layer of unresolved tension undergirding the entire poem: to what extent may God’s immanence be felt or experienced? The Divine may permeate all layers of being, but is the narrator aware of that presence? And, even when attained, is such attunement a fleeting epiphany that comes and goes, or does the illumination inhere within the narrator as he walks along the path?

The poem commences with the eponymous line, deserving of much careful attention. The phrase “God follows me everywhere” functions as a refrain that is repeated four times throughout the five stanzas, with slight variations in setting and diction each time. This gives the entire poem a cohesive structure, rhythmically underscoring that, regardless of where the narrator goes, he will remain unable to escape the Divine presence. Furthermore, this constant reiteration of a single axiomatic phrase gives the work a prayer-like and liturgical quality, alerting the reader to the tone of spiritual journeying that infuses his poem.[9]

Heschel subtly likens God to a spider or a fisherman, surrounding the narrator with a visionary web of constant examination. This dazzling divine gaze is overpowering (blenden), and indeed the third line might more literally be translated, “blinding my unseeing back like a sun.”[10] It is the radiant overabundance of God’s light that overwhelms the speaker, not the absence thereof, implying that the revelation is occluded by the very intensity of its meter. Similar descriptions abound in Jewish mystical literature, including the Hasidic classics that sustained Heschel in his childhood.[11] Just as one who stares directly into the sun is blinded by the strength of the illumination, argues Heschel, so does God’s unyielding attention render the narrator sightless.

Yet Heschel’s usage of this image is more nuanced, since God’s celestial gaze falls upon the back of the narrator, a part of human anatomy already incapable of sight. This suggests that the speaker has already turned his back on God and is indeed traveling farther and farther away. The reader has not been told if this movement represents an intentional quest or an unintentional drift, but, in any event, God’s presence is inescapable and unavoidable. The narrator is pursued even as he struggles to withdraw from the divine glance.

Heschel’s verses are filled with poetic imagery, using figurative language and bold similes that describe God by likening the Divine to physical phenomenon. This literary technique produces an earthy, embodied vision of the Divine. But it also signals God’s constant pursuit of the individual and interrogates the boundaries of divine omnipresence.[12] In comparing God to a forest, for example, Heschel underscores that the Divine follows the speaker in every place that he might wander—even a natural place far beyond the traditional religious locales of the synagogue and study hall. The analogy operates on a deeper level, however, for Heschel has chosen his words carefully. Rather than stating that the Divine pursues the speaker “into the woods,” Heschel compares God to the forest itself, thereby invoking both the wild uncertainty and the subtle constancy of the woods as metaphors for the extent to which God continually surrounds the narrator.

God’s presence nearly unbearable in its consistency and intensity, and, in part for this reason, the glance of the Divine remains unspeakable. Heschel compares the speaker to a child whose imperfect command of language holds him back from adequately expressing the raw holiness with which he is confronted. A second stratum of the paradoxical relationship with the Divine is thus introduced to the poem: God’s holiness is found equally, in every place, but it is impossible for narrator to express verbally. Like a child rendered speechless by the wonder of discovery, Heschel’s narrator’s lips are robbed of language by the encountering God’s “ancient holy place.” [13]

The ambiguity leaves the reader of Heschel’s words with an unresolved question: does this imply that the narrator cannot find the words with which to address God, or perhaps he cannot begin to articulate the magnitude of experiencing the presence of the Divine to a third party. Does the speaker lapse into silence before God, or is he stricken with the inability to articulate or convey the experience to another? This precise nature of this inscrutability, underscored by the general lack of dialogue within the work and the predominance of sensory images, remains unclear.

As unavoidable and unconscious as a shudder, God’s immanence escorts the narrator wherever he goes, and in the third stanza we are granted a glimpse into a deep internal conflict resulting from this. The speaker explains that while he wishes only to rest, possibly expressing a desire to break away from the unyielding struggle with God, the imperative within stirs him to action and will not allow him to remain passive or static. In a reflexive demand echoing the language of the Bible, he is compelled to “rise up” and see that the ostensibly mundane streets are themselves loci of prophetic experience. In this paragraph, the inner tension resulting of God’s omnipresence has become more apparent, for such continued awareness of the inescapable Divine with no chance of respite places a strain upon the narrator.

Nevertheless, in the following lines the speaker remarks that he proceeds contemplatively along through the world as through a corridor consumed in his “reveries” (l. 10, rayonos, which might also be rendered “thoughts” or “imaginings”). Heschel alludes to the language of the Mishnah, in which the present reality is likened to a simple corridor before the splendor of the World to Come,[14] spinning an image of the narrator as moving through a “hallway” that is a transformative journey. The narrator steps forward along this path possessing of a secret, alluding to his quasi-mystical consciousness of God’s omnipresence. However, that he only intermittently finds the paradoxical “faceless face of God” above him begs the question of precisely how truly discernable is the immanent presence following him. That is, does the narrator permanently have his eyes inclined towards heaven and God only appears to sporadically (and amorphously), or is it rather that he is so preoccupied with his internal struggle that he only infrequently remembers to look above him? Like the paradox of wondrous ineffability presented immediately above, Heschel allows this ambiguity to remain unresolved.

The final stanza suggests that God is equally present in the modern landscape of technology and urban life as the pastoral settings in which the poem begins. However, despite constantly reinforcing God’s universality in all aspects of the physical world, Heschel’s deployment of the image of “the backs of pupils” (l. 14) suggests that introspection holds the key to attuning oneself to the generative process of the mystical experience. Just as the imperative to “rise up” emerges is a reflexive command from within the narrator, the quest to apprehend God’s presence in the world is mirrored by an interior journey to find hidden knowledge buried deep inside the speaker himself.

Stepping back for a moment and examining the poem as whole, it is difficult to establish precisely who should be considered the subject or protagonist of the work. On one hand, the active narrator displays agency by moving from one location to another. God responds by following or pursuing him throughout the journey, but it is the speaker who is the clearly at center of the action. The usage of the verb nokhgeyen similarly implies that God’s role is one of response and imitation rather than proactive beckoning. But on the other hand, the work itself seems to have been composed as a poetic response the theological quandary of being unable to break away from an omnipresent Divine being, and God’s ultimate inescapability may be seen as an expression of His omnipotence. The narrator is dynamic and in-motion only within certain boundaries; eternally linked to God, he can break the fetters that unite him to the Divine.

Should we associate the narrator of the poem with the author, and was it Heschel’s intention to use these verses to broadcast and explore his own inner struggle? He claims very little aesthetic distance from his poetry, but is it fair for the reader to assume that the speaker must be equated with Heschel himself? Reading this as an introspective composition, it is quite difficult to understand the narrator as anyone but the young Heschel, whose journey from Hasidic Warsaw to his temporary home in Berlin seems the archetype for quest of the speaker.[15]Such a reading of “God Follows Me Everywhere” suggests that, in this poem, Heschel offers the reader some private and lyrical reflection on awareness of God’s spiritual presence even in one of the premier secular and intellectual capitals of Europe.[16] Similarly, throughout the five stanzas the setting of the poem transitions from the wild forest to the modern urban life of a metropolis filled with tramways and cafes, illustrating in physical terms the internal odyssey of the narrator.[17]

This text, which seems to be an autobiographical description of Heschel’s journey out of Warsaw, does not convey any of the bitterness or outright anger found in the works of other Yiddish poets who struggled with the boundaries of tradition. For Heschel, God remains unavoidable, an omnipresent truth witnessed by the wonder of creation even as one moves beyond the pale to remote realms. Caught up in the wondrous mystery of his journey through the modern landscape, the protagonist is cut loose from the moors of his past but not necessarily fleeing from the Divine as an act of spite or rage. The narrator is pursued by a deity that cannot be left behind, but, says Heschel,
God’s glance and voice convey neither the thunderous omnipotence of the Psalmist’s Deity nor the bitter inescapability of religion decried by some secular Yiddish authors.  The God of Heschel’s poem mirrors the strides of the human being, doing so with a benevolent and mystical grace so sublime and stunning that the speaker’s lips are quelled into silence.

Stylistically, it is interesting to note the abundance of Germanic words and the relative absence of Hebrew (loshn-koydesh) terms in this poem. God is never referred to be one of his traditional Hebrew epithets, and opportunities to use more religiously infused words are passed over: Heschel opts for hayliktum and not kedushah for “holiness”; zeungen instead of nevi’us for “prophetic visions”; and vizies and not khezyoynes for “visions.”[18] In doing so, the author sets the tone of the work to a more universal register, for there is nothing uniquely Jewish about the content or even the very language of the poem that links it to the religious tradition upon which it is certainly drawing. Perhaps we may also see here the expression of a tension between modern notions of poetic aesthetics and traditional spiritual motifs.[19] In stripping the Yiddish language of any words that connote a particular Jewish experience, Heschel has effectively opened it up to expressing more universal existential questions of meaning.

The rhyme scheme of the first three stanzas follows a simple AAA pattern, and since the final words in every line end with the same sound (“um”), the rhyme extends melodically from one paragraph to the next. However, this form collapses in the fourth paragraph, which, although it contains the requisite three-line structure, is completely unrhymed. This absence adds to the impression that this paragraph is qualitatively different than the others, first indicated by the fact that it does not begin with a variant of the familiar refrain “God follows me everywhere.” To further reinforce the distinction, Heschel’s poem is published with a long row of hyphens that create a visual rift between the fourth and fifth stanzas, a possible semiotic indication of the paradoxical journey of the narrator reaching its peak. In the final paragraph, however, the rhyme scheme is restored once again (to the exact same syllable as the first three stanzas), signifying that the completion of the process of the speaker’s accepting that God’s presence will follow him wherever he roams.

In addition to the impossibility of moving away from an almost unperceivable but inescapable Divine presence, there is yet another fundamental paradox at the heart of Heschel’s poem. The work is implicitly universal in tone, and the experience being described is not in any way explicitly or exclusively Jewish. Heschel’s poem brings this vision to life through focusing on the interior spiritual journey of one person; the reader is granted access to the narrator’s own experience by peering in from the outside.  However, as was true of his English theological works as well, Heschel’s modern consciousness has attuned him to facets of the inner and religious life that seem completely unconfined by his uniquely Jewish upbringing, allowing him to compose a poem that focuses on a single person but nonetheless has far broader applications. His anonymous narrator has neither overt religious affiliation nor clear cultural identity, experiencing God in universal terms that allow a reader of any background to empathize in Heschel’s words.

As mentioned above, the relative absence of Yiddish words of Hebrew origin with strong religious connotations from Heschel’s deeply evocative and spiritual work is striking. Despite having been composed in Yiddish, Heschel’s poem has few direct references to the Jewish religious or cultural tradition; it seems almost like a modern romantic or existentialist poem translated into Yiddish. And yet, the quest and divine shadow at the heart of Heschel’s poem are unmistakably redolent of the spiritual journey described in Psalm 139:

Lord,
You searched me and You know,

It is You Who know when I sit and I rise,

            You fathom my thoughts from afar.

My path and my lair You winnow,

            And with all my ways are familiar.

For there is no word on my tongue,

            But that You, O Lord, wholly know it.[20]

Though he may travel to the ends of the earth, the Psalmist cannot flee God’s presence. The biblical narrator’s thoughts and words are known to God before they are spoken, and the wondrous divine majesty, inescapable and inscrutable, illuminating the heavens and the earth alike. The text may be interpreted as suggested that the speaker is plagued or harried by an unavoidable, but it may also be read as a hopeful expression that any place may become a site of refuge, for God’s immanence presents rests with equal splendor and power throughout world.

“God Follows Me Everywhere” may be read as a contemporary retelling of the Psalmist’s words, updated into a modern style and illustrated with the urban scenery of a present-day metropolis. Without quoting directly from Psalm 139, Heschel’s poem gestures toward a similar experience of the inescapabilty of the Divine. Both Heschel’s poem and the Psalmist’s words invoke temporal descriptions that function as spiritual metaphors, suggesting the presence of a transformative inner journey mirroring that of a physical quest.

There are differences, of course. In the biblical text, it is the narrator that is constantly moving, always remaining within the ken of the infinite—yet stationary—Divine presence. Heschel’s poem, however, recasts the narrator and God are dynamic characters; they mirror each other, moving from location to location. God is in pursuit of the speaker, and the relationship between the two seems to be the polar opposite of that of the Psalm: the God of our Yiddish poem is inescapable not because of his powerful omnipresence, but rather because the Divine is eternally tracing the movements of the narrator. To echo Heschel’s later formulation, God cares about the affairs of mankind and responds to human action.

The slim 1933 anthology in which “God Follows Me Everywhere” remained Heschel’s only completed poetic work. Heschel’s postwar writings echo the lyrical, liturgical style of his earlier writing, but he shifted from poetry to theology and historical scholarship. Such may have been the result of the crushing tragedy of the Holocaust, a collective—and personal—trauma so heartrending and absolute that it defies poetic expression.[21] Heschel’s poem was written before the Nazis rose to power, and the destruction of Eastern European Jewry must have signaled the end of any vision of modernist aesthetics as a noble cultural achievement. But “God Follows Me Everywhere” carries within it the message that came to fuller articulation in Heschel’s more mature theological project and vision of social change: “God is in search of man. Faith in God is a response to God’s question.”[22]

דער אייבערשטערס שטומע קול׃
אַ נאָענטע לייענונג פֿון אבֿרהם יהושע העשלס ליד ״גאָט גייט מיר נאָך אומעטום״

פֿון׃ אריאל אבֿן-מעשׂה [1]

            די יידישע דיכטונג פֿון דעם
פֿריִען צוואַנציקסטן יאָרהונדערט גיט אָן זייער אַ װיכטיקן פּערספּעקטיוו אויף די
אינטעלעקטועלע און גייסטיקע–אָדער בעסער געזאָגט רוחניותדיקע– אַספּעקטן פֿון
דער יידישער געשיכטע. די צײַט איז געװען אַ תּקופֿה פֿון גרויסע אנטוויקלונגען און
איבערקערעניש פֿאַר די מזרח-אייראָפּעיִשע יידן. נײַע השׂגות פֿון אידענטיטעט,
רעליגיִע, און עקאָנאָמיע האָבן זיך פֿאַרמעסטן קעגן טראַדיציע, און אַ סך יידן
האָבן פֿאַרלאָזן דעם לעבן פֿון יידישקייט און זײַנען אַרײַנגעטרעטן אין דער
מאָדערנישער װעלט. אינטעליגענטן האָבן זיך געצויגן צו דער מאָדערנישער
פֿילאָסאָפֿיע, װעלטלעכען הומאַניזם, און נײַע װיסנשאַפֿטלעכע געביטן װי
פּסיכאָלאָגיע. פֿאַר אַנדערע, סאָציאַליזם איז געװען אַ צוציִיִקע
פֿאַרענטפֿערונג פֿאַר דער גראָבער עקאָנאָמיקער אומגלײַכקייט, אָדער אין
מזרח-אײראָפּע אָדער אין ארץ-ישׂראל. נאָך אַנדערע ייִדן האָבן אימיגרירט קיין
אַמעריקע און האָבן אָנגעהויבן אַ נײַע לעבנס דאָרטן. אין דער צייט האָבן די
יידישע דיכטער פֿון אַמעריקע און אייראָפּע געראַנגלט מיט דער מסורה. זיי האָבן
ביידע געשעפּט פֿון דעם קװאַל פֿון דער רעליגיִעזער טראַדיציע, און האָבן זיי אויך
זיך געאַמפּערט קעגן אים. די יידישע דיכטער האָבן אויסגעפֿאָרשט דעם מאָדערנעם
עסטעטיק און דעם באַטײַט פֿון אוניװערסאַליזם, אָבער זיי האָבן דאָס געטאָן צווישן
די גרענעצן פֿון דעם מאַמע-לשון. די יידישע לידער פֿון די יאָרן זײַנען אַ טייל
פֿון אַ ברייטער ליטעראַטור, װאָס שטייט מיט איין מאָל לעבן און װײַט פֿון דער
טראַדיציע.[2]

            אין אָט-דעם אַרטיקל װעלן
מיר פֿאָקוסירן אויף דעם ליד ״גאָט גייט מיר נאָך אומוטעם״ פֿון אבֿרהם יהושע
העשלען (1907-1972). העשלס לידער זײַנען אויסגעצייכנטע דוגמאות פֿון דער שפּאַנונג
צווישן מאָדערנהייט און מסורה.[3] העשל איז געבוירן געוואָרן אין װאַרשע אין אַ
חסידשער משפחה פֿון רביס און רבצינס. ער איז אויפֿגעהאָדעוועט געװאָרן מיט דער
מיסטישער רוחניות;[4] די טעמעס פֿון זײַנע לידער שפּיגלען אָפּ די סביבה פֿון זײַן
יונגערהייט. פֿונדעסטװעגן, זײַנען זײַנע לידער נישט קיין טראַדיציאָנעלע תּפֿילות
אָדער פּיוטים. העשל האָט געשריבן מיטן לשון און אימאַזשן פֿונעם יידישער מיסטיק
כּדי אויסצושפּרייטן די גרענעצן פֿון רעליגיע. נאָך דעם װאָס ער איז אַנטלויפֿן
פֿון װאַרשע אין די װעלטלעכע אַקאַדעמיעס פֿון װילנע און בערלין, האָט העשל
אָנגעהויבן שרײַבן דרייסטע און דינאַמישע לידער אין װעלכע ער האָט איבערגעזעצט די
רוחניות פֿון זײַנע יונגע יאָרן אויף אַ גאָר מאָדערנישער שפּראַך. דאָס ערשט און
איינציקער באַנד פֿון העשלס לידער, ״דער שם המפֿורש׃ מענטש,״ האָט צונויפֿגעפֿירט
זעקס און זעכציק פֿון טעקסטן װאָס זײַנען אַרויס פֿריער אין זשוּרנאַלן און
צײַטונגען.[5] דאָס בוּך איז אַרויס אין װאַרשע אין 1933,[6] בשעת השעל האָט
געשריבן זײַן דיסערטאַציע אין בערלין װעגן דער פֿענאָמענאָלאָגיע פֿון נבֿוּאה אין
דעם תּנ״ך. מיר װעלן זעען אַז די פֿאַרבינדונג צװישן מענטש און גאָט איז אויך אַ
טעמע װאָס מען געפֿינט זייער אָפֿט אין זײַנע לידער.

            דאָס ליד ״גאָט גייט מיר
נאָך אומעטום״ איז זיכער איינס פֿון די שענסטע און האַרציקסטע לידער פֿון דעם
באַנד. דער טעקסט איז אַרויסגעגאַנגן צום ערשטענס אין 1927 אין דעם זשוּרנאַל צוקונפֿט.[7]
אין דעם ליד האָט העשל געראַנגלט מיט אַ קאָמפּליצירטן אָבער באַקאַנטן
פּאַראַדאָקס׃ גאָט איז ביידע פֿאַראַן און באַהאַלטן. דער אייבערשטער לויפֿט נאָך
נאָך דעם רעדנער אומוטעם, אָבער ס׳איז אוממיגלעך אים צו זעען. ער (דער רעדנער) קען
אַפֿילו נישט באַשרײַבען װאָס עס מיינט איבערצולעבן דעם רבונו-של-עולם׳ס
אָנװעזנקייט. אין העשלס װערטער׃

גאָט גייט מיר נאָך אוּמעטוּם
— — —

שפּינט אַ נעץ פֿוּן בּליקן
מיר אַרוּם,

בּלענדט מיין בּלינדן רוקן
װי אַ זון.

גאָט גייט מיר נאָך װי אַ
װאַלד אוּמעטוּם.

אוּן שטענדיק שטוינען מיינע
ליפּן האַרציק-שטוּם,

װי אַ קינד, װאָס
בּלאָנדזשעט אין אַן אַלטן הייליקטוּם.

גאָט גייט אין מיר נאָך װי
אַ שוידער אוּמעטוּם.

עס גלוּסט זיך מיר רוּ, עס
מאָנט מיר׃ — קוּם!

קוּק װי זעוּנגען װאַלגערן
אויף גאַסן זיך אַרוּם.

איך גיי אין רעיונות מיינע
אוּם װי אַ סאָד

אין אַ לאַנגן קאָרידאָר
דוּרך די װעלט —

אוּן דערזע אַמאָל הויך
איבּער מיר דאָס פּנימלאָזע פּנים פֿון גאָט

— — — — — — — — — — — — —

גאָט גייט מיר נאָך אין
טראַמװייען, אין קאפעען…

אָ ס׳איז נאָר מיט רוּקנס
פֿון אַפּלען צוּ זעען,

װי סודות אַנטשטייען, װי
װיזיעס געשעען!

געװידמעט
מיין לערער דוד קויגן נ״ע[8]

אָט-די פּערזענלעכע שורות גיבן
איבער דעם אינעװייניקסטן קאַמף פֿון אַ בחור װאָס קען נישט אַנטלויפֿען פֿון דעם
רבונו-של-עולם. געשריבן געװאָרן אין דעם ערשטען פּערזאָן, איז דאָס ליד אַן
אינטראָספּעקטיווע (און אַפֿילו אויטאָביאָגראַפֿישע) באַשרײַבונג פֿון דעם
רעדנערס רײַזע דורך אַ װעלט אין װעלכנע גאָט געפֿינט זיך שטענדיק. אָבער ס׳איז דאָ
אַ פּאַראַדאָקס׃ גאָטס אוניװערסאלע אָנװעזענקייט איז זייער סובטיל. זי איז אַ סוד
און אַ מיסטעריע װאָס מ׳קען נישט אויסדריקן. דער לייענער מוז פֿרעגן, צי איז דער
רעדנער תּמיד בּאַמערקן אַז גאָט איז דאָ? אָדער אפֿשר איז דאָס װיסיקייט אַן
אויפֿבליץ װאָס קומט אָן און װידער לויפֿט אַװעק?

            לאָמיר לייענען דעם ליד שורה
נאָך שורה׃ דאָס ליד הייבט זיך אָן מיט די װערטער ״גאָט גייט מיר נאָך,״ די
זעלביקע װערטער װאָס עפֿענען פֿיר פֿון די פֿינף סטראָפֿעס. די װידערהאָלונג פֿון
דער שורה גיט דאָס ליד אַ מין האַפֿטיקייט, װײַל עס שטרײַכט אַונטער, אַז דער
רעדנער קען אַבסאָלוט נישט אַנטלויפֿן פֿון גאָט. צום סוף פֿון דער ערשטער שורה
קומט אַ קליינע ליניע, װאָס קען זײַן אַ סימן אַז גאָטס יאָג איז באמת
אומבאַגרענעצט. די װערטער ״גאָט גייט מיר נאָך״ שטייען װי אַ צוזונג, װאָס גיט דעם
טעקסט אַ תּפֿילותדיק אייגנקייט.

            אין דער ערשטער סטראָפֿע,
פֿאַרגלײַכט דער רעדנער דעם אייבערשטערן מיט אַ שפּין, װאָס כאַפּט אים אַרום מיט
אַ געװעב פֿון קוקן; גאָט בקרײַזט דער רעדנער און ער קען נישט פֿליִען. גאָטס
בלענדיקער בליק שטאַרקט איבער דעם רעדנער װי דאָס אומפֿאַרמײַדלעך ליכט פֿון דער
זון. ס׳איז דער איבערפֿלייץ פֿון גאָטס ליכט, נישט די פֿאַרפֿעלונג דערפֿון, װאָס
לייגט אַוועק דעם רעדנער. אָבער העשלס מעטאַפֿאָר איז דאָך טיפֿער, װײַל גאָטס
ליכטיקן בליק שײַנט אויף דעם דערציילערס רוקן. דאָס הייסט, אַז דער רעדנער האָט
זיך שוין אָפּגעקערט פֿון גאָט און גייט װײַטער אין דער אַנדערער ריכטונג. מיר
װייסען נישט אויב זײַן אַװעקגיין איז בכּיוונדיק, אָבאַר ס׳איז קלאָר אַז אַפֿילו
ווען דער רעדנער װאָלט אַנטלויפֿען, גייט גאָט נאָך אים אומעטום און אַפֿילו רירט
אים.

            העשלס שורות זײַנען פֿול מיט
פּאָעטישע אימאַזשן, און דער רעדנער האָט נישט קיין מורא פֿון פֿאַרגלײַכן גאָט
מיט פֿיזישע זאַכן. אין דער צווייטער סטראָפֿע, משלט ער אָפּ גאָט מיט אַ װאַלד.
דאָס הייסט, אַז גאָט גייט אים נאָך אין די װילסדטע ערטער, אפֿילו הינטער די
באַקאַנטע רעליגיעזע פּלעצער, װי דער שול אָדער דער בית-המדרש. אָבער העשל האָט
געקליבן זײַנע װערטער מיט אָפּגעהיטנקייט. עס קען זײַן אַז דער אייבערשטער גייט
אים נאָך אַרײַן אין דעם װאַלד, אָבער מע׳קען אויך פֿאַרשטיין פֿון דער
פֿאַרגלײַכונג אַז גאָט אַליין איז דער װאַלד. גאָטס ״זײַן״, זײַן אָנװעזנקייט,
איז װילד און אויסװעפּיק, אָבער אויך קאָנסטאַנט און נאַטירליך.

            גאָטס געהויבנקייט איז
בלענדיק, און ס׳איז אויך נישט צו באַשרײַבן. העשלס רעדנער שװײַגט װי אַ קינד װאָס
געפֿינט זיך אין אַ צושטאַנד מיט װוּנדער; ער קען נישט זאָגן אַרויס די קדושה װאָס
שטייט פֿאַר אים. די הייליקטום איז אַלט און אָנגעזען, און עס קען סימבאָליזירן
דער מסורה. דאָס שטעלט פֿאָר אַ פּאַראַדאָקס׃ גאָטס קדושה געפֿינט זיך טאַקע
אומעטום, אָבער מען קען נישט באַשרײַבן זי מיט װערטער. ס׳איז נישט אין גאַנצן
קלאָר, צי דער רעדנער שװײַגט פֿאַרן גאָט אַליין , אָדער אפֿשר קען ער נישט
באַשרײַבן די איבערלעבונג צו אַן אַנדערן מענטשן. אָבער ס׳איז פֿאַראַן אַ צווייטן
שיכט פֿונעם פּאַראַדאָקס׃ אין דעם ליד איז גאָט אומבאַשרײַבלעך, אָבער דווקא װעגן
דעם איז אַ שיין ליד געשריבן געװאָרן.

            אַזוי אומפֿאַרמײַדלעך און
אָן בעװוּסטזײַן ווי אַ שוידער, באַגלייט גאָט דעם רעדנער אומעטום. אין דער דריטער
סטראָפֿע כאַפּן מיר אַ בליק אויף דעם אינעװייניקסטן קאָנפֿליקט װאָס קומט אין דעם
רעדנער פֿאָר. ער װיל נאָר רוען, אפֿשר באַרײַסן פֿון זײַן אומענדיקן געראַנגל מיט
גאָט. אָבער עפּעס איז מעורר אין אים און ער קען נישט בלײַבן אָדער פּאַסיװ אָדער
פֿרידלעך. מיט דעם באַפֿעל ״קוּם,״ אַ װאָרט אין װאָס מען הערט די קולות פֿון די
נבֿיאים, מוז מוז ער שטיין אויף און זען אַז די ערדישע גאַסן האַלטן אַן אוצר פֿון
נבֿואות. ס׳איז דאָ נישטאָ קיין מקום-מקלט פֿאַר דעם רעדנער.

            אין דער װײַטערדיקער
סטראָפֿע גייט דער רעדנער דורך דער װעלט מיט ״רעיונות,״ דאָס הייסט מחשבֿות,
הרהורים, אָדער געדאַנקען. העשל באַשרײַבט די װעלט װי אַ קאָרידאָר, און ער ניצט
דעם לשון פֿון דער משנה אין װאָס װערט די װעלט גערופֿט פּשוט אַ ״פרוזדוד״ פֿאַר
דער שיינהייט פֿון יענער װעלט. דער אימאַזש פֿון אַ קאָרידאָר מיינט װײַטער אַז
דער רעדנער האָט זיך אָנגעהויבן אויף אין גאָר אַ חשובֿע רײַזע; ער האָט אַ װעג
בײַצוגאַנגען. ער גייט מיט אַ סוד, דהיינו די מיסטישע וויסיקייט פֿון גאָטס
אָנװעזנקייט. אָבער ס׳איז נישט אַזוי פּשוט, װײַל ער זעט דעם אייבערשטערס
״פּנימלאָזע פּנים״ טאַקע זעלטן. אויב אַזוי, װאָס פֿאַר אַ מיסטישן ״סוד״ האָט
ער? אפֿשר דער רבונו-של-עולם באַהאַלט זיך, אָבער ס׳איז אויך מעגלעך אַז ער איז
דאָ די גאַנצע צײַט און דער רעדנער בליוז קען נישט קוקן גלײַך אויף אים. צום סוף
לאָזט העשל די צװייטײַטשיקייט צו בלײַבן אין שפאַנונג.

            צווישן די פֿירטע און
פֿינפֿטע סטראָפֿעס ס׳איז פֿאַראַן אַ ליניע, װאָס סימבאָליזירט דעם איבערגאַנג
אין דער מאָדערנער, שטאָטישער װעלט. נאָך די פֿריִערדיקע סטראָפֿעס פֿון נאַטורעלע
זאַכן װי ליכט, װעלדער און שוידערן, געפֿינט דער רעדנער זײַן באַגלײַטער אין דער
װעלט פֿון טעכנאָלאָגיע און קולטור. גאָט איז דאָ אין דער שטאָט, אָבער אויך דאָרטן
קען מען נישט אים זען מיט געוויינטלעכע אויגען; מען דערפֿילט געטליכקייט נאָר מיט
״רוקענס פֿון אַפּלען.״ אינטראָספּעקציע, קוקן אַרײַן אין זיך אַליין, איז דער
שליסל צו געפֿינען דעם טיפֿען אמת. מיר האָבן שוין געליינט אין דער דריטער
סטראָפֿע, װי דער רעדנער באַפֿעלט זיך, ״קום!״ דער אימפּעראַטיוו קומט פֿון זײַן
טיפֿעניש. איצט זעען מיר, אַז דאָס רעדנער מוז קוקן אין זיך  כּדי צו געפֿינען די װיכטיקע חזיונות און
סודות.

            לייענדיק דעם גאַנצן ליד,
מוז מען פֿרעגן, צי איז דער רעדנער אויך דער דיכטער? צי באַשרײַבט העשל זײַנע
אייגענע ״רעיונות״ װעגן גאָט און דער טרעדיציע? צי קענען מיר געפֿינען דעם
געראַנגל העשלען אין דער טעקסט? עס דאַכט זיך, אַז העשל האָט נישט געהאַט אַ קיין
סך עסטעטישע ווײַטקייט פֿון זײַן דיכטונג. די רײַזע פֿון דעם רעדנער דערמאָנט
העשלס נסיעה פֿון זײַן חסידישער משפּחה פֿון װאַרשע קיין װילנע און דערנאָך קיין
בערלין. שפּעטער אין זײַן לעבן האָט העשל געשריבן װעגן זײַן איבערלעבונג פֿון גאָט
אין דעם מאָדערנישעם שטאָט.[9] די סצענע פֿונעם ליד בײַט זיך איבער דורך די פֿינף
סטראָפֿעס פֿון װאַלד צו שטאָט, אילוסטרירן אַ רײַזע װאָס איז סײַ גײַסטיקע סײַ
פֿיזישע. מען קען נישט זײַן הונדערט פּראָצענט זיכער, אָבער דער רעדנער און העשל
זײַנען געגענגן אויף דעם זעלבן װעג.

            װאָס נאָך, עס איז זיכער
נישטאָ קיין צופֿאַל אַז ס׳זײַנען פֿאַראַן אַ סך דײַטשמעריזמס אין העשלס ליד, און
גאָר װייניק לשון-קודשדיקע װערטער. ער האָט נישט גערופֿט גאָט מיט איינער פֿון
זײַנע טראַדיציאָנעלע יידישע נעמען, און ער האָט נישט געשעפּט פֿון דעם
לשון-קודשדיקן קאָמפּאַנענט פֿון ייִדיש אפֿילו װען ער האָט עס געקענט טאָן. למשל,
שרײַבט העשל ״הייליקטום״ אַנשטאָט קדושה, ״זעונגען״ אַנשטאָט נבֿיאות, און
״װיזיעס״ אַנשטאָט חזיונות. מיט דעם פֿעלן פֿון יידישע װערטער האָט דער דיכטער
געגעבן זײַן יידיש טעקסט אַן אַלװעלטלעכן טאָן, און געמאַכט דעם ליד אַ כּלי צו
האַלטען אוניװערסעלע און עקסיסטענציעל דילעמעס.

            אָבער כאָטש דער רעדנער רעדט
מיט אוניװערסאַלע װערטער, מוז מען פֿאַרשטיין, אַז דאָס ליד גיט אָפּ נאָר די
איבערגלעבונג פֿון איין מענטש, װאָס שרײַבט אין דעם ערשטן פּערזאָן. דער רעדנער
באַשרײַבט װי גאָט גייט נאָך אים און נישט נאָך אַלע מען. פֿון איין זײַט,
דאַכט זיך אַז דער תּוכן פֿונעם ליד איז זייער ענג און באַגרענעצט. דער לייענער
קען קוקן אַרײַן נאָר פֿון אויסנװייניק. אָבער פֿון דער אַנדערער זײַט, האָבן
העשלס מאָדערנישע װיסיקייט און בילדונג געעפֿענט אים צו אַספּעקטן פֿון דעם
מענטשלעכען מצבֿ װײַטער פֿון זײַן חסידישער חינוך. דער רעדנער, װאָס האָט נישט
קיין בפֿירוש רעלעגיעזע אָדער קולטורעלע אידענטיטעט, האָט אַ שײַכות צו גאָט װאָס
יעדער איינער קען פֿאַרשטיין. עס קען זײַן אַז העשל איז דער רעדנער, אָבער זײַנע
רײַזע און געראַנגל זײַנען אַלמענטשלעכע.

            די ערשטע דרײַ סטראָפֿעס
װערן אָפּגעבויט פֿון דער גראַם-סכעמע פֿון א/א/א. דאָס לעצטען װאָרט אין יעדער
שורה ענדיקט זיך מיט דעם אייגענעם קלאַנג (״אוּם״), און דאָס גיט דעם ליד אַ חוש
פֿון גאַנצקייט און קאָנטינויִטעט. אָבער דער סטרוקטור בײַט זיך אין דעם פֿערטער
סטראָפֿע. זי הייבט זיך נישט אָן מיט דעם צוזונג ״גאָט גייט מיר נאָך״, און די
שורות זײַנען אויף אַן א/ב/א גראַם-סכעמע. כאָטש אין דער לעצטער סטראָפֿע קומט דער
רעפֿריין און דער גראַם צוריק, אפֿשר סימבאָלירט עס, אַז דער רעדנער האָט זיך
אויפֿגעהערט אַנטלויפֿען פֿון דעם אייבערשטער. צום סוף איז ער מקבל-באהבֿה געװען
אַז דער רבונו-של-עולם װעט גייען נאָך אים טאַקע אומעטום.

            לאָמיר נעמען אַ הפֿסקה פֿון
אונדזער לייענונג פֿון העשלס ליד, און פֿאַרגלייכן אים מיט אַן אַנדערן טעקסט פֿון
דער יידישער טראַדיציִע. די רײַזע, אָדער דאָס זוך, אין מיטן העשלס ליד ליד איז
זייער ענלעך צו דער מעשׂה פֿון תהלים קל״ט. ווי העשלס ליד, דערציילט תּהלים קל״ט
אַ גישיכטע פֿון עמעצען װאָס האָט געפּרוּווט אַנטצולויפֿען פֿון גאָט. די
געגליכנקייט איז סובטיל אָבער שטאַרק, און מען קען לייענען העשלס ליד װי אַ
הײַנטיקע איבערזעצונג פֿון דוד המלך׳ס ערנסטע פּסוקים. לאָמיר קוקן אַרײַן אין אַ
טייל פֿונעם קאַפּיטל׃

װוּהין זאָל איך אַװעקגײן פֿון
דײַן גײַסט?

און װוּהין זאָל איך פֿון דײַן
פּנים אַנטלױפֿן?

זאָל איך אַרױפֿגײן אין הימל,
ביסטו דאָרטן,

און זאָל איך מיר אױסבעטן אין
אונטערערד, ערשט ביסט דאָ.

זאָל איך נעמען די פֿליגלען
פֿון באַגינען,

זאָל איך רוען אין עק פֿון ים,

װעט אױך דאָרטן מיך פֿירן דײַן
האַנט,

און מיך װעט האַלטן דײַן
רעכטע.

און זאָל איך זאָגן: לױטער
פֿינצטערניש זאָל מיך באַדעקן,

און נאַכט זאָל דאָס ליכט פֿאַר
מיר װערן,

איז אױך פֿינצטערניש ניט
פֿינצטער פֿאַר דיר,

און נאַכט טוט אַזױ װי דער טאָג
לײַכטן; אַזױ פֿינצטערקײט אַזױ

ליכטיקײט…[10]

אין דעם קאַפּיטל תּהלים
זעען מיר אַ באַקענטער געראַנגל׃ דער רעדנער קען נישט פֿליִען פֿונעם אייבערשטערן,
אַפֿילו װען ער גייט ממש צום עק פֿון דער װעלט. גאָט איז פֿאַראַן אומעטום, אין
הימל און דאָך אין גהינום, און דעריבער איז דער העלד פֿול מיט יראת-הכּבֿוד. העשל
ציטירט נישט דעם קאַפּיטל, אָבער די ענלעכקייט צווישן דעם ליד און דעם הייליקן
טעקסט איז קלאָר און בולט. די צוויי רעדנערס שרײַבן װעגן גאָטס נאַטירלעכע און
אוניװערסאַלע פֿאַראַנענקייט, און די שורות האַלטן אַ סך פֿיזישע אימאַזשן װאָס
זײַנען אויך גײַסטיקע מעטאַפֿאָרן; אין ביידן זעט דער לייענער אַ רײַזע װאָס איז
ביידע פֿיזיש ביידע רוחניותדיק.

            ס׳זײַנען פֿאַראַן אויך
עטלעכע װיכטיקע אונטערשיידן צווישן העשלס ליד און דעם קאַפּיטל תּהלים. למשל,
האָבן די צוויי טעקסטן באַזונדערע מוסר-השׂכּלען. אין תּהלים רירט דער רעדנער
אַהין און צוריק, אָבער דער אייבערשטער שטייט גאַנצן סטאַטיק. דער העלד געפֿינט
גאָטס גדולה אומעטום, און דער אייבערשטער איז אַלמעכטיק און אַלװייסנדיק. אָבער
אין העשלס ליד ביידע גאָט און דער רעדנער גייען צוזאַמן. דער רבונו-של-עולם זוכט
און גייט נאָך דעם רעדנער אַהער און אַהין װי אַ שאָטן, און דאָס װאָס איז אַם
װיכטיקסטן איז דאָס װאָס דער רעדנער איז דער אקטיװער אַגענט.

            צי איז העשלס ליד אַ מרד
קעגן זײַן חסידישער קינדהייט און דערציונג? דאָס ליד, מען קען זאָגן, האָט נישט
דעם כּעס און ביטערקייט װאָס געפֿינען זיך אין לידער פֿון אַנדערע יידישע
שרײַבערס, װאָס זײַנען אַרויסגעקומען פֿון אַ טרעדיציאָנעלער סבֿיבֿה. אַ טייל
פֿון די שרײַבערס און דיכטער האָבן געראַנגלט מיט אַ יידישקייט װאָס האָט זיי
געשליסן אין קייטן. אָבער אַנדערע אויטאָרן, װי דעם באַרימטען י.ל. פּרץ, האָבן
געניצט די לשון, טעמעס און מוסר-השׂכּלען פֿון חסידישע סיפּורים צו שאַפֿן אַ
רעליגיִעזע ליטעראַטור מיט אַ נײַ געמיט.[11] עס דאַכט זיך, אַז העשל װאָלט
אויסברייטערן די גרענעצן פֿון יידישקייט, אָבער ער טוט דאָס מיט װוּנדער אַנטשטאָט
בייזער. לויט העשל איז גאָט פֿאַראַן אַפֿילו אין דער ערדישער מאָדערנישער װעלט,
װאָס איז דאָך אַ פֿרוכטבאַרער גרונט פֿאַר שעפֿערישקייט און רוחניותדיקע
װאַקסונג. דער רעדנער גייט אַרום אין דער נײַער װעלט, און דער אייבערשטער גייט אים
נאָך מיט אַ מיסטישע גוטהאַרציקייט אַזוי סובטיל אַז מ׳קען אַפֿילו נישט זאָגן זי
אַרויס. העשל און זיין רעדנער שאַפֿן אַ פּאָעטישע עסטעטיק װאָס שמעלצט צונויף
מאָדערנע װיסיקייט און טראַדיציאָנעלע רוחניות.

            העשלס לידער זײַנען געשריבן
געװאָרן זייער פֿרי אין זײַן קאַריערע. זײַן פּראָזע פֿון דער נאָך-מלחמהדיקער
תקופֿה האָט דעם זעלבע תּפֿילותדיקן  און
לירישן ריטמוס, אָבער דער קליינער באַנד פֿון 1933 איז זײַן איינציקע פּאָעטישע
אונטערנעמונג. פֿאַרװאָס? אפֿשר מחמת דעם חורבן האָט העשל אָפּגעלאָזט זײַן אמונה
אין דעם אוניװערסעל עסטעטיק, און אפֿשר איז ער זיך מיאש געװאָרן פֿון פּאָעזיע װי
אַ גאַנג איבערצוגעבן זײַנע אינערלעכע איבערלעבונגען. אָדער אפֿשר העשל האָט
געטראַכט אַז אין אַמעריקע ס׳זײַנען געװען נישטאָ קיין לייענערס װאָס װעלן זיך
אינטערעסירן מיט אַזעלכע לידער אויפֿן יידישן שפּראַך. ער האָט יאָ געשריבן װעגן
דעם חורבן אויף יידיש,[12] אָבער נישט מיט לידער. אַנדערע ייִדישע דיכטער װי אהרן
צייטלן, קאדיע מאָלאָדאָווסקי און יעקב גלאַטשטיין האָבן געשריבן װעגן דעם חורבן
מיט שורות און גראַמען,[13] אָדער העשל האָט קיין מאָל נישט איבערגעקערט צו דער
פּאָעזיע. בלויז אין זײַנע פֿריִיִקע יאָרן האָט העשל געניצט לידער אויסצופֿאַרשט
די שפּאַנונג צווישן מאָדערנהייט און מסורה. נאָך ער איז געװען ממשיך באַשרײַבן די
דיאַלעקטיק צווישן אוניװערסעל הומאַניזם און יידיש רוחניות אין זײַנע פּראָזע
ביכער אויף אַן אַנדערער יידישער שפּראַך׃ ענגליש.

[1] ראשית-כּל װעל איך דאַנקן מײַן גוטע חברטע סוני יודקאָף. זי האָט מיר
געהעלפֿט מיט דעם לשון פֿונעם אַרטיקל, און דערצו האָט מיר געגעבן קלוגע און
ניצלעכע באַמערקונגען. װעל איך אויך דאַנקן פּראָפֿ׳ דוב-בער קערלער, דער טײַערער
און אומפֿאַרמאַטערלעכער רעדאַקטאָר פֿונעם ״ירושלימער אַלמאַנאַך״

[2] פֿאַר אַ װוּנדערלעכע פֿאַרזאַמלונג פֿון לידער פֿון דער תקופֿה אויף
צוויי שפּראכן, זע׳ האו (1987).

[3] ארתּור גרין (1996), עדוואַרד קאַפּלאַן (1996), און אלכּסנדר אבן חן
(2011) האָבן באַשרײַבט העשלס ייִדישע לידער. װעגן העשלס באַציונג צו דעם ייִדישן
שפּראך, זע׳ שאַנדלער (1993).

[4] אַ נײַע ביאָגראַפֿיע פֿון העשלן אין צוויי בענד איז אנולמלט אַרויס; זע׳
קאַפּלאַן און דרעסנער (2007 און 2009).

[5] פֿאַר אַ צוויישפּראַכיקע איבערזעצונג פֿון מאָרטאָן מ. לייפֿמאַן; זע׳
העשל (2004). ר׳ זאַלמן שעכטער-שלומי האָט איבערגעזעצט העשלס פֿאָעמעס אין די
זיבעציקע יאָרן, אָבער די איבערזעצונג איז אַרויס נאָר פֿאַר אַ פּאָר יאָרן; זע׳
העשל (2012). איצט קען מען אַראָפּלאָדן דעם אָריגענאַלעם בוך דאָ׃ http://archive.org/details/nybc202672..

[6] ישראל שטערן האָט געשריבן אַ טשיקאַווע קריטיק פֿון העשלס באַנד אין דער
צײַטונגען הײַנט; זע׳ שטערן (1934).

[7] דאָס ליד איז אַרויס נאָך אַ מאָל אינעם בוך חסידישע ירושה אין דער
ייִדישער ליטעראַטור (1981׃ 19).

[8] דוד קויגן איז געװען איינער פֿון העשלס לערערס אין בערלין, און בײַ אים
האָט העשל זיך געלערנט פּוליטיק, געשיכטע, רעליגיע, און ליטעראַטור. װי העשל,
קויגן איז אויפֿגעהאָדעוועט געװאָרן אין אַ חסידישער משפּחה, און ער האָט
אונטערגענומען אַן אַנלעכע רײַזע אַװעק פֿון זײַנע אָפּשטאַמען מיט דרייסיק יאָר
צוריק. די צוויי זײַנען געװען זייער נאָענט, און מע׳קען זאָגן אַז זיי האָבן
געהאַט אַ בשותּפֿותדיק שפּראַך. קויגן איז ניפֿטר געװאָרן אין מאַרץ 1933, און
דער טויט פֿון זײַן לערער איז געװען טאַקע שװער פֿאַר העשל. זע׳ קאַפּלאַן און
דרעסנער, (2007׃ 177-108).

[9] זע׳ העשל (1954) 98-94. אָבער אין זײַנע שפּעטערדיקע שריפֿטן ס׳איז קלאָר
אַז עפּעס האָט זיך געביטן. דאָרטן ס׳איז דאָ אַן עלעמענט פֿון דער מאָדערנישער
װעלט װאָס פֿרעמדט אים אָפּ, און מאַכט אים פֿאַרגעסען זײַן פֿאַרבינדונג מיט גאָט
און די איבערלעבונג פֿון קדושה און מסורה.

[10] תהלים קל״ט, ז-יב, איבערזעצונג פֿון יהואַש. זע׳ http://yiddish.haifa.ac.il/texts/yehoyesh/rev2004/tilim.pdf

[11] זע׳ ראָס (2010).

[12] זע׳ פייערשטיין (1999).

[13] זע׳ די לידער אין צייטלין (1970); די ליד ״אָן ייִדן״ אין גלאַטשטיין
(1956׃ 201), איבגערגעזעצט אין האַו (1987׃ 437-435); די ליד ״אל חנון״ אין
מאָלאָדאָווסקי (1946׃ 3), איבגערגעזעצט אין האַו (1987׃333-331). זע׳ אויך די
לידער אין מאָלאָדאָווסקי (1962).

ביבליאָגראַפֿישע קוועלן

Even-Chen, Alexander.
“On the Ineffable Name of God and the Prophet Abraham: An Examination of
the Existential-Hasidic Poetry of Abraham Joshua Heschel”. Modern
Judaism 31.1 (2011), pp. 23-57

Faierstein, Morris M.
“Abraham Joshua Heschel and the Holocaust”. Modern Judaism 19.3
(1999), pp. 255-275.

Green, Arthur.
“Three Warsaw Mystics”. Kolot Rabim: Rivkah Shatz-Uffenheimer
Memorial Volume, II. Edited by Rachel Elior and Joseph Dan (Jerusalem: Hebrew
University, 1996), pp. 1-58.

Heschel, Abraham Joshua.
Human–God’s Ineffable Name. Translated by Zalman M. Schachter-Shalomi.
Boulder, CO: Albion-Andalus, Inc., 2012.

Heschel, Abraham Joshua.
The Ineffable Name of God–Man: Poems. Translated from the Yiddish by
Morton M. Leifman; introduction by Edward K. Kaplan. New York: Continuum,
2004).

Heschel, Abraham Joshua.
Man’s Quest for God: Studies in Prayer and Symbolism (Santa Fe, NM:
Aurora Press, 1954).

Howe, Irving, Ruth R.
Wisse and Khone Shmeruk. The Penguin Book of Modern Yiddish Verse. New
York: Viking, 1987.

Kaplan, Edward K. and
Samuel H. Dresner. Abraham Joshua Heschel: Prophetic Witness. New Haven,
CT: Yale University Press, 2007.

Kaplan, Edward K. Holiness
in Words: Abraham Joshua Heschel’s Poetics of Piety. Albany: State
University of New York Press, 1996.

Kaplan, Edward K. Spiritual
Radical: Abraham Joshua Heschel in America, 1940-1972. New Haven, CT: Yale
University Press, 2009.

Shandler, Jeffrey.
“Heschel and Yiddish: A Struggle with Signification”. Journal of
Jewish Thought & Philosophy 2.2 (1993), pp. 245-299.

גלאַטשטיין, יעקב. פֿון
מיין גאַנצער מי (ניו יאָרק, 1956).

חסידישע ירושה אין דער
ייִדישער ליטעראַטור (בוענאָס
איירעס, 1981).

מאלאדאווסקי, קאדיע. דער
מלך דוד אליין איז געבליבן ניו יאָרק (ניו יאָרק, 1946).

מאלאדאווסקי, קאדיע. לידער
פון חורבן ת״ש-תש״ה (תל-אבֿיבֿ, 1962), 19-212.

צייטלין, אהרן. ״לידער פון
חורבן און לידער פון גלויבן״. אלע לידער און פאעמעס (ניו יאָרק, 1970).

רוס, ניחם. מסורת אהובה
ושנואה: זהות יהודית מודרנית וכתיבה ניאו-חסידית בפתח המאה העשרים (באר שבע:
הוצאת הספרים של אוניברסיטת בן-גוריון בנגב, 2010).

שטערן, ישראל. ״מענטש׃
קריטישע באַמערקונגען״. היינט 27, נומ׳ 129, יוני 8, 1934, ז׳ 7.

Kindler of Hearts and Illuminator of Letters:

An Essay in Memory of Reb Levi Yitzhak ben Sara Sasha of Berdyczów

by Ariel Evan Mayse

For my wife Adina,

whose illuminating words never fail to inspire.

Relatively few Hasidic masters have enjoyed the enormous and enduring popularity of Reb Levi Yitzhak ben Sara Sasha of Berdyczów (1740-1809), perhaps with the exception of the Ba’al Shem Tov himself. Beginning in the nineteenth century and continuing to the present day, written texts and oral stories have consistently portrayed Reb Levi Yitzhak as a charitable folk hero and beloved communal leader. In these traditions he is an unwavering advocate for the Jewish people who intercedes on their behalf with temporal authorities below, and never fails to plead their case before the Divine tribunal above. In the early twentieth-century, two interesting volumes solely devoted to recalling the inspiring stories of Reb Levi Yitzhak were printed just one year apart, together spanning over one hundred pages of hagiographical tales.[1] Though one of these works was composed in Yiddish and the other in Hebrew, both were obviously intended for a popular readership extending beyond the scholarly elite. Martin Buber also devoted a significant portion of his later collection of Hasidic tales to bringing Reb Levi Yitzhak’s charitable deeds to an even wider audience.[2] Finally, the charismatic image of Reb Levi Yitzhak as a beloved leader, one who was willing to indict the Holy One and put God Himself on trial for His insensitivity to Jewish suffering, has even spilled into the non-Jewish world: a lyrical text traditionally attributed to the Hasidic master inspired American singer and polymath Paul Robeson to write the moving piece “Hassidic Chant” and, on 9 May 1958, even performed “The Hassidic Chant of Levi Isaac” at Carnegie Hall.[3]

The popular memory of Reb Levi Yitzhak of Berdyczów seems only to have increased and expanded from one generation to the next. However, aside from his unforgettable reputation for being an incandescent public leader, it should also be noted that Reb Levi Yitzhak was a brilliant scholar and innovative religious thinker. His homilies, which are framed as a running commentary on the Torah and holidays, were combined with a number of longer, more abstract philosophical excurses to fill the eponymous volume Kedushat Levi. This text is atypical amongst the majority of other early Hasidic works, for a sizable portion of this text was penned by Reb Levi Yitzhak himself and published within the master’s lifetime.[4] The remainder was collated and reprinted alongside it within a few years after his death.[5] It has also been suggested that he had an important role in editing and disseminating the posthumously assembled volume of teachings attributed to his teacher Reb Dov Ber, the Magid of Mezritch (Magid Devarav le-Ya’akov), though this point has not been irrefutably proven.[6] Reb Levi Yitzhak wrote a tremendous number of haskamot, rabbinic approbations that served as temporary copyrights for new printings, for a wide variety of books, and was involved in running a Hebrew-language publishing house.[7] Furthermore, his scholastic efforts were not limited to Hasidic philosophy: in what is perhaps amongst the more humorous machinations of the literary Fates, Reb Levi Yitzhak’s lesser known commentary to the Mishnah was published alongside that of the Gaon of Vilna in some nineteenth century Polish printings.[8] With these accomplishments in mind, it is safe to say that any comprehensive understanding of Reb Levi Yitzhak of Berdyczów must synthesize the scholastic acumen clearly visible in his philosophical teachings with the popular image of an inspiring and emotional communal leader.[9]

Over the past several decades there has been a tremendous outpouring of critical research exploring the theological and mystical facets of Hasidic thought, as well as new studies that reexamine the socio-economic and historical aspects of the Hasidic movement. However, with the exception of the Ba’al Shem Tov,[10] Nahman of Bratslav,[11] and Israel of Ruzhin,[12] nearly all of the Hasidic masters (early or late) still await a critical biography. There are no holistic scholarly accounts of the lives of great Hasidic luminaries such as the Magid of Mezritch (d. 1772), Ya’akov Yosef of Polnoye (d. 1783), Yehudah Aryeh Leib Alter (Gerer Rebbe, and author of Sefat Emet, d. 1905),[13] or, most recently, even Reb Sholom Noah Berezovsky (Slonimer Rebbe and author of Netivot Shalom, d. 2000),[14] to say nothing of the dozens of other important Hasidic rebbes and leaders who contributed to the spread Hasidism and creative energy of Hasidic thought.[15] Writing critical biographies of great men of spirit like these must necessarily include the difficult task wading through hagiographical traditions that are in some cases nearly two centuries thick, as well as examining archive materials in multiple languages aside from the Hebrew and Yiddish in which most chroniclers of Hasidism are used to working. Yet the value of these studies is paramount, and let us hope for the continued expansion of this burgeoning and exciting new field of research, in which individual Hasidic masters are the subject of academic studies that integrate historical fact, intellectual thought, and popular memory.

Given this general desideratum, it should be unsurprising we still lack a comprehensive scholarly analysis of Reb Levi Yitzhak of Berdyczów’s life and philosophy reflecting these historiographical values. This is not to say, however, that he has been marginalized or ignored by the academic community.[16] Samuel Dresner and Michael Luckens have both devoted excellent monographs to examining the figure of Reb Levi Yitzhak, and it is to their works that I defer the reader interested in the specifics of his biography.[17] Yet neither of these works fully satisfies the lacuna noted above. Dresner’s book, although quite detailed and painstakingly researched, was not written solely (or even primarily) with an academic audience in mind, and the majority of his most interesting points are necessarily exiled to the endnotes. Lucken’s dissertation, which remains unpublished, was written nearly four decades ago and must be updated to reflect methodological and technical advances in the study of Hasidism. An illustrative article by Yohanan Petrovsky-Shtern has helped to contextualize our understanding of Reb Levi Yitzhak within the social and cultural background of Eastern Europe, but in a bibliographical footnote reviewing the literature about this Hasidic master, he does not hesitate to remark that Reb Levi Yitzhak’s biography has not been adequately chronicled.[18] Regarding the analysis of his actual teachings, Moshe Idel has convincingly refuted Scholem’s thesis attributing eschatological and even antinomian sentiments to Reb Levi Yitzhak, demonstrating that Reb Levi Yitzhak’s theological philosophy was decidedly traditional (at least, within the context of early Hasidism).[19] To my knowledge, Arthur Green’s entry in the new YIVO Encyclopedia of Jews in Eastern Europe is the most recent detailing of Reb Levi Yitzhak’s biography, and while this lucid and succinct article will provide an excellent starting point for a full-length academic study, the final word on Reb Levi Yitzhak’s life has not been written.[20]

It is true that no critical examination of the life or philosophy of Hasidic rebbe can avoid dealing with the pitfalls of historical memory. At this point we should ask ourselves the following question: is the image of an altruistic Hasidic leader who inspired the common people and broke down barriers between the rabbinic elite and the downtrodden laity is indeed an accurate picture of the “historical” Reb Levi Yitzhak? Though it is nearly impossible to definitively resolve this quandary in one direction or the other, and while we must certainly be wary of basing our opinions solely on late hagiographical collections of tales or posthumous publications,[21] it seems quite unlikely that this portrait is a late attribution fabricated ex nihilo. Just the opposite is the case: the image of Reb Levi Yitzhak as a popular figure and dynamic leader appears to have been forged quite early on in the history of Hasidism. Indeed, he even received positive mention in early anti-Hasidic polemics and was praised as a learned scholar, but was at the same time bitterly criticized for fraternizing overmuch with the common people.[22]

It is my contention that the image of Reb Levi Yitzhak as an inspirational pneumatic leader on one hand, and the evidence that he was accomplished Hasidic exegete and author on the other, should not be framed as inherently contradictory or mutually exclusive. In fact, I suggest that the theoretical groundwork for the popular image attributed to Reb Levi Yitzhak is clearly anticipated by his homiletic teachings. In other words, a model of ideal spiritual leadership nearly identical to the portrait of Reb Levi Yitzhak found in the later hagiographical traditions is already visible in his own theological writings. Examining a few key passages of Kedushat Levi will help us to illustrate this point, and allow us synchronize the images of the Hasidic master as a popular charismatic as well as an gifted intellectual and talented writer.

Reb Levi Yitzhak of Berdyczów devoted a significant portion of his magnum opus to formulating his conception of the exemplary leader. To employ the terminology of the Hasidic masters, much of his work outlines the function of an ideal tzadik (alt. rebbe) – a righteous spiritual guide who is the heart of any given Hasidic society and the focal point around which the entire community rotates.[23] There is scarcely a homily contained in our volume that does not address this theme in some way. Let us begin with a passage in which Reb Levi Yitzhak compares two fundamentally disparate styles of religious service in relation to the archetypical Hasidic leader:

There are two types of tzadikim who serve the Creator: one of them worships God with great fervor, but does so entirely for himself. [This type of tzadik] serves God in isolation, without [seeking] to draw in the wicked and allow them to serve Him as well. Yet there is another kind of tzadik who worships the Creator, [while also] inspiring the wicked to return [from their folly], so that they too may serve Him. Such was the case with the patriarch Abraham, who converted idolaters.[24] It is taught in the writings attributed to Rabbi Isaac Luria that Noah was punished because he did not rebuke the wayward ones of his generation.[25] Therefore, it was necessary for him to be reborn as Moses, who constantly reproved Israel [and returned them to worshipping God].[26]

The binary distinction drawn between the two kinds of tzadikim in this passage is crucial for understanding Reb Levi Yitzhak’s conception of an ideal religious leader. The first of the models is that of a righteous individual who has achieved much in the realm of personal spiritual devotion, but whose accomplishments are solely limited progressing along his own religious path. This model is immediately contrasted with a second type of tzadik, viz. a leader whose fundamental approach to Divine service includes reaching out to people who are on much lower spiritual plane, leading them away from sin and enkindling their sense of piety. An individual of the first, more self-centered model is still considered a saintly person and deserving of the title “tzadik,” but he is clearly of a lower order. Even in this basic comparison it is not difficult to see the author’s thinly veiled displeasure with a religious individual who neglects communal responsibility and focuses solely upon his own journey.

Reb Levi Yitzhak’s critique becomes even more explicit in the final lines of our passage, as the same typological distinctions between tzadikim are hermeneutically mapped onto biblical characters. He compares an individual who follows the self-absorbed model of religious devotion to the decidedly negative image of Noah presented in some rabbinic understandings of the flood story. These accounts suggest that the post-diluvial Noah incurred Divine wrath because he was unable (or perhaps simply unwilling) to adequately reprove the wicked of his generation, or inspire them to repent.[27] The analogy drawn by Reb Levi Yitzhak between this picture of Noah and the first type of tzadik is quite clear, and the author’s underlying position is unmistakable: spiritual fulfillment at the expense of aiding one’s compatriots is both aloof and errant. He then contrasts this mode of piety with the figure of Moses, a leader remembered (even within biblical text itself) for having consistently reproached the infelicitous Israel and returned their allegiance to God. Moses is here presented as the antipathy of Noah and the embodiment of the second, higher model of tzadik, namely a leader who does not shy away from connecting with and ministering to even the wrongdoers of his community.

Elsewhere Reb Levi Yitzhak employs even stronger terms in articulating the preeminence of a tzadik whose religious service includes the people around him. He explains that drawing in prodigal individuals is not only a praiseworthy effort, but an absolute prerequisite for the tzadik’s own experience of Divine favor:

The core of the High Priest’s spiritual level is that he atones for all of Israel, and therefore he must be on a higher rung than them. The Shekhinah rests upon one who is a worldly leader, engaging with every person and returning him to the service of God – each according to his particular level. [This tzadik] merits the Divine Presence because of the merit of his interaction with the masses in helping them to return. The Shekhinah does not dwell with a tzadik who is only for himself and does not bring people near to the worship of God, since he lacks their merit.[28]

This forceful teaching reinforces the preferred model of religious service outlined in the previous passage, but adds that the Divine Presence resides only with those leaders who uplift the fallen and encourage the wicked to repent. According to Reb Levi Yitzhak, bringing the fallen back into the fold should not be considered mere altruistic outreach by the tzadik on their behalf – it strengthens and even adds to the tzadik’s spiritual acumen as well. Indeed, the tzadik’s own experience of the Divine Presence hinges upon his willingness and ability to help others.

The strength of the argument in the text above is by no means sui generis – Kedushat Levi is full of similarly emphatic formulations. To cite but one other example:

This is the meaning of the Tanna’s statement, “do not withdraw from the community”[29] – do not back down from instructing them in the path of divine service, and [showing them] the way of His awe and fear, and cleaving to Him. The explanation of his words: that although it is certainly fitting and proper to do this out of love for the Creator … I will show you that [helping others] is of great importance for yourself as well. The teaching of our Sages, “anyone who confers merit upon the masses, no sin shall come about through him,”[30] is well known. Perhaps you may say that you have no need for this, since you have already reached a very high level of awe. In that case, he [the Sage] has taught that you do not see things as the really are – don’t believe in yourself! That is, when you are just for yourself alone, not assisting the masses and [thus] lacking their merit with you in this world, do not believe in yourself.[31]

Reb Levi Yitzhak recognizes that it may be tempting for some individuals to withdraw away from the world and strive to attain their own spiritual goals wholly undistracted. However, he explains that such an effort will doubtless prove totally futile, for the tzadik’s capacity to reach the heights of religious service is totally dependant upon having the merit of those around him.

Reb Levi Yitzhak is not unaware of the dangers that come along with a model of leadership in which the leader must wholeheartedly engage with persons of much lower spiritual caliber. However, despite the perils inherent in descending to their level, Reb Levi Yitzhak’s admonition is clear: it is the duty of the tzadik to uplift the fallen and wayward, thereby returning them to the service of God. In one passage he writes:

The essence of the tzadik’s service is to uplift the lowest levels to the Creator, as it is written in the Tikkunei Zohar: “[the lower waters say,] we want to stand in front of the Supernal King!”[32] Yet there is great danger for the tzadik to descend in order to raise them up – [while doing this], he must cleave to the Ein Sof.[33]

It is the tzadik’s permanent state of attachment to the Infinite Divine that enables him to descend to the lower levels and uplift them without becoming permanently ensnared below. Note that he uses the superlative term “essence” (ikar) in describing the role of uplifting the fallen in a tzadik’s spiritual regimen. Similarly, Reb Levi Yitzhak writes:

It is known that all of the holy sparks yearn to worship the Creator, just as the angels and holy serafim wish to fulfill the desire of their Creator in fear and awe. However, we must understand why a tzadik may sometimes experience a corporeal desire for something like money, or any other desire of this world. How is it that a tzadik could crave something physical, since a tzadik’s only [true] longing is to worship the Creator? … It is because the tzadik is a servant of the Divine, going after the wicked to reprove them and bring them under the wings of the Shekhinah. Since [such leaders] uplift the wicked ones to serve their Master, a tzadik must wage a sacred battle against the external forces by removing the holy sparks from the husks into which the deeds of the wicked have cast them. The tzadik raises them up to holiness, and it is from this [engagement with the lowest rungs] that he experiences desirous thoughts for things of this world.[34]

Descent to the lower levels has an undeniable effect upon the tzadik, since it allows him to be accosted by the physical desires that would ordinarily have no purchase. However, rectifying the fractures of this world by uplifting fallen sparks and ingathering his wayward coreligionists is an essential component of his raison d’etre.

We have seen that Reb Levi Yitzhak enjoins the tzadik to descending to the lowest levels in order to uplift the wicked, despite the accompanying risks to himself, but we are still left wondering exactly what sort of a process the master has in mind. In his attempts to inspire piety, should the tzadik violently rebuke his fellows with fiery words meant to strike fear into the hearts of the listener and transform them into quaking penitents? Or, perhaps the author imagines another manner of reproach that might prove more effective than accosting them. In this matter the Reb Levi Yitzhak’s answer is unequivocal: the tzadik must use kind words in his effort shepherd the fallen back to a life of religious devotion. Furthermore, it will become clear that both components of this formula are crucial. It is necessary for the tzadik to be warm and compassionate, but it is equally so that words serve as his primary tools for engendering piety:

There are two types [of leaders] who rebuke Israel and exhort them to do the will of the Creator. One reproves [the wicked] with kind words, explaining to each person the greatness of their spiritual rung, and reminding him of the Source from which his soul was hewn, since the souls of the Jewish people are fashioned from the Throne of Glory on high.[35] [He tells him of] the great pleasure, as it were, that the God receives from the mitzvoth he performs, and the great joy in all of the worlds when a Jewish person does one of the Creator’s commandments. In this way he inspires the hearts of all Israel to do His will … the other [kind of leader] reproaches them with harsh words and shameful statements, until they are forced to obey the Creator. The difference between them is that the one who reproves with pleasant words uplifts the Jewish soul higher and higher. He recounts the righteousness and greatness of Israel, and how tremendous is their power above – such [a person as this] is fitting to be a leader, [but] one who rebukes with caustic words is not of this caliber.[36]

Reb Levi Yitzhak has once more outlined a dyadic hierarchy of religious leaders. The lower of these two models is an individual who rebukes the Jewish people by means of invectives and fierce castigation. True, he is able to force them into a state of contrite repentance, but he does totally without enlivening or uplifting them. In contrast, Reb Levi Yitzhak’s then describes a much higher sort of leader who can reproach Israel with supportive encouragement and accolades. Elsewhere he reinforces this by explaining that proper tzadik never uses anger in his reproof.[37] Indeed, since he is by definition already quite spiritually refined, the words of the tzadik are so potent that he must be particularly careful about never speaking unjustly.[38] The ideal spiritual guide has the capacity to utter gentle words with that enkindle the hearts of those who have gone astray, inspiring them to return under the most positive of terms.

As mentioned above, I believe that it is no accident that the tzadik must guide and inspire his community through the sublime medium of language. To be sure, ideal tzadikim also use words in their private devotions to bring themselves to the state of mystical nothingness.[39] However, in the following passage the unique nexus between language and leadership is made most explicit:

The rule is thus: a tzadik should reprove the sinners [and enjoin them] not to act against the Holy Blessed One or against the Torah … [However,] there is another kind of tzadik – when he rebukes the iniquitous, the letters of reproach exiting his mouth illuminate the eyes of the sinner, who is then able to return [to God] and repent. This person has merited the experience of the [tzadik’s] letters shining upon his face and inspiring him, enabling him repent with ease.[40]

It is the role of all tzadikim to reprove and rebuke their wayward comrades, specific method notwithstanding. However, tzadikim of the highest level have the capacity to inspire wicked individuals to change their ways through speech alone. That is, the both the content and the numinous quality of the tzadik’s words incline the heart of the listener towards repentance. In another passage he writes:

There are two types of tzadikim who admonish Israel to follow in the ways of God. One kind of tzadik uses his speech [alone] to influence [others], subduing the heart of the wicked and inspiring him to the way of God. He does not need to give lengthy justification to explain himself, nor must he be a gifted orator – he states the upright path and his [very] words make an impression, entering the heart of the listener.[41]

It is clear that Reb Levi Yitzhak has outlined a strong performative component to the tzadik’s speech acts. That is, the inspirational nature of his words derives not only from their literal message and the information conveyed therein, but perhaps even more importantly from the method of their delivery and the refined spiritual nature of the one who has spoken them. Elsewhere Reb Levi Yitzhak concedes that some tzadikim must provide inspiration through their deeds and physical action, but insists the most exalted spiritual leaders can accomplish this goal with nothing but words alone.[42] When operating within the plane of language, even sharing a mundane conversation with ordinary people is an opportunity for the tzadik to uplift them – his holy thoughts during their interactions raise fallen sparks.[43]

It should be noted that Reb Levi Yitzhak’s attribution of such power to the speech of the tzadik is based on a more fundamental theological perspective in which the animative force of language itself lies at the very core of existence. God created the world through speech, and although He Himself cannot be apprehended or understood through any letter or semantic symbol,[44] His divine words continue to animate all existence.[45] According to the worldview in which perceivable reality is actually an imprint created from the midst of the holiest of all texts, each and every Jewish person represents (or instantiates) a letter of the Torah.[46] Language is the primary method by which humankind (both tzadikim and ordinary people) are able to channel God’s effluence into this world.[47] However, as is evident in the following teaching attributed to Reb Levi Yitzhak, above all the task of the tzadik is intrinsically bound up with harnessing the tremendous potential of language:

There are two categories of tzadikim: one type of tzadik receives illumination from the letters of the Torah and prayer. The other, greater kind of tzadik is one who imbues the letters with brilliance drawn from above. Although the letters are in the supernal world, this greater type of tzadik brings new a luminosity into the world which cannot enter except through being enclothed in the letters – without this garment of the letters, the world would be unable to bear the [raw intensity of the] illumination. Verily, the letters soar upwards once the luminosity has descended, and the illumination remains below. This tzadik achieves such a high spiritual level because he speaks with all his might and with great devotion, entering into the words that he utters with all two hundred and forty-eight limbs and bringing new illumination into them.[48]

The lower type of tzadik is himself inspired by the holy incandescence that exists within the letters used in religious service. Put differently, he appears to be a rather passive recipient of the divine energy concealed within language. However, Reb Levi Yitzhak’s second model of a tzadik is far more dynamic: he is an active leader whose command of the linguistic aspects of prayer and Torah study gives him the power to reinfuse the world with a store of brilliance drawn from on high. When spoken by a tzadik with this type of mastery over them, words are transformed into vessels for focusing new channels of divine energy and effluence into this world.

Reb Levi Yitzhak’s conception of the ideal tzadik, clearly expressed in these passages and in the myriad others throughout Kedushat Levi examining this same theme, is that of a communal leader who does not demur from interacting with people of a lower spiritual grade. Not only is he permitted to engage with the wicked in an effort to draw them back to a life of pious observance, but Reb Levi Yitzhak demands that this be one of his foremost goals, and even describes it as a precondition for experiencing the Divine presence. He accomplishes this task not so much by setting a good example with his actions, though this is undoubtedly crucial as well. The tzadik’s capacity to inspire those around him is rather manifested primarily in his words, since the very letters he articulates have the power to draw down energy from the supernal worlds and illuminate those in need of religious guidance and spiritual reorientation. Though there are undeniable dangers of mutual influence associated with descending to their level, the tzadik’s spiritual abilities grant him the capacity to uplift his wayward coreligionists out of their erroneous ways without becoming mired in their corruption. With all of these points in mind, I hope that the following story, transcribed by one of Reb Levi Yitzhak’s disciples shortly after his master’s death, will serve as a poignant way of summing up our discussion:

Sometimes the tzadik needs to bring in the wicked more than fitting persons, for a iniquitous person allowed to do as he wishes will be consumed by his degeneracy, God forbid, and never repent. However, one who is already walking along the upright path might become conceited, and for this reason it is appropriate [for the tzadik] to send him away at times. Such was manner in which the holy rabbi [Reb Levi Yithak], his soul is at rest in the treasuries on high, rabbi of the holy congregation of Berdyczów, conducted himself: he drew near other people more than his own students.[49]

Zekher tzadik livrakhah,

may the memory of Reb Levi Yitzhak ben Sara Sasha of Berdyczów be a continued blessing.