To live means more than to be alive. It means to appreciate what true life is about

R

av Moshe Wolfson writes that, on Chanukah, every Jew is endowed with a dimension of kehunah. For eight days we’re all Kohanim.

Welcome to the tribe.

The role you’ll assume during this special time is one that I am so proud to have held since the moment of my birth.

Being a Kohein means everything to me: It’s an identity, a mission, an inheritance, and a destiny, all blended into one.

And now that you’ll be joining the ranks, allow me to offer some words of direction — consider this an orientation class of sorts.

First, a story.

I heard this from Mr. Dovid Kleiner, a respected member of the Toronto community. Through various means, he had come to know an elderly Russian Jewish couple. Militant secularists, they were so far removed from Yiddishkeit that they ate on Yom Kippur.

One Motzaei Shabbos, Mr. Kleiner received a call. Grigor — that’s the husband — had passed away. The family wished to cremate his body.

Mr. Kleiner rushed over and began to implore the widow to allow for a Jewish burial. She flat-out refused.

All arguments failed until Mr. Kleiner said, “It will be free! We’ll cover the cost!”

He turned to the widow’s brother, Ludwig, who had flown in from Manhattan to be with his sister. “The burial will be quick,” he said. “We’ll do it in the morning. By noon you can head back to Manhattan.”

Ludwig turned to his sister. “If it’s free and I can leave by noon, then let’s do it the traditional way,” he said. His sister consented.

Mr. Kleiner sprang into action, raising the necessary funds and purchasing a plot. A proper taharah was performed by the chevra kaddisha of Toronto’s Agudas Yisroel.

A minyan arrived at the beis hakevaros. Rabbi Moshe Mordechai Lowy delivered a hesped in which he focused on the importance of kevuras Yisrael. Kaddish was recited.

The funeral ended, and Mr. Kleiner couldn’t help but wonder how this man, entirely disconnected from Judaism, merited such an elevated burial.

As they were leaving the cemetery, the widow commented to Mr. Kleiner, “Duvid’l — Grigor never went to a beis hakevaros.”

“Really?” Mr. Kleiner asked, intrigued. “Why not?”

“Because he was a kein,” she replied.

“A what?”

“A kein! A kein!”

Mr. Kleiner couldn’t make out what she was saying. Until it hit him. “A Kohein.” Spoken in Russian dialect, it sounded “kein.”

And that’s when he understood. Grigor kept none of the 613 mitzvos. Besides one. As a Kohein, he refused to enter a beis hakevaros.

As a reward, he was buried in one.

I share this story because in it lies the secret of the Kohein’s grandeur.

In parshas Emor, Rav Moshe Wolfson writes that the reason a Kohein Gadol is prohibited from coming into contact with a corpse — even a relative — is that death is off-limits to him.

A Kohein Gadol is too alive for death.

And perhaps while Kohanim aren’t at the same level as a Kohein Gadol, they are just one step down. They serve in the Beis Hamikdash — called the “Beis Chayeinu” — the “House of our Life.”

Kohanim have a special relationship with Life. They cannot come into contact with death.

As distant as Grigor was from Yiddishkeit, he knew this secret. Kohanim stand for Life.

Don’t go to a beis hakevaros, he knew. A Kohein doesn’t belong there.

One of the greatest Kohanim of recent history was Rav Yisrael Meir Kagan, known for posterity as the Chofetz Chaim, literally translated as “Desirer of Life.”

Famously, he shared what being a Kohein meant to him.

Rav Shimon Schwab always remembered the time he spent Shabbos in Radin with the saintly Chofetz Chaim. At one point, the Chofetz Chaim turned to him and asked, “Are you a Kohein?”

“No,” Rav Schwab replied.

“Are you a Levi?” the Chofetz Chaim asked.

“No,” Rav Schwab replied.

“What a pity!” the Chofetz Chaim exclaimed. “Mashiach will come, the Beis Hamikdash will be rebuilt. And you won’t be able to enter much of it!”

The Chofetz Chaim continued — “Perhaps you heard that I’m a Kohein? Tell me, why aren’t you a Kohein?”

Rav Schwab was puzzled. “Because my father wasn’t a Kohein.”

“And why wasn’t he a Kohein?”

At this point, Rav Schwab didn’t respond, understanding that the Chofetz Chaim had a message he wished to relay.

“I’ll tell you why,” he said. “Three thousand years ago, at the Cheit Ha’eigel, your ancestors didn’t run forth when Moshe Rabbeinu cried out ‘Mi l’aHashem elai!’ My father and all the other Leviim ran to Moshe. Your father did not. So we are the Kohanim and the Leviim, and you are not.”

Rav Schwab understood the Chofetz Chaim’s message. When you hear the cry of Mi la’Hashem elai, make sure to be among those who rush forward.

Responding to the cry of Mi la’Hashem elai — and waging war on behalf of Hashem’s honor — is how the Chofetz Chaim understood the root of kehunah.

But aren’t these ideas contradictory? If Kohanim are so attached to life, why was it they — of all people — who willingly killed thousands of fellow Jews in retribution for serving the Eigel? Is that not the greatest association with death?

The answer is that to live means more than to be alive. It means to appreciate what true life is about.

A life dedicated to a Golden Calf is a life not worth living.

The Kohein knows that. The Kohein doesn’t just live. He understands what life is all about.

And what, in fact, is life all about?

The story is told about Rav Boruch Ber Leibowitz that someone in his presence described Torah as “luft” — oxygen. Rav Boruch Ber disagreed. “Nein — Torah iz leben alein — No, Torah is life itself!”

Torah doesn’t give life. It is life.

The Kohein knows this. The pasuk in Malachi (2:7) says, “Ki sifsei Kohein yishmeru daas, v’Torah yevakshu mipihu — For the lips of the Kohein guard knowledge, and Torah is sought from his mouth.”

Kohanim are the guardians of knowledge, the teachers of Torah.

Immediately following birchos haTorah each morning, we recite several pesukim. Halachically, these can be any pesukim, but we choose specific ones: Bircas Kohanim. The three pesukim found in parshas Naso that contain the sacred blessing that Kohanim bestow upon their brethren — daily in Eretz Yisrael, on Yamim Tovim in chutz l’Aretz.

As we issue our daily birchos haTorah, commencing anew our connection to Torah, we invoke the blessings of the Kohanim.

For they are the ones who lend us access to Torah — v’Torah yevakshu mipihu.

The very first mishnah in Shas begins by discussing when one may say Krias Shema at night: “At the time when Kohanim (who were just purified) can eat terumah.” This is a reference to tzeis hakochavim, when three stars emerge. Kohanim who immersed in a mikveh that day may eat terumah upon nightfall — at tzeis hakochavim.

The mishnah is baffling. It begins by asking when one may recite Krias Shema at night. Why not simply answer “Tzeis hakochavim”? Why speak in riddles, referring to tzeis hakochavim as “the time when Kohanim eat terumah”?

Perhaps because, as the first mishnah, this teaching is the very introduction to Shas, the entrée to Torah shebe’al peh.

The Kohanim are the great teachers of Torah; at this inaugural moment, they deserve honorable mention. The mishnah goes out of its way to share a halachah relevant to Kohanim.

ON Chanukah, we all become Kohanim. We grow closer to life, closer to Torah.

The seforim teach us that as we stand before the lit menorah, we are privy to an awesome power of tefillah. What should we daven for?

This question — in a different setting — was asked many years ago by a young child by the name of Asher Arieli.

It was on Shavuos of 1967, just a few weeks after the miraculous victory of the Six Day War. The Kosel, for the first time in centuries, was open to the public.

Throngs of Yidden walked through the streets of Yerushalayim, all in the same direction: to that wall from which the Shechinah never leaves.

Young Asher turned to his father and asked him our question. “What should I daven for?”

There are a million potential answers, but Rav Arieli gave one: “Zug Ahavah Rabbah,” he told his son. “Say Ahavah Rabbah.”

The brachah prior to Krias Shema shel Shacharis that pours forth with effusive praise of Torah and impassioned supplication to comprehend its Word.

This tefillah (with the final brachah omitted) was what young Asher issued at that first visit to the Kosel.

As one of the greatest disseminators of Torah in our generation, we all reap its benefits.

As you stand before the menorah, you hold the status of a Kohein.

You understand what life is all about. You respond to the call of Mi la’Hashem elai. You reject the Golden Calves of life. You strive only for Torah.

So daven hard, have in mind your parents, your spouse, your children, your parnassah.

But don’t forget what really counts.

Zug Ahavah Rabbah.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1091)