The kind of killing that’s a great mitzvah, the “slaying of the superficial life”

Since parshas Chayei Sarah was read two weeks ago, I’ve been mulling over three words of Rashi there, and I trust readers will forgive me for being just slightly out of step with the times if I share the understanding of Rashi I’ve arrived at. After the Torah states that Sarah Imeinu lived for 127 years, it adds that these were shnei chayei Sarah, the years of Sarah’s life, and Rashi famously comments, “Kulan shavin letovah,” they were all equally for the good.

These words of Rashi are perplexing, coming as they do following two parshiyos that describe the many painful experiences Sarah underwent over the course of her life: childlessness until the very advanced age of 90 (a uniquely hopeless predicament of barrenness, too, given that, as Chazal teach [Yevamos 64b], she had no womb); abducted twice by kings; her beloved only son being menaced by his brother to the point that the latter had to be driven from their home.

These personal trials and tragedies were in addition to the wars and famines and arduous journeys to alien lands that she endured with her great husband. There were, no doubt, many long periods of great goodness in the life of the tzadeikes, too, when all was well, when there was plenty and tranquility and she derived unimaginable joy from being the helpmate of the first of the Avos Hakedoshim and mother of the second. Still, can it be said these were 127 equally good years?

The key, it would seem, is Rashi’s use of the term letovah, meaning all her years were identically for the good, rather than betovah, denoting they were alike in their goodness. Letovah reveals Sarah’s subjective mindset as she endured the vicissitudes of a most tumultuous life, and teaches us that she consistently focused not on the troubles that befell her but on the larger purpose they were serving, the goal toward which they were directed.

The “lamed” prefix of letovah connotes “to” or “for,” which are forward-directed words. They point us to a future as-yet unknown or a purpose as-yet unrealized. Where else have we come upon this word, letovah? In the phrase, of course, for which the Tanna Nachum Ish Gamzu is best known and that was his ongoing refrain: Gam zu letovah. And indeed, when he used it, he intended letovah to mean precisely what we have suggested it means in regard to Sarah Imeinu, that however bleak things might seem in the present, they are leading toward a greater, purely good purpose.

But not only did Nachum use the precise word Rashi employs; studying his phrasing, we find a further similarity. He didn’t say zu letovah, but “gam” zu letovah, this too is for the good, meaning that not only those situations that are obviously positive ones are for the good, but so too are the seemingly negative ones also for the good. That is to say, it’s all for the good — and another way to say that is kulan shavin letovah.

But one thing remains to be clarified: Perhaps the good times in our lives should be referred to with the word betovah, since we experience them as good as they are happening in the here-and-now, and the difficult ones should be described using the forward-looking letovah. Didn’t Sarah Imeinu have some years that were equally betovah in the present, and others equally letovah in the future?

Nachum Ish Gamzu, who said of everything that occurred to him — happy events and unhappy ones alike — that they were letovah, and Rashi, in characterizing all of Sarah’s years as letovah, seem to be conveying something fundamental about how to approach life.

Chazal teach (Kiddushin 39b) that sechar mitzvah b’hai alma leka, we are not rewarded for our mitzvos in This World (with certain exceptions, for which we receive limited recompense here, see Peiah 1:1). Yet, there’s so much good that people experience in their lives, so many blessings of health and wealth and success, so many simchahs, so much nachas. For the Jew who knows that Hashem directs all that happens in the world, what to make of these wonderful parts of life?

They are keilim, vehicles. They exist to be utilized toward something far greater, much deeper and longer-lasting, than the momentary feeling of pleasure and good fortune they produce. In other words, they too are letovah.

Good health and financial success allow us to serve Hashem without the distractions and impediments of illness and poverty, and to use our personal talents and money to bestow good on others. Having children is an opportunity to bring neshamos into the world and help them grow into servants of Hashem. And, of course, all of life’s manifold blessings can be vehicles for thanking and recognizing our utter dependence upon the omnipotent One, which as the Ramban (Shemos 13:16) famously writes is the point of our existence.

When “bad things happen to good people,” and people struggle to understand and accept, it’s important to know that the quandary might not have suddenly materialized when circumstances took a turn for the worse. It may have its roots, instead, in how they experienced those earlier good times. If they simply welcomed those pleasures and successes and indulged in them without a thought to using them as stepping stones to something spiritually higher, they remain too-little fortified for when life’s inevitable difficult times appear.

Someone who has lived his life throughout with a mindset of letovah will apply that perspective to everything life brings his way, “good” or “bad.” For him, life is not a wild ride with ups and downs, great pleasures and bountiful blessings punctuated by struggles and tragedies, or vice versa. Such a person lives life on an even keel, seeing it as an unending series of opportunities for achieving the spiritual goals for which we are here, which manifest in different forms, some of which people call “good” and others, “bad.” A delicious steak dinner is an opportunity for avodas Hashem, and so is a painful fracture.

When Chazal teach (Berachos 54a) that “One is obligated to bless Hashem for the bad just as he blesses Him for the good,” the “just as” is meant to convey that while the words of these respective blessings are different, we’re doing the exact same thing with each: Thanking Hashem for opportunities. When Rav Zundel Salanter lost a daughter, lo aleinu, his recitation of the brachah Dayan HaEmes with unalloyed thankfulness was so striking that it was recorded in the pinkas, the communal ledger of Jerusalem.

Obviously, that’s an extremely exalted level, which is difficult even for great people to reach. I still remember my father a”h telling me that when the revered mashgiach of Mesivta Tifereth Jerusalem, Rav Michel Barenbaum ztz”l, lost his wife in a sudden accident, he began his hesped by saying, “Chazal say kesheim shemevrachin al hatovah, kach mevarchin al hara’ah.” He stopped and raised his voice in a wail, “Ober ich ken nisht [but I can’t]…”

Ultimately, the goal is to engage in the kind of killing that’s a great mitzvah, the “slaying of the superficial life,” in the Chazon Ish’s phrase (Kovetz Igros 1:3), and thereby to truly live, deeply, eternally. We can do so not only by breaking our middos, which is the Chazon Ish’s topic, but also by declining to take the pleasures and blessings we experience at their shallow face value, and instead mining their infinite pent-up potential as vehicles for connecting with the only true Infinite.

Doing so helps us, too, to weather life’s storms, to ensure the years of our lives are all letovah.

Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 788. Eytan Kobre may be contacted directly at kobre@mishpacha.com