Awe That Comes from Love

“Dark clouds are coming over the city of Nevel”

Rabbi Yehoshua Tanchum Kastel was born in 1913 and grew up in a town near Minsk, where his father served as a rabbi. His mother was a native of Minsk from a distinctly Lithuanian family. As a child, he learned in a cheder, but he did not enjoy the learning there. He would run away from cheder because he felt it was not the right place for him. His father had to search for him and bring him back, until finally he promised that when he reached bar mitzvah age, he would find him a different place to learn Torah.

It was a very difficult time, during the Communist revolution in Russia. Judaism was persecuted, institutions were shut down, and all Jewish activity was forced underground. His father did not know where he could find a suitable place to send his son to learn Torah.

One day, his father read in a Communist newspaper a particularly harsh article. The headline read, “Dark clouds are coming over the city of Nevel.” In the article, they angrily described that in the city of Nevel there existed a religious Jewish community. They wrote that people were going to the mikvah, that there were Jews with long beards, and that there was even a cheder where children were taught Torah. From the government’s perspective, this was a very serious offense, and the newspaper called for the place to be shut down immediately.

But this article, which was meant to frighten, revealed to the father where a place of Torah could be found. He understood that in Nevel there were Jews who were risking their lives to teach Torah to children.

He took his son and traveled there to see for himself. What he found were Chabad chassidim, operating underground with self-sacrifice, teaching Torah despite the great danger. Any teacher who was caught could immediately be sent to prison, and yet they did not stop. In this way, the darkness and persecution, Rabbi Kastel found his way to Chabad.

Years later, his grandson, Rabbi Kasriel Kastel of New York, met the famous chassid Rabbi Mendel Futerfas. He approached him and asked if he could tell him about those days in Nevel, and whether he had known his grandfather.

At first, Reb Mendel did not want to speak to him at all. Years of fear under the Communist regime had left their mark, and he did not know who was standing before him. Perhaps this was someone sent by the authorities, perhaps an agent. He preferred to remain silent.

But after a year or two, when he came to know him more deeply, his heart opened and he agreed to speak. He said that he had not been there for a long time, but one thing he remembered clearly. Once, a Jew arrived there with a young boy, and the father wanted to enroll him in the yeshiva.

The father asked the teachers: what do you learn here? They answered: we learn Chassidus. The father, Rabbi Yoshe Ber, who had already merited to be by the Rebbe Rashab, was happy to hear this, and he left his son there. And that was the moment that changed everything.

What struck me most is the idea of Divine Providence. Imagine the chassidim in Nevel reading in a Communist newspaper a harsh article against them, accusing them of “forbidden” activity — Torah learning, mikvah, and Jewish education. Certainly they were trembling with fear. Who knows what will happen now? Perhaps they will come to arrest them, perhaps they will shut the place down.

At that very same moment, in Minsk, sits a Jew whose son wants to learn Torah but cannot find his place. Everything is underground, everything is hidden, and there is no way to know where to turn.

And then that article appears. What looks like danger, like something negative, is revealed to be the exact opposite. That very article reveals the address. It leads him to the place where Torah is learned, to those chassidim who are giving their lives.

Sometimes a person sees a reality that appears difficult, frightening, or negative, but behind the scenes, G-d is preparing the greatest good through it.

Between the Ten “Utterances” and the Ten “Commandments”

What, in essence, was different about the Chabad education compared to the place where that child learned before? It seems we can learn this from this week’s parsha — Parshat Emor. The parsha opens with the verse: “Say (emor) to the Kohanim, the sons of Aharon,” and its name is “Emor.”

When it comes to speech, the Torah uses two expressions: “Amirah” (saying) and “Dibur” (speaking). Chazal already point out the difference between these two. At the giving of the Torah it says to Moshe: “So shall you say to the house of Yaakov and tell the children of Israel.” Rashi explains: “the house of Yaakov” — these are the women; “the children of Israel” — these are the men.

Why two different expressions? “Amirah” is a soft expression, a language of closeness and gentle explanation. In contrast, “Dibur” is a harsher expression — a clear presentation of laws, boundaries, and obligations.

Here lies the major difference. There is a way to teach Torah through “Dibur” alone — rules, demands, a rigid structure. But there is another way — the way of “Amirah”: to illuminate, to draw close, to explain, to reveal the sweetness of Torah. And that is what that child found.

Based on this understanding of “Emor” as a soft expression that can be accepted in the world, we can explain a fascinating point: regarding the world, the expression is “Ten Utterances,” while regarding the Torah, the expression is “Ten Commandments.”

The Rebbe explains a remarkable idea: there are two well-known expressions in Judaism — “Ten Commandments” and “Ten Utterances.” Both relate to G-d’s “speech,” but the language is completely different. The Ten Commandments are “speech”; firm, clear, and demanding. In contrast, the world was created through Ten Utterances; softer, more gentle language.

Why? It depends on who is being addressed. When G-d gives the Torah to the Jewish people — a nation already standing ready, committed — there is room for strong, binding language: “Commandments.” But when addressing the world, those who are not yet inside, not yet connected — you cannot begin with demands. There you need “Utterances” — soft, drawing close.

“It Depends on Love”

We are standing just days before Lag BaOmer — the day of passing of Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai. Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai reveals to us a new path in serving G-d. The prophets often spoke in the language of awe — fear of G-d, responsibility, judgment. And indeed, as we approach Shavuot, we encounter awe: thunder, lightning, a sense of overwhelming reverence.

Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai introduces a completely different foundation. In the Zohar he emphasizes that the deepest and truest connection with G-d is through love.

As the Rebbe continues in that talk: “Rashbi says that until now the focus was on awe, as it is written ‘G-d, I heard Your voice and I was afraid,’ as the prophet Chavakuk said… nevertheless Rashbi says… ‘anan — it depends on love.’”

And he brings three verses: “as it is written ‘You shall love the Lord your G-d,’ and it is written ‘because of G-d’s love for you,’ and it is written ‘I have loved you,’” which simply correspond to three loves: love of G-d, love of Israel, and love of Torah — all of which are one.

This is the message of the name “Emor” — soft language that emphasizes love, as Rashbi says, “anan bechavivuta talya milta.” And every Jew has the ability to serve G-d in this way, and specifically through this approach it can be received in the world.

In another talk, the Rebbe asks a fundamental question: on one hand, the Torah was given with awe, fear, trembling, and shaking. From here we learn that every time a Jew studies Torah, it should be with that same sense of awe. On the other hand, Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai teaches that everything depends on love.

The explanation is that there are two ways to reach awe: one can arrive at awe through contemplation that leads to fear, and one can arrive at awe through love. That is what the Zohar means by “anan — it depends on love” — that the awe of the giving of the Torah should be an awe that comes from love.

When a person approaches Torah from fear, it can cause distance — like at Sinai, where “the people saw and trembled and stood from afar.” But the better and more pleasant approach is awe that comes from love.

When a person truly loves someone, there is also fear — not external fear, but internal: fear of losing the relationship, fear of disappointing, fear of harming the bond. This is a completely different kind of fear — one that comes from deep love.

So too in serving G-d. When a person loves G-d, loves the Torah, feels a real and living connection, then awe is awakened — not fear of threat, but fear of relationship. He does not want to damage that connection, does not want to lose that closeness. This is a healthy, internal awe.

This is exactly the path of Chassidus: not to eliminate awe, but to elevate it to a higher place — awe that is born of love. And when awe comes from love, it does not weigh a person down. On the contrary, it strengthens the connection, deepens it, and causes a person to want to come even closer.

On Tuesday, Lag BaOmer, we will gather together to celebrate the path of Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai — the path of love, of closeness, of inner connection, as he expresses it: “anan bechavivuta talya milta.”