In a Canadian observatory in the year 1971, an astronomer watched a faraway star orbiting a massive object some sixteen hundred light-years away. The object itself remained invisible, but he could see that it mysteriously caused the star to wobble. After months spent ruling out various possibilities, it became clear that he was witnessing the elusive phenomenon known as a black hole. Scientists had been speculating about this theoretical possibility for decades—an object with a mass so dense that nothing, not even its own light, could escape its gravitational pull.
A few years after this discovery, Professor Herman Branover, a respected physicist in the field of solar energy, was scheduled to address a conference of scientists. Before he left for the conference, the Rebbe asked that his presentation include a life lesson that could be learned from the sun and black holes, and suggested the following:
The black hole turns everything inward, drawing all of its energy toward itself. The sun, on the other hand, radiates its energy outward, illuminating other beings in the solar system. If the sun heated only its own mass, who would pay any attention to it? It is upon us to emulate the sun’s example and turn our energy outward. We must make an effort to radiate our light and warmth to others.1
Kabbalah teaches2 that the entire cosmic order is constructed according to a system of “sun and moon”—an interplay of giver and receiver. The sun, being the source of light and energy, represents giving. The moon, being the recipient and reflector of the sun’s rays, represents receiving.
This system of give and take begins in the spiritual worlds. Like terraces in a cascading waterfall, each sefirah—divine attribute—acts as both the recipient from the sefirah that precedes it and the source of the succeeding sefirah.
The same dynamic can be found in the composition of the human psyche. For example, emotions receive guidance from the intellect and serve as the stimuli for speech and action. And it is ultimately reflected in the structure of the physical world. For example, plants receive energy from the earth, water, and environment, and contribute food and oxygen.
This same model applies to human relationships.3 In our inherent design, we are both moons and suns, both receivers and givers. Receivers of the wisdom, teaching, and advice provided to us by our elders and friends, and givers who contribute our energy to brighten the lives of others. If we forget our responsibility to be a sun to others, and instead live like a moon, only taking from others—or, like a black hole, disengaging and focusing entirely inward—we are bound to experience emotional discomfort.
“A brief reflection,” reads a letter to a college student who wrote of his low spirits,
will clearly reveal that the universe we live in is ordered in a system of give and take, and the personal universe of the individual (the microcosm) must likewise conform to this system of reciprocal relationship. Consequently, when one disrupts or distorts this system [by thinking only of their own needs], it must necessarily bring about a distortion in one’s immediate surroundings, and especially in one’s inner life.4
You Get What You Give
The value of turning one’s mind and heart toward others was a central theme in the Rebbe’s counseling.5 In addition to fulfilling the Torah’s foundational dictum—“Love your fellow as yourself”6—he believed it could have a transformative effect on one’s personal wellbeing.
Marc Wilson, a syndicated columnist and community activist in North Carolina, was facing a grim period after the collapse of his second marriage and the disintegration of his career as a congregational rabbi. “These events just plunged me into a black hole of depression and despondency,” he recalled. A friend advised him to go see the Rebbe. With little to lose, he traveled to New York.
It was the early 1990s, and the pressures on the Rebbe’s time were greater than ever. Thus, their meeting was brief. “Sometimes,” the Rebbe counseled Wilson, “a devoted layperson can do incalculably more good than a rabbi. You should teach something, perhaps Talmud, even if it’s only to one or two people in your living room.”
A year passed with no action. “It was, all told, a dismal, dark year, full of sickness and grief and self-recrimination,” Wilson later wrote. Most of his day was spent in bed watching television or penning articles about his bleak life. “There are plenty of depressed people who like reading stories about depressed people,” he thought.
Finally, at the urging of a friend, Wilson began to act on the Rebbe’s advice. He started leading a class in Talmud, and, as he later put it, it was then that his restoration to soundness and self-respect began. “The Rebbe obviously understood that to heal from depression, I needed to start giving to others,” Wilson concluded.7
Similarly, a handwritten response to a woman who evidently went through a lot in her life reads as follows:
Many people whose life experiences are similar to yours (with regard to suffering, etc.) have found relief through regularly and consistently devoting their energy, time, and emotional attention to assisting others who find themselves in distress or in a state of confusion. This has helped them perceive and value their life in an entirely new way (their joy of living increased, their self-confidence increased, they found new meaning in life, etc.).8
Exercise:
Identify a person or cause you can commit to supporting. What action can you take by this time next week?
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