Joy as a Calling

When studying the Rebbe’s correspondences, one repeatedly finds the Rebbe reminding people of the Torah’s dictum, “Serve G‑d with joy.”1

Just knowing that to be happy is a divine imperative can have profound impact. Sometimes, it appears from the letters, it is specifically the higher calling of joy that can motivate a person to rise above their depressing thoughts and nevertheless choose happiness.

“First and foremost,” concludes a letter to a young man deeply bothered by his spiritual state,

you should live in a way of “serving G‑d with joy.” When you ask yourself, “How can I be happy knowing my [spiritual] state?” remember the teaching of the holy Tanya that states, “One should not temper the joy of the soul with the dejection of the body,”2 and everything has its proper time. And when you persist, with a strong will, in the service of joy—you will find success.3

It can be easy to get caught in thinking that being down or bitter carries some kind of virtue. We might tell ourselves that being pessimistic is a sign of superior character. The Torah teaches a different outlook.

“Please express my surprise to [name omitted],” reads one letter,

that it seems he has not yet abandoned his method of serving G‑d specifically with melancholy. Why this method is out of the question needs no explanation, as the verse clearly teaches, “You shall serve G‑d with joy.” This should be especially clear to one who belongs to the Chasidic community, as the Baal Shem Tov [founder of the Chasidic movement, 1698–1760] taught us about serving G‑d specifically with joy.4

Avraham Shlonsky was a writer, poet, and linguist, considered one of the fathers of modern Hebrew. Having grown up in interwar Europe, his first writings reflect the optimism of the early twentieth century, and his early poems are filled with evocative descriptions of new beginnings and revolutionary ideas. However, as he aged, his poetry assumed a darker tone.

During a yearlong stay in Paris, Shlonsky came to recognize the silent isolation spreading beneath the cacophony of modernity, and he was exposed to the horrors of the Holocaust on a later visit to postwar Europe. These experiences resulted in painful expressions of alienation, grief, and terror in his poetry. For example, one verse about Paris:

You will cry out—
And the screaming metropolis
Will silence your howl
With its encaging tumult.
Only a stranger’s ear will notice
The cry from the prison.

One more:

Then at night I will make pilgrimage to you
O’ tower of Eiffel/darkness
To pray by radio
To the master of the universe.

Much of his later work expresses questioning and doubt, and his final collections are imbued with a dismal, tragic note.

In honor of his seventieth birthday, all his writings and translations were collected in a celebratory ten-volume set. As it happens, the last volume included his translations of Shakespeare’s plays, the last of which ended with a character saying these words:

The weight of this sad time we must obey,
Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say.
The oldest hath borne most; we that are young
Shall never see so much nor live so long.

The play then instructs the actors and musicians to reflect the gloomy mood and “exit with a dead march.” Shlonsky’s translation of this instruction into Hebrew—yotzim l’kol neginas eivel—became the concluding line of his entire collected works.

Enjoying a long-standing relationship with the Rebbe—he had Chasidic roots and was profoundly influenced in his childhood by the Rebbe’s father, who was his first cousin—he sent his books to the Rebbe as a gift. “With great delight,” Shlonsky finished his letter to the Rebbe, “I am sending to you these ten volumes—the fruits of my spiritual labor in the field of song (original and translation).”

After congratulated him on this milestone and commenting on other parts of his works, the Rebbe concluded his response with the following:

After requesting your apologies, it is regrettable that the [collection] concludes with [the words] yotzim l’kol neginas eivel [“they exit with a dead march”]. Although it is only a translation of another’s works, nevertheless, it is unfortunate. For it is the role of every individual, and particularly a Jew, and especially one who has been fortunate enough to grow up in a Chasidic environment and to have a profound appreciation for it, to fulfill the directive of “you shall serve G‑d with joy” in all the particulars of his life.5

While we cannot know for certain, it would appear that this comment is more than a simple editorial remark. It seems the Rebbe was trying to impress upon Shlonsky that his life’s work should end on a different note, that he shouldn’t “exit with a dead march,” that he should find within himself poetic inspiration in the spirit of joy. He should be able to see joy as a value, a Jewish and Chasidic one no less, that contains depth and beauty to write about and sing about. And, contrary to literary convention, he should see it as a powerful way to end a career.

A response to another poet, Zelda Mishkovsky (see chapter 4 for more about her), contains similar themes of encouragement. Mishkovsky was a humble person who, despite experiencing significant tragedy in her life, never resigned herself to despair. Alongside many poems expressing torment, her writing is filled with an unceasing love for life, other people, and G‑d. For example, while the Second World War was wreaking havoc on everyone’s lives and moods, she wrote:

I see joy—particularly today, in this terrifying darkness—as the most precious thing, as the most moral thing. I very much desire to kindle in the hearts of my students, frightened by the fear of war, a joy that will guard them from despair…. If only I had enough love and patience and warmth! If only I could teach them the joy in the sight of a living person… who is molded with such strength and tenderness… then the joy of life would elevate them to the starry heavens, even in the depths of a dark cellar.6

However, considering Mishkovsky’s life experiences, this wasn’t always easy. Her struggle to maintain her spirit often spilled over in her writing. For example, in a poem published in the years following her husband’s death in 1970, she wrote:

And I awoke and the house was lit
–But no one was with me in the house
And such sadness
And pain.
Isn’t the sun’s joy
A daily occurrence?
Aren’t there mountains?
Isn’t there fire?
Oh!
The beauty is like a knife
To the heart.

Responding to a letter of hers in 1977, the Rebbe began by noting the special timing of his writing. It was the Eve of the Shabbat of Song, commemorating the song the Jewish people sang at the Red Sea when G‑d saved them from the Egyptians. Additionally, it was just after the 15th of Shevat, the Jewish New Year for Trees, and this date carries extra significance as “man is like a tree of the field.”7 Moreover, being just after the fifteenth of the lunar month, the moon had reached its full glory and completion. The Rebbe then went on to wish Mishkovsky that she find the strength to continue her literary celebration of life:

With blessings to publish (in the near future) additional books of poems/songs [the Hebrew word for both poems and songs is shirim], and may they be songs in spirit too [reflecting an uplifted, not dejected mood], and with blessings for joy of life, which stems from the Source of life and goodness—G‑d almighty.8

A poem in her next book reads as follows:

In the kingdom of sunset
Even thorns glow bright.

Suddenly crowns dissolve
And thorns become thorns again
And mountains return to their nakedness
The attribute of judgment exposes itself
And the skeleton of existence emerges.

But we do not die from fear
For the kindness of night is coming
And the soul soars to a new appreciation
Of the Creator.

A model of the human capacity to take up the call of joy, no matter the circumstances, was the great medieval Jewish sage Rabbi Moshe ben Maimon (commonly known as the Rambam, or Maimonides, 1135–1204).

At the young age of thirteen, Maimonides was forced to flee his home in Spain and wander destitute from city to city for refusing to convert to Islam. After finally settling in Egypt, in a two-year period, his father, wife, and two of his sons died in a plague. Just a few years later, his younger brother David, with whom he was especially close and who was his financial benefactor, drowned in the Indian ocean on a business trip. Of this tragedy, Maimonides wrote, “On the day I received that terrible news I fell ill…. How should I console myself? He grew up on my knees, he was my brother, he was my student.”9

And yet, despite it all, the works of Maimonides portray a persistently optimistic approach towards life and the world.

A letter to a man who had evidently experienced hardship combines this lesson from Maimonides’ personal life with a teaching from the Talmudic sage, Rabbi Elazer HaKapor (2nd–3rd century CE), that, “Against your will you are born, against your will you live, and against your will you die.”10

The letter begins by explaining how the statement “against your will you live” implies the inevitability of suffering:

In general, among the list of things that are against our will, our Sages have also included the statement “against your will you live”—indicating that life is not a series of delights, nor peaceful experiences, nor even minor difficulties.

However, we see clearly that to a large extent, the effect of our life experiences depends on how we react to them. Who is a better example of this than Maimonides, whose life externally was filled with misfortune, turbulence, suffering, and tragedy—may the Merciful One spare us—to a greater degree than the average person’s. Nevertheless, internally he maintained a very positive—in today’s vernacular, optimistic—view of life, as articulated in his work, The Guide for the Perplexed.11 On the other hand, we see many people who, although apparently successful in their external life, nevertheless rarely feel any inner contentment….

It is hard to say this to someone else knowing what they have gone through. My intent is only to guide you to some ideas in our Torah that can alleviate the weight of your load and calm your spirit, at least in a small measure, until…G‑d will shine His countenance upon you in all that you need.12

Let’s conclude with a letter to a young woman encouraging her to take charge of her mind and proactively pursue joy:

Even a brief reflection will reveal that this change [from gloom to contentment] is less dependent on the world outside of a person than it is on the person themselves. Everyone can find examples of individuals around them who exemplify this for the good and for the better.

This means that even those who until now have seen things through a dim lens have the ability—and therefore the responsibility and privilege—to put their mind in control, as the known dictum states, “The mind rules the heart,” and as the Alter Rebbe [Rabbi Shneur Zalman of Liadi, 1745-1812] adds that “this is part of our nature, embedded from birth”13….

This will change your own small world into one filled with joy and light, and, by extension, your surroundings and wherever you reach will be similarly transformed. And, in the words of the known dictum, the full ability is there—it is only dependent on the will.14

Happiness (or a lack thereof) is not an inevitable consequence of your life’s circumstances; it is a decision.

This world will always be composed of good and bad—positive developments and stressful setbacks. Life will never give you only reasons for happiness, so it is your focus that matters most.

Take a step back and look at the broader picture of your life—all those tremendous treasures and blessings hiding in plain sight. They are far more important and enduring than what’s temporarily lacking. They deserve so much more of your attention.

Reflect on the higher calling to “serve G‑d with joy.” Don’t wallow. Pull your mind and heart towards this achievable goal. When you resolve to take up this call, no matter your circumstances, you’ll soon find that happiness is nearer than you thought.

However, even as we find contentment in our present life, it can be undermined by anxiety over the future.