Because God loves stories
"When the great Rabbi Israel Baal Shem–Tov saw misfortune threatening the Jews it was his custom to go into a certain part of the forest to meditate. There he would light a fire, say a special prayer, and the miracle would be accomplished, and the misfortune averted.”
“Later, when his disciple, the celebrated Magid of Mezritch, had occasion, for the same reason, to intercede with heaven, he would go to the same place in the forest and say: ‘Master of the Universe, listen! I do not know how to light the fire, but I am still able to say the prayer.’ And again the miracle would be accomplished.”
“Still later, Rabbi Moshe–Leib of Sasov, in order to save his people once more, would go into the forest and say: ‘I do not know how to light the fire, I do not know the prayer, but I know the place, and this must be sufficient.’ It was sufficient, and the miracle was accomplished.”
“Then it fell to Rabbi Israel of Rizhyn to overcome misfortune. Sitting in his armchair, his head in his hands, he spoke to God: "I am unable to light the fire, and I do not know the prayer; I cannot even find the place in the forest. All I can do is to tell the story, and this must be sufficient.’ And it was sufficient.”
“God made man because [God] loves stories.”
"When the great Rabbi Israel Baal Shem–Tov saw misfortune threatening the Jews it was his custom to go into a certain part of the forest to meditate. There he would light a fire, say a special prayer, and the miracle would be accomplished, and the misfortune averted.”
“Later, when his disciple, the celebrated Magid of Mezritch, had occasion, for the same reason, to intercede with heaven, he would go to the same place in the forest and say: ‘Master of the Universe, listen! I do not know how to light the fire, but I am still able to say the prayer.’ And again the miracle would be accomplished.”
“Still later, Rabbi Moshe–Leib of Sasov, in order to save his people once more, would go into the forest and say: ‘I do not know how to light the fire, I do not know the prayer, but I know the place, and this must be sufficient.’ It was sufficient, and the miracle was accomplished.”
“Then it fell to Rabbi Israel of Rizhyn to overcome misfortune. Sitting in his armchair, his head in his hands, he spoke to God: "I am unable to light the fire, and I do not know the prayer; I cannot even find the place in the forest. All I can do is to tell the story, and this must be sufficient.’ And it was sufficient.”
“God made man because [God] loves stories.”
The Target
Rabbi Yaakov Kranz (1741–1804), the Maggid (Preacher) of Dubno, was known for his ability to make almost any point by way of a parable.
In fact, he famously explained his ability to do so by utilizing (what else?) a parable:
A man was once walking in the woods when he noticed that many trees had targets drawn on them, each with an arrow planted firmly in its center. Impressed by the marksmanship of whoever had shot these arrows, he was delighted to meet a fellow with a quiver of arrows over his shoulder. “Tell me,” he inquired, “how did you manage to shoot so many perfect bull’s-eyes? What’s your secret?”
“It’s very simple,” the marksman replied with a shrug. “First I shoot the arrow, then I draw the target.”
In the same way, the Maggid explained, “First I decide what point I want to make, then I craft the story around it.”
Rabbi Yaakov Kranz (1741–1804), the Maggid (Preacher) of Dubno, was known for his ability to make almost any point by way of a parable.
In fact, he famously explained his ability to do so by utilizing (what else?) a parable:
A man was once walking in the woods when he noticed that many trees had targets drawn on them, each with an arrow planted firmly in its center. Impressed by the marksmanship of whoever had shot these arrows, he was delighted to meet a fellow with a quiver of arrows over his shoulder. “Tell me,” he inquired, “how did you manage to shoot so many perfect bull’s-eyes? What’s your secret?”
“It’s very simple,” the marksman replied with a shrug. “First I shoot the arrow, then I draw the target.”
In the same way, the Maggid explained, “First I decide what point I want to make, then I craft the story around it.”
When you have no answer....
One day, a young Hasid came to see Rebbe Pinhas of Koretz, known for his wisdom and compassion.
“Help me, Master,” he said. “I need your advice, I need your support. My distress is unbearable; make it disappear. The world around me, the world inside me, are filled with turmoil and sadness. Men are not human, life is not sacred. Words are empty—empty of truth, empty of faith. So strong are my doubts that I no longer know who I am—nor do I care to know. What am I to do, Rebbe? Tell me, what am I to do?”
“Go and study,” said Rebbe Pinhas of Koretz. “It’s the only remedy I know. Torah contains all the answers. Torah is the answer.”
“Woe unto me,” said the disciple. “I am unable even to study. So shaky are my foundations, so all-pervasive my uncertainties, that my mind finds no anchor, no safety. It wanders and wanders, and leaves me behind. I open the Talmud and contemplate it endlessly, aimlessly. For weeks and weeks I remain riveted to the same page, to the same problem. I cannot go farther, not even by a step, not even by a line. What must I do, Rebbe, what can I do to go on?”
When a Jew can provide no answer, he at least has a tale to tell. And so Rebbe Pinhas of Koretz invited the young man to come closer, and then said with a smile, “You must know, my friend, that what is happening to you also happened to me. When I was your age I stumbled over the same obstacles. I, too, was filled with questions and doubts. About man and his fate, creation and its meaning. I was struggling with so many dark forces that I could not advance; I was wallowing in doubt, locked in despair. I tried study, prayer, meditation. In vain. Penitence, silence, solitude. My doubts remained doubts. Worse: they became threats. Impossible to proceed, to project myself into the future. I simply could not go on. Then one day I learned that the Rebbe Israel Baal Shem Tov would be coming to our town. Curiosity led me to the shtibl, where he was receiving his followers. I entered just as he was finishing the Amida prayer. He turned around and saw me, and I was convinced that he was seeing me, me and no one else. The intensity of his gaze overwhelmed me, and I felt less along. And, strangely, I was able to go home, open the Talmud, and plunge into my studies once more. You see,” said Rebbe Pinhas of Koretz, “the questions remained questions. But I was able to go on. . . .”
One day, a young Hasid came to see Rebbe Pinhas of Koretz, known for his wisdom and compassion.
“Help me, Master,” he said. “I need your advice, I need your support. My distress is unbearable; make it disappear. The world around me, the world inside me, are filled with turmoil and sadness. Men are not human, life is not sacred. Words are empty—empty of truth, empty of faith. So strong are my doubts that I no longer know who I am—nor do I care to know. What am I to do, Rebbe? Tell me, what am I to do?”
“Go and study,” said Rebbe Pinhas of Koretz. “It’s the only remedy I know. Torah contains all the answers. Torah is the answer.”
“Woe unto me,” said the disciple. “I am unable even to study. So shaky are my foundations, so all-pervasive my uncertainties, that my mind finds no anchor, no safety. It wanders and wanders, and leaves me behind. I open the Talmud and contemplate it endlessly, aimlessly. For weeks and weeks I remain riveted to the same page, to the same problem. I cannot go farther, not even by a step, not even by a line. What must I do, Rebbe, what can I do to go on?”
When a Jew can provide no answer, he at least has a tale to tell. And so Rebbe Pinhas of Koretz invited the young man to come closer, and then said with a smile, “You must know, my friend, that what is happening to you also happened to me. When I was your age I stumbled over the same obstacles. I, too, was filled with questions and doubts. About man and his fate, creation and its meaning. I was struggling with so many dark forces that I could not advance; I was wallowing in doubt, locked in despair. I tried study, prayer, meditation. In vain. Penitence, silence, solitude. My doubts remained doubts. Worse: they became threats. Impossible to proceed, to project myself into the future. I simply could not go on. Then one day I learned that the Rebbe Israel Baal Shem Tov would be coming to our town. Curiosity led me to the shtibl, where he was receiving his followers. I entered just as he was finishing the Amida prayer. He turned around and saw me, and I was convinced that he was seeing me, me and no one else. The intensity of his gaze overwhelmed me, and I felt less along. And, strangely, I was able to go home, open the Talmud, and plunge into my studies once more. You see,” said Rebbe Pinhas of Koretz, “the questions remained questions. But I was able to go on. . . .”