Next Erev Shabbos, Klal Yisroel will celebrate one of the most beautiful yet enigmatic Yomim Tovim, Lag Ba’omer. On the surface, it commemorates several interconnected events: the yahrtzeit of Rav Shimon Bar Yochai, the day he and his son Rav Eliezer left their cave, and the completion and revealing of the Zohar Hakadosh. All of these events are deeply entwined. However, the great Tannaim’s departure from the cave, their return, and their final emergence are shrouded in mystery.
The Gemara (Shabbos 33b) tells us that after twelve miraculous years in the cave, Rav Shimon and his son heard Eliyahu Hanovi announcing—cryptically—that the Caesar had died and they were now free to return home. When they emerged, having lived a dozen years immersed in incredible kedusha, they could not understand how people could engage in mundane activities such as plowing and seeding their fields. Wherever they looked, their critical glance caused the farmers to be consumed by a holy fire. But a voice rang out from Heaven: “Have you come out to destroy My world? Return to your cave!”
Rav Chaim Zeitchik, one of the most prolific baalei mussar (Ohr Chodosh, p. 128), asks: If the father and son had achieved such otherworldly status that they could not abide the norms of society, what was the purpose of allowing them to leave the cave in the first place only to virtually kill people? Rav Chaim Meir of Vizhnitz (Imrei Chaim, Lag Ba’omer, p. 106) points out that surely these towering Tannaim knew that not everyone had abandoned all connection to the mundane world as they had.
Furthermore, although the Maharal (Chiddushei Aggados, p. 28) explains that the elderly tend to have more compassion than the young—and therefore Rav Shimon later saved people while Rav Eliezer did not—it is still difficult to understand why they didn’t both realize that they were returning to a world in which people must plow and perform basic functions.
Rav Meir Tzimrut (Doresh Tov, Sefiras Ha’omer, p. 358) also raises some salient questions. Since Eliyahu Hanovi regularly visited to learn with Rav Shimon and Rav Eliezer, why didn’t he enter the cave this time to share the good news that they were free? He suggests that Eliyahu didn’t want to disturb their learning, since this time he came only to announce, not to teach Torah.
I would like to suggest a different answer to these questions, based on a vaad (Nakumah Venaaleh, Maamar 3) delivered during Sefirah by Rav Yonasan David at his yeshiva, Pachad Yitzchok, in Yerushalayim. He explains that, like everything in the Torah, it is no coincidence that Parshas Kedoshim is read during Sefirah. He quotes what seem to be the paradoxical words of Rashi that Parshas Kedoshim was given to the multitudes (adas Bnei Yisroel), even though the mitzvah to “be holy” appears to apply primarily to those who go beyond the letter of the law.
The Ramban famously teaches that the mandate to be holy goes beyond merely avoiding transgression and applies even to those who sanctify what is permissible but not obligatory. The rosh yeshiva, however, proves that the essence of being holy lies in sanctifying the everyday mitzvos that we perform and elevating them to kedusha. For this reason, the Torah immediately illustrates kedusha with the mitzvah of honoring and fearing one’s parents.
There are three partners in every person (Niddah 31a): the parents provide the physical and biological components, while the Creator provides the soul and spiritual dimension. Thus, most of the parsha continues with bein adam lachaveiro, interpersonal mitzvos that govern our daily lives.
Rav Yonasan continues by explaining that this parsha was given to all of Klal Yisroel together because, while each of us is mortal, “the tzibbur lives forever” (Horiyos 6a). When we reflect on the fact that our collective eternity depends on being part of something greater than ourselves, we begin to appreciate the value of others. Though each of us possesses only one body, our joint Creator unifies us all under the banner of being part of a single nation.
To begin approaching the ideal of “Kedoshim tihiyu,” we must divest ourselves of our limiting self-focus and embrace the greater Am Yisroel, from which we draw our identity. The rosh yeshiva then connects this to the days of Sefirah. When we left Mitzrayim, we were immersed in the materialism of Egypt. At Har Sinai, we shed the tumah with which mankind had been afflicted and became the Am Hanivchar. But this transformation was based upon our unity at Sinai, as Rashi (Shemos 19:2) writes, “As one person with one heart.”
Rav Yonasan uses this concept to explain why the Aseres Hadibros were spoken—and are written—in the singular (Elokecha), while Parshas Kedoshim is stated in the plural (tihiyu). We had to accept the Torah as individuals, each one of us, but to attain kedusha, we must do so collectively. Only by letting go of our personal needs, our aspirations, and at times our pettiness can we elevate ourselves to become a goy kadosh.
Although Rav Yonasan expands further, we can now, with some caution. begin to explain what happened in and out of the cave. Having reduced their connection to the physical world to an extraordinary degree, and having learned daily from Eliyahu Hanovi, Rav Shimon Bar Yochai and Rav Eliezer ascended over those twelve years to the level of malachim. They simply could not comprehend how people could abandon Torah study to till the soil.
As Rav Zeitchik suggests, they needed more time to adjust to the lower madreigah of the world they were suddenly reentering. When they failed to do so, the consequences were deadly for others. Even after beginning this transition, Rav Eliezer was not yet ready, while Rav Shimon had already reached that understanding. Perhaps they eventually realized that, because of their uniquely elevated experience, they could help the world but could not expect everyone, or perhaps anyone, to be like them.
Eliyahu Hanovi did not enter the cave at that time because Rav Shimon and Rav Eliezer were about to be tested in their ahavas Yisroel. They needed to independently decide to view every Jew as essential to maintaining the world—on the level of teva, not miracles. At that point, they weren’t yet ready.
From Rav Yonasan we learn that the ultimate goal is not to run from our frail humanity, but to recognize, embrace, and uplift it. We should also note that Chazal (Pesochim 68b) teach that while there is disagreement as to whether every Yom Tov requires physical joy such as eating, everyone agrees that Shavuos does. Logically, we might assume the opposite. Shavuos, the day we received the ethereal Torah, should resemble Yom Kippur. We might expect to imitate the malachim. But the truth is quite the opposite.
Our kedusha and spiritual stature require us to join with others—those above and those below us—in mutual love and respect. As Rav Yonasan pithily concludes: “Anyone who thinks he will achieve kedusha by separating himself from others is only fooling himself. The path to kedusha comes from caring about others, loving them, and treating them with kindness.”
We must also note, as the rosh yeshiva states, that it is no coincidence that the saga of Rebbi Akiva’s talmidim occurred during these days. We may now understand that although Rebbi Akiva’s talmidim were beyond our comprehension in their holiness and greatness, their failing lay—somehow—in a lack of full empathy and love for their fellow Jews.
Being on such a high level, what was expected of them mirrored what was later expected of Rav Shimon and Rav Eliezer. They were found lacking in a way we cannot fully grasp—in the kavod they owed their friends. Tragically, this resulted in their deaths. But for us, there is a vital lesson: We must learn from them, and from the author of the Zohar Hakadosh, to shed our obsession with self and love all of our brethren.
If we can do this at this time of year, we can only hope and daven that Hashem will bring Klal Yisroel back together, in good health and freedom, with geulos and yeshuos for all.
