Put differently, true mesirus nefesh is not self-reduction; it is self-expansion, an opportunity to push oneself beyond the limits one assumes for oneself.
Is self-sacrifice a virtue?
Our instinctive answer to that question is, “But of course. It must be!” When we consider our overwhelming duties — the lion’s share of our time, money, and emotion that we pour into our Torah-driven lives and into building our faithful families — we are left with the question: What could the motivation be other than self-sacrifice?
Isn’t “mesirus nefesh” the defining character of Yiddishkeit? Isn’t this all the more so in the hubbub of our supercharged, hyper-stimulated life in the 21st century?
Think about your life. After a full work day, you come home to clamoring children, a spouse who deserves your attention, multiple car pools yet to drive, davening and learning you need to squeeze in, and a deep-seated wish to just spend a few moments relating to your family. Every day you hope it will miraculously be different — but when it isn’t, you console yourself with the thought that, after all, this is the mesirus nefesh that a life dedicated to Torah asks of you. And somehow, that makes it bearable.
What’s wrong with this picture? Is this an attractive life that is fulfilling for me and that will inspire my children to lead their own proud lives of dedication to Torah? How long can we drive ourselves this way before we run out of fuel?
Aren’t we ready for a stirring new approach?
Let’s take a close look at the term mesirus nefesh itself. Does it carry certain baggage? Is our understanding of the term a product of our times more than a comprehension of its true meaning? Has the weight of our demanding lives dragged down the term? Are we using this sense of mesirus nefesh to make it through our daily grind?
As so often happens in Torah learning, when we delve into the true meaning of the words, we can find a sparkle, a paradigm shift that informs how we see ourselves in the world in a new way.
What’s in a Word?
The very word mesirah springs from the root moser, meaning to transmit, to convey, to hand over. We recognize it in the word mesorah, our most cherished task — our longing to transmit our heritage to our children.
The word does not connote self-sacrifice at all; on the contrary, it implies a form of self-advancement. It pushes us to dedicate ourselves to something larger, to link ourselves to something beyond the routine of our busy life. We are not giving ourselves up. We are actually enhancing ourselves.
Man has an innate aspiration for greatness, a desire to be spiritual, loving, accomplished… everything we associate with the Divine. The efforts entailed in avodas Hashem cannot be seen as diminishing. They must be seen as enriching — an investment in the pursuit of excellence. How can we see it this way?
Hashem has given each of us a unique neshamah — a unique expression of the Divine that manifests itself in our individual personalities, capabilities, and drives. This neshamah is charged with projecting itself outward and sharing its unique contribution with the world. So long as we remain faithful to this core selfhood, all the projects in which we engage, all the endeavors we pursue, will bring us a sense of accomplishment, fulfillment, and self-actualization. Everything we do that is driven by this core wellspring of our neshamah may require work, but it doesn’t feel like toil. Work of this sort doesn’t leave us feeling worn-down and depleted.
Working from our neshamah’s unique drive, we each have the power to live our lives with a sense of joyful purpose rather than feeling like wrung-out sponges. All of our areas of responsibility — be they professional activities, child care, chinuch, learning, davening, community engagement, and the joy of family life — are in essence playgrounds for us to express ourselves.
The Remedy to Burnout
This perspective is borne out when we revisit a well-known statement in Pirkei Avos(6:3) with fresh eyes and allow it to speak organically from its source. “This is the way of Torah. Be willing to eat bread and salt… to sleep on the ground. If you do this, ‘it is fortunate for you and good.’ ”
This maxim can be so easily misunderstood as glorifying self-sacrifice. And not only that, it’s telling us to be happy about it.
Even more troublingly, the Mishnah’s conclusion, “it is fortunate for you and good [ashrecha v’tov lach]” is actually a quote from Tehillim (128:2) in a seemingly unrelated context . What gives the Mishnah the license to tack this phrase onto its statement about enduring deprivation for the sake of Torah?
But in truth, when we study that pasuk in Tehillim in its original setting, the Mishnah’s perspective breaks through. The pasuk begins, “When you eat the labor of your hands [yegia kapecha ki socheil].” It is clearly describing arduous labor — but it’s your work, the work of your hands, the natural expression of what is important to you, a tangible manifestation of your neshamah’s drive.
Such work does not leave you feeling burned out. Rather, you experience a sense of accomplishment — or, in the pasuk’s words, “you eat,’’ you relish, the labor of your hands. Indeed, it is this work for Torah that nurtures our neshamah and that the Mishnah is glorifying as “fortunate and good for you.”
So many people feel drained of energy, burdened by the heaviness of their responsibilities. Sadly, they walk around looking like the beat-up aravos of Hoshana Rabbah — like “oisgeklapte hoshanas.” If only they understood the secret of “the work of your hand” that dispels the contemporary plague of burnout.
How Would This Look in My Life?
What if my professional life were exciting because I found work to do that expressed my unique neshamah drive? How would my childrearing look if it were not a photocopy of my community’s approach but the expression of my own values, tailored to kindling the individual soul of each of my children so they can all reach their full potential? What would my learning look like if I focused on the topics and style of learning that speak to my heart and stimulate my mind? And my davening? How can I experience that universal, hallowed text as my own personal dialogue with Hashem about my life, my concerns, my heartfelt ambitions and desires?
