Consumer culture demands comfort. Indeed, the era of convenience has just begun. We offer remote-controlled reclining sofas, self-driving cars, smart speakers, and same-day delivery. Most knowledge dwells online, so why remember? AI can replicate our language patterns, so why write? Some have lauded our age as a historical high, while others have denigrated it as a social collapse. Ultimately we must weigh these advances' drawbacks and benefits for ourselves.
But what's fascinating is how this ease of living has transcended mere lifestyles and bled into popular belief systems. Comfort is no longer just a physical state but increasingly a way of living. Our media has seamlessly integrated ancient or esoteric philosophies, adapting them for western consumption. For example, meditation, practised for centuries in eastern cultures, has been repackaged into digital applications promising inner tranquillity. Similarly, Stoicism, an ancient Greek school of philosophy, is widely promoted through books, blogs and podcasts for its ability to avoid emotional angst.
Although enlightenment is undoubtedly an alluring dream, many have questioned whether perpetual tranquillity is biologically possible. Soren Kierkegaard was adamant in his belief that whilst man may temporarily avoid psychological discomfort, the eventual surfacing of repressed tension is an inevitable reality of the human condition.
Yet even if permanent bliss were possible, should we consider it a desirable goal? Famously Rav Noach Weinberg would teach that the opposite of pleasure is not pain but comfort. This makes sense. No one has ever achieved anything of value without first experiencing discomfort in their original state. Yet, we will also be unlikely to achieve positive outcomes by exposing ourselves to insurmountable self-criticism. We are more likely to crack than bloom under such pressure. What, then, is the correct approach? Our question finds an answer in the symbolism of this week's Parsha.
Whilst describing the detailed requirements of the Mincha sacrificial offering, our verse instructs the following:
... Every meal offering sacrifice shall be salted, and you shall not refrain from adding the salt of your God's covenant upon your meal offerings. You shall offer salt on all your sacrifices.
{Vayikra 2:11-13}
Several commentators pick up on the Torah's insistence that the priests apply salt to all such offerings and its seemingly random labelling as 'salt of your covenant'. Why is salt so essential, and what is its connection to a covenantal relationship with God?
To understand the symbolism of salt, we must first refer to an oft-repeated midrash from Kohelles Rabbah. The midrash imagines the feelings of a princess married to a peasant as an analogy for the experience of our soul in the body. It pitifully describes how she remains unhappy despite the peasant's best efforts to satiate his royal wife with fine cuisine. The reason for the princess's dissatisfaction is apparent - she embodies values from an entirely different world. This woman is royalty, and nothing that isn't her former life will ever suffice.
Similarly, whilst our body may perform endless positive deeds on earth, our soul is never satisfied. Like the princess in the story, our soul originates from a place beyond the constraints of physical existence. It, therefore, can never find rest in this physical realm.
The Maharal in Tifferes Yisrael elaborates on this midrashic teaching. He explains that because our soul's true fulfilment can only be found close to God, its forced attachment to this world is a deficiency. It experiences this deficiency as a feeling of lack and, thus, constantly yearns to find a way back to a place of total spirituality. Yet this final goal can only occur once the soul returns to heaven. For this reason, our sages teach that adam le amal yulad, man, was born for constant spiritual toil. A longing is born of a feeling that we are not quite there yet, the understanding that we always lack something.
Applying salt depletes the water content in substances, thus drying them out. Salt creates a sense of thirst caused by lack. In light of the earlier Maharal, we realise that the feeling of being incomplete is critical in our service of God. Spirituality, by its definition, is the endless yearning for something more. Salt serves as a tangible reminder of this journey within.
This further helps us explain why the Torah describes the salt as a bris or 'covenant'. Famously the Vilna Gaon teaches that a Bris suggests something is missing when one partner is absent. Our vows with God express our longing to be close to him, and this desire results from the feeling that we are not, as of yet, in his spiritual proximity. The Hebrew word for sacrifice, Karbon, is etymologically linked to the word karov, to draw near. Thus it is fitting that salt, a symbolic manifestation of an insatiable thirst for our creator, is added to our sacrificial offerings.
Critically, however, we can't consume salt in isolation, so much so that our sages absolved one from tithing salt like all other edible products. When used alone, it is a corrosive force. Scipio Africanus, the legendary Roman general, is infamously charged with salting the earth of Carthage in retribution for the Punic wars. Symbolically, this account conveyed a message of utter annihilation. Similarly, unadulterated self-criticism is detrimental to our personal growth. Such an approach is, in the long term, unsustainable and misguided.
Yet the results are wondrous when we add salt in moderation to a dish. Similarly, when tempered by an appreciation of what one has already accomplished, self-criticism is widely beneficial. Such assessments can help identify and improve our weaknesses, pushing us to become better versions of ourselves:
Being growth-orientated means understanding our self-worth while maintaining the subtle sense that something is still missing.
In the past, salt was used as a preservative to extend the shelf life of goods. The method works by drawing out moisture, preventing food from spoiling quickly. When we become too confident in our achievements and full of ourselves, we also stagnate and spoil. Accordingly, the subtle feeling of insufficiency is necessary to preserve a healthy soul. A sprinkle of humility and the awareness that we are not quite whole is needed to scale back our excesses.
Certainly, such a balancing act is no easy task, and it is inherently not a comfortable existence. It's one constantly fraught with the danger of too much self-confidence or not enough self-worth. But as we established earlier, being comfortable in this world should not be our ultimate objective. The tension between these two competing aspects of the self is critical for divine service. Only by following this path can we genuinely remain who we are, people born for spiritual growth. People who are becoming.
Good Shabbos, and Keep Pondering!
Outstanding, thank you!!