Parshas Mishpatim 5785
After six years of service, the eved ivri, or Jewish servant, is left to ponder the question, “Do I stay or do I go?” He may leave his master’s home in order to set up his own and live life on his own terms. Indeed, he is encouraged to do so. For if he doesn’t leave, if he chooses to stay on for another term of service, this one far lengthier than the first, he must submit to a ceremony whereby he is brought to a doorway to have his ear pierced. And as famously understood by Rashi, the piercing of the ear conveys an unspoken rebuke, that the ear that heard Hashem’s directive to submit to Him alone went rogue in seeking out a flesh and blood master apart from Hashem.
There’s much to dissect here, every aspect of the ceremony suggestive of symbolism and deeper meaning. But one specific feature I find particularly intriguing is the location of it all. Why stand in the doorway?
The piercing of the servant’s ear, of course, is not the only mitzvah performed in the same space. A far more frequently observed mitzvah located within the doorframe is that of installing mezuzos upon the doorposts of our homes. It is here, in the presence of the mezuzah nailed to the wall, that the servant has his ear pierced when he wishes to remain in his master’s home rather than exiting.
Why?
I once heard a beautiful interpretation for why the mitzvah of mezuzah calls us to affix a declaration of our faith in Hashem specifically in the doorway. And that is that a doorway is a point of transition from one space to another. Standing in a doorway, preparing to cross its threshold, means necessarily leaving one area behind and approaching another.
And that is a very hard thing to do. Because the space we were in previously was known to us, familiar to us. We knew what to expect there, had developed a routine and a rhythm. Transitioning to a new place is scary. It is rife with unknowns, and whatever successes we’ve enjoyed in our previous location feel inadequate in preparing us for our new environs.
The Torah tells us to affix the Shema in such locations. Not because moving from my den to my kitchen represents a great leap of faith, but because those transitional points in my home represent the points of transition throughout life. And it is there that I must be reminded of the Shema. That the task that lay ahead is not your own to accomplish, that you need—and cannot—face that new challenge alone, but that Hashem is with you by your side and He has every ability in the world to bring you great success.
Perhaps it is this very message that the Torah demands the eved Ivri be exposed to when he digs in his heels and opts to stay on with his master. “Why did you make this decision?” the Torah asks. Is it truly the case that it is here that you will achieve the most? Fulfill your potential to the best of your ability? Rise to the greatest heights? Or is there far more you could accomplish by setting out on your own and crawling out from under the thumb of your human master? Would you, perhaps, enjoy a fuller, more direct relationship with Hashem if you didn’t have to respond to the whims of a human overseer? What is it, really, that keeps you glued to this spot, in this home, to this master?
Perhaps only inertia. The comfort of remaining in the space you know so well as opposed to venturing out into one that bears no familiarity.
And that is a great mistake. One that we likely make all too often. Human beings are creatures of habit, and the notion that we may need to change our ways or expose ourselves to something novel and different can frighten us into staying put, even when we see the potential blessings a new enterprise can yield. A new job may be more lucrative or fulfilling, but I’ll have to learn a new system and develop new skills. A new chavrusa may help me stick more diligently to my scheduled learning, but I don’t want to have to learn in a new location or at a different time. A new volunteer role could fill my life with meaning, but it will throw a monkey wrench in my current schedule and I won’t know any of the people there.
How often do we sell ourselves short and forfeit great new opportunities simply because they’re new? Simply because we already know our current lives so well that the possibility of having to make a transition to the unknown is foreboding?
We can end up signing on to a life of servitude, simply because of our fear of transitions.
And in truth, it’s not always because we’re afraid we’ll fail in the new environment. Deep down, the fear that we will succeed may be equally troubling. How will this new enterprise change me? Who will I become? What if I am more successful, more fulfilled, more accomplished—I won’t recognize myself. And that’s frightening.
The eved Ivri may be staying put not because he’s afraid of failure, but because, like us, he’s afraid of success. The message for him is the same in either instance: look at the mezuzah. Not only as a reminder to have faith that Hashem will assist him clear each new hurdle, but to remind him of his true identity. Not as someone who lives in this house and works for this person, but as someone who recites Shema Yisrael, who believes in Hashem, and who walks with Him from one room to another, from one station in life to the next.
An honest recognition of the problem is the bulk of discovering the solution. If there are opportunities we won’t seek out in life, how much of that reticence is out of a calculated decision that we’re best off sticking with our current situation, and how much is out of fear? Be it fear of failure, or even fear of success. The mezuzah can be as important for us in those moments as to the eved Ivri. If can define ourselves more by the mezuzah on the doorframe than by the space we currently occupy, we may find the courage to cross the threshold.