Friday, April 01, 2005
Faith - By Jay Litvin 'of Blessed Memory'
Faith came as a gift from above and lay nearly dormant within me. Nearly, I say, because even as an ember, it emanated enough energy to keep the search alive. Its hard to say whether its emanations served to push or pull, to seek or be found. Was it a source of motivation, continually driving me to find that which would set it free? Or was it rather like a magnet, constantly drawing to itself the source of its freedom?
I picture it somehow like a beautiful glowing gem covered with dirt, yet still possessing the power to shine. I picture it pulsating somehow, like a lighthouse, like a heartbeat, like the rhythmic in and out, on and off, here and there, now and then, dark and light of life.
Though I see it as a hard, solid thing, I feel it soft and timid. Though in my imaginings it is indestructible and eternal, I sense it fragile, vulnerable, needing protection. Though it seems perfect in every way, I feel the obligation, responsibility, the need to nourish it.
When I neglect my faith, when I take it for granted, eventually I feel sorrow and regret. Is that weeping I hear within? Can faith shed tears? And if it cries enough will it extinguish itself with its tears? Will its emanations cease, or is it only I who will cease to sense its emanation?
But faith, when I nurture you, when I tend to you, when I abandon myself--my mind, my heart, my will--to you, how you swell and rejoice. Is that laughter I hear within? Can faith laugh? Or is that me--or finally the lack of me--who has made room to hear the delight of life?
Jay Litvin was born in Chicago in 1944. He moved to Israel in 1993 to serve as medical liaison for Chabad's Children of Chernobyl program, and took a leading role in airlifting children from the areas contaminated by the Chernobyl nuclear disaster; he also founded and directed Chabad's Terror Victims program in Israel. Jay passed away in April of 2004 after a valiant four-year battle with Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma, and is survived by his wife, Sharon, and their seven children.
The content on this page is produced by Chabad.org, and is copyrighted by the author, publisher and/or Chabad.org.
I picture it somehow like a beautiful glowing gem covered with dirt, yet still possessing the power to shine. I picture it pulsating somehow, like a lighthouse, like a heartbeat, like the rhythmic in and out, on and off, here and there, now and then, dark and light of life.
Though I see it as a hard, solid thing, I feel it soft and timid. Though in my imaginings it is indestructible and eternal, I sense it fragile, vulnerable, needing protection. Though it seems perfect in every way, I feel the obligation, responsibility, the need to nourish it.
When I neglect my faith, when I take it for granted, eventually I feel sorrow and regret. Is that weeping I hear within? Can faith shed tears? And if it cries enough will it extinguish itself with its tears? Will its emanations cease, or is it only I who will cease to sense its emanation?
But faith, when I nurture you, when I tend to you, when I abandon myself--my mind, my heart, my will--to you, how you swell and rejoice. Is that laughter I hear within? Can faith laugh? Or is that me--or finally the lack of me--who has made room to hear the delight of life?
Jay Litvin was born in Chicago in 1944. He moved to Israel in 1993 to serve as medical liaison for Chabad's Children of Chernobyl program, and took a leading role in airlifting children from the areas contaminated by the Chernobyl nuclear disaster; he also founded and directed Chabad's Terror Victims program in Israel. Jay passed away in April of 2004 after a valiant four-year battle with Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma, and is survived by his wife, Sharon, and their seven children.
The content on this page is produced by Chabad.org, and is copyrighted by the author, publisher and/or Chabad.org.
