Adapted from remarks at the seudas hodaah, meal of thanksgiving, held after my son was released from the NICU.
In a Shabbos ha-Gadol drasha, the Maharal explains much of the symbolism of parshas Tzav. Regarding the korban todah, the offering of thanksgiving, he claims that the four types of bread that accompany the offering correspond to the four types of danger from which deliverance imposes an obligation to give thanks. Those four are brought in Brakhos 54B by Rav Yehuda in the name of Rav as those who go to sea, those who traverse a wilderness, those who recover from illness, and those who are released from prison, based on Tehillim 107. The Maharal takes those as archetypes of general categories of danger: the wilderness represents being cut off from sustenance, the sea represents violent force, the sickness represents subversion from within, and prison combines the other three with an added level of human agency and free will. Thus, the three varieties of matzoh correspond to the first three, and the chometz -- equal in weight to the other three combined, and with leaven classically symbolizing the yetzer hara' -- corresponding to incarceration.
A curious point arises from this. I might have imagined, if each circumstance is tied to a single type of bread, that the one bringing the sacrifice should specifically bring the type of bread that symbolizes his own salvation. However, the Mishnah in Menachos 3:6 teaches that the four breads are me'akvin zeh es zeh; should the owner fail to bring all four, not only is the offering lacking those that are missing, but even those that were brought are invalidated. I think that this point combines with the Maharal's reading to bring out a profound insight into the nature of thanksgiving. When we experience a personal salvation, it is meant to give us the means to relate more deeply to Hashem as a savior. If we can accomplish that, that relationship transcends the particulars of our own experience. The same Hashem who saved my son from sickness is the architect of every deliverance, and part of giving thanks for his recovery is recognizing that commonality.
Both halves are necessary. Without the particular experience, we are left with an abstraction that cannot affect us deeply enough to transform our relationship to Hashem. The Maharal criticizes those who would bench gomel (the brokha that fulfills this requirement in the absence of a Beis ha-Mikdosh where we could bring the korban todah) without having an experience from the four categories, those whose danger is minor or imagined, saying that this is the sort of addition that subtracts. Without the generalization, we are left with gross materialism, a symbol cut off from its referent.
If I may beg forgiveness for possible overreach, I would like to posit that this is a highly generalizable solution to various tensions between particularism and universalism, and between the concrete and the abstract. Consider love: love of all mankind that is not grounded in the personal experience of love for one's own family, friends, and community will naturally tend to be insubstantial, unworthy of the name. Conversely, love that stays confined only to one's own intimates reveals that it has failed to penetrate to the tzelem Elokim, the image of Hashem, and is thus lacking even toward those intimates. Or consider teachings through allegory, metaphor, and analogy: there is one temptation to take fantastic stories or arcane rituals at face value and move on, perhaps entertained but certainly unaffected. There is another temptation to flatter ourselves for having the sophistication not to take such things at face value, and use that excuse to dismiss the details, imagining that we become entitled to skip to the deeper meaning without engaging with the plain meaning. Both temptations make a mockery of the whole method of symbolism, obviously. In these cases, and many more, what appears as tension is really complementarity.
As a matter of practical application, what follows? We don't achieve balance by dividing our energies in a particular proportion, any more than we would balance the energies we direct toward a path against its destination. The particular and concrete ought to absorb the bulk of our efforts, but always with hearts and eyes open to the way that those efforts can facilitate the natural development of the universal and abstract.
As an addendum, I have found the Maharal's framework fruitful in drawing many comparisons beyond what he gives explicitly. Not exactly germane to the above vort, so I present only a brief synopsis here, but happy to engage if it sparks questions or feedback:
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