The Disappearing Snuff
I deliver a regular Shabbat shiur in Lyon every Shabbat morning. One man makes sure to bring tobacco and offers a sniff of the fresh, sweet-smelling snuff to the participants. This has been a custom among Jews throughout the generations.
One Shabbat, before I even began delivering the shiur, the man offered me a sniff. I took the box from his hand and found it full of good tobacco. But I was not in the mood to smell it just then. I handed him back the box, promising to take a sniff after the lecture.
When the shiur was over, the man rushed to offer me his box of tobacco. Imagine my surprise at finding it empty. “Why are you giving me an empty box?” I asked.
The man had no idea what I was talking about. Just a short while ago, the box had been full of fresh, fragrant snuff. He came over to me to reveal – nothing. We looked all around. Maybe the snuff had spilled out. But no; the floor was spotless. We asked the other participants if anyone had emptied the box for some reason, but all answered in the negative. The tobacco seemed to have been swallowed by the earth, not leaving behind a trace.
During the course of Shabbat, I was asked whether I had unraveled the mystery of the missing snuff. I answered, “No. But we are taught (Iyov 1:21), ‘Hashem has given and Hashem has taken away; blessed be the Name of Hashem.’ Whatever happens to us is pre-ordained on High. We must accept it with love.” This was my response to those who asked. But personally, the matter of the snuff gave me no rest.
Finally, Hashem took pity on me and allowed me to solve this riddle. This is what happened: Every night, before retiring, I am in the practice of learning from a sefer kodesh. It is known that the state of a person when he goes to sleep affects the state he will be in when he awakens the next morning. When a Jew retires while connected to Hashem through Torah study, he will awaken with that same connection. But one who turned in with his head full of nonsense will wake up in the same frame of mind. Every Jew should bear this in mind before retiring each night.
That Motza’ei Shabbat, I took a random sefer before falling asleep. It was the writings of the Admor, Rabbi Shalom Dov Ber Schneerson of Lubavitch, zt”l. His words touched me deeply, for they contained the resolution to the previous day’s mystery. This was what I read:
“Each creature has a specific type of Divine spark within it. For instance, the bread which we eat is fitting only when it contains this special quality. Without it, the bread turns moldy and is unfit for human consumption. So, too, is it with wine. As long as Hashem infuses it with vitality, it can be enjoyed by people. But as soon as Hashem removes this vitality, the wine turns sour and is no longer fit for drinking.”
Now I understood what had happened. Before the shiur, Hashem had planted life into the tobacco. Therefore, it was fresh and fragrant. But afterward, it lost its vitality. It could no longer be used, so it simply disappeared.
Man exists on a similar plane. As long as his neshamah, his connection to the Divine, is alive, he can continue living. But the moment that Hashem removes this neshamah from his body, he perishes.
Hashem created the world only for His glory. When He wishes to destroy a specific creature, its Divine attribute disappears, and it simply dies. Hashem’s authority over each and every creature is evident in a most tangible manner. This is the meaning of the pasuk (Tehillim 103:19), “His kingdom reigns over all.”
