What Is Beauty, Really?

What does beauty mean to us? What do we feel when we hear this word?

One of the most fitting descriptions would probably be light. Beauty seems to illuminate our lives, creating a light,  pleasant mood.

From this perspective, let us try to understand one aspect of the Creation of the world. The Torah states that at the beginning of Creation, the world was in chaos, and the entire world was in darkness. The sages say that the description of this primordial chaos contains an allusion to all the exiles that would follow. One of the words describing this chaos is “darkness,” and in this concept the sages saw an allusion to Greece.

The Rambam writes that just as a Torah scholar is recognizable by his knowledge and thoughts, he can also be recognized by his deeds. His deeds do not merely differ from those of ordinary people; moreover, it is said that the outlook of a person far removed from Torah is the opposite of a Torah scholar’s outlook, and the example of Greece makes this especially clear.

Let us recall our high school history lessons—no other culture exalted beauty as highly as Ancient Greece did! Perhaps only the Renaissance can be compared to it, but even the leading figures of that era sought above all to emulate Greece! The celebration of beauty in the Ancient Greek manner became the embodiment of harmony and the ideal of beauty for the entire world.

How can it be, then, that despite all this, it is precisely Greece, which so highly exalted the cult of beauty, that the sages compare to darkness?!

What is beauty, really?

At the end of the Book of Mishlei, there is a phrase familiar to many: “sheker hachen ve hevel hayofi, ishah yirat Hashem hi tithalal”—“Charm is deceitful and beauty is vanity; a G-d-fearing woman—she will be praised.” No phrase in Tanakh has a merely superficial meaning, and this phrase about true beauty is no exception. Let us examine each word separately.

Sheker hachen – “the deceit of charm.” Chen is not classical, absolute beauty. Chen is beauty that is subjective and depends on the eyes through which it is viewed. It is said of Queen Esther that she “matza chen”—found favor in the eyes of those around her. Yet her beauty is never mentioned anywhere. Moreover, the midrashim say that she had a very unusual complexion! Chen seems to remind us of something pleasant, and by association we perceive a person (or an object) as unquestionably pleasant. We are accustomed to people usually smiling when their spirits are bright and they are in a good mood, and they pass this positive energy on to those around them—and we find ourselves instinctively smiling back. We cannot know what is really happening in such a person’s soul, but the mere fact that there is a smile on their face makes us feel favorably toward them; such a person seems pleasant to us. The word chen is generally used as part of the phrase “matza chen be’einav”—found favor in his eyes. Thus, chen is a subjective perception, not necessarily the same for everyone.

There is also the phrase “chen makom al yoshvav”—every place has a special charm for the people who live there. Objectively, many other places may be better, but if we have warm memories associated with our childhood town or the place where we live (where we have family, children, a good job, and warmhearted neighbors), then that particular place will be the dearest place on earth to us.

The concept of “yofi” is somewhat simpler: it is objective beauty recognized by most people, conforming to certain standards, which does not become any less beautiful depending on who is looking at it.

There is no greater falsehood in the world than taking a concept and distorting it into the opposite of its true meaning. A story is told of how Rabbi Yechezkel Levenstein came to pay his final respects to one of the great Torah scholars. Many people attended the funeral, and many were crying. Rabbi Levenstein summoned all his willpower to restrain himself from crying. He was asked: Why did you hold yourself back? Apart from the fact that your grief is entirely understandable, your tears could have inspired many others to repent! Rabbi Levenstein revealed that the day before, his family had suffered a great tragedy: his grandson had died. “If I had cried, those tears would have been for my grandson as well, not only for the Torah scholar. And there is nothing worse than false tears!”

All modern advertising is built on falsehood:

we are shown a beautiful home in which an ideal family lives with beautiful children, and they all use a particular brand of appliances, eat particular food, and drive a particular car. The next time we see these appliances or this food in a store, we will associate them with the beautiful home and exemplary family—and we will want to become part of that world by buying the product. When we come to choose a car at a dealership, we are greeted by smiling people in neat suits, some even wearing ties, who smile at us constantly and show us goodwill in every possible way—just so that we will buy what benefits them. And now we have fallen for this falsehood, believing that this wonderful person really has my best interests at heart! What is actually happening is clear to every one of us… This is the deceit of charm, «sheker hachen».

As for beauty, it is said—“hevel hayofi.” The word hevel is usually translated as vanity, but its true meaning is vapor—that is, something fleeting, like vapor.

“A G-d-fearing woman will be praised”—this seems to mean that neither charm nor beauty has any value, and that the most important thing is simply to fear G-d! If so, asks the Vilna Gaon, why does the Torah so often and insistently emphasize the outward beauty of our matriarchs—Sarah, Rachel, and Rivkah? The Vilna Gaon says that we are simply misunderstanding the verses of Scripture: indeed, on their own, both charm and beauty are nothing—deception and emptiness.

But if a woman is beautiful, and her beauty is rooted in her fear of G-d, then such a woman will be praised, including for her beauty!

Tractate Berachot tells of a great Torah scholar, Rabbi Yochanan. When his student, Rabbi Eliezer, fell ill, Rabbi Yochanan came to visit him.

It was very dark, and to see anything, Rabbi Yochanan rolled up his shirt sleeves—such radiance emanated from his body that the entire room was illuminated. He then saw that Rabbi Eliezer was lying there crying.

“Why are you crying?” Rabbi Yochanan asked him. “Perhaps you are crying because you are dying so young, without having had time to learn enough Torah? Do not cry! After all, we have learned that the Almighty rewards each person according to the effort they have invested in reaching their goal! You may not have accomplished everything, but you tried very hard and devoted much effort to Torah study—and you will receive a great reward! Or perhaps you are crying because you were not a wealthy man and could not give enough tzedakah? Do not cry about that, for not everyone merits ‘two tables’—you studied Torah, and not everyone is granted that!”

But that was not why Rabbi Eliezer was crying: “I am crying over your beauty, which in 120 years will be left to the earth and the worms.” Rabbi Yochanan replied, “If so, you are right,” and they began to cry together. Rabbi Yochanan’s soul was so exalted and beautiful that it influenced his body, which also became beautiful and rose a step closer to the spiritual—and the sages wept over the departure of such a soul from this world…

It is said: “A person’s wisdom illuminates his face.” In Hebrew, the face is called “panim,” from the word “pnim”—inner.

The face is the part of the human body that reflects the inner world, and it is no coincidence that there is a saying, “The eyes are the mirror of the soul.” The Ramchal says in Derech Hashem that the soul did not descend into this material world of its own will—it is alien and unpleasant to the soul. The soul’s task in our world is, through its union with a material body of flesh and blood and through the fulfillment of the commandments, to raise the body, as it were, above the material, bringing it closer to the spiritual and thereby rising to a higher level itself.

In the Torah, we encounter another mention of female beauty—in the discussion of an “eshet yefat to’ar,” a woman beautiful in appearance.

This refers to a situation in which a Jewish soldier at war sees a foreign woman whom he likes so much that he wishes to marry her. The Torah does not categorically prohibit such a union, but sets certain conditions. First, this woman must undergo a kind of “quarantine,” remaining in the house without leaving for a month. Second, during this period she must exchange all her beautiful outfits for something simpler, shave her head (as we know, hair is one of the most attractive aspects of a woman’s beauty), refrain from cutting her nails (which means neglecting her appearance), and mourn her parents.

At the end of this month, he should look at this woman with fresh eyes and decide whether he should build a family with her, or whether it was a momentary impulse under the influence of her charm.

Something different is said of our matriarch Sarah. When she and Avraham were going down to Egypt, he said, “Now I know that you are beautiful,” in Hebrew, «ishah yefat mar’eh».

The very form of the word “woman” differs: the foreign, idolatrous woman is described as “eshet,” while Sarah is described as “ishah.” Following the rules of Hebrew grammar, we see that the form “eshet” does not stand on its own but indicates belonging to something. It is more of a modifier than a noun. Thus, in the case of the idolatrous woman, the concept of woman does not exist in its own right. What the Jewish soldier primarily sees in her is her outward, fleeting beauty: her hair, dresses, and jewelry, while her inner essence, her soul, is entirely unimportant.

Sarah was first and foremost a person, a woman, a perfect creation of the Creator—and only after that a beautiful woman. Sarah’s soul was so exalted that, our sages say, Sarah’s beauty compared with that of all other women was like a human being’s beauty compared with that of a monkey.

The Torah wants us to understand the difference between these kinds of beauty and where they originate: is it inner beauty, whose source is an exalted soul, or merely outward beauty that will wash off with the makeup?

This is precisely why the Torah does not rush to permit a union with a foreign woman: first, all her chen, her charm, must be “washed off”—her beautiful clothes and expensive jewelry must be removed, her hair shaved off, and her nails left untrimmed. After a month of mourning her parents, what will remain of her yofi, her outward beauty? Will it not evaporate without her finery to sustain it?

The Torah speaks of Sarah differently. Abraham acknowledges her beauty aloud precisely on the way to Egypt.  For even while traveling, without her usual opportunity to care for her appearance, Sarah had become no less beautiful—and Abraham recognized this. Moreover, they were going down to Egypt to escape famine and had to travel as quickly as possible with limited means. On such a journey, people are generally tired and cannot devote all their energy to being pleasant to those around them. Yet Sarah retained both chen and yofi, despite everything—because they came from within her and drew their strength from the spiritual.

Greece takes its name from Yavan, who, as we know, was the son of Japheth, who symbolized beauty.

We see in the Torah that long before the ancient Greek state came into being, Yavan—Greece—was identified as the heir to the traditions of beauty. Yet this beauty comes with a condition. As Noah said when blessing his children: “ve-yishkon Yefet be-ohalei Shem”—outward beauty can exist only as an expression of inner beauty, highlighting it!

In the Mishnah, in tractate Nedarim, there is a story about a young man who made a neder (took a vow) that he would never marry a certain young woman. People urged him to reconsider, drawing his attention to her wonderful character, but it was impossible to persuade him: “She is not beautiful!” Rabbi Yishmael then did the following: he ordered that she be groomed, her hair combed, and expensive jewelry given to her, and that she then be shown to the young man.

“Well,” Rabbi Yishmael asked him, “is this the young woman you meant when you made a neder never to marry her?” “Of course not,” the young man replied. “I did not know she was so beautiful!” Rabbi Yishmael burst into tears: “The young women of Israel are beautiful! Poverty makes them ugly…”

What a remarkable story: Rabbi Yochanan wept, Rabbi Eliezer wept, Rabbi Yishmael wept. Great Torah sages wept over beauty!

The reason for Rabbi Yishmael’s tears is understandable: when a person lives without recognizing their true beauty, without an appropriate “frame” to show that beauty to its best advantage, they see themselves accordingly and behave in keeping with how they feel about themselves.

Outward beauty is valuable to us because it highlights spiritual beauty.

But if all that is valued in a person is the “frame,” their appearance, while the actual “picture,” their character, is disregarded; when the picture is not even treated as a frame for the frame, but as something useless that can be trampled on and thrown away—there is no greater falsehood than this.

When the Creator created our world, He looked at it and said, “zeh tov me’od.” The sages teach that “tov,” good, refers to the yetzer hatov, the good inclination, while “tov me’od,” very good, refers to the yetzer hara, the evil inclination. Anything in the world can be directed toward either good or bad. A bad inclination such as gluttony is merely the feeling of pleasure magnified to an extreme—a feeling the Almighty gave us so that we could joyfully recite blessings over His gifts. We feel hungry, and as we hold, for example, an apple in our hand, we realize how much we needed it and sincerely thank the Almighty for meeting our needs.

Every human desire, even lust, has a Divine cause at its root: the Almighty created it for a purpose!

The more pleasure a person derives from something, the more important that thing is. Yet the Greeks completely distorted this principle, isolating pleasure itself and casting aside the higher purpose.

In the Book of Proverbs it says: “The righteous person eats to satisfy his soul, but the bellies of the wicked will never be full enough.” The Vilna Gaon comments as follows: the wicked, who derive pleasure from eating, can enjoy it only while they are hungry; once their stomach is full, they no longer feel pleasure. They would therefore like to have another stomach for constant gluttony—but that is impossible.

King Solomon emphasizes here the great difference between the way the righteous and the wicked eat: the righteous also eat and also enjoy the appearance, smell, and taste of food. For a righteous person, however, it is above all a pleasure of the soul, a way to create the conditions for sincerely and deeply marveling once again at the Creator’s generosity and thanking Him!

A sinner, meanwhile, sees food as a source of animal pleasure and concentrates his main efforts on that small part, continuing to “press the pleasure button” until he is overfull.

When we see something that the Creator made to repair the world and help us move toward spirituality being used instead for destruction—there can be no greater darkness.

Our world resembles darkness because everything in it is distorted: where there is a prohibition, we see a path to our goal, and where our true goal lies, we see obstacles. The Greeks took one of the most important things that helps us become more elevated and pure—beauty—and used it to serve base instincts, leaving only the superficial. This is a tremendous distortion of the world, a great falsehood. That is precisely why the sages called Greek culture darkness—when it is unclear where good and evil lie, and everything is confused. What can help us find the right path? The Torah and the words of the sages, which are like a candle illuminating the darkness for us.

Prepared by A. Schwalb.