Mitzvot are like clear crystals. A crystal may appear blue or yellow, depending on how the light strikes it, but the crystal itself has no color at all. The hue exists only in the eye of the beholder, depending on his viewpoint.
There are two ways to look at each mitzva, subjectively and objectively. Subjectively, each mitzva has a special quality to it. Matza on Passover, hearing the shofar on Rosh Hashana, wearing tefilin and giving charity; each mitzva has its own particular reason and meaning, radiating with a different light.
But objectively, the best reason for doing a mitzva is that it has no reason. At its purest level, a mitzva expresses nothing but our commitment to G‑d, plain and simple. In this respect, all mitzvot equally express faith, obedience and commitment. We observe because we are so commanded, regardless of the reason. "I'm doing this just for you" is the greatest expression of pure, unadulterated love.
Both aspects of a mitzva are important, and both have advantages. Something that is emotionally satisfying is easier to assimilate within ourselves. Yet, explanations by apologetics detract from the essence of pure identification with G‑d. The love becomes conditional and subjective.
Like seasoning, too much reasoning is in bad taste. "I love my son; he's a great tennis player." But what if he wasn't great? Rather than enhancing the love between father and son, the relationship is amiss if it must resort to reason. Love should be a matter of fact, not a matter of opinion.
"It feels good to help the poor." "I like Shabbat because gefilte fish tastes great." "It's nice to take a day off and rest." "Kosher is healthier." The good feeling may make a mitzva more palatable, but it also dilutes its essence. We don't follow the commandment per se, but pursue our selfish personal interests and ulterior motives.
These two aspects are referred to in the verse from this week's Ethics of the Fathers, "Make your will as His...Void your will..."
Do not say, "I hate bacon," but rather, "I'd enjoy eating it, but my Heavenly Father has forbidden me" (Talmud).
From Blossoms, by Rabbi Israel Rubin
