From Gift to Purpose — Why Life Isn’t Just a Blessing, But a Mission

In my last blog, I wrote about how life — in any form — is a gift. It’s not a right. It’s not a guarantee. Simply being alive is an act of kindness from Hashem — a matnat chinam, as the Maharal and Rav Chaim Friedlander explain: a free gift we could never earn and can never repay.

But in this blog, I want to take that idea one step further — and clarify something essential.

Because while life in this world is a gift, it’s not the ultimate one. The real gift is the possibility of eternal life in the World to Come — a reward that must be earned in this world. And that’s precisely why every moment we are given here is so precious. Each moment is an opportunity. Each breath is a chance to earn something eternal.

A gift, left untouched, can become passive.A mission, on the other hand, demands movement.

And Hashem didn’t create us just to receive life in this world— He created us to achieve life in its truest, most lasting form.

As the Ramchal writes in Derech Hashem (1:2):

"התכלית שגזרה חכמתו העליונה בבריאת האדם, הוא להיות מתענג על ה' ולהנות מזיו שכינתו... ורצה יתברך שמו שתהיה לאדם ההכנה לזה בזכות עצמו... ולכן סדר שימצא העולם הזה בהיותו מקום הסתר ופירוד."

“The ultimate purpose for which Hashem created man is so that he may delight in Him and enjoy the radiance of His presence… But Hashem willed that man attain this good through his own efforts… and therefore, He designed this world to be a place of concealment and separation.”

In other words: Hashem created us to ultimately do good to us — leheitiv lo b’acharito — but that good cannot simply be handed over. It must be earned.

This world is not the prize. It’s the proving ground.

The gift of life, then, is really the gift of opportunity — the opportunity to choose, to grow, and to become worthy of eternal life. As Pirkei Avot teaches:

רַבִּי יַעֲקֹב אוֹמֵר: הָעוֹלָם הַזֶּה דּוֹמֶה לִפְרוֹזְדוֹר בִּפְנֵי הָעוֹלָם הַבָּא; הַתְקֵן עַצְמְךָ בַפְּרוֹזְדוֹר, כְּדֵי שֶׁתִּכָּנֵס לִטְרַקְלִין.

“This world is like a corridor before the World to Come; prepare yourself in the corridor so that you may enter the banquet hall.”

(Avot 4:16)

We weren’t put here just to exist.

We were put here to choose — to fight the yetzer hara, to do mitzvot, to serve Hashem — and through that, to become vessels worthy of eternal good.

So while my previous message was:“You are alive. And that is already a gift…” Today’s message is: “…and if you’re alive, you have a purpose.”

Because a life without purpose is just breath. But a life with purpose — even in pain — becomes meaning. Becomes mission. Becomes eternal.

Against Your Will: Why You’re Here, Even When It’s Hard

📖 Mishnah — Pirkei Avot 4:22

רבי אלעזר הקפר אומר:...על כרחך אתה נוצר, ועל כרחך אתה נולד, ועל כרחך אתה חי, ועל כרחך אתה מת, ועל כרחך אתה עתיד ליתן דין וחשבון לפני מלך מלכי המלכים, הקדוש ברוך הוא.

Rabbi Elazar HaKappar says: “Against your will you are formed, against your will you are born, against your will you live, against your will you die, and against your will you will give an accounting before the King of Kings, the Holy One, blessed be He.”

The Obvious Question

What always troubled me about this Mishnah is how contradictory it sounds. How can someone live against their will — and also die against their will?

If a person doesn’t want to die, that usually means they want to live.

And if someone doesn’t want to live — then surely they wouldn’t mind dying?

It feels logically impossible to oppose both life and death at the same time.

And I’m actually relieved to know that this wasn’t just my question — because I’ve since seen that this same contradiction has bothered others as well. Classic commentaries raise it, and offer some very deep answers.

Answer #1 — You’re Not In Control (The Maharal's Explanation)

The Maharal of Prague, in his commentary on Pirkei Avot (Derech Chaim 4:22), addresses this contradiction directly. He explains that the phrase "על כרחך" — "against your will" — doesn’t mean that a person is resisting life or death. Rather, it means: you’re not the one in control. Your will isn’t what determines these things.

"ואמר כי כל עניין האדם הוא בעל כרחו, כי אין האדם אדון לעצמו, רק השם יתברך אדון עליו."

“He says that every stage of a person’s existence is against their will — because man is not the master of himself. Only Hashem, blessed be He, is master over him.”

We didn’t choose to be created. We didnt sign up for life on a Google Form opt-in. We didn’t ask to be born. We remain alive not because we willed it — but because Hashem sustains us. And one day, we will die — not because we decide to, but because He decrees it.

This Mishnah, says the Maharal, isn’t about preference — it’s about control. Life and death are not in our hands. They never were.

Even people going through suffering often cling to life — not necessarily because they love it, but because deep down, we all sense that our time is not up to us. Even those who treasure life will one day have to let go — because this life is on loan from the One who gave it.

It’s humbling. And it’s meant to be.

Because when we accept that we are not in charge of our beginning or our end, we’re reminded to focus on the only thing we are in charge of: what we do in between.

Answer #2 — The Soul and the Body Want Different Things

A deeper explanation — brought by several mefarshim — focuses not on control, but on conflict.

The contradiction in the Mishnah — living and dying against our will — reflects the constant tension between soul and body, two opposing forces that define human life.

• The neshama (soul) is divine. It comes from above and longs for closeness to Hashem.

• The guf (body) is physical. It wants comfort, pleasure, and survival.

  
  

So:

• The soul doesn’t want to live in this world. It didn’t ask to descend. Its natural state is basking in Divine light.

• The body doesn’t want to die. It fears separation and clings to physical life — even in suffering.

  
  

That’s why the Mishnah says:

"ועל כרחך אתה חי, ועל כרחך אתה מת"

“Against your will you live, and against your will you die.”

It’s not one will — it’s two:

• You live — against the will of the soul

• You die — against the will of the body

  
  

But this tension isn’t a flaw in creation. It’s the design of creation.

As the Ramchal explains in Derech Hashem (1:3):

“Therefore, man was created with two opposing elements — the spiritual soul and the physical body — and placed in an environment where both influences exist. He is given the ability to choose between them… and if he chooses correctly, he perfects himself and earns closeness to Hashem.”

This is the system:

Hashem wants to do good to us in our end — leheitiv lo b’acharito — but for that good to be meaningful, we have to earn it. That’s why He placed us in a world of struggle and contradiction. A world where:

• The soul wants growth. The body wants rest.

• The soul longs for Hashem. The body craves comfort.

• The soul wants to serve. The body wants to survive.

  
  

And the more we choose soul over body — the more we align our lives with our higher selves — the more we become worthy of the eternal pleasure Hashem created us for.

So this contradiction — living and dying against our will — isn’t just a philosophical puzzle.

It’s the very arena in which reward is earned.

It’s where greatness happens.

Answer #3 — A Personal Thought

The next idea is something I’ve been thinking about for a while. I haven’t seen it brought down anywhere, and I’m not claiming it’s true in a halachic or hashkafic sense. It’s just a thought — a reflection. But it’s helped me make sense of this Mishnah in a more personal, human way.

The Mishnah sounds contradictory at first because we assume it’s talking about the same person, at the same time. How can someone both not want to live, and also not want to die?

But maybe it’s not a contradiction at all.

Maybe the Mishnah is speaking about different kinds of people. The one's who have easy lives (in material & physical terms) and the one's who have difficult lives (again in material and physical terms).

There are people whose lives are materially easy. Comfortable. Secure. And for them, the Mishnah is saying:“עַל כָּרְחֲךָ אַתָּה מֵת” — You will die, whether you’re ready or not.Don’t get lulled into thinking this will last forever. No amount of money or pleasure or planning can delay the inevitable. This life — as good as it feels — is not the point. Don’t waste it chasing things that won’t follow you to the grave.

And then there are people whose lives are hard. Painful. Nothing comes easy. Every day is survival. And to them, the Mishnah says:“עַל כָּרְחֲךָ אַתָּה חַי” — You didn’t choose this. But you’re still here. You may not want this life. You may not understand it. But it was given to you by the One who knows your soul. Don’t give up. Don’t check out. Because your presence still matters. Even if it doesn’t feel like it right now.

For a long time, that’s how I read the Mishnah. Different people. Different messages. And then — everything changed.

My wife got cancer.

And in one moment, the whole frame shattered. My life didn’t just change — it collapsed. The version of me that once existed… evaporated. And suddenly, I realised:

Maybe the Mishnah isn’t describing different types of people.Maybe it’s describing you — me — the same person, at different stages of life.

And when you read it that way, the Mishnah flows more smoothly. It becomes a deeply personal message, almost like a quiet whisper from above:

“Against your will you were created. Against your will you live. Against your will you die. And against your will you will give an account.”

Instead of seeing the middle phrases — “you live” and “you die” — as referring to two different people born into radically different circumstances, maybe they’re describing two chapters in one life. The joyful ones. The painful ones. The seasons when life feels like a blessing — and the ones when it feels like a burden.

Same person. Different moment.

There are times in life when life feels full — when you’re surrounded by people you love, when things are working, when there’s a quiet sense of meaning or joy humming in the background. In those moments, death feels like the greatest thief. We want this life. We want more of it. More time. More memories. We don’t want to let go.

And then there are days — darker days — when just getting out of bed feels like too much. When even breathing feels like an effort. When you’re so deep in pain, or exhaustion, or fear… that you start to wonder how you’ll survive the next hour, let alone the next week.

And in those moments, it’s not death that feels against your will. It’s life.

The Mishna can be talking about one person and different stages of their life.

They start off healthy. Things are working. Life feels manageable, even beautiful. Hashem is there, but distant. A spare wheel — there if you get a puncture, but not really the focus of the journey. And the Mishnah cautions: “עַל כָּרְחֲךָ אַתָּה מֵת” You will die. You don’t know when. Don’t forget why you’re here. Don't think of Hashem as the spare wheel, only called on in times of need.

But then one diagnosis later — and everything can turn upside down. In under 5 minutes with an oncologist, in 3 words, that world shatters.

The job disappears. The savings dry up. The fear is constant. The pain is relentless. The person wakes up and wonders how they’ll make it through the day. And they whisper, or scream, or sob:

“עַל כָּרְחֲךָ אַתָּה חַי”

I don’t know how to do this. I don’t want to do this. But I’m still here.

And those people realise, Hashem is the steering wheel. He was the steering wheel the whole time.

Is Hashem your spare wheel or steering wheel?

So maybe the Mishnah is not pointing out a contradiction at all. Maybe it’s describing the reality of being human:

• Sometimes life feels against your will.

• Sometimes death feels against your will.

• And sometimes — heartbreakingly — you can feel both in the same day.

  
  

But underneath it all, one truth still holds:

You are not here by accident. Whether you feel ready for it or not, whether you understand it or not —your life was chosen for you by the One who knows your soul best.

Even when it’s hard. Even when it feels too heavy. Even when you don’t know why you’re here.

You are here because your presence matters. Because your mission isn’t over. Because — as the Ramchal said — Hashem wants to do good to you in your end. And He believes you can earn it.

So What Is the Purpose of Life?

If all of this — the tension, the struggle, the conflicting wills — is by design, then we have to ask: What is the actual purpose of life?

At the most basic level, the answer is what we’ve already said: To choose good over bad. To overcome the yetzer hara. To earn eternal closeness to Hashem.

That’s true for everyone — universally. It’s the framework the Ramchal describes: Hashem placed us in this world of concealment so that we could deserve the pleasure of the next. So we could rise through resistance. Grow through struggle. And be rewarded for choosing light in a world of darkness.

But there’s more to it than that.

Because if life were only about earning reward, then every person’s journey would look the same. But it doesn’t.

Some lives are long and full. Others are painfully short. Some people are born into Torah and mitzvot. Others discover them later — or never at all. Some carry deep pain. Others seem to float through life with ease.

Why?

Because above and beyond the universal mission to choose good, there’s something else: A unique tafkid. A personal mission that only you can fulfill.

From Tafkid to Truth: You Are Here for Something Only You Can Do

This idea — that each soul has a unique mission — is not just a nice motivational slogan. It’s deeply rooted in our tradition.

The Baal HaTanya speaks about each person’s tafkid — their distinct spiritual task — using language that emphasizes the irreplaceable value of every soul. But the concept itself predates him by centuries.

Rav Chaim Vital, the closest disciple of the Arizal, writes:

"Each person must know that he was not created for no reason. Rather, he has a specific tikkun, and he must search to discover it. For one person it may be in Torah, for another in acts of kindness… every soul has its own rectification."

(Sefer Shaarei Kedusha, Introduction)

This is a powerful and early articulation of the idea that every soul has a unique spiritual assignment — and that failing to recognize this can lead to a wasted life.

You weren’t just created to do good.

You were created to do your good.

The Book of Yonah — A Soul on the Run

To understand the idea of tafkid — a personal, divinely-appointed mission — there may be no better parable in Tanach than Sefer Yonah. And no deeper commentary on it than the Vilna Gaon’s.

The Vilna Gaon writes that the story of Yonah isn’t just a narrative about a prophet who ran from his mission. It’s a mashal — a spiritual allegory for every human soul.

In his commentary, he explains:

• Yonah represents the neshama — the soul — sent from the higher realms to this world to fulfill a mission.

  
  

• Hashem’s call to Yonah — “Go to Ninveh” — is the moment the soul is assigned its tafkid.

  
  

• Yonah fleeing to Tarshish - The rebellion against one's tafkid. Choosing distraction or comfort over duty.

  
  

• The ship represents the body — the vessel that carries the soul through the world, tossed and turned by life’s storms.

• The storm is suffering — the discomfort Hashem sends to awaken a person to their purpose.

  
  

• The sailors represent the limbs and faculties of the body — confused, trying all sorts of solutions, but ultimately powerless to still the storm without confronting the real issue: a soul fleeing its mission.

  
  

• Being thrown into the sea is death — the moment of separation between soul and body.

  
  

• The great fish represents Gehinnom or a space of internal reckoning — not necessarily punishment, but a forced pause for reflection.

• Yonah’s prayer inside the fish is the soul’s teshuvah — its realization, mid-journey, that it can still return.

  
  

• Being spat out onto dry land is a second chance — a new life, a new mission, a return to purpose.

  
  

• Yonah finally going to Ninveh symbolizes a soul that embraces its tafkid — and acts on it.

  
  

It’s not just Yonah’s story. It’s ours.

Each of us is sent into this world with a task only we can fulfill. And just like Yonah — we often resist. We run toward Tarshish. Toward the easier, quieter life. Away from fear. Away from responsibility. Away from pain. Away from our mission.

But eventually, the storm finds us. Not out of cruelty — but out of love. Hashem disrupts our comfort to remind us:

You didn’t come here to drift.

You came to go to Ninveh. You came to heal something. To fix something. To bring something only your soul can bring.

And maybe that’s another eason Sefer Yonah is read every year on Yom Kippur — at the holiest, most honest moment of the Jewish year.

Because it’s not just a story of running away. It’s a story of turning back.

A reminder that no matter how far we’ve run — or how much time we’ve lost — we can still return to our tafkid. We can still go to Ninveh. We can still do what we were sent here to do.

Erech vs. Neder: Two Ways to Declare Value

The Torah outlines two distinct types of vows a person can make when donating to the Beit HaMikdash — each expressing a different dimension of human value.

1. Erech (ערך):This is when someone says:“I pledge my (or someone else's) erech — my Torah-defined value — to the Temple.” In this case, the amount is fixed by the Torah, based solely on the individual’s age and gender. It doesn’t matter if the person is wealthy or poor, healthy or frail — the Torah assigns a set value based on who they are, not what they can do.

   
   

2. Neder Damim (נדר דמים): This is a more personal kind of vow. The person says:“I pledge the value of this individual to the Temple.” In this case, the value is determined by a market appraisal — how much this person would be worth if sold as a slave. It depends on their physical strength, health, and productivity. A strong, healthy individual may be worth a great deal. Someone elderly, frail, or disabled may be appraised at a far lower amount.

   
   

The Alshich: Erech Reflects Spiritual Value

Noting that the Torah differentiates between erech and neder, the Alshich HaKadosh explains that we can understand the meaning of erech by contrast. A neder, he says, reflects purely physical value — based on one’s market worth. Therefore, erech, by contrast, must reflect spiritual value.

Following this derush, we can draw several powerful insights:

1. While physical worth fluctuates, spiritual worth is constant.

With regards to a your Erech, your spiritual value, the Gemara uses the phrase “nefesh kol dahu” — even the smallest spark of life is still a nefesh. In neder terms, a person who is elderly or severely ill may have almost no physical value (as measured by slave-market standards). But when it comes to erech, they are worth exactly the same as the strongest person in their generation.

On a deeper, drash level — in the spirit of the Alshich — we can say that as long as a person is alive, they have an erech. As long as you can stand — even barely. As long as your neshama is within you —you have value. You have purpose. You have a mission.

Contrast that with a neder, where your value decreases with every physical decline. But your erech? It stays the same — as long as you are alive.

2. Heseg Yad — Fixed Obligation vs. Evaluated Capacity

There’s another major difference between erech and neder — one that teaches something profound about how Hashem evaluates us.

When someone pledges an erech, the Torah assigns a fixed amount. But if the person can’t afford that amount, the Kohen evaluates what they can afford — and that becomes their obligation. No more. Even if they later become wealthy, they are not obligated to make up the difference.

A neder, however, doesn’t work that way. You pledge the value — and that value stands. If you can’t pay now, you are still obligated to pay the full amount later. There’s no adjustment for your financial situation at the time of the vow.

The Torah’s Message: You’re Judged by Effort, Not Outcome

Returning to the Alshich’s insight: If a neder reflects physical value, and an erech reflects spiritual value —then we learn something fundamental about how Hashem sees us.

In spiritual matters, you’re judged by effort — not by outcome.

Your erech reflects your essence — your soul, your mission, your presence in the world.

In the physical world, effort doesn’t always count. If you work hard but fail to produce results, your employer probably won't not pay you.

But Hashem isn’t an employer.

He’s a Father.

And in the spiritual realm,

your effort is the result.

Your job in this world adapts to your reality. It’s fulfilled when you give the best you can at the time —even if that looks like almost nothing to the outside world.

Because Hashem isn’t counting coins. He’s looking at kavanah.

Wrapping Up: From Gift to Mission

In the last blog, we explored the idea that life is a gift — a matnat chinam, unearned and undeserved. In this one, we’ve gone deeper: Life isn’t just a gift. It’s an opportunity. A mission.

Hashem didn’t just give us breath — He gave us a purpose. A unique tafkid that each soul was created to fulfill. And that mission isn’t one-size-fits-all. It’s tailor-made. Every soul is placed in the exact circumstances needed to do its work.

My understanding of the Mishna in AVos is the following: Some people are given easy lives — comfortable, even luxurious. Their test is to not be distracted by the the materialism. To remember: "על כרחך אתה מת" — “Against your will, you will die.” Because no amount of wealth or ease can prevent that. This world is a corridor, not the destination.

Others live with pain. With fear. With relentless struggle. And for them, the message is: "על כרחך אתה חי" — “Against your will, you live.” You’re not here to coast. You're not a tourist. You’re here on a mission — one that requires this pain, this test, this precise form of difficulty. It’s not a punishment. It’s a calling.

If Hashem is still giving you life, that means your work is not yet done. You still have spiritual potential. You still have something to fix, to grow, to elevate.

Even if you haven’t achieved it yet — the opportunity is still there.

And that brings us full circle — to the message of Arachin.

Arachin: The Equal Value of Every Soul

The Torah’s valuation system teaches something radical: Every person has the same spiritual value.

Some are wealthy. Some are poor. Some are strong and thriving. Others are sick or struggling. But none of that changes their erech — their core worth in Hashem’s eyes.

Why? Because each soul is assigned a unique mission, and Hashem places them in the precise circumstances needed to fulfill it. And here’s the key: All missions are equally important.

You’re not judged on someone else’s tafkid.

You’re judged on your own.

Whether you fulfilled it with the tools you were given.

Did you pass or did you fail.

That’s the great equalizer.

And that’s why we keep going — even when life feels like a burden. Even when every day feels like a struggle. Because “על כרחך אתה חי”  is not a sentence of suffering. It’s a reminder that your circumstance may be out of your control, but as long as you are alive, you still have unlimited spiritual potential.

As Chazal say:

"יש קונה עולמו בשעה אחת" 

— “One can acquire their entire world in a single moment.”

One moment of clarity.

One real tefillah.

One act of emunah in the middle of despair.

That alone can tip the scale of your existence.

Your Best Is Enough

And if you’re thinking:

What can I possibly do while I’m sick, weak, or completely incapacitated?

The Torah answers:

“כְּפִי אֲשֶׁר תַּשִּׂיג יַד הַנּוֹדֵר” — “As his hand can reach…” (Vayikra 27:8)

Hashem doesn’t ask for more than you can give. He doesn’t compare you to anyone else. He judges you according to your reality.

All He wants is your best — as your hand can reach. In your circumstances. With your limitations. With your pain.

And that’s enough.

Because in Hashem’s eyes, your struggle is your service.

And as long as you’re still here —you still have something to give.

Final Words: From Struggle to Strength

Some days really do feel like “על כרחך אתה חי” —Like you’re being pushed through life rather than walking it. When every breath, every task, every hour feels heavy.

But that’s not the full story. Because we see life as a mission.

And as long as that mission is ongoing, we hold on — with strength, with faith, and with everything we’ve got.

To Those Holding Us Up

To everyone who’s been saying Tehillim, doing mitzvot, or taking on small acts of chessed in our merit —Please hear this clearly:

We’re not counting how many chapters you’ve said.

We are in awe that you’ve said them at all — in the middle of your own chaos. With deadlines. With sick kids. With emotional exhaustion.

You carved out moments for us —And Hashem sees that.

Because the real currency of the soul isn’t quantity. It’s kavanah. It's sincerity. It’s not how much you did, but how much you did in your circumstances.

“כְּפִי אֲשֶׁר תַּשִּׂיג יָדוֹ” 

— what your hand can reach.

And what you’ve reached for — with love and effort —has lifted us more than you know.

So thank you. Deeply.

For walking this journey with us. For standing with us in the hard days.For reminding us — through your actions — that even in darkness, there is light.That even in pain, there is purpose.