Succas
by
Joe Bobker
Four
days in Autumn. Thats all there is between Yom Kippur and Succas
– a back-to-back spiritual contiguity of dramatic differences:
from awe-n-fasting to wine-n-feasting, a change of mood that
is sudden and striking. Yet although we emerge renewed in a
state of spiritual exhilaration, we must now face the hesitant
reality, as the question looms large: "Where shall we go
from here?"
This
brilliant rabbinic vehicle, of sharp contrast and sudden disparity,
is an effective tool to jolt Jewish memory away from the Book
of Death and refocus on the Book of Life.
Yom
Kippur’s overwhelming influence, and its power to expiate sins,
extends into these emotionally charged four days that correspond
to the four letters of God’s Ineffable Name. These four post-Yom
Kippur days (when Jews are so busy preparing for Succas that
they – theoretically – have no time to sin)
[1] allows the Jew to time to settle back, a spiritual
decompression mechanism, an "offset" for the (minimum)
four days of predatory s’lichos that fall before Rosh Hashanah.
Although
Jews break the ascetic Yom Kippur fast mainly by themselves,
or amongst family at home, there is a sense of solidarity that
lingers on: not only have we all survived a day-long experience
of solemn reflection but we, still as a group, now enter another
holiday together. But Succas comes as no post-Yom Kippur surprise
attack: the fast day contains many distinctive reminders of
spiritual flexibility; Yom Kippur’s closing-of-the-gates ne’ilah
imagery itself suggestive of a Festival of Joy fast approaching,
including the haftora choice where the first thing Yonah ben
Amittai does (after being belched out of the belly of a whale
suffering from indigestion) is
build a succa! [2]
Succas,
a seven-day fall harvest festival in Israel, begins on Tishrei
15th and ends nine days later with Simchat Torah, a festival
that has no other mitzva other than mandating simcha
[3] as soulmate, a Rejoice before God halachik demand
that banishes all Nazirite-style moods of doom n gloom.
[4] But wait: is it "7" or "9" days?
Actually, in the diaspora it’s only eight days. [5] Confused? Don’t be. In Israel only the first
and eighth day are full festival days; the latter (Shemeni Atzeret)
added by Ezra with the ninth day (Simchat Torah) tacked-on later
in the Middle Ages; the two then being combined into one day.
The third through sixth days are known as chol hamoed
("intermediary days") whilst the seventh day (Hoshana
Rabba) is, technically, the end of yomtov.
Succas
has no shortage of official titles: ha-Hag, "The
Festival," Hag ha-Asif, "The Feast of the Gathering
of the Harvest," Hag Adonai, "God’s Festival"
and finally, its most popular name: Zman Simchateunu,
"The Time of our Rejoicing." [6] The word ‘Sukkot’ appears for
the first time in the Torah
[7] as the name that Jacob calls the city he lives in after
parting ways with his brother Esau, the first city that the
patriarch establishes peacefully in the holy land since fleeing,
some twenty-two years earlier, his ant-monotheistic gentile
uncle (Lavan). Talmudists are intrigued that Succas is mentioned
no less than three times within the Torahs "cycle of festivals;"
first in parshas Emor in its correct chronological order,
then suddenly again, appearing twice, as if as an addendum.
Why? Because Succas is both part of a major (that of the pilgrimage
festivals) and minor cycle (the festivals of Tishrei); the former
being more "jewish" (ie: Pesach and Shavuos being
more particular to Israel)
whilst the latter (ie: Rosh Hashanna) being more universal.
Succas
thus straddles both worlds, a unique position that is reflected
in the mitzvas of building a succa (which came first), and the
arba minim (the Biblically-mandated four species) which
came later when the Jews, now esconded in the holy land no longer
as a "solitary nation" but as a challenge to become
a light unto all nations. [8] That is why the arba minim
are waved in all directions, an outward act, in the direction
of the peoples of the world
and why it lies at a pivotal point
in the Jewish calendar between Pesach and Rosh Hashanna, a Time
tunnel where we get no respite and barely have time to catch
our breath [9] as Jews hop aboard a roller-coaster of Jewish festivals, from
seder to omer to Shavuos into a Three Week refuge only to emerge
smack into the heavy Elul-Tishrei months where no less than
twenty-four days (between Rosh Hashanna and Simchat Torah) are
designated "holy" days.
No
wonder I always welcomed Succas as a form of relief, a calendar
alleviation, a Judaic redress of sorts, a final stop to the
most busiest, longest and intensely regulated stretch of festivals
in the Jewish calendar, in sharp contrast to the next six months
that, with the exception of Chanukka, are calendar-free, until
Purim.
The
fact that the Torah immediately staples Succas to Yom Kippur
is why Jews are warned not to stall, dilly dally, delay or procrastinate
in building a succa the moment Yom Kippur ends. Halachists are
of the opinion that this construction is either an integral
part of the actual mitzva of dwelling in the succa, since the
special blessing on building is called la’asot sukka,
or that the construction is a separate mitzva in and of itself. [10] However even if one does not
participate in building a succa they are not me’akev be-dieved,
deprived of the mitzva of dwelling inside.
The
Torah instructs Jews to take the esrog and lulav bayom harishon,
on the first day, but fails to tell us: the first day of
what? Our Sages answer the first day of calculating our sins.
But didnt we just do that? Isnt that what those Ten Days of
Awe were all about? Yes, and no. The days of zman simchateinu
are also continuing days of spiritual refreshment, a sort of
spiritual hang-over that becomes obvious on Hashanna Rabba
when we reread parts of Yom Kippurs neilah. An early Hebraic
manuscript has the following order: bRosh Hashanah yishafeitun,
(On Rosh Hashana we are judged), uveYom Tzom Kippur yikateivun,
(on Yom Kippur we are inscribed), and finally uveHoshaanah
Rabbah yechateimun (on Hashana Rabba we are sealed.)
This
sudden contrast falls in the category of vegilu birada vayihad,
to serve God with happiness tempered with trembling. King
David eloquently expressed this in song, I feared in my joy,
and I rejoiced in my fear, the 19th-century philosopher
Kierkegaard in philosophy, Just as it takes moral courage to
grieve, then equally, it takes religious courage to rejoice,
and Rabbi Yehuda haLevi in poetry, dividing the Torah into two
emotionally diametrically opposite parts: one of fear and awe,
one of love and joy, to emphasize that some mitzvas lead to
God through fear, others through happiness. [11]
The
sudden proximity of Yom Kippur to Succas gives us a healthy
dose of both, and we waste no time jumping from one to the other.
The moment the fast day ends, Jews immediately plunge into an
entire week of unique activities, a week that not only contains
far more mitzvas than any other Jewish festival, but one that
assaults our senses, invades our smells and challenges our labor.
[12] I remember how my sister and I would rush home from
shul the moment Yom Kippur ended, our empty growling stomachs
sending us straight to the kitchen. But not our father who,
surely just as hungry, went straight to the backyard to start
building a makeshift succa. Why? Because my fathers spiritual
drive was more potent than the hunger drive. [13]
Jewish
law not only mandates to build and decorate a temporary hut
but also to spread out in search of the fruit of goodly trees,
branches of palm trees, boughs of thick leafy trees, and willows
of the brook. [14] These are the arbah minim, held tightly
together to become as one unit for the mitzva of na’anu’im
(wavings), with the esrog in the left hand, and the lulav, three
hadasim and two aravot, tied in a bundle, in the right. What
if any one is missing? Then the whole is not acceptable.
Hadasim
consists of three shiny myrtle leaves, Aravot are two sprigs
of delicate willows. Why willows? Because the willow is associated
with the river which in turn is a reminder of the life-giving
quality of water. The lulav is a tall, beautiful, green and
scentless palm branch that was once the national emblem of ancient
Israel. Our Sages compare
its straightness to Judaic righteousness. The esrog looks like,
but is not, a lemon. All esrogs may be created equal but some
are more halachically equal than others: a quality esrog is
symmetrical, elongated, half-green-half-yellow, thick skinned,
a bumpy surface with an indentation around the stem. The Torah’s
description of the esrog as a beautiful pri etz hadar
[15] led our Jewish mystics to deduce it was a citron.
How? Because the three Hebrew letters of hadar, which
means to dwell, resembled the Greek word hydro, which
means "water;" with the dar within hadar
meaning "permanence" (as in the English, to "endure.")
So? Well, the citron happens to be the only fruit of Israel
that requires constant irrigation (hydro) to ensure its growth
(hadar).
Archeological
digs in Israel have revealed that even during battle (eg; Bar
Kochbas revolt), Jewish soldiers were supplied with the arbah
minim; a mitzva so important that it has fueled an enormous
industry as nearly two-hundred-thousand esrogim are imported
from Israel into America each year, driving the cost of mitzva
performance sky-high. The rabbis of pre-War Europe, highly
sensitive about the financial burdens of yomtov, encouraged
two esrog-lulav sets per community: one for the town rav, one
for the entire kehilla (in contrast to todays custom where every
family member has the need for their own esrog-lulav). The Baal
Shem Tov, concerned about the high price of esrogim, formed
the acronym of etrog from the Psalmist’s, Bring me
not to the path of arrogance. [16]
In
der heim (the shtetl) the esrog was considered a symbol
of birth itself. My mother would describe how Polish women,
when experiencing difficult pregnancies, slept with an esrog
under their pillows in the belief that its presence ameliorated
child-birth pain. This folk custom is derived from the fact
that an esrog grows out of, and is formed from, the pitum
that, according to the rabbis of the Talmud, helps Jewish
mothers conceive fragrant Jewish children. That is why many
Jews hold on to the esrog after the end of Succas when it is
no longer a halachik object. I remember in our shul how some
of the children would use the esrog as a playtoy, or a throwing
ball, which caused the women, Polish-Holocaust survivors all,
to react with rage because they treasured the pitum as
a symbol of Life itself.
Kabbalists
loved Succas because of all its symbols, and gave the Four Species
the mystic honor of representing Mankind; with the willow acting
as a symbolic mouth allowing food to enter; the lulav as the
Spine; the myrtle the Eyes; the esrog the Heart. Using gematria,
the Gerer Rebbe, Yehuda Aryeh Leib, often reminded his chassidim
that the numerical value of lulav was 68, the same as
chayim, which means life. It was this strong association
with life that Jewish weddings (the traditional vanguard to
having children) traditionally had an abundance of hadassim-style
leaves on the chuppa, and why fathers would give their sons
a myrtle plant headgear wreath to wear at their wedding. [17]
When
the arba minim are held and shaken in all directions
they symbolize the collective survival of the nation of Israel;
a theme of continuity that places the very air and atmosphere
into a succa no matter where it is located in the world. This
mystic component, one that transcends Space, is derived from
an order by Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai that the lulav, which
was originally only taken to Jerusalem for seven days, was to
be disbursed everywhere, zecher le Mikdash, in memory
of a destroyed Temple. It is from here that Succas, by adding
the dimensions of Time, gained the reputation of being the Festival
of Wandering, acting as Jewish historys spiritual compass,
a direct link (shevach)
[18] between a geographic no-mans land (the shameful Egypt
of slavery and the wilderness of Pesach) to a glorious spiritual
underpinning (Shavuos, symbolizing Zion as the final destination),
brilliantly summarized by Rabbi Jonathan Magonet’s, "Egypt
to Sinai is sacred history, Sinai to Zion is sacred geography.
The
popular saying lakol zman, to everything there is a
Season, is literally correct with Succas, the time when you
gather in the results of your work from the field. This helps
explain why the prayer for rain dominates this yomtov, a humble
admission that since the land of Israel drinks water from the
rain of the Heavens, it is heavily dependent on Divine grace
– and, by association, so are its inhabitants who are exposed
to either a Godly punishment ("He will shut up the Heavens
and you will have no rain") or the Mother of all Blessings
("I shall give the rain of your land in its time; the early
rain and the late rain.")
[19]
Succas
closed the agricultural year of an agrarian society, and celebrated
the ingathering of Summer crops. It was the season to roll out
the Judaic Welcome Mat for yoreh, the first rains,
a downpour that brought a welcome bounty of luscious grapes,
delicious dates, delectable plums, savory figs, scrumptious
peaches, juicy apricots, full corn and tall wheat. Who could
ask for anything more!? But it was no sure thing. What if the
harvest had been disappointing and lean? Was the Jew still obligated
to behave as if it were a joyous zman simchateinu? Yes.
In the face of frustration over insufficient crops, Jewish farmers
were ordered to be sameyach with their lot; not in the
sense of being happy but, as the rabbis of Pirkei Avos defined
the word sameyach, as being per se content, satisfied,
appreciative, gratified.
[20]
Rabbi
Eliyahu of Vilna (Gra), [21] considered the custom of greeting
another Jew with a hearty chag sameach, derived from
the Torah command v’samachta bchagecha, "you shall
rejoice on your festival," [22] as the most difficult mitzva
in the Torah. That the Gaon had difficulty with what seems like
a simple, straightforward mitzvah was not surprising to Holocaust
survivor Elie Wiesel
The
Hebrew word chag (festival) has the same root as chug,
which means a circle; interpreted by our mystics as a reminder
that no matter what the wheel of life brings, turning from tragedy
to triumph, it remains the privilege of the Jew to observe the
circle ‘n cycle of the Jewish year; whilst cognizant of the
fact that the religion of Israel is essentially a torat chayim,
a "law of Life" intended to cultivate a happy frame
of mind that pulsates with the joy of existence. The Jew who
does not rejoice, wrote the super arch-rationalist 12th-century
Moshe ben Maimon (Rambam), [23] in the fulfillment of a commandment
deserves to be punished. Why? Because happiness, said the greatest
Jewish philosopher ever, was the highest form of prayer, a
conclusion he reached from the Biblical verse, Because you
did not serve your God with joy. [24] The charismatic chassidic master, Rabbi Nahman
of Breslov, would often caution his students that sadness was
a clever ruse of the yetzer hora, the evil spirit,
whilst encouraging them to keep the three Halachas of Happiness:
always be cheerful, laugh a lot, tell each other jokes.
An
outsider may be forgiven for concluding that the Torah loves
the gaiety of feasts, good dining, happy music and leberdick
dancing, evidenced today by the sumptuousness of Jewish weddings,
barmitzvahs and other life-cycle events that are always marked
by a meal. Why? Because Judaism encourages the act of eating
together, in unity, since it sanctifies the occasion.
This is why Abraham made a feast when his son was weaned; why
the Jews celebrated their Egyptian exodus with a feast; and
why the rabbis of Pirkei Avos criticize those who sit at a table
without a d’var Torah. [25]
When
Nachum Ish Gam-zu shouted, Celebrate your festivals, O Judah
they did exactly that: top Sages gathered in homes, vineyards
and fields for the sole determined purpose to serve with gladness,
come with singing." God, they warned, not only opens "the
halls of Heaven to song but stays away from the Jew unless
he is joyful. But what if he is not? What if his circumstances
are truly tragic, melancholy, bitter? Then, advises Nachum,
he should respond to his plight with the gam zu ltovah
attitude: that this too is for the good. How about the reverse?
Was it possible to get too happy? Yes. In a Talmudic tale
[26] we find Mar, son of Ravina, at his sons wedding concerned
that his rabbinical guests were a wee too merry. So the father
of the groom took an expensive piece of crystal and smashed
it at their feet in a warning to moderate their behavior. [27]
Succas
is such a substantial event that the Torah refers to it twice:
You shall celebrate the Feast of Booths for seven days [and]
you shall live in booths for seven days. Why? Because the Heavens
wanted to stress a point: that future generations know that
I [God] made the Israelite people live in booths when I brought
them out of the land of Egypt.
[28] But if the intent is to pay homage to the Exodus why
is Succas held in Tishrei, a full seven months after
the Jews left Egypt?
Wouldn’t it be more honest (chronologically) to hold it in Nisan,
the first month after the Exodus? The answer has to do with
Mother Nature. Nisan falls in the post-Winter season and the
beginning of Spring (March-April), a natural time for Jews to
want to be outdoors. However, when Jews leave their homes at
the dawn of the Fall season and go out to a succa in Tishrei
(September-October), then this is a great and admirable act
of abeyance to Torah, rather than to Mother Nature.
Succas
was not just the final of the three pilgrimage festivals but
was, by far, the most important of them all, even transcendentally
so. According to legend, when the Messiah arrives all the nations
of the world will ascend to Jerusalem at Succas time.
[29] Its import is emphasized by a halacha that states
if a Jewish farmer can only go to Jerusalem once a year, he
was obligated to go on Succas when more sacrifices (seventy)
took place at the Temple than during any other Jewish festival.
Why seventy? Because this number equaled the seventy nations
in the world, thus symbolizing the unity of mankind.
While
the glory of Rome and the grandeur of Athens were being sung
by poets, our Hebrew Prophets were praising the magnetic draw
of a holy Jerusalem. And nothing seems to have changed over
3,000 years: consider the similarities between a Succas of yesteryear,
as described in Sefer Nehemiah, to scenes we see in Israel
today: So the people went forth…and made themselves booths,
every one upon the roof of his house, and in their courts, and
in the courts of the House of God…and there was great gladness.
In
several colorful places, the Talmud vividly describes the tumult
of those colossal Succas pilgrimages to Jerusalem. [30] The rich Jews arrived on chariots, the poor
on donkeys and camels. Those that had neither, walked. You could
tell who the rich Jews were: the poor carried their own lulavim,
the rich Jews tied their branches together with golden ribbons.
Hillel, the greatest of the Sages of the Second Temple, walked
all the way from Babylon
[31] because he believed that the Torah favored foot pilgrimages.
The other Babylonian Jews started their two-week trek from the
cities of Nahardea and Nisibis in huge shared caravans. Those
that couldnt make it sent along a head tax for the Temple.
Muggers and road robbers were such a problem that rabbis in
the Mishna debate the status of a diaspora Jews stolen head
tax. The Roman government was even forced to provide protection
for the visiting Jewish tourists whilst the historian Josephus
relates how Zamaris, one brave Babylonian Jew, warded off attacks
from thieves. [32]
Once
safely inside the city walls of Jerusalem, the happy Jewish
masses mingled in the merrymaking atmosphere of Vsamachta
bchagecha; a satisfied fulfillment, the years simcha
par exellance. And why not? Yom Kippur was over, and
Jewish life went on in an amazing array of pilgrim parades,
clowns and jovial Torah scholars (men of piety and good works)
all rocking n rolling as jugglers juggled burning torches,
eggs and knives
all to a background sound of flutes, harps and
lyres played by an elegant Levite Band. The ecstatic dances
were a sight to see: chassidim ve’anshei maaseh, pious
Jews (who had lived an entire life free of sin) pranced side-by-side
with baalei teshuva, Jews who had sinned in their past
and were now returning. The first group would sing, Happy
are our youthful years that have not embarrassed our older
years," as the latter joined in, "Happy are our older
years which have atoned for our younger years." Rav Yitzchak
Hutner elaborated that this joint experience of total joy derived
from a commonality of purpose and a desire of unity to show
that neither group could say their joy was greater.
[33]
Every
day before dawn, except on Shabbas, the priests would assemble
at the Nicanor Gate and blow trumpets to herald in a spectacular
water-drawing ceremony known as simchat bet hasho-evah,
"the Rejoicing of the Bet ha-Shoevah," which consisted
of other priests pouring water from Jerusalem’s sweet springs
of Siloam over the altar under the watchful eyes of thousands
of Jews. The crowds were so large and boisterous that a gallery
was erected in the "Court of the Women" (ezrat
nashim) out of fear that the overflow of men into the women’s
section would lead to levity and immorality. It is from here
we learn that Judaism frowns on mixed seating in shul ("It
was enacted that the women should sit above and the men below")
although it was already customary that men and women should
pray separately. How do we know? Because when the Jews crossed
the Red Sea Moses and the men, and Miriam and the women, sang
their songs of thanksgiving separately,
[34] a practice that J.B. Soloveitchik (the Rav)
was to describe as "the Jewish spirit of prayer."
[35]
On
the first Autumn night of hol hamoed Succas, wicks were
made out of the priests old clothes for the purpose of lighting
up gigantic candelabras. As the crowd rollicked and frolicked
towards the Temple, no Jew dared stay indoors, none dared not
participate. These festivities were the annual epitome of ye-old-worlde-Judaic-Charm;
a Judaic Disneyworld with theologic undertones. Remember: the
cause of happiness was also related to something more immediate,
more pragmatic. The harvest of farming had just ended, and the
seeds that fed families had been planted; soon the crops would
grow and hungry Jewish children fed.
Our
Sages designated Succas not as a time of, but as the
time of rejoicing. Is there a difference? Yes, a crucial one.
It is easy to forget, in the midst of all the hustle n bustle,
that there are only three Torah-mandated mitzvahs for Succas:
to dwell in a sukka (lyeshev b’sukka), to gather the
four species, and to be happy. The latter command is mentioned
no less than three times! It explains why the Talmud calls Jews
who fast on Succas sinners, why King Solomon chose this time
to dedicate the Temple in Jerusalem, and why the most popular
greeting is the simple Hag Sameach, have a Happy Holiday.
Our Sages were so concerned that no Jew miss out on this joy
that they even prescribed that parents bring their infant children
into the succa as soon as they no longer need their mother
(defined as the time a child can wake up at night and not cry
for a parent). Why? Because a mans joy is greatest, observed
Rav Shlomo Ephraim Lunschitz (Kli Yakar),
[36] when his family is with him in his own home. [37]
The
Talmuds determined dogma of unadulterated gladness, joy and
simcha has created a fascinating custom; a rare exception to
halacha. The mitzva to live, eat and sleep in a succa is subordinated
to ones level of comfort; despite a well-established Torah precept
that discomfort or annoyance are invalid reasons to avoid a
command. The ruling comes from Raba: Dwell, but dont suffer
for it (mitztaer patur min hasukka), [38] a prime example of the rabbinic
concept of a ptur, a situation that exempts one from
the obligation to do a mitzva. This spiritual loophole is unique,
unheard of in a Sinai law in which there is no other positive
commandment (except life-and-death circumstances) that a Jew
can unilaterally forgo, solely on his own definition of convenience.
Consider: poverty does not excuse one from keeping kashrut;
hunger pains do not excuse one from not fasting; nor does the
loss of income exempt one from keeping Shabbas. Yet on Succas,
if its wet, we can eat inside. Cold? Sleep inside. Windy? Stay
indoors.
I
recall how every year our little humble succa went up during
the pre-Winter months which meant (in down-under-Sydney) that
it always rained on our parade. No matter. My father said that
the mitzva to eat a achilat keva, a "substantial
meal," in a succa applied to a minimum of two meals. So
after making kiddush over wine we all quickly made a
hamotzi over bread, sipped some soup and then the whole
family, drenched by now, would run indoors to finish the main
meal. We did this at least twice over the yomtov, to be yotzer
(in fulfillment). Even if it stopped raining we were no longer
obligated to go back out to the Succa. Why? Because whilst singing-in-the-rain
may have been acceptable to Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers,
eating-in-the-rain, a hardship, was unacceptable to God. In
fact, making a blessing over food in the rain was, according
to the Shulchan Aruch, a bracha lvatalah, a wasted
blessing, one said in vain. The text even attaches the label
of ignoramus to any Jew who purposefully eats in the rain.
In
other words: discomfort and Succas was an oxymoronic juxtaposition,
a contradiction in terms! That is why J.B. Soloveitchik, master
talmudic scholar, taught that these days should be experienced
rather than observed; an observation he linked to the
fact that the command to dwell was one of only four mitzvas
in the entire Torah that allowed one to physically enter the
mitzva itself. The other three? Immersion in the mikva, crossing
the borders, entering eretz Yisroel.
The
Hebrew plural term for booths is succot and the word
tabernacles, to describe booths, is first found in the 7th-century
English King James Bible. Yet despite dozens of Talmudic attempts,
no one knows for sure what these booths looked like, nor their
significance, leaving them shrouded in ambiguity. Other commentators,
including Rabbi Akiva, claim that huts meant just that, goatskin
covered huts wrapped around flimsy and fragile poles, in which
Jewish harvesters resided during their crop gatherings. Other
important Torah personalities (Isaiah, Rabbi Eliezer, Rashi,
Ibn Ezra) see the sukkots not as physical structures but metaphysical,
like ananai haKavod, clouds of glory humbly enveloping
the Jewish people, protecting them from the elements; one cloud
acting as a carpet (to protect the feet), another as a shadow
(to protect the heads), four more as walls (to protect the body
politik) all complemented by a main navigationary cloud that
led them through an uninhabitable desert. These clouds were
disciplined, they theorize, stopping n starting on Gods commands,
al pi haShem yakhanu ve-al pi haShem yisau, rebelling
only occasionally at Tavera, Masa and at Kivrot-hataave.
[39]
But
all scholars agree: the Jews dwelled (dirat arai) in
structures that were portable, temporary, exposed. Permanent
yet stationary, strong yet vulnerable. What is the significance
of such an inherently "impermanent dwelling? The reflection
of the temporary nature of life on earth. This is why, on the
eve of the second day of Succas, the Hebrew prophets chose the
poetic imagery of a booth to describe the tragic sight of a
collapsed Temple (Thy Tabernacle which has fallen down/Rebuild,
O Lord, and raise it once again), a poignant irony since both
the First and Second Temples were dedicated on Succas. Even
the fallen Kingdom of David is described as a fallen succa,
evoking an imagery of the Shechinah hovering over the
Jews like a Heavenly schach.
[40]
It
matters not whether rabbinic commentators agree or disagree
on whether the succa symbolized only Divine protective clouds
or actual physical makeshift booths. One should not make a casus
belli of the differences. Why? Because there is a concept
in Talmud that when our Sages dissent on homiletical interpretations
of Scripture, we can assume that both views are correct. What
is more intriguing is that the dual Succas themes (temporary
dwellings, permanent wanderings) seem to be an accurate snapshot
of Jewish history, the clouds that led the way for the Children
of Israel being symbolic of the risks that countless Jews have
taken in every century to reach Israel since it was first promised
as an inheritance to the Hebrews.
Many
made the perilous journey only to be met by desolation and poverty,
yet they never despaired. Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch notes
that "Sukka teaches you trust in God. Whether you are richly
or poorly endowed
whether living in huts or in palaces, it is
only as pilgrims that we dwell for both huts and palaces are
only dirat ‘arai [a temporary dwelling], from our transitory
home." [41] The Divine protectiveness that Succas represents,
though invisible to the naked eye, has bound Jews from one century
to Jews of another. This faith in a Godly guardianship has manifested
itself in a long line of Jews who threw caution to the wind
and, just like that desert generation, made aliyah. As Reb Nachman
would say, "Wherever I am going, I am going to Eretz Yisrael."
[42]
Is
there one word that epitomizes Succas? Yes. Hospitality.
When
Abraham made God wait as he offered food and water to three
strangers, our Sages concluded that the patriarchs astonishing
chutzpah was proof that hospitality took precedence even over
God’s presence.
[43] Ever since the 6th century, when the first Diaspora
began as Jews were gratuitously being shipped to Babylon, the
hospitality of a fellow traveling Jew has been extraordinary.
In each Jewish community, the messenger, visitor or guest occupied
a place of honor. In our shul, no Shabbas could go by when I
wasnt sent to greet some new face to inquire where he was from
and whether he had a place to stay or eat. At times when I hesitated
my father opened the Pirkei Avos and showed me the words of
Shamai, that one must greet every man with a pleasant expression.
Not only would the visitor always get an honored aliyah, and
be called up to the Torah, but congregants in our little shtibl
would argue amongst themselves over the honor of taking a visitor
home for a meal. That is why it is a custom to go around and
drop in on the neighborhood succa’s: to simulate the act of
being guests for other families.
Menachem
Mendel of Kotsk, chassidic teacher and preacher, once observed
that whoever has a place anywhere, has a place everywhere.
If Pesach represented the act of liberation, Succas symbolized
the actual highway to freedom, along which the Jew was not to
travel alone, but to invite others to join. Each succa was thus
equipped with a hospitality reminder composed by the mystical
16th-century Kabbalists of Safed, an artsy colorful
poster, known as the ushpizim, and usually tacked to
the flimsy walls, containing an Aramaic liturgy intended to
serve as a daily reminder to invite certain Jewish heroes of
the past. Who are these invisible ushpizim guests who
see but are not seen? Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Joseph, Moses,
Aaron and David. It is a Sephardic custom to prepare a special
fancy chair, covered with the finest upholstery especially for
them. Obviously, the actual physical presence of these seven
ancestral Biblical heroes is impossible, so Jews are ordered
to do the next best thing – substitute them with fellow Jews.
But not just any fellow Jew. The mitzvah of hospitality demands
that we search for the maid and manservant, stranger, orphan
and widow: in other words, for the needy Jew, the Jew with
no succa, the Jew with no family of his own.
But
why these particular seven Jews? Do they have something in common
with Succas, or with each other? The common thread among these
Magnificent Seven was that just like the drifting Israelites
in the desert, or the latter wandering Jews in exile, these
seven were all nomadic Jews, on-the-go. Abraham left home; Isaac
wandered in Canaan; Jacob fled to Lavan; Joseph was exiled;
Moses ran from Egypt;
Aaron wandered forty years in a desert; and David ran from Saul.
These restless seven Jewish heroes belong in our succas because
they are already accustomed to finding solace in fragile, non-permanent
places. Their fleeting lives are an analogy of the succa: it
may not be well built nor physically stable, but neither is
the Jew nor the unredeemed world he lives in.
Rav
Isaac Arama, a medieval master of Jewish homiletics, forged
many connections between Succas and the spiritual lessons of
Rosh Hashana-Yom Kippur; and saw in the humble succa, indicative
of a dirat arayi, a "temporary home," a moral
of inestimable value of life itself. That the festival spanned
seven days was significant, in that the Psalmist had allocated
seven decades to ones normal span of life (yamei shnoteinu
bahem shivim shana veim begvurot shemonim shana), and any
prolonged stay in the succa (the eighth day, Shemini Atzeret)
was considered symbolic of exceeding the limits of life itself.
This characteristic feature, of the succa as the fleeting image
of life, was intended to elevate and purify (davar sh’eino
mekabel tuma’h) the occupant’s awareness of a Heavenly canopy
(tachat kippat haShamayim), in and outside of the succa.
And it is here that the laws of the roof and wall dominate:
the confines must not be too high (lema’ala me’esrim ama
pesula), and the cover (schach) must be compacted
so that the shade exceeds the light (tzilata meruba mechmata).
These halachik demands suggest that the great mysteries of life
and God’s Ways can only be glimpsed occasionally.
That
is why the festival of Succas is such an adventure. One need
just sit there, and look up at the schach, the see-through
roof made of tree branches and imagine a Back-to-the-Future
escapade of Jewish history. This ‘roof’ is by far the single
most important halachik component; in fact, a succa that casts
less shade than sun is invalid. It is no coincidence that both
words schach and succah are derived from the same
Hebrew root, meaning to weave together, cover with branches,
to form shade. The Mishnah uses a variation of this term to
describe overhanging branches of trees whilst the Aramaic term
for succa, metalalta, from the root tll, also
means shade. Rashi, the brilliant 11th century
French commentator, agrees: It is called succa because of the
shade it provides from the heat, as does the Zohar that describes
sitting in the succa yeshiva betzila demehimnuta, sitting
in the shade of faith. As a floating roof, the schach
thus symbolizes a Heavenly shade that not only sheltered the
Jews during their forty-year sojourn to the holy land, but also
sheltered thousands of other Jews down the centuries who acted
out their dream of reaching Zion.
[44]
Ironically
when the Jews traveled in the desert they were, courtesy of
the succa clouds, the safest they had ever been, despite the
fact that the open wilderness offered no natural protection.
This raises the obvious question: isnt Succas a more appropriate
reminder festival than Pesach?
I
remember asking my father this question when I was about 7 or
8 years old. It was seder night and it was my turn to ask the
traditional Ma Nishtana questions. Instead, I suggested
that any question that begins with Why is this night different
from all other nights? would be more apropos on Succas. Surely
eating outside in an uncomfortable, exposed, crowded, makeshift
booth was what made Succas, not Pesach, different from all
other nights!? Warming up to my question, I pointed to the matza
and said that other than the matza I could see no real difference
between the seder tisch and a regular Succas meal, or
for that matter, an ordinary Shabbas dinner.
My
father, Reb Yehezkiel ben Arye ztl, a pious Holocaust
survivor and refugee from Poland who had been imprisoned in
Siberia after losing the majority of his immediate family, turned
to me, his only son and softly explained:
The
sight of a Jew dwelling in an uncomfortable, exposed and temporary
locale was not new, nor extraordinary. What was new, extraordinary
and different from all other nights was the sight of a Jew,
bathing in his freedom tzila dimheimnusa, in the dwelling
in quiet and safety, [45] reclining in comfort on a
pillow, sitting safely amidst a warm, contented family environment.
From
that moment on, I learnt to appreciate the underlying beauty
of Pesach – a lesson that only Succas could have taught me.
Hoshanna
Rabba
True
or false? The entire Jewish calendar was rearranged to accommodate
one custom dating back to the last of the Hebrew prophets. True.
Which one? Willow-bashing. Willow-bashing!? Yes, a rather
astounding fact considering that this aravos minhag
is nowhere to be found in the Torah, and that our Sages
couldnt even agree on Hoshanna Rabbas exact origin.
[46]
However,
there was absolute rabbinic consensus on one fact: that this
festival, the most awesome holy day of the entire Succas festivities,
must always fall on a weekday. Imagine: Our rabbis could live
with Yom Kippur falling on a Shabbas but wouldnt allow Shabbas
to fall on a Hoshanna Rabba. The problem started in the 4th
century when the rabbinic hierarchy issued a halachik proclamation
called chibut aravos, that the beating of willow branches
was forbidden on Shabbas. Fair enough. But no-one listened.
The Jews, unwilling to give up this custom, persisted and continued
to beat sprigs of willows immediately after the morning verse
kol mevasseir ve-omeir, even at the serious risk of being
called a mechalel Shabbas, a breaker of the holy Sabbath.
For
the Jews of the Second Temple era, breaking the Shabbas on purpose
was no small feat. Yet those Jews wanted to beat, and beat they
did. By thrashing and whipping the aravah bundle into submission
Hashana Rabba thus became the only Jewish festival that seemingly
allowed the desecration of an object designated to be used to
do a mitzva! [47]
What
was it about willow bashing that made it so significant?
There
is simply no original Torah explanation for it, and, unlike
the lulav, there is no need to make a blessing over the
aravah. Why? Because this custom is based on rabbinic rather
than Biblical law and the rule-of-thumb is that no blessings
are recited over "a custom." [48] It is from rabbinic analogy that we get an understanding of
this ritual. Our Sages compared each of the four specie to a
different kind of Jew: the fragrant esrog possessed taste
and an ethereal aroma (a symbol of the learned, God-fearing
Jew); the straight lulav possessed only taste (a symbol
of the learned, but non God-fearing Jew); the humble hadas
possessed aroma but no taste (symbolizing the God-fearing, but
unlearned Jew); whilst the aravah (which also means wilderness)
suffers, having neither taste nor fragrance. As such they were
positioned around the Temple altar with their tips directed
towards the top, a metaphorical search for their missing qualities,
and a symbol of the Jew who feared not God (ie: those out-of-step
with the community),
[49] and thus symbolically punished by being beaten
into the ground.
Doesnt
this seem rather harsh, and overly acrimonious? Especially in
light of the Torahs own admission, that no community is wholly
rich or wholly poor? Yes. But our rabbis are emphasizing, again,
one of the most important features of Judaism: unity.
[50] Since the "aravah Jew" was tantamount to
a weakening of the whole, it received a symbolic superficial
beating.
The
moment Kabbalists linked the willow with human lips they saw
the token lip beating as recognition that Hoshanna Rabbah,
being the fifty first day of repentance (the gematria of the
na in Hoshanna is 51), represented the final exhaustion
all of the prayers and vows that had clothed the Jew since the
first day of Elul. Since it was the last chance to jump aboard
the Train of Tshuva the festival also became known as the "Day
of the Great Seal, referring to the Seal of Life granted by
God [51] and
traced back to His pledge to Abraham, I will give your children
one day for atonement
if Yom Kippur does not, then let Hoshanna
Rabba.
Hoshanna
Rabbah has two interrelated halachahs; one still "active,"
the other not. The former involves circlement. The Jews who
came to Jerusalem for Succas would go down to the Motza Valley
[52] and search for huge willow branches (arvei nahal)
whose leaves were elongated, with a red stem and a smooth edge.
Jewish law demanded that these twigs come from a brook of running
water. Why? In order to be mehudar, which means fresh
or damp. Some Jews (eg; Rabbi Moshe Isserles) [53] would gather willows daily to make sure they
were freshly moist.
[54] In our home, we wrap the willow branches in aluminum
foil, or wet towels, and store them in the fridge until needed
to ensure that the leaves do not fall off from a lack of dampness.
[55]
These
aravah branches would then be taken back to the Temple courtyard
and placed vertically around the altars yesod, base.
As the trumpets sounded in the background, masses of lulav-waving
Jews would then circle the altar on each Succas day (except
Shabbas), opening their routes in rousing unison by crying out
hosha na." On the seventh day the encirclement
was done seven times, accompanied by the piercing Hoshanna Rabbah
plea, Please God, bring salvation now!
[56]
The
concept of seeking redemption by raising ones voice in prayer
is derived from a Torah verse, The maiden cried out and no
one came to rescue her. After the destruction of the Second
Temple this "custom of the prophets, having been broadened
by Chaggai, Zechariah and Malachi, took place wherever Jews
assembled on Hoshanna Rabbah, an expression that literally means
The Great Hosanna, or numerous hosannas. The word
hosanna means Save Us! From what? From hunger
and starvation, which is why the wet brook was the preferred
spot from which to gather the aravah twigs, a reminder to pray
for the waters, which, according to Jewish tradition, are subjected
to Divine judgment on this day; rain being one of three areas
over which mankind has absolutely no control (the other two
are birth and resurrection). [57] That is why two of the hoshanah’s (the 5th
and 6th) are ecological; vivid proof that our rabbis
were concerned about their surroundings long before todays environmentalists
became infatuated with endangered species.
Several
thousand years later this custom still exists. Today, on Hoshanna
Rabba, all the Torah scrolls are removed from synagogues
and everybody participates in a circuitous seven-route
custom, similar to the procession on Simchat Torah except this
is far more serious, and in contrast to the single procession
during the first six days of Succas when only one sefer Torah
is held at the bima, the symbolic "altar. The second
halacha, inactive and dormant today, was the pouring of water
(a sign of rain) over, or near, the Holy Ark itself, a human
reaffirmation that rain and dew were not only just Heavenly
blessings and rewards but that their absence was a brutal sign
of Heaven’s retribution. That is why, starting immediately after
Shemini Azeres until the start of Pesach, when Israel’s rainy
season ends, Jews say a daily Elezar Kalir-penned prayer for
tal (dew") called tefillas Geshem; or as
those lovable yiddishists put it: "Only a fool grows without
rain.
These
twin-commands (to beat damp willows and pour water) were symbolic
of the desire that the Heavens bless the Children of Israel
with an abundant productive crop in the forthcoming year. The
Hebrew prophets saw a link between the root in chibut aravos,
"beating the willow," and yachbot Hashem, "God
striking down all those who refuse to recognize Him." My
father would tell me, in yiddish of course, to listen closely
to the rhythmic willow movements; that their noise was a subtle
reminder to Heaven, intended to simulate the sounds of wind
and rain. Remember: in those days Jews were farmers, tillers
and ploughers with a daily all-encompassing activity of seeding
‘n sowing, nurturing ‘n harvesting. They knew: a fertile earth
equaled growth, growth equaled sustenance, sustenance equaled
life….and the Jew was ordered to Choose Life!
[58]
Since
all the toil of man goes to feed his mouth" [59] our Sages, in anticipation of a successful
life-saving harvest, declared this time of the year to be a
z’man simchaseinu, the Season of Rejoicing. Throwing
the willows in the direction at the Ark itself was recognition
that the power to cultivate Life lay not just in the fertility
of willow branches, but in Gods benevolence, altruism, loving
kindness. But why throw at the Ark? Because the Ark was as close
as one could be to where the Shekhina, God’s presence,
lay. [60] When I was a child, I looked forward with mischievous glee
to the beating of the willow branches, and throwing them at
the sacred aron kodesh, the holiest symbol in shul. My
father, probably having experienced similar childish thoughts
in his own youth, went to great efforts to teach me the "right
way" to be roguish about this custom. I was advised not
to beat the willows against the walls nor the shtenders
(lecterns.) Why? Because food comes from the ground, not walls
or furniture. After sneaking an "illegal" blow or
two I and my friends then did it correctly: beating against
the natural ground, supposedly only five times but we were having
so much fun that we would beat and beat and beat until either
there were no leaves left, or some impatient adult would beat
us over our heads with his own branches ordering us to stop
already! As Koheles said: all good things must end someday.
By
the 14th-century, the Kabbalists of the Middle Ages had turned
Hoshanna Rabba into a mini-Yom Kippur, a transformation in both
tone and color that has always been stronger amongst the Spanish-Portuguese
Sephardic Jews than amongst Polish-German Ashkenazic Jews. The
customary yomtov greeting became pikta tava, which technically
means a good note, but is Hebraic shorthand for have a good
Writ of Judgment. They then inaugurated an all-night Shavuos-style
learning session over a special sefer (Tikkun Leil Hoshana
Rabbah) in order to ensure that the reading of Deuteronomy
was completed prior to Simchat Torah; and in honor of King
David, the ushpizin of the day, who traditionally stayed
awake every night singing the praises of God.
[61] The learning was only interrupted when their wives
or daughters arrived at dawn with bundles of fresh moist willow
branches.
But
not all rabbis were pleased by the festivals sudden kabbalistic
turn of events.
Rabbi
Yosef Karo, of Shulchan Aruch fame, was alarmed at many
of the mystical, and inappropriate solemn components that were
infiltrating Hoshanna Rabba, including yeshivas who covered
their walls with especially-stored old parochet as a backdrop
to talks about the agonies of Jewish history, and Jewish women
who served carrots after morning services in the shape of rings,
a mystical sign for wealth. Yet try as he may, Rav Karo failed
to slow down the day’s transition into a secondary Yom Kippur.
Hoshanna Rabbah has thus preserved its penitential undertones
with a sober morning service, a chazan clothed in a white kitel,
and Yom-Kippurish soul-piercing prayers (un’taneh tokef,
avinu malkenu, etc).
It
was inevitable: soon the custom of beating willow branches took
on a new meaning: a symbol of the casting away of vices, transgressions,
sins. It was now not only associated with the saving of physical
life, but spiritual life as well, making the rabbis attempt
to stop the public desecration of Shabbas even more difficult.
"What can I do?, moaned Spanish Rabbi Solomon ben Aderet
(Rashba), [62] I must bow my head to the
custom of Israel,"
himself bowing to the concept that advises, Go out and see
vos es zogt dos folk (what the custom of the people
is) and rule accordingly! There are dozens of habits, attitudes,
and practices (eg; mourning, divorce customs) that appear nowhere
in the written Torah except as pre-existing practices. This
is what makes the Talmud unique from all other systems of jurisprudence;
the recognition that every river takes a different course.
Most of our Sages accepted the principle known as minhag
mevattel halachah, "custom nullifies the law,"
but not all. Rabbi Asher ben Yehiel (the Rosh) [63] frowned on this easy-come,
easy-go, When-in-Rome-do-as-the-Romans-do philosophy,
and only allowed customs that strengthened Jewish jurisprudence.
However it is generally accepted that respected Torah leaders
can change laws – but only temporarily and only
for their own community – despite a Torah decree that one must
not add nor subtract from the commandments.
[64]
These
are called either takkanot ("improvements")
introduced to promote observance of the law, or g’zerot
(from the Hebrew root "to cut"), designed to protect
the law from infringement. Reform Jews refer to these as "reforms"
but they are not because of the sheer halachik weight of the
individual behind them, whose authority is derived from a Deuteronomic
verse which empowers "the judge in those days" to
declare the law.
[65] Obviously the "judge" has to believe in,
and obey the law, before assuming responsibility for any new
takkanot-g’zerot.
But
it is a myth that Jews have blindly followed their rabbis throughout
Jewish history. In fact, many of todays customs (aravas,
tashlich) exist despite rabbinical wishes. In pre-War
Eastern Europe, especially in the shtetl, cynicism against rabbis
ran high and the local rabbi often found himself the subject
of witty yiddishisms (Because a goat has a beard that doesnt
make him a rabbi), harsh rabbinic definitions (A rabbi whom
people dont want to force out of town isnt a rabbi, and a
rabbi whom the community drives out of town isnt a man),
[66] and the brut of rabbinic jokes ("My d’var
Torah last night was a smash hit," bragged the notoriously
egocentric rabbi, "I had my congregants glued in their
seats." "Wonderful," whispered the older rav,
"Clever of you to think of it.")
Our
Sages took custom so seriously that, in a startling and seemingly
bizarre instruction, Jews are commanded
[67] that, in times of persecution, they must die rather
than transgress a custom as innocuous as wearing a specific
color of shoelace. The French Tosafists explain the reasoning:
one of the signs of mourning for the Temple was wearing black
shoelaces, which made the Romans, determined that Jews forget
the Temple’s destruction, order them to wear laces of other
colors. Yes, our rabbis said, black laces were only a custom
but a custom that represented something immutable – the dream
of a return to Zion. Had they given in on this custom it could
have made the battle against secular Romanism much more difficult.
But
in the case of Hashanna Rabba and its branch-beating custom,
the will of the people clashed with the Shabbas itself, thus
conflicting with a direct and unambiguous Torah command; in
fact Judaisms most fundamental doctrine. And here the rabbis
drew the line: Custom may be law, but they were not going to
allow willow bashing (whose main associations were symbolic
and created by the people themselves) to radically subvert Torah
law. Nor were they going to tinker with the holy Shabbas. So
they attacked the problem covertly. How?
They
changed the calendar.
By
rearranging the first day of Tishrei (in order not to coincide
with a Sunday), Shabbas and Hoshanna Rabba were kept not only
literally but theologically apart. But tampering with the month
of Tishrei, already the most crowded of all Jewish months, was
also serious theologic business: so why didnt the rabbis just
shift the scheduled time of the willow-beating custom away from
Shabbas? Because if there was one thing more sensitive than
meddling with the Jewish calendar, it was messing with Mother
Nature herself.
The
rabbis, and more importantly, the Jewish community itself, firmly
believed that Hoshanna Rabba was their final chance to do two
things: beating- as a symbol of hope that all evil and sin
would be beaten into the dust of the ground
[68] – and gathering food produce before the arrival of
another menacing winter.
Yep.
It was better to change the calendar!
Since
none of us in the westernized 21st century personally knows
anyone who starved to death through famine ‘n drought, it is
difficult to fully appreciate the heartbreaking prayers our
forefathers once said for rain, a necessary component to staying
alive. (Judaica collectors are more aware, because some of the
earliest discovered liturgies are Jewish prayers for rain.)
Water represented Life itself, and staying alive was even
more important than the coming of the Messiah; as expounded
by the great Yohanan ben-Zakkai who ordered Jews to keep the
Messiah waiting and plant the sapling first. This ambiguous
attitude towards the coming of the Messiah weaves itself through
Jewish history and rabbinic writings (Grass will be growing
through your dead jaws before the son of David appears.) That
is why, at the death of Moses, God uses poetic lyrics that flourish
not with the language of Torah and law but with several magnificent
metaphors of water: "May My discourse come down as the
rain, My speech distill as the dew." According to a Midrash
a miraculous well accompanied the Jews in the desert in honor
of Miriam, Moses sister. When she died the well dried up and
the congregation did not have water." [69]
Our
rabbis were sensitive to the fact that the welfare of the body
always took halachik precedence over the welfare of the soul.
Jews never took for granted the things that sustained physical
welfare – neither food, nor God who helped create it, nor the
land which nurtured it, nor the rain that preserved it. Guided
by the motto Waste not, Want not!, it was forbidden to
treat food with scorn. When you have eaten and are full, orders
an adamant Torah, you shall bless God for the good land which
He has given you."
[70] That is why Nachman of Bratslav compared the Jew who
dared chop down a fruit tree to a murderer; why Jews were forbidden
to live in an area that didnt have a green garden; and why
Jews were warned, where there is no flour, there is no Torah.
Not because flour was more important, but because a lack
of flour led to starvation and loss of life, a disaster worse
than the loss of Torah.
This
is why all Jewish families are overtly food-oriented, and practice
an indispensable culinary Judaism (nosh in yiddish),
especially on Shabbas and Jewish festivals. "Tell me what
you eat; I will tell you what you are," mused the 18th-century
French philosopher Brillat-Savarin (La Physiologie du gout)
because we reveal ourselves in what, how, and when we eat –
and with whom. [71] This is why, despite rumors to the contrary,
all Jewish food laws (kashrus) are about identity, not
hygiene. Rabbi Ronald Lubofsky, in his essay Mooduco Ergo
Sum: I Eat Therefore I Am, sadly noted that there are more
Jewish homes with a Jewish cookbook, than there are with a Tanach."
[72]
As
Hoshanna Rabba winds down Succas, it brings an end to our season
of joy, to be followed one day later by Simchat Torah, the celebration
of the giving of the Torah. We visit the sukka for the last
time and say, may we merit to dwell in the sukka next year
made of Leviathan, a reference to a mystical enormous godzilla-like
sea beast who, according to the aggadah, was created on the
fifth day and is the ultimate ruler of all the creatures in
the oceans, unconquerable by man but finally to be vanquished
by God Himself who then gathers all the righteous into a sukka
made out of the legendary monster’s body. [73]
It
is simply who God kills at the end of days. Dont wait for the
movie version. Read the book first.
Shemini
Atzeres
Shemini
Atzeres creeps up on us in such a low-profile and modest manner
that, in comparison, say, to the riches of Pesach, Rosh Hashanna
and Succas, it is "practically a pauper. This is surprising
because Shemini Atzeres is found in the Torah itself; not once
but twice. [74]
The
moment Jews were told that on the eighth day [of Sukkat] you
shall hold a mikrah kodesh (a solemn gathering [atzeret], [75] the debate started: is Shemini Atzeret the
official ending of Succas, like an encore, or a standing ovation,
or is it a Regel b’fnei atzmo, a free-standing and independent
Jewish festival? The latter is the rabbinic verdict; [76] despite the fact that, with the exception
of a prayer for rain, there are absolutely no special Shemini
Atzeret customs.
The
Mashgiach of Mir, Rabbi Yerucham Levovitz, saw the essence of
Shemini Atzeret as a time to demonstrate, after seven days of
"closeness" to God, how difficult it is to leave His
presence." But why, asks one astute Midrash, is it necessary
to elongate Succas into eight days in the first place?
[77] After a reminder that circumcision takes place on
the eighth day (a day of "pause," allowing Jews to
recommit to God’s Covenant), our rabbis give us a glimpse into
God’s original intention; to give Israel one holiday every month
of the year. When this Divine gift was sabotaged by the golden
calf incident, God took away the post-Shavuos festivals (Rosh
Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Succas) from the next three months (Tammuz,
Av, Elul) and instead inserted the "postponed" yomtovim
in the month of Tishrei as an adjunct to Tishrei’s designated
festival, Shemini Atzeret.
A
clue to this day’s significance is via the word atzeret,
derived from the Hebrew root, to hold back. In this festival
context, it means closure, which is why Shemini hag ha-Atzeret
is translated as the Eighth Day of Completion. Jewish mystics
were immediately attracted to the similarity with Shavuos, which
was also called atzeret, leading one Midrash to claim
that Shemini Atzeret was once held fifty days after the end
of Succas; akin to Shavuos being the closure of Pesach fifty
days later. There are several striking parallelisms: both Shemini
Atzeret and Shavuos originally entered the Jewish calendar as
one-day festivities, whilst Pesach and Succas were each seven-day
holidays that just happened to close with certain yomtovim (Shavuos,
Simchat Torah) whose central dogma is identical: to celebrate
with the Torah.
But
if Shemini Atzeret is a stand-alone festival, why dilute its
importance by unceremoniously tacking it on to the end of Succas?
The answer lies in sheer pragmatism, in the reality that another
shift in the agricultural year of Israel had arrived.
If
Shavuos stood at the entrance of Summer, Shemini Atzeret opened
the gateway of Winter; the more important entry of the two because,
as his fields stood bare and his seeds stowed away, the Jewish
farmer anxiously waited, and welcomed, the arrival of the torrential,
blustering winter rains. This created a concern for Rabbi Joshua
ben Levi and his colleagues. Shemini Atzeret, now held on the
22nd and 23rd of Tishrei, was initially positioned as a wintry
holy day, which meant that Jews wishing to make this later winter
pilgrimage to Jerusalem had to brave slippery slopes and torrential
rains. The rabbis thus moved it forward to a more opportune
time, to the end of the Fall festivals when most of the countrys
Jews were already in Jerusalem.
This
rabbinic benevolence may have helped the Jew but it hurt Shemini
Atzerets independence as a singular festival. Sensing the possibility
of this inferior status the rabbis of the Talmud then accentuated
the days halachik autonomy with no less than six different
minhagim intended to set this day apart from the previous
seven days of Succas. That is why on Shemini Atzeret there is
no need to dwell in a succa, no need for a lulav-esrog, no special
sheheheyanu yomtov prayer. During the Temple times there
was a different order of sacrifices, a different rotation of
priests, and a different Psalm for the Levites. And since Jewish
tradition linked each of the pilgrimage festivals in honor of
a major Jewish personality (Pesach with Abraham; Shavuos with
Isaac; Succas with Jacob), [78] Shemini Atzeret was paired with the greatest
of them all, the entire Community of Israel (klal).
But
no matter how hard they tried, including keeping its name separate,
Jewish history quickly, and unfairly, consigned Shemini Atzeret
to its vague role today as a minor mystery festival, a shadowy
diminished holiday that suffers from its proximity to the enormously
popular and more favored Simchat Torah, which follows it by
one day. It became so religiously overwhelmed that even the
teachers and textbooks of Judaism always refer to sholosh
regalim, the three pilgrimages of antiquity, when in fact
the Torah appointed four.
[79]
This
educational challenge was there right from the start, exacerbated
by the fact that Shemini Atzeres is the only Jewish festival
for which the Torah gives no reason. The saintly Israel Meir
ben Hacohen of Radin (Chofetz Chaim, the "Desirer
of Life"), [80] interpreting the word atzeret as to tarry, hold back,
would stay behind in shul after hakkafos and learn Torah. When
asked "Why don’t you go home first, enjoy your meal, and
then learn afterwards?" he replied in allegory
"If
you arrive at a wedding during the dancing and eating, you will
find everyone dancing and eating. You won’t be able to tell
who belongs to the family of the bride or groom. If you want
to find out who belongs to the family, you must wait until the
party is over. Then everyone will leave except for family members.
Its the same with hakkafos. Everyone is dancing. When the dancing
has stopped and the party is over, I want to stay behind to
show that I am a mechutan, a relative, an in-law of the
Torah." [81]
Shemini
Atzeret is the fourth (and final) stop on the road to judgment;
a Godly verdict of reward or punishment that was only known
later by the amount of rain which fell in the upcoming year.
To help present their case the rabbis of the Second Temple era
composed tefillas geshem, a special daily prayer
(by adding a piyut to the silent amida of musaf)
that sought a lavish rainfall, mashiv ha-ruah u-morid
ha-geshem, from He who brings forth winds and brings down
rain. [82] The final words ask that the rain be "for
blessing, and not for a curse; for life, and not for death;
for abundance, and not for famine" – a reminder that every
boon has the ability to become a bane. There are many accounts
of the piety of Choni the Circle-Drawer, who had such power
of intercession with God that on a celebrated occasion he drew
a circle around himself and refused to budge until the Almighty
sent rain
but then, when too much rain fell, he had to plead
with God not to be so generous! [83]
When
it comes as a precious gift, rain can revive Nature; but it
can also come as a curse in the form of a flood that engulfs
and destroys. The Sh’ma promises the blessing of rain as a reward
for obedience; Elijah warns King Ahab that drought will come
as a punishment. "The world is judged through water,"
the rabbis of the Mishna solemnly state, after disclosing how
our ancestors prayed and fasted in time of drought. Shemini
Atzeret was the time of the year when Jews count their blessings,
when scores of Kabbalists believed that they could change a
Heavenly curse to a blessing by simply rearranging the letters
of the edict; as such they turned the word nega (disease)
into oneg (delight), rasha (wicked) into ashir
(riches) and pasha (sin) into shefa (abundance).
And by adding the three letters ‘m-a-r‘ in front of Heshvan,
to become MAR-Heshvan, with mar meaning drops (as in
mar m-dli, drops from a bucket), the Jewish mystics
reinforced the post-Flood tradition that rains would fall (drop)
during the forty days, beginning with the month of Heshvan. [84]
Classical
Hebrew texts denote no less than six different expressions (geshem,
matar yoreh, malkosh, revivim, se’irim) of the bond between
God and the land – and all are based on how intense the rain
fell. Although the Hebrew word geshem designates rain
the Bible alternates its use of the term, either by adding certain
adjectives or nouns, in order to give it a positive or negative
meaning. Thus a light rain or drizzle is called geshem kal,
and by adding the adjective shotef with the onomatopoetic
Hebrew term for drizzle (tiftuf, which means "a
drip"), we get a downpour, as in its raining cats and
dogs (whatever that means). [85] The words ruah and geshem,
rain and wind, are considered metonymic Hebrew terms for Spirit
and Matter, whilst both matar and tal appear together
in the daily winter prayers, Ve’tain tal u matar livracha,
"and give dew and rain as a blessing." The term matar
is equivalent to geshem and is the root for mimtarim
(showers) and mitriya (umbrella); meanwhile, in Israel
the term tal ("dew") has become a popular Hebrew
first name for either a girl or a boy. Why? Because it connotes
youth. But the rain-term to watch out for is gishmei zaaf,
which literally means "rains of anger," describing
the torrents that can destroy the Jews life-saving crops.
Shemini
Atzeret is one of several Jewish festivals shaped by the climatic
whims of the holy land; evidenced by a beautiful body of Hebrew
poetry known for its obsessiveness with the extraordinary sharp
contrast of the land. The weather pendulum of Israel swings
between hot and cold, sun and snow, fire and frost, dew-rain
and wind – with the most impressive sight being the landscapes
changing light, often linked to the splendor of the dawn of
Creation, "Let there be light."
[86]
When
the rains fell, from November to February, they did so only
periodically, yet they were oftentimes fierce and ferocious.
This is why the Jews equated their rainy season as being the
Best of Times, the Worst of Times; fearing that it either represented
the fury of Heaven (a land that devours its inhabitants) or
its benevolence (a land flowing with milk and honey.) They
were aware: rain flowed after blessings flowed, but its quantity
and density could either ruin their principal crops outright,
or provide just the right amount to maximize a healthy and abundant
food produce. This is why the talmudic tractate Taanit,
supposedly concerned with Jewish fast days, in fact devotes
more time to the prayers for rain than to the laws of fasting;
an indication that the rabbis linked fast days to the absence
of rain. This explains why the prayer for rain is followed by
livracha, which means rain-with-a-blessing, and why
the Mishnaic section of Zeraim that deals with agriculture is
called emunat, literally faith. [87]
God,
according to a Midrash, promised to give water to Abrahams
descendants, in recognition of the Patriarch having treated
his guests with the hospitality of water, Let a little water
be fetched and I will wash your feet. Abraham and his son Isaac
may have been diggers of wells but their descendants had to
be more creative. In order to make up for the chronic shortage
of water (especially in Jerusalem) the Jews perfected a network
of self-contained cisterns that protected them against long
droughts. [88] Archeologists in Jerusalem recently discovered
an amazingly huge reservoir of water-tight tanks near the Temple
site, one carved in rock with a capacity of sixteen thousand
cubic meters, which confirms the Talmuds description of a giant
tunnel-canal system that carried water to Jewish settlements.
Unlike
Egypt with its Nile River, where one could plant seeds and
water them with your feet, the Jews could not rely on the streams,
springs and subterranean waters" of Canaan. Milk and honey
was one thing, but water was even more crucial. The Torah recognized
this environmental fact early on when it made wet weather a
centrality in Jewish tradition by describing the holy land as
having to "drink the rain." Water supply-n-demand
was thus given a theological face and rain a two-fold symbol:
it represented both a physical and spiritual connection between
Heaven and Earth, overseen by a special angel in charge of rain
that the 11th-century master Rabbi Solomon ben Isaac of Troyes,
France (Rashi) identifies as af-bri (with af
meaning anger, and bri meaning health.) [89]
I
recall in cheder how we would often compete as to who had the
best klotz kasher, the most stupid of all questions,
measured by the level of exasperation in our rebbes response.
My favorite Shemini Atzeret question? If its already raining,
do we still have to say a prayer for rain? The answer? Yes.
I will always remember this answer. Why? Because it came straight
after I received a patch in punam (yiddish for a smack
across the face) for chutzpa. Yet, I must confess, to this
day, I still dont know why we would pray for rain during a
rainfall, even though I understand that the prayer was originally
meant to be recited the entire year. The Sfas Emes agrees: the
prayer for rain is metaphorical, as in our Sages comparing rain
to a plea for ones Torah growth. [90]
A
more intelligent question would have been: Why does the plea
for rain not even use the word rain, preferring instead to
use the term water more than thirty times!
The
Torah has many references to mayim haim, living waters,
a concept that our Sages wanted heightened during Shemini Atzeret,
which is why they incorporated the plea for rain into the prayer
of yizkor, so-named because of its opening words, Yizkor
Elohim, May God remember the departed soul. A tenent of
Judaism is that the dead are also in need of atonement, based
on the Biblical verse, kaper laamcha Yisrael asher padisa
Hashem, Grant forgiveness, God, to your nation Israel,
whom you have redeemed.
[91] The first known yizkor liturgy appears in medieval
Germany as an adjunct to the 11th century Av
haRachamin prayer that appeared, anonymously, in the
aftermath of the First Crusade in memory of the victims;
[92] however the first known reference to hazkaras neshomos,
honoring the souls of the dead and martyred goes back much
further to the Book of Maccabees.
Yizkor
is an intense and silent blessing, probably the most well attended
of all services in the Jewish calendar (perhaps even more so
than Kol Nidrei); despite the fact that it is not halachikally
regulated anywhere but has the power of minhag ("custom")
[93] behind its inclusion in four festivals (Yom Kippur,
Pesach, Shavuos, Shemini Atzeres). Our rabbis linked its content,
that of praising God for reviving the dead, to Mother Natures
water (which was equated with rebirth) and rain (which was symbolic
of the revival of the parched earth).
Water
n rain were thus the twin Revivals of Hope, representing a
peoples fervent longing that the fertility of a new Season
would bring with it the life-force of food. This is why, during
the final Shemini Atzeres sacrifices, thousands of Jewish onlookers
would gauge which way the sacrificial smoke blew. Why? Because
its direction was an omen; good for some Jews, not so good for
others. The poverty-stricken assemblage were happy if the wind
blew to the North, because north indicated a wet and rainy year,
which translated into more crops and cheaper food; whereas rich
Jews wanted the smoke to blow South for exactly the opposite
reason; a dry year meant crop shortages, higher food prices,
more profits.
What,
I once asked my rebbe, thinking I had the greatest klotz
kasher of all time, if the wind blew the smoke Eastwards,
or Westwards? To my dismay, he had a real answer. The east
direction meant moderation for all which made all Jews happy,
whilst westward bound indicated a famine year (with nothing
to buy, nothing to sell), [94] which made all Jews depressed.
What
is Shemini Atzerets main custom? The public reading of Sefer
Koheles, one of five Torah Scrolls (called megillas)
set aside just for Jewish festivals. Yet this alliance is a
real mystery. The Hebrew translation of Kohelet is "leader,
or teacher, derived from a verb linked to its more highly
popularized Greek title (Ecclestiastes), which means
an assembler, or convoker, whose Arabic root suggests an
elderly Sage-like "gatherer of wisdom." The word is
feminine, perhaps as a personification of "wisdom"
(chochma, a feminine word). Who wrote it? Jewish tradition
credits King Solomon as the author, which seems incongruous.
Why? Because not only are its contents inconsistent, depressing,
irritable and uninspirational (all is vanity, all is emptiness),
Koheles meditates on the morbid meaninglessness of Life (our
"fleeting days"), the mortality of mankind, the futility
of Time ("Futility, futility, everything is futile!").
In order to reconcile the stark contradictions between Solomon’s
beautiful Shir HaShirim (Song of Songs) and his
wise Mishlei (Proverbs) to the disheartening Koheles,
Jewish tradition claims that the future King of Israel penned
the fist two works in the springtime of his youth and in his
mature adulthood, whilst Koheles was a product of his cynical
old age.
The
Book of Koheles can be reviewed in five words: What’s the point
of living?
By
announcing that nothing makes any difference ("That which
has been is that which shall be"), the skeptic, pessimistic
Koheles resembles the Greek philosophers who saw history as
cyclical, with progress nothing but an illusion, and mankind’s
dreams amounting to goornisht (nothing). [95] Yet on a closer reading, the skepticism and
pessimism of Koheles, just like a fragile succa, reminds one
of the ephemeral quality of life,
[96] whilst its despondent overtones appropriately match
the beginning of winter. Perhaps this is spiritual matchmaking
by default? How so? Because Succas is the only pilgrim festival
without its own megilla, and Koheles is the only megilla without
a festival!
Nevertheless
many Torah scholars had difficulty reconciling the Succas command
to "have nothing but joy" with a rabbinic ordinance
that inserted this somber and bewildering poem of austere contradictions
into the Succas-Shemini Atzeres’ Sabbaths. Some, like the brilliant
12th-century Abraham Ibn Ezra,
[97] tried (unsuccessfully) to ban its poetic cynicism
from inclusion in the Bible (similar efforts to ban the Sefer
Yechezkel, because of its contradictory prophecies, also
failed). At first the Sages wanted to distance Koheles from
the Scriptural fold because of its contradictory statements,
but they changed their mind when they realized that it commences
and concludes with words of Torah – and that at its heart it
taught what the sum of all matter was: to observe Gods commandments.
[98] And more: they related its message (that the true
joy of Life lies not in wealth nor pleasure but in fulfilling
mitzvas) to this time of the year, when Jewish farmers needed
a reminder that their livelihood and prosperity were about to
be determined by the coming months of winter.
With
this insight it seems that Koheles, with its contemplative mood
of introspection, is perfectly paired with the Succas season
of withdrawal, when produce that grows suddenly "retreats"
back into the ground, lying low ‘n dormant, in silent preparation
for the wintry period. One thing is certain: Koheles and its
Shemini Atzeres message has endured because its words are popular
and alluring, irresistible and captivating
and because the Jews
of antiquity are just like us: spending a lifetime struggling
with the meaning of life.
That
is why its lyrics are now part of the general mainstream of
culture: studied by scholars, quoted by statesmen, sung by such
famous rock artists.
[99]
To
everything there is a season,
and
a time to every purpose under the heaven:
a
time to be born, and a time to die;
a
time to break down , and a time to build up;
a
time to weep, and a time to laugh;
a
time to mourn, and a time to dance;
a
time to seek, and a time to lose;
a
time to keep, and a time to cast away;
a
time to rend, and a time to sew;
a
time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
a
time to love, and a time to hate;
a
time for war, and a time for peace…
Mesmerizing?
Hypnotic? Moving? Its easy to see why.
Simchas
Torah
"An
unlearned wagon driver once got the better of me," writes
Chassidic master Rabbi Naftali of Ropshitz. "He was rejoicing
mightily on Simchas Torah. Unable to restrain my cynicism, I
said to him, ‘Why are you so happy? You have not studied the
Torah!’
He
replied, ‘Rebbe, if my brother makes a wedding, shouldn’t I
rejoice with him? Don’t I have a share in his happiness?’
‘I
said to him, ‘You are right, my son. Please forgive me.’" [100]
Is
Simchas Torah part of Succas? No.
The
confusion is understandable because it comes fast on the heels
of the Succas cycle, however in the Talmud era this day was
simply the second day of Shemini Atzeret. It was the distinguished
10th century Hai Gaon, one of the scholars behind
the Babylonian Talmud, [101] who originally created
Simchas Torah as a unique "stand-alone" yomtov with
its own independent traditions and liturgy, thus making Shemini
Atzeret the only Jewish festival whose second day customs are
different from those of its first day.
What
motivated the Sage? Hai Gaon saw a need for a day in the Jewish
calendar for his exiled Babylonian community, long separated
from the holy land after having survived the loss of Ten Tribes, [102] to reaffirm their dedication to Torah. The involuntarily
eviction of the Jewish people from their "heart" [103] turned out to be just a
dress rehearsal, a prologue, a glimpse of a future unpleasantly
littered with forced exit visas, one-way tickets and a rootlessness
laced with anti-Semitism. [104] The misanthropic Jews,
displaced and alienated, became a land-lost people, perpetual
wanderers, [105] timeless nomads, crossing strange frontiers
and borders, carrying only cherished memories. This trek turned
Judaism into historys most mobile religion, as nostalgia reeked
through its pores; the psalmist
[106] sang the poetics of exile by the rivers of Babylon
("How can we sing God’s song in a foreign land?"), [107] the great Yehuda Halevi waxed fondly of
his heart being in the East, but I am in the West, the Hebrew
prophets promised to go back to the future, to rebuild ruined
cities, plant vineyards, till gardens in Israel.
[108]
Hai
Gaon’s decision proved to be remarkably well-timed: the bnei
rahamim, Gods merciful children, were about to experience
a long Jewish history of grim exile, brutal expulsions, and
fierce land upheavals. That the Jews survived, and survived
with their fidelity to God intact, astonished and dumbfounded
even the rabbis of the Talmud themselves. They marveled how
they, the most peace-loving peoples of them all, had been repeatedly
targeted by the most mighty and powerful of them all – and lived
to talk about it. If all the seas were ink and all the reeds
pens and all the people scribes, sighed a Midrash, it would
not be enough to record all the misfortunes of the Jews in a
single year, [109] an observation that led the 18th century Rabbi Yaakov Emdin
to conclude that Israels existence is a greater miracle than
the splitting of the Red Sea.
Thanks
to the insight of those early Babylonian geonim, the distinctive
Simchas Torah, which means rejoicing with the Torah,"
was carved into the Jewish calendar, an annual masterpiece dedicated
to paying homage to a steady Torah that acted as a dependable
life-raft of continuity. Destined to shape a peoples consciousness,
the day was to become the most exuberant and high-spirited Jewish
festival of the entire year, a time when scores of ordinary
Jews placed the Torah, their portable homeland, up high on
a pedestal as the symbol of an unbroken Covenant, and tightly
wrapped it around the shared adventures of the Jewish people
in exile.
The
crystal ball of Torah paid early tribute to the "be’er
chafaruha sarim," those who dug wells of Torah
in the tough soil of spiritual deserts; including the United
States of America that, less than six decades ago, was considered
by the European pietists a place where afilu di shteiner
zeinen treif, "even the stones are not kosher."
[110] The glue that held Israel together was its belief
system, a treatise bound by values and stapled by a tradition
that proved unbelievably resilient in all geographic circumstances. [111] It was this luggage of Torah, which Rabbi
Yosei ben Kisma calls a precious gem,
[112] packed with morals and manners, [113] that enabled entire Jewish communities
to reestablish themselves after each forced uprooting. No
matter where the reluctant Jew went, a copy of Talmud (which
means, "to learn") went along for the ride, a silent
companion of ritual and consciousness.
[114] There is no more powerful sight in Judaism than
a page of Talmud,
[115] writes the articulate Leon Wieseltier, It daunts,
teaches, scolds, tempts, pleases, defeats…It is the sight
of tradition itself. When a student excitedly told the Kotsker
Rebbe that he had just finished all of shas (the Talmud),
the Rebbe replied, Youve done all of shas but what
did Shas do to you? – to which even the non-traditionalist
Sigmund Freud had the right answer: It was the study of Torah
which kept the scattered Jews together. When launching his
innovative daf yomi program, Rav Meir Shapiro quoted
the story of a shocked Rav Gamliel who witnessed Rav Akiva drowning
from a shipwreck only to find him later alive and healthy on
dry land. "How did you survive?" he asked Akiva who
replied, "I grabbed hold of a daf (a plank of wood),
and with this daf for support, I sailed over every wave
until I reached land." Rav Shapiro used this clever play
on words to argue that one cannot survive the turbulence of
life without clinging to a daf gemora, the folio of Talmud.
On
Simchas Torah the question is not merely whether we feel like
dancing with the Torah, comments Rabbi Raymond Apple, but
whether the Torah feels like dancing with us. This shared
dance was a triumph for a Rabbinic Judaism that had replaced
the Temples caste system with a transportable Judaism that
became freely accessible to scores of quixotic everyday Jews
whose persona revolved around Hillel’s belief that more
Torah study [leads] to more life.
[116]
After
her husband once complained about chest pains, a wife called
the family doctor. The doctor rushed over, held the patients
hand and began taking his pulse.
Doctor,
said the husband, Its not my hand that hurts, the pains are
in my chest, near my heart.
To
which the doctor replied, I know, but from the hand we know
how the heart is doing.
It
was the hands of Israel, in exile, that clutched the sefer
Torah from one Simchas Torah to the next, in an annual check-up
to insure that the heart of the Jewish people was still in
good working order. This festival thus became the Jewish
calendar symbol of a shared love for a common object (Torah),
from which flowed a mystical force that kept Jews unified during
their sordid sufferings, tragic travails, awesome abasements. [117]
Jewish
life is a symphony whose score is the Torah, whose composer
is God, whose orchestra is the Jewish people," notes Rabbi
Jonathan Sacks, "and whose most moving performance is on
Simchas Torah.
[118] This is best evidenced by the central Simchas Torah
custom known as hakkafos ("seven circlings"),
[119] a circular procession of Jews praising the Torah.
Only a Torah that can reach down to the feet is authentic, mused
Chassidic Rabbi Zalman Schachter, adding anything else is just
a manipulation of words. This is why the charismatic Chassidic
leader, Israel ben Eliezer (Baal Shem Tov), once danced
with the Torah, stopped, put it aside – and continued dancing
and clutching it in its invisible form. This ability to perceive
something that is not there, and continue as though it is, is
the single most remarkable strength of the yiddishe folk.
It is confidence personified, emunah on a stand, evidence,
according to Menachem Mendel of Kotsk, that faith is clearer
than sight.
This
concept became stunningly clear to me at a Itzhak Perlman Lincoln
Center performance in May 2001. Perlman, stricken with polio
as a child, walked on the stage in pain. He then sat down, put
his crutches on the floor, undoes his leg clasps, tucks one
foot back, extends the other, bends down, picks up his violin,
nods to the conductor – and begins to play. After a few minutes
however one of his strings broke, snapping suddenly, the sound
reverberating through the huge hall. The audience assumed he
would stop, struggle to his feet, and limp off stage. He didn’t.
Perlman closed his eyes, signaled the conductor to start again,
and picked up where he had left off. Even though it’s near impossible
to play a symphonic work with only three strings Perlman did
just that: modulating with passion, recomposing with purity,
returning with perseverance. The audience sat in total awe,
breaking the silence with applause, as Perlman smiled, raised
his bow to quiet the crowd, and said, "Sometimes it is
the artist’s task to find out how much music you can still make
with what you have left."
Rabbi
Moshe Chaim Ehpraim once told of a fiddler who played so sweetly
that all who heard him began to dance, but when a deaf man came
by, he looked at these dancing people and thought they were
madmen, people who had lost their senses. In other words, the
music and lyrics of the Torah, the melody and words of our Sages,
are only heard by those who are willing to dance to them – and
to each other; and when there is less to sing and dance with
to continue to do so, Perlman-style, with the little we have.
When
Kabbalists compared the human body to the Jewish festivals,
they suggested that the brain serves Rosh Hashanah (via remembrance),
the hands serve Succas (via building) whilst the feet serve
Simchas Torah (via frenzied dancing). From a distance it seems
that the Torah scrolls are intensively clutched to Jewish hearts.
Look again. The holders devotion, shining through a forest
of radiant faces, is linked by the holding of hands moving in
merrymaking synch to circular foot movements. The early Jewish
mystics, fascinated by the form of a circle, incorporated circling
into many life-to-death ceremonies. Consider: brides circle
the groom, Jews circle a cemetery (or coffin) at funerals, the
Talmud [120] even
nicknamed Honi, a Jerusalem rabbi, the "Circle-Drawer"
because he would draw a circular ring, stand inside, pray to
God for rain and not leave until his prayers were answered.
Commenting
on the fact that there is no specific halachik mitzva, none
whatsoever, allocated to the dual festivities of Shemini Atzeret-Simchas
Torah, Rabbi Henoch of Alexandria traced this to its conclusionary
[azteret] status: It is a day on loan from the future,
for, in the future, all active mitzvot will be annulled, and
all Torah will be in the mind. This conclusionary aspect
of the festival, he continues, is symbolized by the power of
the circle, akin to a hakkofa, a self-contained shape
that flows with no dramatic beginning nor end, suggesting an
endless spiral of Torah readings, of a world within itself that
knows of no boundaries nor limits.
Simchas
Torah is thus the most emotionally mixed of all Jewish festivals.
Its pendulum swings between two extremes: from the somber elements
of the just concluded Ellul-Tishrei cycle to the hyperactive
Purim-like command sisu veSimchu be’simchat Torah, rejoice
with the Rejoicing of the Law. One moment we are repeating
many of the most lofty piyuttim from Yom Kippur; the
next minute we are singing, dancing and drinking the yomtov
away, even getting drunk
but not too drunk! In the only introductory
paragraph in his Mishnah Berurah, Rabbi Israel Meir ben
Hacohen of Radin (Chofetz Chaim) prefaced his chapter
on Simchas Torah with a warning against excessive drinking.
I
recall as a child that Simchas Torah was the best of times.
There was dancing n prancing, candies n apples, miniature
Torahs n flags. Why the flags? To symbolize the tribal flags
that the Children of Israel marched under in their exodus through
the desert. Why the apple? Im not sure, but the custom of carving
a hole in the apple for a lighted candle was meant to evoke
the image of light emanating from Torah. For that reason, the
apples were placed on top of the flags, symbols of waging milchamtah
shel Torah, [121] the battles for Torah.
It was customary in our shul when the Ark was empty of sefer
Torahs to place a candle inside to signify that the light
of Torah was still present (derived from the verse, Light is
a precept, and the Torah is light.) [122]
Was
it always a custom to circle the synagogue clutching the Torahs?
No. The Machzor Vitry describes [123] how it used to be: on both
Simchas Torah and Hoshanna Rabba all the Torahs were removed
and held, unopened and unread, in the center of the shul whilst
the congregants circled them. Hakkafos is a relatively recent
custom traced back to Rabbi Chaim Vital, 16th century kabbalist
from Safed and pupil of the famous Ari.
[124] Today, the concept of seven hakkafos has not only
been enthusiastically accepted as minhag eretz Israel,
custom of Israel, but has multiplied itself to as many as
three different times – both evenings, plus Simchas Torah by
day. At first the rabbis were concerned at this creeping expansion
of hakkofat on the evening after Shemini Atzeret (which in the
Diaspora coincides with the additional rabbinically decreed
ninth day of the Festival) because of possible desecration of
a yomtov. However all rabbinic doubts quickly collapsed for
predictable reasons: the masses demanded hakkofas, the more
the merrier!
During
the attah hareisa hakkofas all the Torahs must
be removed from the ark. Why? Because no sefer Torah was to
be left behind, alone, standing solitary and unaccompanied,
whilst all the others were making the rounds of singing n dancing. [125] Our rabbis considered this
a lack of derech eretz, which means the way of the world, [126] an insensitive breach of
respect in a religion that confers dignity on everything, ranging
from mankind to animals to objects, and demands that Jews treat
everybody and everything with unadulterated menschlichkeit,
decent behavior, in the pursuit of mipne darkhe shalom,
the ways of peace. Judaism is a religion of etiquette,
a French term that means label or card, and that
came into use when guests at royal French functions were handed
little cards instructing them on how to behave. These cards
were called etiquettes. Jews have the same cards. They’re
called mitzvas. Our rabbis filled two entire Talmudic tracts
with the mitzvas of derech eretz and bravely declared
that it preceded Mt.> Sinai by twenty-six generations, the span
of time between Creation and the giving of the Torah.
[127] By ignoring one sefer Torah on Simchas Torah and
rejoicing with all the others, our rabbis were warning us that
we trample on the concept of civility and reward nonhumility. [128] The concern not to offend is why the Vilna
Gaon restricted the number of Simchas Torah aliyahs to five,
including both chatan Torah and chatan Berashit. [129] The Judaic respect for objects is displayed in many customs
ranging from covering challahs on Friday night to leaving
the earth untouched during its Sabbatical cycle.
My
friends and I loved being carried on adult shoulders during
the noisy hakkofas; it was a time when grown-ups (quasi-halachikally)
tolerated our childish synagogue misbehavings. In my shul we
got our adolescent kicks by tying the fringes of one adults
tallis to anothers tallis, or to a chair, book,
in fact anything! I recall that my most daring Simchas Torah
act occurred when the chazan reached the mashiv ha-ruah
section in musaf, who brings forth wind and brings down
rain; I would lift him just high enough for my friends to put
a bucket of cold water under his feet. I would then place him
back down in the bucket – with his shoes n socks still on.
Poor chazan. He couldnt do a thing. Why? Because he was still
in the middle of saying the amidah, the silent prayer
of shemonei esrei, and was thus halachikally unable to
move his feet until he finished. Did I ever get punished? No.
Like Purim there were times in the Jewish year, and this was
one of them, when childish mischief was sanctioned.
The
synagogual atmosphere (ruach) on Simchas Torah is truly
an amazing experience. Everybody – and I mean everybody
– got an aliya. How is this possible? By reading the first two-thirds
of the Deuteronomic parsha of vzose haBracha
over-n-over again, in multiple minyans if necessary, until
every Jew is called up. [130] Cementing its ties to children,
Simchas Torah is the only time that a special aliya, under the
concept of kol haniaarim, all the children, is given
to, yep…all the children. I recall getting an aliya before
I was even tall enough to reach the bima, and certainly
before I even knew how to make the blessing. Some Torah commentators
trace this custom to parsha Vayelech, [131] where the Jews were instructed to gather
the little ones (known as hakhel, which means assembly)
[132] together with the rabbis, priests, and King and read
the Torah during the Succas of the seventh year. What happened
to this practice? It collapsed together with the collapse of
the Jewish monarchy. In 1995, this disused custom was initiated
by Israel and thousands
of Jews attended the renewed ceremony at the Western Wall.
As
soon as all the Torahs were out the singing rose in crescendo.
[133] It was not eis lirkod, "a time to dance,"
but eis rekod, "a time of dance;"
[134] or as my mother would say, in yiddish of course,
es tantzt zich alein, "the dancing comes of its
own (from inner joy)." The idea that song equals
Torah can be traced back to a Biblical injunction of Moses,
And now write for yourselves this song, a position supported
by King David who declared that Thy statutes have been my songs." [135] Song was, and still is,
a favorite form of religious self-expression, especially for
chassidim. [136] The Baal Shem Tov introduced joy via dancing-singing
as a perfectly legitimate way of serving God, especially for
the am ha-aretz (the unlearned) and made it a point
of learning as many niggunim (melodies) as possible.
[137] Chassidim would borrow tunes, rhythms and dance
steps from the local White Russian prisiudki or
gentile Rumanian shepherds, and then add Hebrew words and allegorical
Judaic content. Attempts by Ger and Kotzk to infuse chassidus
flavor into the works of Schubert, Chopin and Verdi were not
too successful; although nothing beats Gers Shabbas marching
tunes, with Moditz coming a close second (even Napoleon’s march
somehow found itself into the Kol Nidrei liturgy). [138] In fact some of our favorite melodies (eg; Ma’oz Tzur,
Adir Hu) are derived from non-Jewish folk songs,
as are several popular synagogal hymns whose cantorial composition
and performance are based on European operatic arias (I even
once heard a segment from "Phantom of the Opera" in
the Kedusha!)
[139]
Why
do the most moving of chassidic songs have no words?
[140] Because the first of the line of Chabad Rebbes was
convinced that since "melody is the outpouring of soul,
words interrupt the stream of emotions." Music, concluded
Rabbi Levi ben Gershon (Ralbag) [141] "is good for the soul," inspired
by Tehillim’s suggestion that God be praised, "with harps,
trumpets, drums, and other instruments." A melody with
words is by its very nature limited in time, whereas a lyric-free
niggun is endless, and infinite. Many Jews have told me that
their first impression when walking into a Beis Medrash,
a Torah House of Learning, is the unique orchestral-type sound
of Torah being discussed, dissected, debated. They are hearing
the fertile noise of exhilaration, the sounds of excitement,
the songs of verbal animation whose lyrics are the words of
the living God." [142]
That
is why it is customary on Simchas Torah, the festival of concert
that resonates to the inspirational symphony of Torah learning,
to conclude the annual cycle of reading the Torah (with the
end of the forty-year desert wandering and the death of Moses),
and, as Neil Sedaka once softly observed in song, breaking
up is hard to do, we thus immediately start reading it all
over again (with Genesis rebirth chapter of Creation). [143] This tradition, to finish
and immediately start reading the Torah with no pause, underscores
a premiere canon of Jewish faith, as expressed by Ezra: that
the study of Torah is, like a circle, a never-ending celebratory
renewal of the Covenant. It was Ezra who, in 5th century BCE,
first gathered the returning Jews from Babylon in a large solemn
assembly and read, and interpreted, the Torah of Moses.
[144] Today this sounds pretty blasé. However until then,
all legal and holy books were the exclusive province of Kings,
royalty or selective religious leaders. Ezras public reading
was the first time in history that the translation of a legalized
sacred book was being shared with the common masses. Christians
liked to keep the Bible in Latin to keep it away from the unlearned
peasants; but Jews kept theirs in Hebrew, to open it up to all
their folk. Why? Because all Jews were encouraged to indulge
in bibliolatry, in order to master the Scriptures themselves
as much as any rabbi. That is why, in medieval Europe, the average
Jew, let alone the average rabbi, was more literate than the
average Christian priest.
At
the conclusion of the Torah reading, the hagbah, the
lifting of the Torah scroll, is done differently than the rest
of the year. The person lifting the Torah, known as the bal
hagbah, criss-crosses his hands so that the Torah writing
is reversed, facing the congregation. Some scholars link this
custom to Pirkei Avos’s, Turn it [Torah] over and over, for
everything is in it; others say it symbolizes going back to
the beginning whilst others give it a practical reason: it is
easier to lift since all the weight is on the left hand.
[145] This annual ritual, to end and begin immediately,
has become such a primary Simchas Torah tradition that it is
hard to imagine that it wasnt always so.
[146] But it wasnt. This requirement is nowhere mentioned
in the Talmud, and later Sages conspicuously ignore it in their
prolific writings. The Rambam describes how the Torah readings
were spread out over three, or three-and-a-half years, ending
just before Pesach. [147]
One
of the first appearances of this stop-start custom appears in
Rav Avrohom Ben Yitzchoks Sefer HaEshkol;
[148] and, in his fascinating travel diaries
[149] the famed 12th century Jewish explorer
Benjamin of Tudela (who writes that it was the custom in his
own hometown in Spain to finish the Torah readings annually)
records how, during a stay in Cairo, he visited two synagogues
– one attended by Jews from Israel, the other by Jews from Babylon.
The former had broken each weekly Torah parsha into three parts,
thus completing one full Torah reading over three years; the
latter finished their Torah readings in one year. Nevertheless,
in a show of unity both shuls got together every year on Simchas
Torah to rejoice with the Torah, no matter where they were each
up to in its reading. This changed shortly thereafter when the
rabbis of Spain, Provence and Germany sought uniformity; and
they did so by accelerating the reading cycle to an annual one
and choosing to end it, not at Pesach-time (as was the then-custom),
but on the last day of Succas. Why? Because this period was
already heavily laden with halachik laws of joy and gayety.
But
when the Simchas Torah reading ends, then begins again, what
is the Jew celebrating? The ending? The beginning? I don’t know.
I imagine it’s a bit of each. The most honored portion is acharon,
the last aliyah. Why? Originally the custom was that only the
first person called to the Torah would say the opening blessing
and the last one called up would say the closing blessing. Those
called up in between would not say a bracha; hence the person
called up last had a special privilege, including the fact that
the final aliyah was the one through whom the Torah reading
became complete. Our Jewish mystics had a field day in "closing"
this circle: taking the last letter (lamed) of the last
word in the Torah (Yisrael), and adding it to the first
letter (bet, or vet without the dot) of the Torah’s
first word (Bereishit), they arrived at lev which
in Hebrew means "heart;" indicating that Torah is
the heart of the Jewish people. There is also a striking similarity
in both the first and last direct Torah commands involving bountiful
visions bordered by restrictions: Adam begins his life being
shown the Garden of Eden and ordered not to go to a certain
tree, whilst Moses ends his life being shown the land of Israel’s
beautiful hills, valleys and fertile plains and being told "you
shall not go there."
Simchas
Torah is the only time of the year when the Torah reading is
done at nighttime. Why? I dont know. But why read the Torah
again, and again, and again? Why not just study it once thoroughly,
then discuss, debate, dispute it at will? The answer comes to
use from the sage Ben Sira: the Torahs understanding is wider
than the sea, and its counsel deeper than the abyss,
[150] to which Yosef Josel Hurvitz adds
"The
Torah is a deep sea, and man a vessel,
to
draw water from it, and he draws according to the vessel.
If
he comes with a spoon, he will draw a spoonful;
if
with a jar – a jarful;
if
with a bucket – a bucketful;
if
with a barrel – a barrelful.
He
may draw as much as he wishes
"
Rav Hurvitz is beautifully illustrating how the Torahs rich
soil can be harvested on so many levels that each time one
opens a page of Torah, even the same page, one discovers
a new experience, a new adventure, a new Heaven, according
to the Zohar. The more one looks, the more one finds; the more
one finds, the more one understands; the more one understands,
the more one can grow. In fact it is a Torah command to explore
and innovate to the full extent of ones abilities, thus attracting
the Shekhinah itself to hover over the holy bearers
of our ancestoral faith. This is why the Torah is called etz
chayim, a growing Tree of Life (a term that comes from
the verse etz chayim hi lmachizikim bah etz chayim,
She is a tree of life for those who hold her tight; a tree
of life); [151]
and why Islam pinned the label ahl al-kitab, The
People of the Book onto the Jewish people. Egyptian leader
Ptolemy II, a noted bibliophile, even ordered that "the
Jews book" be translated into Greek because, their laws
are befitting of imitation.
Does this mean that Simchas Torah is a day of actually learning
Torah? No. This is a myth. It is a day of praising the process
of, and commending the method of, but not
necessarily the learning of, Torah. Thus Simchas
Torah answers the age-old Jewish version of the chicken-n-egg
question – is it better to study Torah, or to live Torah? The
answer? Action speaks louder than words; a conclusion that comes
to us courtesy of Judah ha-Nasi, What we do is more important
than what we study, to which Rabbi Shimon-ben Gamliel adds,
"Study is not the main thing but deeds, for it is by deeds
that Man atones for his shortcomings." [152] Rav Hutner, in his Pachad Yitzchak
on Shavuos, saw an asymmetrical relationship between the two,
in that the study of Torah "co-opts" performance and
transforms the fulfillment of a mitzva into a dimension of "active
study" (in other words, study has independent, and yet
paramount, significance). We know this instinctively. How? Because
the Torah was given years before many commandments became obligatory,
and the very popular rabbinic expression, "Torah u-
mitzvot," demonstrates that talmud Torah and mitzva
observance are two separate and distinct aspects of service
of God. Or as Rav David Rosen, the Rugochover Rebbe, so eloquently
summarized: "When I pray, I talk to God; when I study Torah,
God talks to me."
[153]
But
there is an obvious paradox: if Simchas Torah and Torah are
as One, why do we need Shavuos, or vice versa? Remember: the
giving of the Torah at Mt. Sinai as represented by Shavuos chronologically
precedes Simchas Torah. So why not link Jewish children
to the Torah of Shavuos instead of to the Torah
of Simchat Torah?, especially since it was always customary
for Jewish parents to take their children to their first day
of cheder on Shavuos, not on Simchas Torah. Similarly,
why not have tikkun layl Shavuos, the all-night learning
Shavuos session on Simchas Torah? And, while were on the topic,
why arent Jews freilich n sameach, happy and celebratory,
with the Torah on Shavuos as much as they are on Simchas Torah?
Come to think of it: doesnt it make more sense to finish-n-start
the Torahs reading cycle on Shavuos instead of Simchas Torah?
The
clue to all these questions lies in an unusual event that occurs
immediately before Shavuos; a Torah reading [154] that is a not-so-subtle intimation that the well-being of
the Jew is conditional on abeyance of laws, statutes, codes
(mizvot, hukim, mishpatim.) It is here
that we are startled by a catastrophic catalogue from Heaven;
a "do-this-or-else" checklist followed by a harrowing
and frightful litany of Godly warnings for those who dont,
prefaced by the warning, [155] I set before you a blessing and a curse:
a blessing if you obey the commandments of the Lord your God
– and a curse if you do not.
[156] In fact, so grim are Gods consequences of violation
that the chazan lowers his tone when reading them – in fear
and apprehension. (Not surprisingly, this is the only time of
the year when a Jew actually does not seek the honor
of an aliyah.)
Within
this discomforting, jarring and disquieting atmosphere of punishment,
retribution and vengeance, it seemed unnatural (bad-timing,
if you will) for Jews to take out all the sefer Torahs, then
dance n party the night away
and it was certainly not the most
appropriate atmosphere within which to gather all the little
ones up to the Torah. Therefore our rabbinical leaders, serving
as our primus inter pares, decided it was far more befitting
and proper to keep Shavuos somber, low-key, inward; for in the
shadow of castigation it was better to learn more, and rejoice
less. However by Simchas Torah, these chastisements no longer
hovered menacingly in the air. The mood? Loose, unrestrained,
free. The tone? Upbeat, vigorous, energetic. And why not? It
was the end of the Succas period, when hopes for future redemption
were running high with such towering lyrics as kol m’vasser,
m’vasser v’omer, kol dodi hineh zeh ba, A voice heralds
and informs – the voice of my beloved (the Messiah)
hear it,
he is coming."
So
Simchas Torah was the right time; time to put the serious
learning aside, throw a party, get the wine, candy, flags, apples
n kids – and dance the night away with wild, lively and vigorous
hakkofos.
Im
exhausted just thinking about it.