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Succas by Joe Bobker Four days in Autumn. That’s 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: Z’man 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 Torah’s "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 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 didn’t we just do that? Isn’t that what those Ten Days of Awe were all about? Yes, and no. The days of z’man 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 Kippur’s neilah. An early Hebraic manuscript has the following order: b’Rosh Hashanah yishafeitun, (“On Rosh Hashana we are judged”), uveYom Tzom Kippur yikateivun, (“on Yom Kippur we are inscribed’), and finally uveHosha’anah Rabbah yechateimun (“on Hashana Rabba we are sealed.”) This sudden contrast falls in the category of vegilu bir’ada 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 father’s 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
Archeological digs in Israel have revealed that even during battle (eg; Bar Kochba’s 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 Ba’al 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 The popular saying lakol z’man, “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 z’man 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 b’chagecha, "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… “I could never understand this puzzling remark. Only during the war did I understand. Those Jews who, in the course of their journey to the end of hope, managed to dance on Simchat Torah, those Jews who studied Talmud while carrying stones on their back, those Jews who went on whispering "zemirot shel Shabbat" while performing hard labor, they taught us how Jews should behave in the face of adversity. For my contemporaries one generation ago, v'samachta b’chagecha was one commandment that was impossible to observe, yet they observed it.” 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 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 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 couldn’t 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 V’samachta b’chagecha; a satisfied fulfillment, the year’s 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-Sho’evah," 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 ha’moed Succas, wicks were made out of the priest’s 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 (l’yeshev 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 man’s joy is greatest,” observed Rav Shlomo Ephraim Lunschitz (Kli Yakar), [36] when his family is with him in his own home. [37] The Talmud’s 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 don’t suffer for it” (mitzta’er 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 it’s 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 l’vatalah, 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 God’s commands, al pi haShem yakhanu ve-al pi haShem yisa’u, rebelling only occasionally at Tav’era, Masa and at Kivrot-hata’ave. [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 patriarch’s 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 wasn’t 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 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: isn’t 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 z”tl, 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 couldn’t even agree on Hoshanna Rabba’s 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 wouldn’t 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. Doesn’t this seem rather harsh, and overly acrimonious? Especially in light of the Torah’s 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 altar’s 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 God’s 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 festival’s 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 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 today’s 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 doesn’t make him a rabbi”), harsh rabbinic definitions (“A rabbi whom people don’t want to force out of town isn’t a rabbi, and a rabbi whom the community drives out of town isn’t 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 Judaism’s 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 didn’t 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 didn’t 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. Don’t 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 country’s Jews were already in Jerusalem. This rabbinic benevolence may have helped the Jew but it hurt Shemini Atzeret’s independence as a singular festival. Sensing the possibility of this “inferior” status the rabbis of the Talmud then accentuated the day’s 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. It’s 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-d’li, 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 it’s “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 landscape’s 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 Ta’anit, 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 liv’racha, 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 Abraham’s 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 Talmud’s 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 rebbe’s response. My favorite Shemini Atzeret question? If it’s 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 don’t 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 one’s 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 la’amcha 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 Nature’s 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 people’s 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 Atzeret’s 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 God’s 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 |