Noah's Flood

In the 600^th year of Noah’s life, on the seventeenth day of the second month—on this day, all the fountains of the great deep broke open and the windows of the heaven were opened… And the waters of the Flood were upon the earth…

In the 601^st year… on the twenty-seventh day of the second month, the earth dried.

The discrepancy between these two dates] represents the eleven days which the solar year is greater than the lunar year; hence the Flood lasted a complete year.

You’ve designated the weekend for some quality time with your family when the phone rings; naturally, it’s an emergency at the office which requires your immediate involvement. You’ve set aside the evening for volunteer work in your community; instead, you spend it with your neighborhood mechanic attending to another eruption of car trouble.

Few of us, fortunately, have faced a “real” flood in which torrents of water threaten to engulf one’s home. But we’re all familiar with the experience of being flooded with the cares of material life, of being swamped with all sorts of matters demanding our attention just when we were finally getting down to the things which are truly important and precious to us.

The Chassidic masters explain that this is the contemporary significance of the great Flood which the Torah describes in the seventh and eighth chapters of Genesis. A basic tenet of Chassidic teaching is that everything in the Torah is eternal, its “historical” events ever-present realities in our lives. Noah’s Flood is the prototype for a challenge which we all face: the flood of material concerns which threatens to smother the flame of spiritual striving we harbor in our souls.[1]

Indeed, our sages tell us that Noah’s Flood began as an ordinary rainfall, which the misdeeds of man caused to escalate into the Flood. In other words, in their proper proportion and context as a regulated means to a higher end, the metaphorical waters of materiality are a beneficial, life-nurturing rain; but when allowed to overstep their bounds, they become a destructive deluge.

The deeper significance of Noah’s Flood is also reflected in the fact that it began and ended in the second month of the Jewish year, the month of Cheshvan.

The first month of the year, the festival-rich month of Tishrei, is wholly devoted to spiritual pursuits: the renewal of our commitment to the Divine Sovereignty on Rosh HaShanah; repenting our failings on Yom Kippur; celebrating our unity as a people and G-d’s providence of our lives on Sukkot; rejoicing in our bond with the Torah on Simchat Torah. The following month, Cheshvan, marks our return to the “daily grind” of material life. On Cheshvan, rain begins to fall in the Holy Land and the Israelite farmer plows and sows his fields, signifying the return to a life that derives its nourishment from the earth. It is no coincidence that Cheshvan (also called Mar-Cheshvan—mar meaning both “bitter” and “water”) is the most ordinary of months —the only month of the year without a single festival or special occasion.[2]

Noah’s Flood commenced on the 17^th of Cheshvan in the year 1656 from creation, and ended on Cheshvan 27 of the following year.

The biblical commentaries explain that the Flood lasted exactly one year, and that the 11-day discrepancy in the dates represents the 11-day difference between the solar and lunar years.

This reflects the fact that different components of the calendar are based on a variety of natural cycles which do not easily lend themselves to synchronization. The month derives from the moon’s 29.5 day orbit of the earth; the year, from the 365-day solar cycle. The problem is that 12 lunar months add up to 354 days—eleven days short of the solar year.

Most calendars deal with this discrepancy by simply ignoring one or the other celestial timekeepers. For example, the Gregorian Calendar (which has attained near-universal status) is completely solar based. Its 365 days are divided into 12 segments of 30 or 31 days, but these “months” have lost all connection with their original association with the moon. There are also calendars (such as the Moslem Calendar) which are exclusively lunar-based, with months that are faithfully attuned to the phases of the moon. Twelve such months are regarded as a year, but these “years” bear no relation to the solar cycle (a given date in such a calendar will, in certain years, fall in the midst of summer and, in other years, in the dead of winter).

The Jewish calendar is unique in that it reconciles the solar and lunar time-streams. By employing a complex 19-year cycle in which months alternate between 29 and 30 days and years alternate between 12 and 13 months, the Jewish calendar sets its months by the moon, and its years by the sun, combining lunar time and solar time into a single system while preserving the integrity of each.

For the sun and the moon represent the two sides of a dichotomy which bisects virtually every aspect of our existence—a dichotomy whose differences we must respect and preserve even as we incorporate them in a cohesive approach to life.

In previous essays, we have explored various aspects of the solar/lunar polarity: the contrast between the surety and consistency of tradition on the one hand, and the yen for flux, innovation and creativity on the other[3]; the male/female dynamic, which imbues us with the passion to give and bestow on the one hand, and the capacity to accept and receive on the other.[4] On this occasion, we shall dwell on another aspect of this cosmic duality: the twinship of spirit and matter.

The spiritual and the material are often equated with light and darkness. Indeed, a number of religions and moral-systems regard the spiritual as enlightened, virtuous and desirable, and the physical-material side of life as belonging to the “forces of darkness.” The Torah, however, has a different conception of spirituality and materiality—a conception embodied by the solar/lunar model.

The sun is a luminous body while the moon is a dark lump of matter.Yet both are luminaries.[5] Both serve us as sources of light, the difference being that the sun’s light is self-generated, while the moon illuminates by receiving and reflecting the light of the sun.

Spirituality is a direct effusion of divine light. When studying Torah, praying, or performing a mitzvah, we are in direct contact with G-d; we are manifestly revealing His truth in the world. But not every thought of man relates directly to the Divine Wisdom; not every word we utter is a prayer; not every deed we perform is a mitzvah. G-d created us as material creatures, compelled to devote a considerable part of our time and energies to satisfy a multitude of material needs. By necessity and design, much of our life is “lunar,” comprised of the “dark matter” of non-holy pursuits.

Dark matter, however, need not mean an absence of light. It can be a moon—dark matter serving as a conduit of light. It’s all a matter of positioning. The moon is dark matter positioned in such a way as to convey the light of the sun to places to which it cannot flow directly from its source. Placed in the proper context, the material involvements of life can serve as facilitators of divine truth to places which, in and of themselves, are not in the “direct line” of spirituality and holiness. The proceeds of unavoidable overtime at the workplace can be translated into additional resources for charity; the unplanned trip to the mechanic can be the start of a new friendship and a positive influence on a fellow man.

Our lives include both a solar and a lunar track—a course of spiritual achievement as well as a path of material endeavor. These orbits do not run in tandem—at times they clash, giving rise to dissonance and conflict. The simple solution would be to follow a single route, choosing an exclusively solar or exclusively lunar path through life. But the Jewish calendar does not avail itself of the simple solution.

Our calendar insists that we incorporate both systems in our time-trajectory: that we cultivate a solar self—thoughts and feelings, deeds and endeavors, moments and occasions of consummate holiness and spirituality; and at the same time develop a lunar personality—a material life which reflects and projects our other, spiritual self.

This is also the lesson implicit in the 365-day duration of Noah’s Flood. The deluge of material concerns which threaten to overwhelm our lives can be mastered and sublimated. The Flood can be reconciled with the solar calendar and made part of a “complete year” in which lunar and solar time converge and the moon receives and conveys the light of the sun.

A common conception is that human creativity, particularly artistic creativity, will flourish only under conditions of unbridled freedom. Limitations and inhibitions of any sort—goes this line of thinking—are anathema to art.

The history of man’s attempt to evoke beauty and meaning with the materials of life has shown the very opposite to be the case: that “oppressive” circumstances have stimulated humanity’s most profound and innovative creations, while conditions of unmitigated freedom yield lesser and shallower works. Indeed, working within bonds is intrinsic to the process and product of artistic creation: the challenge to reduce a landscape or personality to a two-dimensional surface of limited size is what makes a great painting; the need to express a thought or feeling with a limited number of words arranged in accordance with rigid laws of meter and rhyme is what makes a great poem. The very essence of art, it can be said, flows from the tension between the expanse-seeking spirit of the artist and the constraints of the medium and circumstances by and under which it expresses itself.

“Because of our sins,” we say in the Musaf prayer recited on the festivals, “we were exiled from our land and driven from our soil. No longer are we able to ascend to show ourselves and bow before You, and perform our obligations in Your chosen home, in the great and holy house upon which Your name is called.”

The 613 commandments (mitzvot) of the Torah are a bridge between the finite and the infinite, the means by which mortal man achieves connection with his Creator and Source. Today, however, we are capable of achieving only a limited fulfillment of the mitzvot: there are hundreds of mitzvot that can be observed only when the Holy Temple is standing in Jerusalem and the entire community of Israel resides in the Holy Land. Indeed, the Torah forbids their actual observance in our present circumstances.

So our current state of galut (exile) is much more than a physical displacement. Before we were driven from our land and the House of G-d was taken from us, all Jews would make the thrice-yearly pilgrimage (on the festivals of Passover, Shavuot and Sukkot) to the Holy Temple “to see and be seen by the face of G-d”[7] in the place where He chose to make Himself directly and uninhibitedly accessible to us. There we would observe the commandments associated with the Temple service, actualizing and experiencing those aspects of our relationship with the Almighty embodied by these mitzvot. But since the destruction of the Temple and our exile from the Holy Land, these venues of connection with G-d have been closed to us.

This is not to say that these mitzvot have been abolished or have “expired”—a fundamental principle of the Jewish faith is that “Something that is clearly specified by the Torah as a mitzvah endures forever, and will never be changed, abrogated or added to.”[8] The commandments remain in force; it is just that we are prevented from fulfilling them by the circumstances of galut. Indeed, therein lies the ultimate frustration of our exile: these channels of connection with G-d exist, yet the limitations of galut prevent us from pursuing them.

The Talmud cites an interesting rule of etiquette governing guest-host relations: “Whatever the host instructs, you must do, except when he says ‘Get out of my house.’“[9] Chassidic teaching applies this to our relationship with G-d: As “guests” in G-d’s world we must obey all that He instructs us to do—except when He tells us to “Get out!” When He banishes us from His presence we are not to obey, but to persist in our efforts to come close to Him.

So even as we submit to its decrees, we do not reconcile ourselves with the phenomenon of galut. When G-d commands, “Do this” or “Do not do this,” we obey; yet we refuse to accept the galut per se, refuse to accept the closing of venues in our relationship with G-d.

And it is from this incessant struggle—from this unremitting tension between our acceptance of the curbs of galut and our striving to break free of them—that our most “creative” achievements in our relationship with G-d arise.

Prevented from performing many mitzvot in their actual, physical guise, we direct our energy and creativity to their spiritual essence, which remains unaffected by the circumstances of galut. For example, the deeper significance of the korbanot (animal offerings) that were offered on the altar in the Holy Temple is that man should sublimate the “animal soul” within himself, refining his naturally self-oriented drives and desires. Today, we achieve this through prayer: three times a day we contemplate the majesty of G-d, inspiring and reorienting our natural selves to strive for higher and more transcendent aims than the satisfaction of its animal instincts. In the words of the prophet: “Our lips fulfill [what was accomplished through] oxen.”[10]

Furthermore, we do not suffice with exclusively “spiritual” versions of these mitzvot: whenever possible, we accompany them with physical deeds that commemorate and evoke the manner in which the mitzvah was originally and optimally fulfilled. Thus, in commemoration of the Simchat Beit HaShoeivah (“Water-Drawing Festivities”) held in the Holy Temple on the festival of Sukkot, we conduct our own nightly Sukkot celebrations, “going through the motions” of singing, dancing and playing musical instruments, even though the heart and essence of the event—the drawing of water from a spring for pouring on the Altar—is absent from our celebrations. At the same time, however, we take great care to ensure that our actions do not in any way suggest that we are actually performing the mitzvah in violation of the laws that forbid their implementation in a galut environment.[11]

Daily we pray for and await the day that our lives will be freed from the confines of galut. Yet there is something very special about our present-day struggles and the unique potentials and achievements they exact from our souls.

To strain the bounds of galut, while taking care not to overstep these bounds; to onform to the will of G-d, while appreciating that it is G-d’s desire that we contest His will whenever it dictates that we limit our connection with Him—this has yielded the most profound and innovative achievements in the divine art of life.

[1] . Torah Ohr, Noach 8c ff. It is of this challenge that King Solomon speaks when he proclaims, “Great waters cannot quench the love, nor can the rivers wash it away” (Song of Songs 8:7).

[2] . See The Last Jew, WIR, vol. X, no. 5.

[3] . See Jewish Time, WIR vol. X, no. 25.

[4] . See G-d on the Moon, WIR vol. X, no. 30.

[6] . Likkutei Sichot, vol. XX, pp. 281-291.

[7] . Exodus 34:23-24, as per Talmud, Chagigah 2a and Ohr HaTorah, Vayeira 103b ff.

[8] . Mishneh Torah, Laws of the Fundamentals of Torah 9:1; cf. Maimonides’ Thirteen Principle of Faith, Principle 9; Sefer HaIkkarim, 3:13-14.

[11] . A case in point is the zeroa (roasted “shankbone”) on the seder plate: while we place it on the seder table to commemorate the Passover offering brought in the time of the Holy Temple, we do not eat it, and refrain from eating any roasted meat at all that night, to avoid any appearance that we can fulfill this mitzvah in galut.