Flying Branches

ESSAY: Flying Branches
For twenty-six generations, man climbed the tree of human achievement; then he took off for the heavens

INSIGHTS
Genuine Hypocrisy
Hypocrisy is usually attributed where a person’s words and deeds differ from his conscious will. But Abraham had a more objective criterion
The Years of his Youth
All one hundred and thirty-seven of them

A TELLING STORY: Advertising
is the name of the game—for those who wish to play the game

The sukkah is a makeshift hut in which the Jew dwells during the seven-day festival of Sukkot. In commanding us to leave the stability and safety of our homes for this temporary and vulnerable structure,[1] the Torah explains that this is to remind us of how G-d sheltered us (with the miraculous “clouds of glory”) in our forty years’ journey through the desert from Egypt to the Holy Land.[2]

Yet the sukkah also has a more ancient origin, dating back four hundred years before the Exodus from Egypt to Abraham, the first Jew. In the 18th chapter of Genesis we read of Abraham’s legendary hospitality for the desert wayfarers passing by his home. Still ailing from his circumcision three days earlier, Abraham stationed himself at the doorway of his tent to await any possible guests; when he saw three travelers approaching, “he ran toward them... and bowed to the ground. And he said: ‘My Lord! If I have found favor in your eyes, please do not pass by your servant. Let a little water be fetched, and wash your feet; and recline yourselves under the tree. I will fetch you some bread and you shall sate your hearts; only them shall you pass on...”[3]

Says the Midrash: In the merit of Abraham’s inviting his guests to “recline yourselves under the tree,” G-d sheltered his descendants in the desert and later granted them the mitzvah of sukkah.[4]

Indeed, our own sukkot in many ways resemble the resting place that Abraham offered his guests in the shade of his tree. The meaning of the word “sukkah” is a structure whose function is to provide shade;[5] thus, the most important part of the sukkah is the sechach, the roof-covering, which must be dense enough so that “the shade [in the sukkah] is greater than the sunlight.”[6] And the sechach must consist of materials which, like Abraham’s tree, “grow from the earth”—branches, reeds or other unfinished vegetable matter.[7]

Yet there is also a primary difference between our sukkah and its Abrahamic predecessor. The law is that the materials of the sechach must be detached from their source of growth in the earth. Thus, a sukkah that is covered by a trellis of vines that are still connected to their roots, or that is built under a tree so that it is shaded by the tree’s still-connected branches, is invalid for use in the observance of the mitzvah of dwelling in the sukkah.[8]

The sukkah is unique among the mitzvot of the Torah in that it embraces the totality of the person: the mitzvah of sukkah is that a person should conduct all his activities—eating, resting, studying, socializing—inside the sukkah for seven days.[9] (With other mitzvot, only certain parts or faculties of the person are involved in the fulfillment of the divine will—e.g., Torah study involves the brain, prayer the heart and the faculty of speech, tefillin the arm and head, matzah the digestive system, etc.) Thus the mitzvah of sukkah is often cited as representative of all the mitzvot.[10]

If dwelling in the sukkah is the generic mitzvah, understanding both the similarity and the difference between our sukkah and the “sukkah” of Abraham will illuminate the nature of our relationship with the Patriarchs, and explain how our deeds derive, yet also differ, from their achievements.

Our sages tell us that our forefathers studied the Torah and fulfilled its commandments many generations before it was “officially” given to us at Mount Sinai.[11] Yet it is the revelation at Sinai, rather than the legacy of the Patriarchs, that is the essence of our covenant with G-d and our commitment to observe the mitzvot. In the words of Maimonides:

“Everything that we avoid doing or that we do today, we do only because of G‑d’s command to Moses at Sinai, not because of any communication by G‑d to earlier prophets. For example, we refrain from eating [the flesh of] a limb taken from a live animal not because G-d forbade this to Noah,[12] but because Moses forbade it by commanding us, at Sinai, that this prohibition should be observed... We do not circumcise ourselves because our father Abraham circumcised himself and the members of his household, only because G‑d commanded us through Moses that we should circumcise ourselves as did Abraham....”[13]

The Midrash[14] explains the difference between the pre-Sinaitic mitzvot and the mitzvot we observe after Sinai with the following metaphor:

Once there was a king who decreed: “The people of Rome are forbidden to journey to Syria, and the people of Syria are forbidden to journey to Rome.” Likewise, when G‑d created the world He decreed: “The heavens are G‑d’s, and the earth is given to man.”[15] But when He wished to give the Torah to Israel, He rescinded His original decree, and declared: “The lower realms may ascend to the higher realms, and the higher realms may descend to the lower realms. And I, Myself, will begin.” As it is written, “And G‑d descended on Mount Sinai,”[16] and then it says, “And to Moses He said: Go up to G‑d.”[17]

The human being is the crown and apex of G-d’s creation, a creature whose intelligence and spirituality distinguish him as a class above the other creatures with which he shares G-d’s world. Yet man, too, is part of the “lower realms”; man, too, is finite and mortal, and even his highest achievements cannot transcend his finiteness and mortality. At least, that was the state of affairs for as long as the decree dividing between heaven and earth was in force.

But at Sinai G-d rescinded this decree, Himself descending to an earthly mountain and inviting man to “go up to G-d.” Man was empowered to live a G-dly life, to think G-dly thoughts, speak G-dly words and do G-dly deeds. The 613 mitzvot of the Torah were established by G-d as vehicles of connection to Him, as bridges between Heaven and earth.

The mitzvot as performed prior to Sinai were lofty deeds, spiritual deeds, deeds representing the heights of human achievement. Yet they were human deeds. Deeds striving upwards toward Heaven, yet never truly transcending their earthly base. It was only after Sinai that a human act could be freed of its earthbound roots to soar to the “higher realms” and assume an infinite and eternal significance.

Yet the revelation at Sinai did not take place in a vacuum. It was preceded by twenty-six generations of human endeavor, twenty-six generations in which man refined and perfected his finite self in preparation for the encounter with G-d at Sinai.

Thus, when G-d descended to earth to breach the frontier that separated the supernal from the terrestrial, He did not come down to the Israelite camp at the foot of Mount Sinai, only to the mountain’s summit. One might ask: if G-d had come all the way from the infinite yonder to visit our finite earth, could He not have descended another few thousand feet, instead of troubling the 80-year-old Moses to climb to the top of the mountain? But this expresses the terms on which G-d made Himself accessible to us at Sinai. First, said G-d, I want you to attain the greatest heights of which you are capable; first, I want you to develop your own potential to its utmost; then, I will meet you at the summit of human achievement and free you from its bounds.

Therein lies the significance of Abraham’s sukkah tree and its relationship to our post-Sinai sechach-covered sukkah. Before Sinai, a mitzvah could, at most, be a tree; its branches reaching heavenward—perhaps even to great heights—yet rooted in and nourished by the earth. Man could develop and refine himself, yet could not transcend his terrestrial foundations. But after Sinai, our sukkot can, and must, be made with branches cut free from their earthly roots. After Sinai, a mitzvah must entail a departure from the merely human and rise to a self-transcending bond with G-d.

At the same time, it was Abraham’s sukkah that was the cause of our receiving the gift of sukkah from G-d—just as the branches that cover our sukkot must first sprout from the earth and grow and develop in their earth-bound state. First we must develop our own, human faculties—our limited understanding, our subjective feelings, our mortal achievements—before these can be “cut loose” from their earthly moorings to serve as true vehicles of connection with G-d.

Based on an entry in the Rebbe’s journal, dated Sukkot 5702 (1941),[18] and his talks on various other occasions

[Abraham] established an eshel (wayside inn) at Be’er Sheva; and he called there in the name of G-d, L-rd of the world

Genesis 21:33

The Talmud explains that in addition to providing hospitality to desert wayfarers, Abraham’s inn also served as a center for bringing the truth of the One G-d to a pagan world. When Abraham’s guests wished to bless him for his generosity, he would say to them: “Has the food you have eaten been provided by myself? You should thank, praise and bless He who spoke the world into being!”[19]

For those who nevertheless resisted acknowledging G-d as their creator and provider, Abraham employed a less amiable tactic. The Midrash relates how Abraham would then demand payment for the food they had eaten. “How much do I owe you?” the guest would ask. “A jug of wine is one fulrin,” Abraham would say; “a pound of meat, one fulrin; a loaf of bread, one fulrin.” When the guest would protest these exorbitant prices, Abraham would counter: “Who supplies you with wine in the middle of the desert? Who supplies you with meat in the desert? Who supplies you with bread in the desert?” “When the guest would realize the predicament he was in,” the Midrash concludes, he would relent and proclaim: “Blessed be the G-d of the world, from Whose providence we have eaten.”[20]

But what value, we might ask, was there in such a unwilling proclamation, extracted under pressure? Was this not a mere mouthing of words, devoid of any conviction as to the truth of the One G-d or any desire to thank Him for His providence?

But Abraham had a vision of humanity which convinced him that every positive deed, word or thought does have value, no matter how “superficial” or “hypocritical” it might seem to a less discerning eye. When Abraham looked at his guests, he did not see pagans, idolaters and fetishists who “worshipped the dust of their feet”[21]; he saw creatures of G-d, men and women who had been created in the divine image and who possessed a potential, inherent to the very essence of their being, to recognize their Creator and serve His will.

Most often, a kind word and a helping hand will bring to light this inner potential. At times, however, a soul might be so encrusted by negative influences and a corrupted character that a certain degree of “pressure” must be applied to quell its resistance to a G-dly deed. (Of course, any use of such “pressure” must conform to the dictates of G-d’s Torah, whose “ways are ways of pleasantness, and all its pathways are peace”[22]—as in the case of Abraham’s fully legitimate demand for payment.)

Abraham understood that no human acknowledgment of G-d can ever be “hypocritical.” On the contrary: a pagan belief and behavior is the ultimate hypocrisy, for it is at variance with the person’s quintessential being and innermost will. When a creature of G-d proclaims “Blessed be the G-d of the world from Whose providence we have eaten,” nothing can be more consistent with his or her innermost self.

Based on an address by the Rebbe, Sivan 2, 5730 (June 6, 1970)[23]

And Abraham arose in the morning... and he took his two youths with him... and he went to the place that G-d had commanded him

Genesis 22:3

Rabbi Israel Baal Shem Tov points out that the Hebrew words shenei ne’arav (“his two youths”) can also be read shenei ne’urav (“the years of his youth”). Not only did Abraham rush to fulfill the divine will with speed and alacrity, he also brought all the energy, passion and commitment of his youth to the deed.

One of the great rabbis of the time once happened to engage Rabbi Nechemiah Ginzburg, a chassid of the Tzemach Tzedek (R’ Menachem Mendel of Lubavitch, 1789-1866), in a halachic discussion. The rabbi was amazed by Rabbi Nechemiah’s knowledge and genius, and even more amazed to learn that his conversant was an anonymous merchant from the town of Dubrovna. “I have met the greatest scholars of our time,” he exclaimed, “and I can personally attest that few of them are as knowledgeable and brilliant as yourself. How is it that your name is not known among the Torah scholars of our generation?”

“In our town,” replied Rabbi Nechemiah, “there is a man who deals in rare and precious books. Once he visited the home of a sage and was amazed by the wealth of books on the sage’s bookshelves. ‘How is it,’ he wondered, ‘that no one has ever heard of your library? People come from far and wide to examine my wares, but my entire collection is not a tenth of the size and value of yours!’

“‘You collect books to sell them to the world,’ replied the sage, ‘so all the world knows about them. My books are for myself.’”

Adapted from the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe by Yanki Tauber