August 7th, 2015
Say “Passover” and one immediately thinks “freedom.” Most festivals are likewise defined by a concept that dominates the festival’s observances and the historical events it commemorates: repentance (Yom Kippur), Torah (Shavuot), light (Chanukah), and so on.
Pinpointing the theme of Sukkot is a more complex matter. Unlike the other festivals on the Jewish calendar, it does not mark the anniversary of a particular milestone in our history. In seeking the essence of Sukkot, we must therefore look for the common denominator of the festival’s three primary mitzvot: the precept to “rejoice on your festival,”[1] the taking of the Daled Minim, (the Four Kinds), and dwelling in the sukkah.
Joy as a Bridge
All of the festivals are referred to as “occasions for joy” (moadim lesimcha), but the Torah stresses the centrality of joy to the festival of Sukkot more than with any other festival.[2] Indeed, only the festival of Sukkot that is defined in our prayers of the day as zeman simchateinu, “The Time of Our Joy.” There is a special joy associated with Sukkot, which reaches its height in the nightly “water drawing” celebrations held during the festival.
And joy, for the Jew, is an exercise in empathy and communal concern. “You shall rejoice on your festival,” says the Torah:
“You, your son, your daughter, your servant, your maid, the Levite, the stranger, the orphan and the widow….” [3]
In the words of Maimonides:
“When one eats and drinks, one must also feed the stranger, the orphan, the widow, and the other unfortunate paupers. One who locks the doors of his courtyard and feasts and drinks with his children and wife but does not feed the poor and the embittered—this is not the joy of mitzvah but the joy of his stomach.” [4]
Selfish festivity is divisive, accentuating the differences between the haves and the have-nots, between the full and empty stomachs of society. But the altruistic is a unifying force. Master and servant, family man and loner, wealthy man and pauper, are all united by the giving and compassionate joy of the Jewish festival.
Nevertheless, even the most generous joy cannot be said to achieve a “union” in the ultimate sense of the word; at most, it introduces a connection between disparate individuals. The pauper remains separated from the rich man by a gulf of status and economic station, as does the servant from the master and the vagrant from the homeowner. Joyous hearts and giving hands extend across these gulfs, but the division and distance remain.
So to evoke yet a deeper and truer unity, the Jew acquires the Four Kinds on Sukkot.
Taste of Knowledge and Scent of Deed
The Midrash[5] explains that the Four Kinds represent four spiritual types within the people of Israel. The etrog, which has both a pleasing taste and a delightful aroma, represents the perfect tzaddik—one who is both knowledgeable in Torah and replete with good deeds. The lulav, whose fruit (dates) have taste but no smell, personifies the learned but deed-deficient individual—the scholar who devotes his life to the pursuit of divine wisdom but shuns the active sphere of Jewish life. The delightful scent and lack of taste of the hadas describe the active but ignorant Jew. Finally, the tasteless, scentless aravah represents the Jew who lacks all outward expression of his Jewishness.
On Sukkot, the lulav, hadas, aravah and etrog are bound and joined together,[6] signifying how each group contributes its particular qualities and strengths to the communal whole. The etrog radiates its perfection to the other three types; the lulav imparts the unique brand of wisdom that is the property of a life wholly devoted to the pursuit of knowledge; the hadas contributes its singular commitment to good works; and the aravah offers the depth and power of a Jewish identity which asserts itself despite its lack of any outward expression of Jewishness.
So while the joy of Sukkot introduces a unifying bridge between various segments of the community of Israel, the Four Kinds takes this unity a step further, integrating us into a single entity. By taking the Four Kinds in hand, we reiterate that, despite—indeed, because of— our differences, we are all one.[7]
The Enveloping Home
Despite our differences, we are all one. But the differences remain, as even the unifying Four Kinds express.
The lulav towers above the lot in scholarship and erudition. The hadas exudes its scent of good works, while the aravah is marked by its obvious ignorance and fruitlessness. The etrog, of course, outshines them all with its sublime perfection. Even as they symbolize the unity of the various segment of Israel, the Four Kinds underscore the differences between them—indeed, they stress these very differences as the complementary components of a unified people.
There is, however, a more absolute form of unity that is realized by the festival of Sukkot. This is the unity of the sukkah—the unity embodied by an edifice that is deemed worthy of accommodating an entire people within its walls.
“In sukkot you shall dwell for seven days,” the Torah commands.
“All citizens of Israel shall dwell in sukkot.” [8]
In this verse, the word sukkot, which is the plural of sukkah, is spelled without the letter vav. This means that the word can also be read as sukkat, “the sukkah [of]” in the singular, implying, says the Talmud, that:
“The entire nation of Israel may, and ought to, dwell in a single sukkah.” [9]
For the sukkah represents a oneness so deep and all-embracing that all distinctions pale in significance before it.
“Sukkah is the only mitzvah into which a person enters with his muddy boots,” goes the Chassidic saying, and this expresses the very essence of the sukkah. When a person enters a sukkah, its walls and roofing encompass him entirely, and equally encompass his entirety. His mind is no more and no less in the sukkah than his toes; his heart is simply another occupant of its space, as are his “muddy boots.” So when the entire nation of Israel dwells in a single sukkah, the unity expressed is one that transcends all differences and distinctions between them.
This is not the unity that is created by our love and compassion for one another. Nor is it the deeper unity that stems from the way in which our individual roles, talents and strengths complement and fulfill one another, forming the organs and limbs of an integrated body. Rather, the sukkah brings to light the oneness implicit in our very beings—the simple and absolute oneness of a people rooted in the utterly singular oneness of their Creator and Source.
Self and Selves
The different degrees of unity embodied by the mitzvot of Sukkot explain a curious distinction that the Talmud makes between the laws governing the taking of the Four Kinds and the laws that apply to dwelling in the sukkah.
This legal differentiation relates to the notion of property and ownership. When is something “yours”? When you control it? When you have legal and moral right to its use? When it is yours alone, to the exclusion of everyone else? Indeed, ownership may mean many things, depending on the individual and social circumstances that define it.
The Torah insists that the sukkah in which the Jew dwells and the Four Kinds which he acquires on Sukkot must be “yours.” Yet the definition of “yours” varies in these two mitzvot.
In the case of the Four Kinds the Torah states:
“You shall take for yourselves on the first day [of the festival] the splendid fruit of a tree [the etrog], fronds of dates [the lulav], the branch of the thickly leafed tree [the hadas], and aravot of the brook…” [10]
Our sages explain that the words “You shall take for yourselves…” come to teach us that these must be the absolute property of their user: one who uses a stolen etrog (or lulav, hadas or aravah), or a borrowed etrog, or even an etrog which he owns in partnership with another person, has not fulfilled the mitzvah of taking the Four Kinds on the first day of Sukkot.[11]
Regarding the mitzvah of sukkah, the Torah likewise stipulates that:
“You shall make, for yourself, a festival of sukkot.” [12]
But here, the words “for yourself” are more broadly defined. In this case, says the Talmud, the verse comes only to exclude a stolen sukkah. A borrowed or jointly owned sukkah is considered to be sufficiently “yours” to satisfy the mitzvah’s requirements.[13]
To support its broader interpretation of ownership as applied to the sukkah, the Talmud cites another verse,[14] which implies that the entire nation of Israel may, and ought to, dwell in a single sukkah. Aside from stressing the brotherhood and equality of all Jews, this also has the legal implication that a sukkah need not be exclusively “yours” in order for you to fulfill the mitzvah of dwelling in it. If all Israel may dwell in a single sukkah, then the requirement to make it “for yourself” cannot to be understood in the narrow sense of exclusive ownership, but in the sense of the right to a thing’s use.[15]
Why does the “yours” of the sukkah-dweller differ from the “yours” of one engaged in the mitzvah of taking the Four Kinds? Because there is an intrinsic difference between these two Sukkot observances—a difference that extends to the very identity and self-definition of their observer.
As elaborated above, the Jew taking the Four Kinds is uniting with his fellows in a manner which preserves, and employs, his distinction as an individual. Hence the Torah’s use of the word lachem, “for yourselves” (in the plural): in addressing the people of Israel as they relate to the Four Kinds, the Torah is speaking to many individuals, each with his or her own unique contribution to the communal whole. In this context, “yours” is something that is unique to your individual self; a borrowed or jointly owned object is not “yours.”
Regarding the making of a sukkah, however, the Torah addresses us in the singular lecha (“for yourself”). For the mitzvah of sukkah touches on the intrinsic unity of Israel—a unity in which we are all seamlessly one. Here “for yourself” is the singular self of Israel; as long as your use of a sukkah does not violate the integrity of this unity (as does the use of a stolen sukkah), the sukkah of your fellow is no less yours than your own.
Based on the Rebbe’s talks on Sukkot 5724 (1963) and on other occasions [16]
Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber.
[2]. See Mishneh Torah, Laws of Lulav, 8:12.
[4]. Mishneh Torah, Laws of the Festivals 6:18.
[5]. Midrash Rabbah, Vayikra 30:12.
[6]. The lulav, hadassim and aravot are actually tied together in single bundle. But the perfect tzaddik, personified by the etrog, also bridges his natural distance from the rest during the actual observance of the mitzvah, when all four species are held and pressed together.
[7]. In addition to symbolizing the unity of Israel by being bound and held together, each of the Four Kinds embodies the concept of unity in its halachically ordained characteristics.
The lulav is referred to by the Torah as kapot temarim, “fronds of dates.” The Hebrew word kapot (“fronds”) can also be read kafut (“bound together”); from this the Talmud deduces that the lulav must be an unopened frond whose leaves are still pressed together.
The hadas is referred to by the Torah as anaf eitz avot, “the branch of the thickly-leafed tree.” The word avot (thick) also means “rope-like”—a reference to the myrtle’s tendency to grow its leaves in groups of three stemming from the same point. This mark of unity, too, translates into a halachic requirement: a myrtle twig whose leaves do not grow in this three-in-one pattern is invalid for use in the Four Kinds.
The etrog is called pri eitz hadar, “the splendid fruit of a tree.” The word hadar (“splendid”), which can also be read as ha-dar, that which dwells, refers to the fact that the etrog “dwells in its tree throughout the year” and continues to grow and develop all year round. This is a unique phenomenon, since most fruits grow only in the course of a single season, as their development requires that particular season’s set of conditions. The etrog, however, unites within it the entire array of climatic temperaments that prevail throughout the year, incorporating them all in its growth process to create a “splendid fruit” that is a harmony of all the currents and flavors that comprise an annum of nature.
Finally, an identifying mark of the aravah is that it grows in close-knit groups—in “unity” and “brotherhood” (achvana). (See Talmud, Shabbat 20a; Rashi ibid.).
[9] . Talmud, Sukkah 27b.
[11]. Talmud, Sukkah 41b; Mishneh Torah, Laws of Lulav, 8:10-11 (see Maggid Mishneh on section 11); Shulchan Aruch, Orach Chaim, 649 and 658. Thus, if a person wishes to accord his fellow the opportunity of observing the mitzvah of taking the Four Kinds with his own set, he must give it to his fellow as a gift, and have his fellow give it back to him as a gift after observing the mitzvah.
[13]. Talmud, Sukkah 27b (as per the majority opinion, whose ruling we follow in practice); Mishneh Torah, Laws of Sukkah, 5:25; Shulchan Aruch, Orach Chaim, 637 (see especially the words of Shulchan Aruch HaRav, ibid., section 2).
[14] . Cited earlier in this essay.
[15]. This is also the source for another of the sukkah’s halachic criteria. Torah law sets all sorts of specifications for the sukkah’s dimensions: its ceiling may be no lower than ten tefachim (approx. 32 inches) and no higher than 20 amot (approx. 31.5 feet); its area must be no less than seven tefachim by seven tefachim. However, since “The entire nation of Israel may, and ought to, dwell in a single sukkah,” there can be no maximum limit for the length and breadth of the sukkah.
[16]. Likkutei Sichot, vol. XIX, pp. 348-355; et al. See also Siddur Im D’ach, Shaar HaLulav 264d; Likkutei Sichot, ibid., p. 224, note 35.
Tags: joy, spiritual, soul, Tzaddik, unity, Sukkot, Talmud, Yanki Tauber, Jewish law, four species, sukkah, seamlessness, festivals, sharing
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August 7th, 2015
by Simon Jacobson
Editor’s note: This article was written for Chanukah 2000
As we stand on the verge of the inauguration of a new President, following a strange and unprecedented election, it occurred to me that the very founding of this country and the perpetuity of this nation in the face of such challenges is based on a theme celebrated by Jews every year at this time. What does Chanukah have to do with the founding of America?
The festival of Chanukah commemorates the victory that occurred over 2000 years ago when a small band of Jews, in the name of freedom from oppression and freedom of religion, battled the largest army in the world and were victorious.
In 1789, just 212 years ago a group of revolutionaries, in opposition to the great world powers of that time, wrote the Bill of Rights in order to safeguard the basic individual freedoms of Americans – freedom of religion, speech and press. Religious persecution was the impetus for many to leave the shores of Europe for the New World so it is not surprising that the first amendment stressed the importance of freedom of religion. The Founding Fathers understood this to be central to all other liberties as it embodies the freedom to pursue your own belief system, your personal way of finding transcendence.
The message of Chanukah is as relevant today as it was two millenniums and two centuries ago. Every year we celebrate the power of freedom over oppression with the kindling of the Menorah, symbolizing the victory of light over darkness. Chanukah teaches us four lessons about freedom.
As the sun sets on December 21st, the first night of Chanukah, people around the world will light a candle. And for the next seven nights, they will add a flame, until a total of eight flames illuminate the night. Lit at sundown, the Menorah reminds us that the way to eliminate darkness – to rid the world of selfishness, negativity, hatred and greed – is to kindle the lights of knowledge, generosity, faith and love.
The Menorah is placed in the window of one’s home or in a public place so that the light shines out into the street. This public display represents our responsibility to bring the light of freedom, morality and spirituality not only into our own homes, but also into the lives of others and into the world.
On a more personal level, a flame represents the soul of a person, the Godliness that is inherent in each of us. Every person has an individual contribution to make, a unique way of illuminating the world. Chanukah celebrates the power of the soul reminding us that although there are 6 billion people in the world and many forces that de-personalize our lives, each flame, each soul, brings a special and distinctive light into the world
The eight flames of the Menorah tell a unique story. 2200 years ago in Jerusalem, when the Jewish soldiers entered the Temple that had been desecrated by their enemies, they found only a small cruse of olive oil to light the Temple Menorah. The oil that was sufficient to last for only one day miraculously lasted for eight. The number eight mystically represents transcendence and infinity, one beyond the number seven which represents the natural cycle. There is a natural limit to all human endeavors, to all human knowledge, but Chanukah introduces the eighth dimension, the power of transcendence that enables us to go beyond our natural limitations and transform darkness into light.
The festival of Chanukah calls us all to revolution, a revolution of light fought over centuries by all people seeking true freedom. The Festival entreats us to reclaim our most basic freedom, the freedom to rise above our subjective, limited perspective and reach for the above and beyond. As Americans and as citizens of the world, it is our duty and privilege to add to the forces of light both at home and abroad in a steadily growing measure.
Reprinted from the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the St. Louis Post Dispatch, December 2000
Tags: Chanukah, light and darkness, history, transcendence, infinity, America, Spirituality, freedom, Eight, soul
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August 7th, 2015
The miracle of Chanukah was completely unnecessary.
Every Jewish schoolchild knows the story: The Greeks had defiled the Holy Temple’s store of olive oil. So when the Maccabees liberated the Temple, they could not find ritually pure oil with which to kindle the menorah. Then, a single cruse of uncontaminated oil was found, enough to keep the menorah alight for a single day. Miraculously, the oil burned for eight days, until new oil could be prepared. To this day, we commemorate the miracle by kindling the Chanukah lights on each of the festival’s eight days.
Strictly speaking, none of this was necessary. The law which forbids the use of ritually impure oil in the Temple would not have applied under the circumstances which then prevailed. According to Torah law:
“The prohibition of impurity, if affecting the entire community, is waived.”
—If the entire community, or all the kohanim, or the all Temple’s vessels, are ritually impure, it is permissible to enter the Temple and conduct the Temple services under conditions of impurity.[1] Nevertheless, G-d wished to show His love for His people: He suspended the laws of nature in order to enable them to rededicate the Temple without any compromise on its standards of purity—even if it be a perfectly legal and permissible compromise.
Going Overboard
Every Chanukah, we reciprocate in kind. How many lights must be kindled on the Chanukah menorah? One on the first night, two on the second, etc. Wrong. According to the Talmud, this is he law:
The mitzvah of Chanukah is [fulfilled with] a single light for each household. Those who do more than is obligatory, kindle a single light for each individual. Those who do more than those who do more than is obligatory… kindle one light on the first day and add an additional light on each succeeding day. [2]
There are Jews who buy the cheapest tefillin on the market, who give the absolute minimum that the laws of charity mandate, who employ every halachic exemption and loophole they can lay their hands on. But when was the last time you saw a single light in the window of a Jewish home on the sixth night of Chanukah? On Chanukah, we all “do more than those who do more than is obligatory” – after all, G-d did the same for us.
Fanatical Educator
The word “Chanukah” comes from the word chinuch, which means “initiation.” Chanukah celebrates the renewal of the service in the Holy Temple after it was liberated from the Greek defiler, purified, and rededicated as the seat of G-d’s manifest presence in our world.
Chanukah thus serves as a model for all initiations, including the most significant initiation of all—education, a child’s initiation into life (indeed, chinuch is also the Hebrew word for “education”). The uncompromising insistence on purity and perfection which Chanukah represents imparts an important lesson regarding the essence of the educator/initiator’s task.
Compromise is anathema to education. To a mature tree, a gash here or a torn limb there is of little or no consequence. But the smallest scratch in the seed, the slightest nick in the sapling, results in an irrevocable deformity, a flaw which the decades to come will deepen rather than erase.
Virtually every life is faced with demands for compromise—some tolerable, others not. The educator who wishes to impart a set of values and priorities that will weather them all, must deliver, in word and example, a message of impeccable purity, free of even the slightest and most “acceptable” equivocation.
Based on an address by the Rebbe, Chanukah 5714 (1953)
Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber
[1] Talmud, Pesachim 79a; Mishneh Torah, Laws of Entering the Temple, 4:12.
Tags: Beis Hamikdash, Greeks, purity, education, Yanki Tauber, children, Chanukah, Jewish law
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August 7th, 2015
The Pouring of the Water was held on all seven days [of Sukkot]… How was the Pouring of the Water done? A golden pitcher, holding three lugim,[1] was filled from the Shiloach Spring. When they arrived at the Water Gate,[2] the shofar was sounded… [The priest] ascended the ramp [of the altar] and turned to his left… where there were two bowls of silver… with small holes [in their bottom], one wider and the other narrower so that both should empty at the same time[3]—the western one was for the water and the eastern one for wine…
The pourer was told, “Raise your hands” (so that all could see him pouring the water), because… once there was a Sadducee who spilled the water on his feet, and the entire people pelted him with their etrogim…
Talmud, Sukkah 42b; 48a-b.
When the Holy Temple stood in Jerusalem, the “Pouring of the Water” (nisuch hamayim) was an important feature of the festival of Sukkot. Throughout the year, the daily offerings were accompanied by the pouring of wine on the altar; on Sukkot, water was poured in addition to the wine. The drawing of water for this purpose was preceded by all-night celebrations in the Temple courtyard, with instrument-playing Levites, torch-juggling sages, and huge oil-burning lamps that illuminated the entire city. The singing and dancing went on until daybreak, when a procession would make its way to the valley below the Temple to “draw water with joy”[4] from the Shiloach Spring. “For all the days of the water drawing,” recalled Rabbi Joshua ben Chanania, “our eyes saw no sleep.” And the Talmud declares: “One who did not see the joy of the water-drawing celebrations, has not seen joy in his life.”[5]
The Sadducees, however, opposed the Sukkot water pouring ceremony. The Sadducees were a Jewish sect who denied the oral tradition (torah she’baal peh) received by Moses at Sinai and handed down through the generations, arguing that they had the right to interpret the Torah according to their own understanding. Unlike the pouring of the wine, which is explicitly commanded by the Torah,[6] the pouring of the water on Sukkot is alluded to by three extra letters in the verses (Numbers 29:19, 29 and 33) where the Torah speaks of the libations to accompany the Sukkot offerings: according to the traditional interpretation of the Torah, these letters are combined to form the word mayim (water). The Sadducees, who rejected the Sinaitic tradition, were of the opinion that only wine was to be poured on the altar on Sukkot, just like every day of the year.
During the Second Temple Era, there were times in which the Sadducees amassed political power and even gained the High Priesthood—the highest spiritual office in Israel. Thus it came to pass that one Sukkot, the honor of pouring the water on the altar was given to a Sadducee priest who, instead of pouring the water into its prescribed bowl in the southwest corner of the altar, spilled it on his feet to demonstrate his opposition to the practice. The assembled crowd expressed its outrage by pelting him with the etrogim which, this being Sukkot, they held in their hands.[7]
The Taste of Water
There are two basic components in man’s service of the Creator. First, there is what the Talmud calls the “acceptance of the yoke of the sovereignty of Heaven” (kabbalat ol malchut shamayim), which is the basis and foundation of Torah: without such acceptance, the very concept of a mitzvah (divine commandment) has no meaning.[8]
But G-d gave us more than a body and a nervous system, which is all we would require if our purpose in life were a “robotic” obedience in the performance of mitzvot. He created us with a searching mind and a feeling heart because He desired that these, too, should form an integral part of our service of Him.[9] In the words of the Torah,
“See, I have taught you statutes and laws… for this is your wisdom and understanding before the nations”[10]; “You shall know today, and imbibe in your heart, that the L-rd is G-d”[11]; “Know the G-d of your fathers and serve Him with a whole heart and desirous soul”[12]; “You shall love G-d… with all your heart”[13]; “Serve G-d with joy.”[14]
He wants us to know, understand, appreciate, love, desire and enjoy our mission in life.
In the language of Kabbalah and Chassidism, these two components are referred to as the “water” and “wine” of life. Water—tasteless, scentless, colorless and a most basic requisite of life—is the intellectually and emotionally vacuous “acceptance of the yoke of Heaven.” Wine—pleasing to the eye, nose and palate, intoxicating to the brain, and exhilarating to the heart—is the sensually gratifying aspect of Torah: man’s understanding and experience of his relationship with G-d and the inner significance of the mitzvot.
And yet, on Sukkot, water is a most “tasty” element in our service of G-d—a cause for great joy, the likes of which was not equaled by any other joy in the world. To understand this, we must first examine what Halachah (Torah law) has to say about the “taste” of water.
The law states that “it is forbidden to derive pleasure from this world without a berachah,”[15] a blessing of praise and thanks to G-d. Thus, even the smallest amount of food or drink,[16] or food or drink that is consumed for non-nutritional purposes (e.g. for health reasons), requires a berachah, since a person derives pleasure from its taste. Water, however, has no taste, so it does not require a berachah unless “one drinks water out of thirst,” in which case, explains the Talmud, a person derives pleasure from this otherwise tasteless liquid.[17]
To a thirsty man, a cup of water is tastier than the most sumptuous wine. In the spiritual sense, this means that when a soul experiences a “thirst” for G-d—when it recognizes how vital is its connection to G-d for its very existence—the prosaic “water” of commitment is a feast for the senses. For the soul that thirsts for G-d, its simple commitment to G-d is more exhilarating than the most profound page of Talmud, the most sublime Kabbalistic secret, the most ecstatic flight of prayer, the most intense spiritual experience. To such a soul, the “water” it draws from its deepest self to pour onto the altar of its divine service is a greater source of joy than the flesh and wine offered upon its altar or the incense wafting through its Temple.
Why Sukkot?
Rosh Hashanah is the “head” of the Jewish year—a time devoted to the most fundamental component of our relationship with G-d. On Rosh Hashanah we crown G-d as our king and reiterate our “acceptance of the yoke of the sovereignty of Heaven.”[18] But on Rosh Hashanah the joy of the thirsting soul in its elemental water is subdued by the awe that pervades the occasion, as the entirety of creation trembles in anticipation of the annual renewal of the divine sovereignty. Sukkot is the celebration of this joy, the revelation of what was implicit fourteen days earlier on Rosh Hashanah.
(Thus Chassidic teaching explains the verse, “Blow the shofar on the new moon, in concealment to the day of our festival.”[19] The Jewish calendar is a lunar calendar, which means that its months follow the phases of the moon. Moon and month are born, grow, mature and dwindle together—each month begins on the night of the new moon, progresses as the moon grows in the night sky, and reaches its apex on the fifteenth of the month, the night of the full moon. This is why so many of the festivals and special days of the Jewish year fall on the fifteenth of the month, this being the day on which the particular month’s special quality is most expressed and manifest. In the month of Tishrei, Rosh Hashanah coincides with the birth of the new moon on the first of the month, while Sukkot begins on the 15th. Hence, “Blow the shofar,” proclaiming our acceptance of the sovereignty of Heaven, “on the new moon,” Rosh Hashanah; this, however, remains “in concealment to [—until] the day of our festival,” Sukkot,[20] when it erupts in a seven day fest of joy.)
Anatomical Statement
The Sadducees opposed the Pouring of the Water on Sukkot.
The Sadducees refused to accept the divinely-ordained interpretation of Torah transmitted to Moses at Sinai and handed down through the generations. While recognizing the divine origin of Torah, they regarded it as a series of laws open to personal interpretation—an interpretation subject only to the interpreter’s understanding and feelings. In other words, there is no true commitment, no true submission to the divine authority. The Sadducee might acknowledge the need for “blind” obedience to Torah on the part of the masses, for not every man is capable of interpreting these laws himself. He might acknowledge the need for such obedience on the part of even the wisest of men, for no man can expect to understand everything. But this is a necessity rather than the ideal, which would be a fulfillment of Torah based on the observer’s understanding and appreciation. So there is no joy in submission to the divine will, no taste to the water of commitment. For the Sadducee does not thirst for this water—to him, the Torah is not the essence of life, but a spiritual luxury, a tasty meal for the mind and heart. If he must obey its laws, it is only to enable him to savor their intellectual flavor and emotional aroma. Only wine flows on the altar of his service of G-d.
Thus the Sadducee priest poured the water on his feet. He was not condemning the phenomenon of “water” in serving G-d; he was regulating it to the feet—to the ‘foot-soldiers” of the nation, or to the lower extremities of the human form. Water might be necessary, perhaps even laudable, in certain individuals and in certain circumstances, but it is hardly the fluid to grace the altar in the year’s most joyous celebration of man’s relationship with G-d.
A Hail of Fruit
The people responded by pelting him with their etrogim.
The Midrash tells us that the “Four Kinds” taken on Sukkot—the etrog (citron), the lulav (palm frond), the hadas (myrtle branch) and aravah (willow branch)—represent four types of individuals. The etrog, which has both a taste and a fragrant smell, represents the perfect individual who is both knowledgeable in Torah and proficient in the observance of mitzvot. The lulav is the branch of the date palm, whose fruit has a taste but no smell,[21] representing those accomplished in Torah though less so in regard to the mitzvot. The hadas—tasteless but aromatic—represents the type who, though lacking in Torah knowledge, has many mitzvot to his credit. Finally, the tasteless, scentless aravah represents the individual who lacks both Torah and mitzvot.[22]
On a deeper level, the “Four Kinds” represent four “characters” within every individual, each with its own domain in his psyche and its appropriate place in his life. In this sense, “Torah” is the intellectual appreciation of the divine wisdom, and “mitzvot” are the love and awe of G-d experienced in the observance of the commandments.[23] Thus, the lulav is the “intellectual” in man who does not allow feeling to cloud the purity of knowledge and comprehension; the hadas is the emotional self, who sets experience as the highest ideal, even at the expense of the intellect; the etrog is the force that strives for perfection, for the ultimate harmony between mind and heart; and the aravah is the capacity for acceptance and commitment, for setting aside intellect and feeling to commit oneself absolutely to a higher ideal.[24]
When the Sadducee priest spilled the water on his feet, the “entire people pelted him with their etrogim.” We reject what you represent, the people were saying, not only with the odorless and tasteless aravah in us, not only with our intellectual or emotional personas, but also with the synthesis of wisdom and feeling that defines what is highest and most perfect in man. For also—and especially—the etrog within us recognizes the water of life, that “mindless” and “unfeeling” commitment to our Creator, as our ultimate source of joy.
Based on an address by the Rebbe, Sukkot 5715 (1954)[25]
Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber
[1]. Approximately one liter.
[2]. One of the gates leading into the courtyard of the Holy Temple, so named because the procession that carried the water for the Pouring of the Water on Sukkot passed through this gate.
[3]. Wine, being denser than water, would flow more slowly if the openings were the same size. When these bowls emptied, the wine and water would run over the top of the altar.
[5]. Talmud, Sukkah 51a-b; 53a.
[6]. Numbers 15:1-12; et al.
[7]. In those days it was the custom to carry the “Four Kinds” all day (see Talmud, Sukkah 41b).
[8]. Talmud, Berachot 13a. See Mechilta on Exodus 20:3 (quoted in A Blast in Three Dimensions (note 8), WIR, vol. VIII, no. 1. See also Totalitarianism Today, ibid., and Day One, ibid., no. 2).
[9]. “All that G-d created in His world, He created solely for His glory” (Ethics of the Fathers 6:11). Thus it cannot be said that serving G-d is a matter of “blind” obedience while our intellectual and emotional selves exist for other, “secular,” purposes.
[14]. Psalms 100:2; cf. Deuteronomy 28:47.
[15]. Rashi and Tosafot, Sukkah 26b; Rosh on Berachot 35a; Tur, Orach Chaim 210.
[16]. In contrast with the berachah after eating, which is recited only when a person has been sated by the food.
[17]. Talmud, Berachot 44b-45a; Tosfot, ibid., s.v. DeChanaktei Umtza; Mishneh Torah, Laws of Berachot 8:1; Shulchan Aruch and commentaries, Orach Chaim 204:7-8.
[18]. See references cited in note 8 above.
[20]. “The festival” (chag) always refers to the festival of Sukkot.
[21]. For the reason we take the branches of the date palm rather than its fruit, see Likkutei Sichot, vol. IV, p. 1164.
[22]. Midrash Rabbah, Vayikra 30:11.
[23]. In his Tanya (ch. 4), Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi explains that the mind is the tool with which man has been equipped to apprehend the divine wisdom of Torah, while the emotions of the heart are the motivators and facilitators of mitzvah observance.
[24]. See One Twig and One Leaf, to be published in next week’s issue of Week In Review.
[25]. Likkutei Sichot, vol. II, pp. 426-432.
Tags: Rosh Hashana, Yanki Tauber, Holy Temple, Rebbe, kabbalah, water, mitzvot
Posted in Tishrei, Months & Holidays, Sukkot, Torah | 2 Comments »
August 7th, 2015
There was once a king who invited his children for a banquet of several days. When it came time for them to go, he said to them: “My children, please, stay with me one more day—your parting is difficult for me…”
Rashi, Leviticus 23:36
With this parable, our sages explain the significance of Shemini Atzeret. Shemini Atzeret (literally, “the eighth of retainment”) is the one-day festival that immediately follows the seven-day festival of Sukkot. Sukkot is a week-long reunion banquet that the supernal King throws for His children, the souls of Israel; for seven days we rejoice in our kinship with G-d and with each other. But then, when it comes time for us to take leave of the festival and return to our everyday pursuits, G-d requests: “Stay one more day…” Hence, the festival of Shemini Atzeret, one more day of joy and fellowship in the divine palace before returning to the hinterland of material life.
But let us examine this parable more closely. At first glance, the king’s request seems little more than an indulgence of sentiment. If his children’s return to their lives apart from him is inevitable, what is gained by staying one more day? Other than delaying the pain of parting for several hours, is there anything of enduring significance in an “eighth day of retainment”?
Equal Housing
In the parable, our sages do not have the king say, “our parting is difficult for me,” but “your parting is difficult for me.” Indeed, G-d, of whom “no place is void of Him,” never parts from us. It is we who might “part” from Him, moving on to a state of diminished awareness of our relationship with Him.
“Your parting” has yet another meaning: our parting from each other, which, in G-d’s eyes, is synonymous to our parting from Him. When the people of Israel are one with G-d, they are also one with each other, united as children of their royal father. The same applies in reverse: when the people of Israel are one with each other, united in their common identity as G-d’s children, they are one with G-d.
Sukkot, more than any other festival, emphasizes the unity between Jew and Jew achieved through the Jew’s relationship with G-d. All mitzvot have this uniting effect, underscoring our common endeavor to fulfill the will of our Father in Heaven; but the mitzvah of sukkah is unique in the depth and scope of the unity it awakens amongst us.
When two Jews study a chapter of Torah, they strengthen their relationship with G-d and with each other by integrating the wisdom of G-d into their minds and lives; but their study also underscores the differences between them, as each understands and appreciates the divine wisdom in accordance with his distinct intellectual prowess and spiritual sensitivity. When two Jews fulfill the divine command to give charity, the deed differentiates even as it unites, as each gives in accordance with his generosity and financial capacity. The same is true of virtually every other mitzvah: while a mitzvah unites diverse individuals in the common pursuit of serving the divine will, it also accentuates the diversity of talent, experience and commitment that each bring to the deed.
The sukkah, however, is the ultimate equalizer. This mitzvah is observed by dwelling in a bough-covered hut for seven days—eating, sleeping, and socializing in it, and otherwise regarding it as one’s home, for the duration of the festival. In other words, the mitzvah of sukkah is not about what you do and how you do it, but where you do whatever it is that you do. Two people thinking the same thought are nevertheless thinking differently; the same is true of two people experiencing the same feeling or doing the same deed. But two people inhabiting a particular place are utterly synonymous in the fact of their presence: neither can be more or less or differently there (in the empirical, physical sense) than the other. So the sukkah relates to all its inhabitants equally: it is the scholar’s home no more and no less than it is the simple laborer’s; the mystic and the businessman, the scientist and the artist, are housed by its walls without regard to the nature and content of their lives. In the words of the Talmud, “All of Israel might conceivably dwell in a single sukkah.” ,” in the singular. Explains the Talmud: the Torah wishes to imply that “the entire nation of Israel may dwell in a single sukkah.”]
The Eighth of Retainment
But the sukkah is a once-a-year experience; indeed, the halachic definition of the sukkah is “a temporary dwelling” (dirat arai). After the seven-day unity fest is over, the Jew moves from the sukkah back to his home: back to a life in which his place of habitat is no longer a mitzvah, a primary element in his relationship with G-d; back to a life in which his oneness with his fellow Jews is expressed via the more “individualistic” mitzvot of thought, word and deed.
Yet our parting is distressful to G-d. So He retains us one day longer, for an “eighth day of retainment.”
He retains us for an “eighth day” of Sukkot—a day on which dwelling in the sukkah is no longer a mitzvah but on which the unity of Sukkot suffuses us nonetheless. A day on which we are utterly and unequivocally one without the paraphernalia of oneness, without the need for an actual edifice to context our unity.
He retains us for a day of “retainment”—a day on which it is not we who are in the sukkah but the sukkah that is within us. A day on which we are empowered to imbibe and internalize the unity of Sukkot, to store it in the pith of our souls so that we may draw on it in sukkah-less months to come.
Based on the Rebbe’s talks on Simchat Torah of 5716 (1955) and on other occasions
Tags: Sukkot, Trust in G-d, Simchas Torah, connection with G-d, relationships, unity, equality, community
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August 7th, 2015
One of the enigmas of Chanukah is the fact that it is almost completely ignored by the most fundamental work of Jewish law. The Mishnah, compiled by Rabbi Judah HaNassi at the end of the second century ce, is the first codification of Halachah (Torah law) and the book on which all subsequent halachic codes are based. Yet other than a few parenthetical references,[1] the Mishnah makes no mention of the story and laws of Chanukah.
Various explanations have been offered for this mysterious omission. One oft-cited explanation relates to the controversial assumption of the throne by the Hasmonean family (the “Maccabees”), the heroes of Chanukah. When the Hasmoneans drove the Greeks from the Holy Land, they became the kings of the now-independent country, establishing a dynasty that lasted some 80 years until the land of Israel came under the hegemony of Rome.
The Hasmoneans were kohanim (“priests”), from the tribe of Levi, whose designated role is to serve in the Beit HaMikdash (Holy Temple). The sovereignty of Israel had been granted by G-d to the tribe of Judah and the descendants of King David. The Hasmoneans’ assumption of the throne was thus criticized by our sages.[2]
Rabbi Judah HaNassi—goes this line of reasoning—himself a scion of the Davidic dynasty, “punished” the Hasmoneans’ appropriation of the throne by omitting the story of their triumph, and the festival they established, from the Mishnah.[3]
Refutation
This explanation, however, is at variance with everything we know about Rabbi Judah HaNassi and the principles of Torah scholarship:
a) Rabbi Judah HaNassi was renowned not only for his greatness in Torah and as a leader of Israel, but also for his extreme humility. The Talmud goes so far as to say that:
“When Rabbi [Judah] died, humility and piety ceased.” [4]
It is therefore:
“Completely unacceptable… regarding Rabbi Judah, to say that because of his honor and the honor of his ancestors he would suppress publication of the miracle [of Chanukah].” [5]
b) The function of an halachic work is to instruct our behavior. Since no one is suggesting that Rabbi Judah ever contested the legitimacy of the festival and its observances (which occupy several folios in the Talmud in which Rabbi Judah’s colleagues and disciples are quoted extensively), would Rabbi Judah have omitted them in order to express his disagreement with the Hasmoneans? Whatever his feelings on the matter, we still need to know the laws of Chanukah! In the words of the Talmud:
“King Solomon, and a thousand like him, shall be nullified before a single letter from the Torah is nullified!” [6]
A Book Born of Necessity
An examination of the nature of the Mishnah and the circumstances surrounding its compilation offers a simple, yet fully credible, explanation for Chanukah’s absence from its pages.
The Mishnah is a summary of the “Oral Torah” that had been handed down through the generations as a companion to the “Written Torah” (the Five Books of Moses). The Oral Torah includes the laws and principles according to which the Written Torah is to be interpreted, laws commanded to Moses that were not recorded in the Written Torah, and the ordinances and observances instituted by each generation’s leaders by the authority vested in them by the Torah.
As its name indicates, the Oral Torah was never written down, but communicated orally from master to pupil; indeed, it was specifically forbidden to be committed to writing. Rabbi Judah HaNassi took the unprecedented step of codifying these laws because he realized that the ever-widening dispersion of the Jewish people, and the lesser minds of later generations, posed the danger that the Oral Torah might be forgotten. It was this overriding concern that allowed him to violate the prohibition against publishing the Oral Torah.
However, this dispensation was granted only in regard to those portions of the Oral Torah that were in danger of being forgotten. This, explains Maimonides, is why such major halachic topics such as:
“The laws of tzitzit, tefillin and mezuzah…. are not spoken of in the Mishnah… for these laws were well known at the time of the Mishnah’s compilation… so [Rabbi Judah] saw no need to speak of them.” [7]
The same is true of all halachot of the Mishnah: only those laws about which there was ambiguity or differences of opinion are recorded. For example, nowhere does the Mishnah state that one should make kiddush on Shabbat; rather, it addresses the issue, debated by the sages of Hillel and the sages of Shammai, whether one should first make kiddush and then ritually wash one’s hands (as required before each meal), or vice versa.[8]
The events of Chanukah took place only about 300 years before Rabbi Judah’s time; the miracle, and the festival instituted in its wake, were still fresh in the nation’s collective memory.[9] Since there was no immediate danger that they might be forgotten, Rabbi Judah was not allowed to record them. Thus, the laws of Chanukah were first put in writing many years later, when the Talmud was compiled in the fifth century CE.
Based on the Rebbe’s reply to a question posed to him in yechidut (private audience), 5737 (1977)[10]
Adapted from the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe by Yanki Tauber
[1]. E.g., Bikkurim 1:6, Rosh Hashanah 1:3, Nezikin 6:6, Midot 1:6.
[2]. Cf. Nachmanides on Genesis 49:10.
[3]. Chut Hameshulash; Taamei HaMinhagim, section 847; Chasdei Avot, section 17; Beit Naftali, Orach Chaim, section 28.
[4]. Talmud, Sotah 49a.
[5]. Shaalot U’Teshuvot Mahariatz, section 78.
[6]. Jerusalem Talmud, Sanhedrin 2:6.
[7]. Maimonides’ commentary on the Mishnah, Menachot 4:1.
[8]. Berachot 8:1.
[9]. Purim, on the other hand, which occurred 500 years before Rabbi Judah’s time, has half a tractate (two full chapters) devoted to its laws in the Mishnah.
[10]. Heichal Menachem, vol. III, pp. 221-231.
Tags: halacha, Yanki Tauber, Chanukah, Talmud, Jewish law, kohanim, Mishnah
Posted in Months & Holidays, Chanukah, Kislev, Torah | 1 Comment »
August 7th, 2015
By Simon Jacobson
Kislev is the third month from the beginning of the year, Tishrei. It has an advantage over the third month of Sivan, when we begin [the counting] from Nissan, because the order from Nissan is in a way of ‘ohr yoshor’ [direct light] and the marriage of the giving of the Torah in the third month of Sivan was not sustained, because the first tablets [given in Sivan] did not remain intact. By contrast, Tishrei is ‘ohr chozor’ [retractive light], teshuvah which is higher than the service of tzaddikim, and the second tablets are ‘doubly strong’…and they endure forever…
The giving of the Torah was in the third month of Sivan, while mesirat nefesh [self sacrifice] for Torah and Mitzvot was in Kislev, because the Greeks wanted to ‘make them forget Your Torah and violate the decrees of Your will.’ The miracle of Chanukah [in the month of Kislev]… was on nigleh [the revealed dimension] of Torah, and the miracle on the nistar [hidden dimension] of Torah was on the 19th, 29th and 10th of Kislev…
— R’ Levi Yitzchak Schneerson – Likkutei Levi Yitzchak, Igrot pp. 205, 217
Time is energy. Like a spiral, time flows in cycles, returning to its original point, each time on another plane.
Every month has its own unique energy. Actually, Chodosh (the Hebrew word for month) means ‘new.’ By aligning ourselves to the specific energy of each respective month, we open up new channels of blessings and opportunities in our lives.
The energy of this new Hebrew month of Kislev, the third of the winter months, is the power of harmony. The number three is associated with Tiferet, the third of the seven emotional sefirot, reflected in our seven emotional faculties [for a detailed description, see my Spiritual Guide to Counting the Omer].
Tiferet literally means beauty. What is beauty? Why do we find certain things appealing to the eye – what we call ‘beautiful’ – and others not so? What is the anatomy, the ingredients of beauty?
Some of you may argue, that frankly: who cares? If something is beautiful it’s just beautiful and that’s it. If it ain’t it ain’t. And anyway, beauty is just in the eyes of the beholder. ‘Al tam v’rayach ayn l’hisvakayach,’ on taste and smell one cannot argue (in the original Hebrew these two phrases happen to rhyme). So how can a definition of beauty help us? And can beauty be quantified with academic and scientific definitions?
Beauty – Tiferet – is harmony within diversity. Beauty always consists of the joining of two opposites. Anything beautiful is always multifaceted, but the diverse forces are symmetrically aligned.
As pretty as one color – say, blue – may be, it still would not be defined as beautiful. As sweet as one musical note may sound, it cannot be called beautiful. Beauty is always a combination of many colors – as in a diy number painting – whose balance and coordination creates a beautiful mosaic. Many different musical notes, when played just the right way, generate a beautiful symphony.
Take nature. The beauty of nature is in the fact that so many different systems work with such astonishing synchronicity. Perhaps no better or closer example of this is our own selves. “From my flesh I behold G-d.” The healthy human body is a miraculous piece of architecture. So many different limbs and organs, numerous diverse systems and faculties. Let alone the multitude of cells, hormones, chemicals, and DNA. And all combined as one fascinating unit, working as one synchronized whole.
This is tiferet – beauty, the harmony within diversity.
Something that strikes us (even subjectively) as beautiful is balance and symmetry of several – or very many – different elements, all combined in just the right blend.
This also tells us that the components that create beauty always have the potential for chaos, and even unsightliness. One color, one note – and definitely several – out of synch, will compromise the entire composition and make it look awry. One mutant cell can wreak havoc in the entire body. A single musical note may not be beautiful and will be tedious if repeated again and again, but it will not create chaos, just annoying monotony. As soon as you introduce more elements, the potential for chaos becomes possible. Each additional element – that can further beautify the composition – creates more potential discord.
This is the paradox – and power – of beauty.
As we begin the third month of the year we enter the energy of balance and beauty. But not just plain beauty: Kislev is the harmony that emerges after chaos. [Sivan is the harmony that has not yet ‘tasted’ discord]. Even when we experience the clash of diverse forces in our lives – within ourselves, between our communities and between nations – this new month, with its holidays, all rooted in Chanukah, empowers us with the ability to find the deeper harmony within.
To discover harmony within diversity we need to be truthful to ourselves and to G-d. We need bittul – a combination of self-suspension, modesty and humility.
And therein lies the true secret of Tiferet. In addition to beauty, Tiferet is also related to emet (truth). Truth means that it is true not just in one circumstance, environment or set of conditions, but in all of them. If it is true it has to be true throughout – in the beginning, middle and end (hence, the three letters of EMeT, aleph, mem, tov, the first, middle and last letters of the Hebrew Alphabet).
To recognize harmony within diversity we need to have profound bittul – a deep sense of truth and integrity – that allows us to see the underlying thread that unites a vast variety of distinct forces. Tiferet has this bittul, and therefore, as the third and middle branch in the sefirot structure it serves as the spine that connects all the different sefirot, reaching up to Keter (crown) and drawing down to Malchut (action). It is able to penetrate within all the diversity and draw out the inner unity within all the dimensions, while also allowing each one to express its individuality. Like a conductor, tiferet, coordinates all the different musical instruments, all the diverse musical notes, each playing its particular instrument and note at its best, while joining together in one beautiful composition.
This is the mystery of beauty.
May Kislev help us all become more beautiful people.
Tags: time, Jewish calendar, beauty, harmony, Tiferet
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August 7th, 2015
It’s the first night of Chanukah, and a single flame is glowing the night away at the righthand side of the menorah.
One flame? Aren’t there two?
Two? Oh, you mean the shammash. He doesn’t count.
Night after night, the shammash dutifully goes about his task of kindling lights. Each evening, he welcomes the newcomer and settles him into his rightful place in the growing row: two flames, three flames, four flames…. The shammash coaxes them to life and then stands watch over them, lest one falter and require a fresh boost of light.
Still the shammash doesn’t count. An imparter of light to others, he never attains the status of a Chanukah light in his own right.
Despite—indeed because—of this, the shammash towers above all the other lights of the menorah. To forgo one’s own luminary potential in order to awaken a flame in others—there is no greater virtue.
Based on an address by the Rebbe
Adapted from the teachings of the Lubavitcher Rebbe by Yanki Tauber
Tags: Rebbe, light and darkness, ego, Yanki Tauber
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August 7th, 2015
According to the Book of Creation, every month has a Hebrew letter associated with it. The month of Teves is associated with the letter “ayin,” the sixteenth letter of the alef-bet, which has a numerical value of seventy.
The Torah portion that was read in the synagogue on the first Sabbath of Teves (this year 5762) includes Genesis 46, which mentions that “seventy souls” went down to Egypt. They were the children and grandchildren of Jacob. It is not merely coincidence that this group was seventy; as with many numbers in Judaism, the number seventy has a special significance.
Earlier in Genesis, at the incident with the Tower of Babel in Chapter 10 the Torah lists seventy nations who were the grandchildren and great-grandchildren of Noah. In Jewish writings, these are known throughout history as the nations of the world, indicating that they were stamped into creation at the time of the Tower, and something of those original seventy mindsets and personalities are the roots of all the nations of the world for all time. Even their spiritual significance is carried on throughout the ages. Seventy, therefore, symbolizes the entire spectrum of human perspective.
In this light, the seventy souls who descended to Egypt represented the entirety of the Jewish nation, and the experience in Egypt would be engraved on the national consciousness for all time. What they experienced still lives inside the souls of Jews today. Similarly, the sages say that there are seventy facets to the Torah, seventy ways to interpret each point.
In Numbers 11:16 we find another example of this. God asked Moses to gather a group of seventy sages to be the High Court of Israel. With seventy we expect their judgments to have included all the possible perspectives on the situation at hand. Amongst those seventy there was also a requirement for each of the seventy languages of the seventy nations to be understood by at least one of those sages. In other words, their judgment shouldn’t be based on a translator, but on a direct understanding of the litigants involved.
This High Court, known as the Sanhedrin, was seated at the Temple in Jerusalem, and was called the “eyes” of the people. With wisdom, a person can see the future. A wise person also thinks through the potential outcome of an act before proceeding, as it says in Koheles 2:14, “A wise man has eyes in his head.” To come full circle, the word “ayin” that we started with is not only the name of that letter but it also means “eye”.
Tying this into the month, Teves focuses us on the Temple from two angles. First, the end of Chanukah celebrates of the return to the Temple. And secondly, the fast day on the 10th of the month marks the siege against Jerusalem. These are intense opposing reminders of our national unity, and the Temple in Jerusalem. In order to be a united people we have to appreciate all of the different perspectives we have amongst us. In order to have the benefit of the Torah we have to appreciate all of its facets. When we will appreciate every facet of the Torah we will be connected with the source of all power. When we will appreciate every personality found amongst our people, we will have God’s blessing to be at peace in our land with the holy Temple in Jerusalem.
By Daniel Stone.
Tags: Chanukah, unity, Beis Hamikdash, Tower of Babel, Numbers
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August 7th, 2015
Editors Note: The following three articles are based on an entry in the Rebbe’s journal dated “Chanukah 5696” (December 1935, published in Reshimot #3, pp. 10-24). The entry is a lengthy exposition on Chanukah, parts of which the Rebbe delivered at the synagogue at 17 Radzia St. in Paris, which he frequented during the years he resided in that city (1933-1940)
The Mudswamps of Hella
Chanukah celebrates the victory of Judea over Greece, of a small band of Jews over those who sought to subvert their faith and profane the sanctity of their lives.
In the course of the last four thousand years, many ideologies and cultures have sought to compromise the Jew’s allegiance to G-d and His Torah. But there is something unique about the challenge posed by the Hellenists twenty-one centuries ago—something that marks Chanukah as the ultimate triumph of spirit over matter and of light over darkness.
Soil and Water
In general, the factors that might undermine the integrity of a Jew’s faith and his commitment to G-d fall under two categories.
Most blatant are the challenges of a material sort. The Jew living in 16th-century Europe had a choice: cleave to your faith and suffer humiliation, poverty, frequent expulsion and outright slaughter, or submit to the faith of your “hosts.” Twentieth-century America offered the same choice, albeit in more “humane” terms, beckoning to the Jew to shed Shabbat, tefillin and kashrut for smoother distillation in the melting pot and enhanced access to the “American dream.” On the individual level, we are daily challenged with the choice of devoting our lives to serve our Creator and fulfill the purpose of our creation, or to pursue physical gratification and material gain.
More subtle are the ideological challenges: doctrines and philosophies that lay claim to virtue and truth, and may even espouse altruistic behavior and transcendent aims, but are utterly alien to the Jewish soul. A Jew disconnected from his roots and ignorant or unappreciative of his heritage is ready prey for the foreign waters that offer to quench his spiritual thirst.
Infinitely more noxious is a third category—doctrines that combine the soil of materialism and the wellsprings of reason into a lethal muck.
A person buried in corporeality can claw and dig his way out to sunlight. A person sinking in a sea of spurious reason can struggle to the surface and swim to shore. But he who adds water to his soil—who saturates his materialism with intellectual fluid—creates a morass from which it is infinitely more difficult to extricate himself. When his soul is moved to reach beyond the mundanity of the material, a host of rationalizations rise to still its yen; and when his mind begins to wake to the fallacy of the alien creed, the grasp of earth pulls him down. The person is thus steadily sucked down, as his efforts of both mind and will to rise above his mired state are counteracted by the bog of idealized hedonism.
Such was the challenge that faced our forefathers during the Greek domination of the Holy Land: indeed, Yavan, the Hebrew word for the Hellenic culture, means “mud.” The Hellenic “reformers” did more than entice and threaten the people of Israel to embrace the body-worship of Greece; they also sought to indoctrinate them with a philosophy that exalted the physical and made its worship a virtue and an ideal. The Greek was not merely pagan; his was a paganism aestheticized by art, glorified by poetry and hallowed by reason. The Greek was no mere materialist, but one who kneaded his earthiest wants with the subliminal waters of his intellect to form a mucilage that fastened on the soul and drew it, inch by inch and limb by limb, into the quagmire of Yavan.
Holy Mud
Mud can be made with the putrid water of sophism. But even water from the most pristine well turns to mud when mixed with soil. Thus, our sages have said:
“If the student of Torah is meritorious, the Torah becomes an elixir of life for him; if he does not merit, it becomes a death-potion for him,”
G-d forbid. The Hebrew word z’chut (“merit”) also means “refinement”; so the above statement can also be read, “If the student of Torah refines himself, the Torah becomes an elixir of life for him; if he does not refine himself, it becomes a death-potion for him.” If a person does not refine his soul, cleansing his character from the soil of its baser instincts, the pure waters of Torah become for him a mudpit of depravity: instead of buoying and nourishing his soul, his wisdom and knowledge only feed his ego, justify his iniquities, and aid his manipulation and distortion of the truth.
Therein lies the eternal lesson of Chanukah: intellect may be man’s highest faculty, but it can also be the instrument of his degradation to the lowest depths. Chanukah celebrates the cleansing of the Holy Temple from Hellenic corruption, the triumph of the pristine essence of the Jewish soul—represented by the “small, pure cruse of oil” that burned in the menorah for eight days—over the mud of Greece. We each possess such a “small, pure cruse of oil” in the pith of our souls—a reserve of supra-rational commitment to our Creator, with the power to illuminate our lives with a pure, inviolable light. A light that ensures that our search for water does not leave us mired in muck.
The Miracle
What is Chanukah? … When the Greeks entered the Sanctuary, they contaminated all its oil. Then, when the royal Hashmonean family overpowered and was victorious over [the Greeks], they searched and found only a single cruse of pure oil that was sealed with the seal of the kohen gadol (high priest)—enough to light the menorah for a single day. A miracle occurred, and they lit the menorah with this oil for eight days. The following year, they established these [eight days] as days of festivity and praise and thanksgiving for G-d.
Talmud, Shabbat 21b
Every Jewish schoolchild knows what Chanukah is. Obviously, then, the Talmud’s question “What is Chanukah?” is more than an inquiry into the history and the observances of the festival. The Talmud, explain the commentaries, is asking: “Over which miracle was it established?” Many miracles, great and small, accompanied the defeat of “the mighty by the weak and the many by the few,” the liberation of Israel from Hellenic dominance, and the reclaiming of the Holy Temple as the lighthouse of G-d. But there is one particular miracle, the Talmud is saying, that is the sum and substance of Chanukah: the miracle of the small cruse of pure oil that burned for eight days.
The challenge faced by the Jewish people at that time was unlike any that had confronted them before. Hellenism, a noxious blend of hedonism and philosophy, could not be resisted by the conventional tools of Jewish learning and tradition. Only the “cruse of pure oil”—the supra-rational, supra-egotistical essence of the Jewish soul from which stems the Jew’s intrinsic mesirat nefesh (self-sacrificial loyalty to G-d)—could illuminate the way out of the mudswamps of Hella. Only by evoking this reserve of uncontaminable “oil” were we able to banish the pagan invader from G-d’s home and rekindle the torch of Israel as a “light unto the nations.”
But this was oil sufficient for but a single day. By nature, man’s highest powers flare brightly and fleetingly, soon receding to the subconscious, subbehavioral place from which they have come. When a person’s deepest self is challenged, the essential oil of his soul is stimulated, and no force on earth can still its flame; but then the moment passes, the cataclysmic fades to the routine, and the person is left with his ordinary, mortal self.
The miracle of Chanukah was that “they lit the menorah with this oil for eight days”—that the flame of selfless sacrifice blazed beyond a moment of truth, beyond a day of reckoning. That the “small, pure cruse of oil” burned beyond its one-day lifespan for an additional week, illuminating the seven chambers of the soul. This was no mere flash of light in a sea of darkness, but a flame destined to shed purity and light for all generations, under all conditions.
Indeed, the Talmud relates that it was only on “the following year” that these eight days were established as the festival of Chanukah. A year is a microcosm of time, embodying all of time’s seasons and transmutations. So it was only on the following year, after it had weathered all fluctuations of the annual cycle, that the victory of Chanukah could be installed as a permanent fixture in our lives.
The Second-Story Man
The mitzvah is to place the Chanukah lights in the outside doorway of one’s home. If one lives in a loft (i.e. on the second floor ), he should place them in a window that faces out to the street.
Talmud, Shabbat 21b
A mitzvah is an exercise in awareness: the tefillin impress our bond with G-d upon our minds, hearts and arms; matzah is a taste of the faith that freed us from bondage and brought us to Sinai; Shabbat attunes our inner clocks to the seven-day cycle of deed and reflection that G-d imparted to His creation. While this awarenes should extend beyond the self—the imperative “to learn and to teach” is basic to our mission in life—this is usually secondary to mitzvah itself, which relates primarily to a soul’s personal relationship with G-d.
But there is one mitzvah in which our effect upon others is integral to its very function: the purpose of the Chanukah lights is defined as the imperative “to publicize the miracle.” Thus, the law states that the Chanukah menorah should not be lit past the hour that people who might see its light are normally out on the street, nor should it be placed where it is not readily visible to the passerby. Here the mitzvah itself is the endeavor to edify and influence one’s fellows.
There are those whose lives have a doorway out to the street—whose character and temperament provide them with groundfloor access to those still outside the sphere of Torah’s light. These place their menorah “in the outside doorway of their home,” incorporating it into the passageway by which they venture out to their night-traveling brethren. Others are more inward-oriented, their talents and aptitudes leading them to a life of spirituality and seclusion. But even the most lofty saint must at least have a window out to the street in which to place his menorah. If his life’s calling precludes his stepping outdoors, he must still endeavor to shed light, opening portals in the walls of his elevated abode so that his life might illuminate the world without.
Adapted from the teachings of the Rebbe by Yanki Tauber
Tags: menorah, Greece, miracles, consciousness, mitzvah, mysticism, seasons, creation, Shabbat, spiritual and material
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