Listen to tonight's class, "Sukkot: The Journey," here.
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Showing posts with label Sukkot. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sukkot. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 4, 2023
Wednesday, September 27, 2023
Sunday, October 3, 2021
Sukkot: Not Knowing
"Not Knowing"
Thoughts on Sukkot 2021
Click here to view as PDF
I will forever remember my first day at a post-high school yeshivah in Israel. My rabbi posed a question at the beginning of his shiur on that day. Certain that I knew the answer, I immediately raised my hand. The rabbi was noticeably surprised that I could think of a proper response so quickly. He slowly raised his eye brows as he turned to call on me. I suggested an answer. He refuted it. I defended my approach. He dismissed it again. This went on for a few minutes until the rabbi stopped our discussion in order to teach me an important lesson. “Harari,” he began, “Now is the right time for you to learn an ancient philosophical saying.” I gulped. “A person who doesn’t know that he doesn’t know – doesn’t know,” he said, “Your growth and success in life won’t come from the answers you give, but from the questions you ask.” I bowed my head in shame and kept quiet.
I seem to relearn
this lesson every year at this time of Sukkot. Even as our sukkot today
are built sturdier than ever before and our weather forecasts boast
unprecedented accuracy, Sukkot still forces us to contend with the “unknowns”
of life. Whether it’s the unexpected rainstorm, the strong winds which sweep
away our skhakh, or the uninvited guests – mosquitos, bees or bad smells
– which enter the sukkah, our exposure to the elements pushes a wide
array of unforeseen circumstances into our focus on Sukkot.
As I reflected upon
these feelings on one rainy night last week, I realized that those difficult
feelings of unpredictability might actually be woven into the very fabric of
Sukkot.
The predominant
rabbinic view is that our sukkot commemorate the clouds of glory (ananei
ha-kavod) which accompanied Am Yisrael on their journey through the
desert (See Tur O”H, 625). The Torah described how their many
travels and encampments were determined by the movement of those clouds
(Bemidbar 9:15-23). The clouds provided a sense of safety and security to the
people. And yet, the Torah described an unexpected problem at the onset of the
journey:
The people
took to complaining bitterly before God. God heard and was incensed. A fire of
God broke out against them, ravaging the outskirts of the camp. (Bemidbar 11:1)
What were they
complaining about? The text is silent. Drawing from the narrow context, Rashbam
suggested that the people were frustrated by torah ha-derekh – burdens
of travel. Expanding his interpretation, I think that although Am Yisrael
had just begun their march through the desert, there was a list of questions
which already weighed upon them: Where exactly are we going? When are we
travelling? Where will stop along the way? The uncomfortable feelings of
“not knowing” plagued them and caused their complaints. Remembering the ananei
ha-kavod on Sukkot, then, means remembering that we don’t know.
Ironically, our
ability to accept the uncertainties of life holds the keys to opening the gates
of self-understanding and discovery. Consider, for example, how at the root of
the English word “question” is “quest,” and “mada – knowledge” lies at
the root of the Hebrew word “madu’a – why?” Convinced that we have all
the answers to life’s greatest challenges, we stunt our own potential for
growth and progress. Stepping, instead, into the vulnerable realm of “not
knowing” sets us on the path of development.
It’s not easy to
appreciate the unexpected situations that arise on Sukkot. They’re physically
uncomfortable and emotionally disturbing. But just try. Try to heed the ancient
call of “not knowing” and admit that you don’t – and won’t – have all
the answers. Courageously embrace the unpredictable. I’ve learned from the past
that despite its discomforts, it’s an enriching experience. By realizing that
you “don’t know,” your mind and soul will become attuned to a world of growth
as they’re exposed to unforeseen vistas of thought and emotion.
Sunday, September 26, 2021
Sunday, November 15, 2020
Sunday, October 18, 2020
Shemini Asseret: Rain
Rain
Thoughts on Shemini Asseret 2020
Click here to view as PDF
The Mishnah (Rosh
HaShanah 1:2) teaches: “On the Festival [of Sukkot] the world is judged for
water.” The Talmud (Rosh HaShanah 16a) elaborates, “Why does the Torah tell us
to pour water on the Festival [of Sukkot]? God said: ‘Pour water before Me on
the Festival, so that you be blessed with good rainfall during the year’.” And
the Rabbis (Ta’anit 2b) likewise suggested that a primary function of
the araba’at ha-minim is to appease God for water, demonstrating that
“just as these four species cannot exist without water, so too, the world
cannot exist without water.” Sukkot, then, is an appropriate time to reflect
upon the significance of rain and water to the life of a Jew.
Unsurprisingly, the
first mention of rain in the Torah follows Creation:
On
the day God made earth and heavens, no shrub of the field being yet on the
earth and no plant of the field yet sprouted, for God had not caused rain to
fall on the earth and there was no human to till (la’avod) the soil.
(Bereshit 2:5)
Rashi explained
that God hadn’t yet caused rain because without a living human there was “no
one to recognize the utility of rain.” He explained that the job (avodah)
of human beings is to realize the vitality of rain and pray for its downfall.[1]
Reading the next pasuk, however, raises a difficulty:
And
the wetness would well from the earth to water all the surface of the soil. (Bereshit 2:6)
If the “wetness”
watered the surface of the soil, why didn’t it remove humans from this process,
filling the role of sprouting the fields? Why didn’t God allow for the wetness
itself to grow the trees and plants?
The Gaon of Vilna
clarified the difference between that mist which rose and the fall of rain by
paralleling them to the divided “upper waters” and “lower waters,” which came
into being on the second day of creation. He explained that the wetness which
wells from the earth comes from the natural “lower waters,” as opposed to the
rain, which is produced from the divine realm of the “upper waters.” The Gaon
explained that human beings are tasked with transcending the limits of our
lower realm to forge a unity between the “upper” and “lower” dimensions of
existence. We must seek out and find God in this world, and our prayer for rain
completes this mission.[2]
It emerges, then, that although the rising mist could indeed cause growth in a
natural fashion, we are to opt instead for an ideal world wherein we pray to
God for the merging of heaven and earth through the showers of rain.
The choice is
yours. You can, on the one hand, choose a life of relative ease, collecting
from the “lower waters” and bypassing the difficulty of establishing a
connection with God. You might in fact achieve financial success in your life’s
endeavors and then safely turn inward to focus on your continued stability. By
avoiding the challenge, however, you’ll lose out on the potential for a
relationship. Learning from the lesson of rain, we know that developing a bond
with God is no easy feat. It’s inspired by a genuine search – a “prayer for
rain” – which necessarily accepts our own insufficiencies. But it’s worth it.
Consider, in this
context, HaRambam’s opinion that the arba’at ha-minim represent the
natural growth of the land of Israel, which then focuses us on its agricultural
successes.[3]
At the end of his life, Moshe compared the land of Israel to that of Egypt. He
warned the Nation of the difficulties that lay up ahead:
For the land into which you are coming to take hold of it
is not like the land of Egypt from which you went out, where you sow your seed
and water it with your foot like a garden of greens. But the land into which
you are crossing to take hold of it is a land of mountains and valleys. (Devarim
11:10-11)
He then explained
the positive side of those hardships:
From
the rain of the heavens you will drink water – a land that God seeks out
perpetually, the eyes of God are upon it from the year’s beginning to the
year’s end. (Devarim
11:12)
Put in other words,
Egypt was agriculturally sustained by the “lower waters” of an overflowing
river and an elaborate irrigation system. Its society was built upon the stable
foundations of self-sufficiency and predictability. The mountainous land of
Israel, in contrast, was dependent upon the “upper waters” of heavenly
rainfall. As Robert Alter noted: “The geographical fact, then, that the land of
Israel is dependent on rainfall…is both a blessing and a curse.”[4]
The fear of drought and challenge of helplessness inspire us to prayer for the
“upper waters” of rain. They are the catalysts for a relationship with God.
Raising the arba’at
ha-minim in our hands on each of the seven days of Sukkot, we are forced to
reconsider our relationship with God. The four species remind us of the
difficult yet worthwhile challenge of seeking the “upper waters” of Israel. And
just as we conclude that first holiday, we enter the next with the courage to step
forward and demand more from our relationship with God. We begin Shemini
Asseret with the prayer for rain.
Sunday, October 27, 2019
Simhat Torah: The Song of Torah
The Song of Torah
Thoughts on Simhat Torah 2019
Click here to view as PDF
On the final day of Moshe’s life, he instructed:
“And now, write this song and teach to Bnei Yisrael, put it in their
mouths…” (Devarim 31:19). The Hakhamim interpreted “this song” as a
reference to the entirety of the Torah, understanding it as an obligation for
every individual to write a sefer Torah.[1]
Although there are several poetic passages in the Torah, the vast majority of
its verses tell stories or present laws. Why, then, would Moshe characterize
its general nature as a “song”?
The great neurologist Oliver Sacks suffered
from a loss of hearing in his final years of life. He was intrigued by the way
that he often misheard individual words in sentences that were spoken to him
during those years, and probed the psychological and physiological causes of
his “mishearings.” Sacks noticed that
while he often misheard words, he seldom misheard music. The notes, melodies
and phrasings remained as clear and rich to him then as they had been all his
life. He explained that whereas speech is “open, inventive and improvised” and
thus vulnerable to mishearing, playing and hearing music engages the procedural
memory and emotional centers of one’s brain, thus minimizing the risk of
mishearing.[2]
By referring to the Torah as a “song,” Moshe
was perhaps teaching that its messages must be perceived in a realm that lies
beyond our intellect – the realm of emotion. Consider, for example, a particular
description of the 19th Century German philosopher Friedrich
Nietzsche: “For Nietzsche,
thinking was an act of extreme emotional intensity. He thought the way others
feel.”[3]
Transcending their mundane existence as cerebral data-pieces, Moshe likewise
commanded that the words of Torah be “put in our mouths,” and perceived as part
of an everlasting and developing experience. An experience enriched by
feeling – a “song” – resonates further than a lesson computed by the mind.
R. Joseph B.
Soloveitchik often spoke about his “child-like” mindset while engaging in talmud
Torah. “The adult is too clever,” he declared, “Utility is his guiding
light. The experience of God is unavailable to those approaching it with a
businesslike attitude.” He suggested that only the child – or an individual
possessing a childlike emotional disposition – can appropriately engage the
words of God. Adults depend upon their intellect to problem-solve. Children
keep their eyes and hearts wide open. “The adult is not capable of the
all-embracing and all-penetrating outpouring of the soul,” he wrote, “The most
sublime crown we can give a great man sparkles with the gems of childhood.”[4]
Am Yisrael
has long dedicated itself on Shavuot to the intense study of the words and
concepts of the Torah with the custom of all-night learning. Our minds are
sharpened and thoughts cleansed by the Torah’s teachings on the holiday of
Shavuot. Simhat Torah represents an alternate vehicle of connection. We sing
and dance with the Torah, tapping into the joys of childhood, as we allow the
“song of Torah” to penetrate our hearts and souls.
[1] Sanhedrin 21b.
[2] Oliver Sacks, The River of Consciousness (New York, NY,
2017), pg. 126.
[3] Rüdiger Safranski, Nietzsche:
A Philosophical Biography (New York, NY, 2002), pg. 181.
[4] R. Joseph B. Soloveitchik, Divrei Hagut
VeHa’arakhah (Jerusalem, IS, 1982), pg. 57-98 See, as well, his “BeSod
HaYahid VeHaYahad (Jerusalem, IS, 1976), pg. 209.
Saturday, October 19, 2019
Thursday, October 17, 2019
Friday, October 11, 2019
Sunday, December 16, 2018
Friday, September 28, 2018
Sukkot: Process
Process
Thoughts on Sukkot 2018
Click here to view as PDF
The Torah bares no explicit mention of an etrog
on Sukkot. Instead, it merely hints to it with the command to take a
“peri ess hadar” – “fruit of a beautiful tree.” The Hakhamim
suggested that the “beauty” of the etrog tree is its unique quality that
“the taste of its trunk and fruit are alike.”[1]
By focusing on this particular attribute of the etrog I believe that the
rabbis were teaching a lesson that extends beyond the trunk of a tree or its fruit.
In his commentary to Parashat Bereshit,
Rashi recorded a well-known Midrash regarding the creation of the first fruit
trees. He wrote that although God wanted the taste of all tree trunks to match
that of their fruit, the ground rebelled by yielding inedible trunks.[2]
Rav Kook z”l explained that whereas the fruits of the trees in this
story represent a goal, the trunks represent the necessary process.[3]
While we are easily drawn toward the sweet endpoints in life – building
families, amassing wealth, growing proficient in Torah, or spiritually
connecting to God, the bland path toward their achievement is often
discouraging. God’s command to the ground, as it were, was that the means be as
enjoyable as the ends.
How often do we live up to that ideal? The
answer, of course, is unfortunately not too often. We stumble through our day
to day activities, become overwhelmed by their unappealing nature and ultimately
lose sight of our true ambitions.
Returning to the Hakhamim’s emphasis
of the etrog’s same taste of trunk and fruit within this context, we may
now appreciate their lesson. The unusually sweet trunk of the etrog represents
a process imbued with the same richness and sweetness as its outcome.
Panning out to the broader context of the etrog,
the foundational message of Sukkot reflects this very lesson. The Torah
teaches that we sit in sukkot on this holiday to recall the sukkot
which we dwelled in after leaving Egypt.[4]
Our journey in the wilderness represented the necessary process toward the goal
of inhabiting the Land of Israel. On Sukkot, then, we celebrate that process
– rejoicing in our commemoration of the means which led to the end.
The Hakhamim captured the spirit of
these days best in their understanding that we “reside in the sukkah as
we dwell in home.”[5]
They taught that we may yet discover a sweetness in the means by mirroring them
to the ends.
Thursday, September 20, 2018
Sukkot: Technology
Technology
Thoughts on Sukkot 2016
Click here to view as PDF
With my private room,
private car, private office, private (and preferably unlisted) telephone, with
food and clothing purchased in large impersonal stores, with my own stove,
refrigerator, dishwasher, washer-dryer, I can be practically immune from
intimate contact with any other person.
(Carl Rogers) [1]
Physical communities have a depth that virtual communities cannot match...If I lie in bed sick at home in Israel, my online friends from California can talk to me, but they cannot bring me soup or a cup of tea. (Yuval Noah Harari) [2]
Physical communities have a depth that virtual communities cannot match...If I lie in bed sick at home in Israel, my online friends from California can talk to me, but they cannot bring me soup or a cup of tea. (Yuval Noah Harari) [2]
It is easy to define the
positive effects of technological progress. Technology introduces an enhanced ease
and comfort to the various realms of our lives. More difficult to pinpoint,
however, are the detriments that result from technological advancements. In his
book Civility, Yale law professor Stephen Carter defined “civility” as
“the sum of the many sacrifices that we are called to make for the sake of
living together.” He posited that technology has hastened the societal demise
of civility.
Carter contrasted our current, advanced mode of transportation in automobiles
to the railroads of the nineteenth century. Whereas travel in cars, “surrounded
by metal and glass” gives us the illusion of solitary mobility and the ability
to act as we please, travelers on trains were surrounded by people “packed
shoulder to shoulder like chess pieces in their little box,” which therefore demanded
appropriate behavior for a tolerable ride. He noted the regretful disadvantage
of contemporary transportation, and stated: “We care less and less about our
fellow citizens, because we no longer see them as our fellow passengers.”[3]
A diminished sense of civility threatens more than just the societal structure
of a nation or community. It poses a danger to the well-being of every
individual. Researchers have found that strong social relationships are prone
to strengthen the immune system, extend life, speed recovery from surgery and
reduce the risks of depression and anxiety disorders.[4]
As, Seneca remarked nearly two thousand years ago, “No one can live happily who
has regard to himself alone and transforms everything into a question of his
own utility.”
* * * *
We may detect a reality similar to Carter description in other areas of
life, as well. Consider the differences between watching a show in the theater
or on the couch of your living room, asking a stranger for directions or
following the GPS on your phone, and waiting on line for a roller coaster or
skipping to the front with a Fast Pass, to name just a few. Though many yearn
for the efficiency that will accompany the future of automated grocery
shopping, sociologist Stacy Torres demurred: “I’m not looking forward to it.
While interactions with cashiers may seem insignificant, or at times even a
nuisance, they also foster sociability between strangers.”[5]
While we were once forced to engage in appropriate dialogue during encounters with
other people, we can now avoid all such meetings and conduct ourselves as we
wish – on our own.
* * * *
The reason for the missvah to sit in a sukkah on Sukkot is
never explicitly stated by the Torah. Instead, we are cryptically taught that
its purpose is to recall the sukkot that Bnei Yisrael dwelled in
during their sojourn in the desert:
בַּסֻּכֹּת תֵּשְׁבוּ שִׁבְעַת
יָמִים כָּל הָאֶזְרָח בְּיִשְׂרָאֵל יֵשְׁבוּ
בַּסֻּכֹּת לְמַעַן יֵדְעוּ דֹרֹתֵיכֶם כִּי
בַסֻּכּוֹת הוֹשַׁבְתִּי אֶת בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל בְּהוֹצִיאִי
אוֹתָם מֵאֶרֶץ מִצְרָיִם...
In sukkot you shall dwell
seven days. All natives in Israel shall dwell in sukkot, so that your
generations will know that I made Bnei Yisrael dwell in sukkot when I brought
them out of the land of Egypt… (Vayikra 23:42-3)
The
reasoning seems to rely on a proper understanding of the constructive purpose
of dwelling in sukkot in the desert, which would thereby justify its
eternal reenactment. But what was it? What was – and is – the practical benefit
of dwelling in a sukkah?
The
Hakhamim (TB Sukkah 28b) explained that the objective of dwelling
in the sukkah over the duration of Sukkot is to mimic life in our actual
homes. And most of us actually find a fair measure of success in achieving this
feat. The food we eat, the pizmonim we sing, and the amount of time we
spend at the table in the sukkah are far more similar to the meal at
home than the picnic in the park. But truth be told, it is practically
impossible to fully “recreate” our home experience in a hut exposed to the
elements, in a location that requires constant reentrance into the home and in
quarters generally smaller than that of the dining room.
* * * *
Our
experiences in the sukkah necessarily “turn back the clock” on
technological advancements. The narrow space of the sukkah forces us to
pass the food to each other and to engage in dialogue with one another. The
experiences bring us back to a time before the space and amenities of modern
homes, and thrust upon us a heightened awareness of our surroundings and a
sensitivity to the people with whom we are sharing space.
Returning
to the terminology of Prof. Carter: Dwelling in the sukkah restores a necessary
sense of civility to the Jews of every generation by forcing their
entrance into a virtual realm unexposed to the ever-present reality of technological
solitude.
May
we spend the final days of “dwelling in the sukkah” in appreciation of
the moral and interpersonal growths inherent in its apparent “inconveniences.”
[1] A Way of Being (New York, NY, 1980), pg.198.
[2] 21 Lessons for the 21st Century
(New York, NY, 2018), pg. 88-9.
[3] Stephen Carter, Civility: Manners, Morals, and the
Etiquette of Democracy (New York, NY, 1998), pg. 4.
[4] See Jonathan Haidt, The Happiness Hypothesis:
Finding Modern Truth in Ancient Wisdom (New York, NY, 2006), pg. 133.
[5] Stacy Torres, “You Don’t Want to Buy Groceries from a
Robot,” The New York Times, June 23, 2017.
Tuesday, October 10, 2017
Wednesday, October 4, 2017
Tuesday, October 3, 2017
Monday, October 2, 2017
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