Category Archives: festivals

Zot Chanukah

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The 8th day of Chanukah,  is the only day of the festival that is given its own particular name: Zot Chanukah, which means “This is Chanukah” .  This special name for the last day of Chanukah is taken from the Torah reading from the end of Parashat Naso that emphatically announces ZOT CHANUKAT HA-MIZBEI’ACH – this is the dedication of the altar. But why is a special name given to just one day of the festival, and why to the very last one?

 Rabbi Joseph Caro, author of the Shulchan Aruch, suggested that it may have been given in case one might think that Chanukah should only be celebrated seven days, since the single flask of oil found by the Maccabees was sufficient for one day, and therefore the miraculous illumination was really only for seven days. The eighth day we celebrate could be understood then as a calendrical correction in case the commencing date was wrong, and not concerned with the miracle upon which our Chanukah is predicated.  This, he said,  is why the eighth day is called “ZotChanukah“ – “This is Chanukah“ – to emphasize that it is an actual day of the eight-day celebration and not merely a day celebrated because of  ambiguity in the calendar as other festivals sometimes have extra days added.

Zot Chanukah: This is Chanukah. The 8th day of Chanukah issignificant. Being the last night and because of the ruling of Hillel that we increase in holiness and therefore add a candle each day of the festival, rather than starting with 8 and decreasing the candles, the eighth day gives us the brightest outpouring of light – in effect the eighth day is the essence of the holiday – the illumination of faith in the darkness of fear.

Much has been written about the significance of the number eight – and it is generally based on the idea of it being 7 plus one. The number seven signifies completion / perfection. Shabbat is the seventh day of the week; Creation took seven days to complete, so seven is the mystical number of wholeness and perfection in tradition. The number 8 is therefore said to transcend the realm of this mundane and physical world and allude to the exalted and holy. In the natural world, time is based on a seven-day week and according to mystical tradition by sheva kochavei lechet – the seven orbital planets but God transcends all this, and therefore the number eight represents God’s Holiness.  The power of 8 is one beyond the completion often implied by the number 7 in our tradition. 8 is one more, beyond the limits of time, signifying the presence of God, whose light is ever present in this world.

According to the teachings of Kabbalah and Hasidism, this day is the final “seal” of the High Holiday season of Yom Kippur, and is considered a time to repent out of love for God. In this spirit, many Hasidic Jews wish each other G’mar chatimah tovah (“may you be sealed totally for good”), a traditional greeting for the Yom Kippur season and it is taught in Hasidic and Kabbalistic literature that this day is particularly auspicious for the fulfilment of prayers.

Zot Chanukah, the eighth day of special holiness, is a day that goes over and above the usual span of time  The phrase “Zot Chanukah” can be translated as “this is dedication”.  But at the same time as it reminds us that while every day of life is miraculous, even the mundane days of ordinary work or unexciting activities,  it also points out that above and beyond these days there can be yet another miracle, one which is achieved by living as best we can, with persistence and determination, and our going over and above what we might otherwise offer.

rosh hashanah sermon – spiral recurring time or “we’ve been here before, what can we do differently with what we have learned”

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Rosh Hashana Morning Lev Chadash 2025

We usually think of time as  the ancient Greeks first described it – that time is a linear progression –  that one moment leads to the next in an uninterrupted sequence. We live with this model in mind,  planning for the hours and days, the months and years ahead, measuring our progress in life as the years pass. Linear time is generally what we use to make sense of the world around us. The past is always behind us, unchangeable and fixed, the future is in front of us, unknown and unknowable. We live in an eternal present.

But the Jewish view of time is different.

For us time  is not linear.  We do not progress through our days in a straight line from the past, through the present, to the future. Even how we characterise time is different – the past is in front of us, because we can see it, the future is behind us, not yet revealing itself, and so, when Moses see’s God’s back we understand that he is seeing something about the relationship between the Jewish people and God that goes into the future.  It is not a denial of seeing the face of God, so much as the promise that God will stay with us.

Judaism also recognises an element of circularity, although unlike the Babylonians and Egyptians, Judaism does not see this as being only the repeated cycles of birth, death and renewal. Instead, Judaism does something that takes from both of these interpretations  of time. Judaism understands and creates time as a spiral. We may come back again and again to particular experiences, but each time we come back we are different. We have progressed within the circularity.

 This is the reason our prayerbooks for the festivals are known as machzorim – the name reminds us that we return to these festivals over and over again in our lives, the seasons pass and return. The festivals are the same – it is we who are different each time.  The very word “shanah”  has layers of meaning – “a year”,  “a repetition”, “a change”.

 As we travel through our days we see patterns repeat, as we replay the past.  At Pesach we – yet again – leave slavery in Egypt for an unknown future, travelling towards our ancestral land. At Shavuot we – yet again – encounter God and become a people of God at Sinai.  At Succot we relive the fragility of our temporal security, knowing that if there has not been rain and sunshine in their right seasons, we may not have the food we need to survive.

During the Yamim Noraim we put aside time to look at how we are living our lives. We examine ourselves to see whether we are living up to our values and the expectations for who we want to be. Each festival in this cycle is a milestone, a marker on our journey through life. Each is an opportunity. The secular world may have birthdays or new year resolutions, dates where we reflect on how we have lived so far and propose new or different behaviours, but the Jewish year has formalised these, bringing us back again and again to remember and inhabit our past, and to inform and impact our present.

Rabbi Eliyahu Dessler wrote that  “As we travel through time we return to key moments of the past and recapture the inherent spiritual energy. This is why Jewish holidays are referred to in Hebrew as “moadim” (meeting places).

And Rabbi Adin Steinsaltz wrote “Time is a process, in which past, present, and future are bound to each other, not only by cause and effect but also as a harmonization of two motions:  progress forward and a countermotion backward, encircling and returning.  It is more like a spiral, or a helix, rising up from Creation.  (From The Thirteen Petalled Rose).

Spiral time is not the same as circular time.  We don’t repeat the past.  At least we don’t repeat it exactly. Just as the root of the word “Shanah” means both to repeat and to change, we revisit it, but we are different, and so our experience is also different. Just as we spend a year reading the same Torah scroll, only to repeat it again in the following years, we find we read that text differently each time because we ourselves are different, so words or ideas or whole stories may jump out at us one year that never did before, because now we have something within us to resonate with them.

 I am perhaps overfond of the phrase “plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose”- the more that things change the more that they stay the same.  But I know too that it doesn’t exactly speak to the Jewish experience of change. Because while it feels like we find ourselves in situations  of vulnerability that our forebears would recognise,  Judaism adds in an extra ingredient to the repetition– that of hope, and of the human ability to create meaning. We never stop hoping that we might bring about real change in the world, continuing the perfection of creation.

The cynical may repeat Kohelet the preacher, said to be written by the great and wise King Solomon – מַה־שֶּׁהָיָה הוּא שֶׁיִּהְיֶה וּמַה־שֶּׁנַּעֲשָׂה הוּא שֶׁיֵּעָשֶׂה וְאֵין כׇּל־חָדָשׁ תַּחַת הַשָּׁמֶשׁ׃

Only that has happened can happen, only that which has been done can be done. There is nothing new beneath the sun!  But this somewhat pessimistic view of life is not the view of Rabbinic Judaism – for we have the idea of repair built into our very fabric, we yearn towards redemption. As Nachman of Bratzlav wrote – “if you believe you can damage, you must believe you can rebuild”. – and he went on to say “the whole world is a narrow bridge, the important thing is that you must not make yourself afraid”   In other words we have the power to create positive and meaningful change – just as long as we don’t despair and allow ourselves to give up the hope and the imagination to do so.

Right now we are at a point in the spiral that echoes some of the most painfilled and terrifying elements of Jewish history. All the values of the enlightenment and of modernity seem to have come crashing down, antisemitism is rising, Jews are fearful of being seen as such in the public space, and we are as divided a people as we have ever been, polarised in a way I fear may be davar chadash – a new thing – or certainly something not seen since the days of the second temple.   Never has the phrase “am k’shei oref” – a stiff necked and stubborn people – been more appropriate.  

We are in a world of sinat hinam –hatred without a cause. We have been here before and we know how dangerous it is. But precisely because of this knowledge we can learn to do things differently.  We have the tools we need to bring about change. In the words of Rav Kook the antidote to causeless hatred – sinat hinam, is causeless love – ahavat hinam.

In this age of social media we can see how easy it is to manipulate people to hate others. One only has to look at the comments beneath any article or photograph to see people who are willing to denigrate and dehumanise people they do not even know. We can see and hear the populist politicians, the rhetoric of patriotism, the racism and misogyny and nationalism and xenophobia.  We have been here before, and we can try to ensure that the pattern does not play out again as it did before.

Liliane Segre spoke of the indifference of others when Nazism and fascism arose:   “L’indifferenza racchiude la chiave per comprendere la ragione del male, perché quando credi che una cosa non ti tocchi, non ti riguardi, allora non c’è limite all’orrore.   L’indifferente è complice.   

“Indifference holds the key to understanding the reason for evil, because when you believe that something does not affect you, does not concern you, then there is no limit to the horror.  The indifferent are accomplices

 And she said that the opposite of the indifference is caring, ensuring that we pay attention, that the things that we can see happening around us should engage us – we cannot look away and say that we are not involved – neutrality is not an option.

Her call is echoed by Elie Wiesel in his speech of acceptance of the Nobel peace prize.

“We must take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented…. When human lives are endangered, when human dignity is in jeopardy, national borders and sensitivities become irrelevant. Wherever men and women are persecuted because of their race, religion, or political views, that place must – at that moment – become the centre of the universe.”

We live in Jewish time, in a history that is ever present, with an unextinguishable hope for the future.  Past, present and future are bound together for us.  Moses Chaim Luzzatto (RaMCHaL) calls this “recurring time” and offers us hope – “in recurring time, the light of holiness that illuminated us then, will shine on us and refine and renew us”.. (Derech HaShem composed1735 Padua)

Jewish time gives us repeated opportunities to act well, reminds us not only to care for the vulnerable of our own people but to care for and about all people – whether they look like us or not, whether we agree with them or not, whether we know them personally or they are strangers to us. In a passage recorded in many places in our tradition we are told that Shimon ben Azzai teaches “the greatest principle of Torah is “ This is the book of the generations of Adam [origin of human beings]. When God created  human beings God created us in the divine likeness” (Gen. v. 1; Sifra, Ḳedoshim, iv.; Yer. Ned. ix. 41c; Gen. R. xxiv.). 

In other words – we are all one human people, we are all God’s creation. We live together on one small planet, and how we treat the earth impacts on us all. How we treat each other impacts on us all.   And it reminds us to stand up for our values when they – and we – are under attack.

The antidote to causeless hatred is not to logically explain why it is wrong. There is no logic to such anger and odium.  The antidote is to live with causeless love, to see humanity as one people living together on a small and fragile planet, our futures bound up together,

The antidote is to pay attention, to notice, to care, to stand up against false narratives of hate.

We live in recurring and spiral time – and each time we confront a situation we can choose how to respond. Let us hope that as Luzzatto taught, that the light of holiness that shone on us before, will shine on us now and in the future, refining us and renewing us and helping us to create a future of peace.

Shanah Tovah

Rosh Hashana Mattina Lev Chadash 2025

Di solito pensiamo al tempo come lo descrivevano gli antichi greci: il tempo è una progressione lineare, un momento conduce al successivo in una sequenza ininterrotta. Viviamo con questo modello in mente, pianificando le ore e i giorni, i mesi e gli anni a venire, misurando i nostri progressi nella vita con il passare degli anni. Il tempo lineare è generalmente ciò che usiamo per dare un senso al mondo che ci circonda. Il passato è sempre dietro di noi, immutabile e fisso, il futuro è davanti a noi, sconosciuto e inconoscibile. Viviamo in un eterno presente.

Ma la visione ebraica del tempo è diversa.

Per noi il tempo non è lineare. Non progrediamo attraverso i nostri giorni in linea retta dal passato, attraverso il presente, verso il futuro. Anche il modo in cui caratterizziamo il tempo è diverso: il passato è davanti a noi, perché possiamo vederlo, il futuro è dietro di noi, non ancora rivelato, e così, quando Mosè vede la schiena di Dio, capiamo che sta vedendo qualcosa della relazione tra il popolo ebraico e Dio che va verso il futuro. Non è una negazione del vedere il volto di Dio, quanto piuttosto la promessa che Dio rimarrà con noi.

L’ebraismo riconosce anche un elemento di circolarità, anche se, a differenza dei babilonesi e degli egizi, non lo vede solo come il ripetersi dei cicli di nascita, morte e rinnovamento. L’ebraismo fa invece qualcosa che prende da entrambe queste interpretazioni del tempo. L’ebraismo comprende e crea il tempo come una spirale. Possiamo tornare più e più volte a particolari esperienze, ma ogni volta che torniamo siamo diversi. Abbiamo progredito all’interno della circolarità.

Questo è il motivo per cui i nostri libri di preghiere per le festività sono conosciuti come machzorim: il nome ci ricorda che torniamo a queste festività più e più volte nella nostra vita, le stagioni passano e ritornano. Le festività sono le stesse, siamo noi che siamo diversi ogni volta. La stessa parola “shanah” ha diversi significati: “un anno”, “una ripetizione”, “un cambiamento”.

Mentre attraversiamo i nostri giorni, vediamo ripetersi gli schemi, mentre riviviamo il passato. A Pesach lasciamo – ancora una volta – la schiavitù in Egitto per un futuro sconosciuto, viaggiando verso la terra dei nostri antenati. A Shavuot incontriamo – ancora una volta – Dio e diventiamo il popolo di Dio sul Sinai. A Succot riviviamo la fragilità della nostra sicurezza temporale, sapendo che se non ci sono state pioggia e sole nelle stagioni giuste, potremmo non avere il cibo necessario per sopravvivere.

Durante lo Yamim Noraim dedichiamo del tempo a riflettere su come stiamo vivendo la nostra vita. Esaminiamo noi stessi per vedere se stiamo vivendo secondo i nostri valori e le aspettative di chi vogliamo essere. Ogni festa di questo ciclo è una pietra miliare, un punto di riferimento nel nostro viaggio attraverso la vita. Ognuna è un’opportunità. Il mondo secolare può avere compleanni o propositi per l’anno nuovo, date in cui riflettiamo su come abbiamo vissuto finora e proponiamo comportamenti nuovi o diversi, ma l’anno ebraico ha formalizzato tutto questo, riportandoci continuamente a ricordare e a rivivere il nostro passato, per informare e influenzare il nostro presente.

Il rabbino Eliyahu Dessler ha scritto che “Mentre viaggiamo nel tempo, torniamo ai momenti chiave del passato e recuperiamo l’energia spirituale intrinseca. Questo è il motivo per cui le festività ebraiche sono chiamate in ebraico ”moadim” (luoghi di incontro).

E il rabbino Adin Steinsaltz ha scritto: “Il tempo è un processo in cui passato, presente e futuro sono legati tra loro, non solo da causa ed effetto, ma anche come armonizzazione di due movimenti: il progresso in avanti e il contro-movimento all’indietro, che circonda e ritorna. È più simile a una spirale, o a un’elica, che si eleva dalla Creazione. (Da La rosa a tredici petali).

Il tempo a spirale non è uguale al tempo circolare. Non ripetiamo il passato. Almeno non lo ripetiamo esattamente. Proprio come la radice della parola “Shanah” significa sia ripetere che cambiare, lo rivisitiamo, ma siamo diversi, e quindi anche la nostra esperienza è diversa. Proprio come passiamo un anno a leggere lo stesso rotolo della Torah, solo per ripeterlo di nuovo negli anni successivi, scopriamo che leggiamo quel testo in modo diverso ogni volta perché noi stessi siamo diversi, quindi parole, idee o intere storie possono saltarci agli occhi un anno come mai prima d’ora, perché ora abbiamo qualcosa dentro di noi che risuona con esse.

Forse amo troppo la frase “plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose” – più le cose cambiano, più rimangono uguali. Ma so anche che non rispecchia esattamente l’esperienza ebraica del cambiamento. Perché anche se ci sembra di trovarci in situazioni di vulnerabilità che i nostri antenati riconoscerebbero, l’ebraismo aggiunge un ingrediente in più alla ripetizione: quello della speranza e della capacità umana di creare significato. Non smettiamo mai di sperare di poter portare un vero cambiamento nel mondo, continuando la perfezione della creazione.

I cinici potrebbero ripetere le parole del predicatore Kohelet, che si dice siano state scritte dal grande e saggio re Salomone – מַה־שֶּׁהָיָה הוּא שֶׁיִּהְיֶה וּמַה־שֶּׁנַּעֲשָׂה הוּא שֶׁיֵּעָשֶׂה וְאֵין כׇּל־חָדָשׁ תַּחַת הַשָּׁמֶשׁ׃

Solo ciò che è accaduto può accadere, solo ciò che è stato fatto può essere fatto. Non c’è nulla di nuovo sotto il sole! Ma questa visione piuttosto pessimistica della vita non è quella del giudaismo rabbinico, poiché noi abbiamo l’idea di riparazione insita nella nostra stessa essenza, desideriamo ardentemente la redenzione. Come scrisse Nachman di Bratzlav: “Se credi di poter danneggiare, devi credere di poter ricostruire”. E continuò dicendo: “Il mondo intero è un ponte stretto, l’importante è non lasciarsi prendere dalla paura”. In altre parole, abbiamo il potere di creare un cambiamento positivo e significativo, purché non ci disperiamo e non rinunciamo alla speranza e all’immaginazione per farlo.

In questo momento ci troviamo in un punto della spirale che riecheggia alcuni degli elementi più dolorosi e terrificanti della storia ebraica. Tutti i valori dell’Illuminismo e della modernità sembrano essere crollati, l’antisemitismo è in aumento, gli ebrei hanno paura di essere visti come tali negli spazi pubblici e siamo un popolo più diviso che mai, polarizzato in un modo che temo possa essere davar chadash – una cosa nuova – o certamente qualcosa che non si vedeva dai tempi del secondo tempio. Mai come ora l’espressione “am k’shei oref” – un popolo dal collo rigido e testardo – è stata più appropriata.

Viviamo in un mondo di sinat hinam, odio senza motivo. Ci siamo già trovati in questa situazione e sappiamo quanto sia pericolosa. Ma proprio grazie a questa consapevolezza possiamo imparare a fare le cose in modo diverso. Abbiamo gli strumenti necessari per apportare il cambiamento. Nelle parole di Rav Kook, l’antidoto all’odio senza causa – sinat hinam – è l’amore senza causa – ahavat hinam.

In questa era dei social media possiamo vedere quanto sia facile manipolare le persone affinché odino gli altri. Basta guardare i commenti sotto qualsiasi articolo o fotografia per vedere persone disposte a denigrare e disumanizzare persone che non conoscono nemmeno. Possiamo vedere e sentire i politici populisti, la retorica del patriottismo, il razzismo, la misoginia, il nazionalismo e la xenofobia. Ci siamo già passati e possiamo cercare di garantire che lo stesso schema non si ripeta come in passato.

Liliane Segre ha parlato dell’indifferenza degli altri quando sono sorti il nazismo e il fascismo: “L’indifferenza racchiude la chiave per comprendere la ragione del male, perché quando credi che una cosa non ti tocchi, non ti riguardi, allora non c’è limite all’orrore. L’indifferente è complice.

“L’indifferenza racchiude la chiave per comprendere la ragione del male, perché quando credi che una cosa non ti tocchi, non ti riguardi, allora non c’è limite all’orrore. L’indifferente è complice

E lei ha detto che il contrario dell’indifferenza è la cura, assicurarsi che prestiamo attenzione, che le cose che vediamo accadere intorno a noi ci coinvolgano – non possiamo distogliere lo sguardo e dire che non siamo coinvolti – la neutralità non è un’opzione.

La sua richiesta trova eco nelle parole di Elie Wiesel nel suo discorso di accettazione del premio Nobel per la pace.

“Dobbiamo schierarci. La neutralità aiuta l’oppressore, mai la vittima. Il silenzio incoraggia il carnefice, mai il tormentato… Quando le vite umane sono in pericolo, quando la dignità umana è in pericolo, i confini nazionali e le sensibilità diventano irrilevanti. Ovunque uomini e donne siano perseguitati a causa della loro razza, religione o opinioni politiche, quel luogo deve – in quel momento – diventare il centro dell’universo”.

Viviamo nel tempo ebraico, in una storia sempre presente, con una speranza inestinguibile per il futuro. Passato, presente e futuro sono legati insieme per noi. Moses Chaim Luzzatto (RaMCHaL) chiama questo “tempo ricorrente” e ci offre speranza: “nel tempo ricorrente, la luce della santità che ci illuminava allora, risplenderà su di noi e ci raffinerà e rinnoverà”. (Derech HaShem composto nel 1735 a Padova)

Il tempo ebraico ci offre ripetute opportunità di agire bene, ci ricorda non solo di prenderci cura dei più vulnerabili del nostro popolo, ma anche di prenderci cura di tutte le persone, che ci assomiglino o meno, che siamo d’accordo con loro o meno, che le conosciamo personalmente o che siano estranee per noi. In un passaggio riportato in molti luoghi della nostra tradizione, ci viene detto che Shimon ben Azzai insegna che “il principio più grande della Torah è: Questo è il libro delle generazioni di Adamo [origine degli esseri umani]. Quando Dio creò gli esseri umani, Dio ci creò a sua immagine e somiglianza” (Genesi v. 1; Sifra, Ḳedoshim, iv.; Yer. Ned. ix. 41c; Gen. R. xxiv.).

In altre parole, siamo tutti un unico popolo umano, siamo tutti creature di Dio. Viviamo insieme su un piccolo pianeta e il modo in cui trattiamo la terra ha un impatto su tutti noi. Il modo in cui ci trattiamo l’un l’altro ha un impatto su tutti noi. E questo ci ricorda di difendere i nostri valori quando essi, e noi stessi, siamo sotto attacco.

L’antidoto all’odio immotivato non è spiegare logicamente perché è sbagliato. Non c’è logica in tale rabbia e odio. L’antidoto è vivere con amore immotivato, vedere l’umanità come un unico popolo che vive insieme su un pianeta piccolo e fragile, con un futuro legato insieme.

L’antidoto è prestare attenzione, notare, preoccuparsi, opporsi alle false narrazioni dell’odio.

Viviamo in un tempo ricorrente e a spirale, e ogni volta che affrontiamo una situazione possiamo scegliere come reagire. Speriamo che, come insegnava Luzzatto, la luce della santità che brillava su di noi prima, brilli su di noi ora e in futuro, raffinandoci, rinnovandoci e aiutandoci a creare un futuro di pace.

Shanah Tovah

The Haggadah is a Book of Hope

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The bible commands: “Explain to your child on that day, “It is because of what God did for me when I went free from Egypt…” (Exodus 13:8).

On this verse stands the edifice that is the Pesach seder. The Haggadah fulfils the Mishnaic obligation (Pesachim 10:5) by including the phrase “B’chol dor vador chayav adam lir’ot et atzmo k’ilu hu yatza mimitzrayim. “In every generation everyone must consider themselves as if they came forth from Egypt.”

The phrase “in every generation” also appears in “vehi she’amda” – “in every generation there are those who rise up against us to destroy us” which is placed immediately after “Blessed is the One who keeps their promise to Israel”, and concludes that God redeems us.

The Haggadah expects complete and unquestioning faith in God’s redemption, even while reminding us of the continuing threats to our existence.

It’s easy to see the seder as an historical artefact, connecting us to our foundational story of the exodus and the beginnings of peoplehood, but a story nonetheless. Easy to gloss over the terror of the Hebrew slaves, the pain of the plagued Egyptians. We try to connect by adding modern glosses – oranges or olives on the seder plate, empty chairs for those prevented from joining a seder, reminders that the world has not radically changed. But how does one process the events of 7th October or indeed last weekend?  The continuing agony that shows no sign of redemption, the sense that we are all in metaphorical Mitzrayim?

How to express the multiplicity of feelings we are experiencing? Our own existential dread and the pain of so many innocent deaths on both sides? Our texts teach that God stopped the angels singing at the death of the pursuing Egyptians asking “My creatures are dying and you want to rejoice?” We take out drops of wine while reciting the plagues, to remember the suffering of others. But none of this feels to be enough in today’s world – the story has broken through into our reality and the current rituals need renewing.

We can repurpose some – an empty chair for a hostage; spilling drops of wine for the destroyed kibbutzim and for the destroyed cities in Gaza; we might write four more questions, describe four more questioners; for the invitation “all who are hungry come and eat” we could donate to services feeding the displaced. And we could create others – give blood, break matza (or two) into many pieces to recreate a different whole, rewrite shfoch hamatcha, instead asking God to pour love into our world.

Despite the texts of terror within it, the Haggadah is a book of hope. We have to find that hope.

(written for Leap of Faith, Jewish News, April 2024)

Reflecting on our behaviour between Rosh Hashanah and Kippur should not stop us Reflecting on our behaviour between Kippur and Rosh Hashanah – the year ahead…

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Ne’ilah Sermon Lev Chadash 2022

l’italiano segue l’inglese

At the very end of the service of Ne’ilah, standing before the open Ark with the shofar in attendance ready to blow the tekiah gedolah that will mark the final moment of Yom Kippur, the community enact one final ritual. We proclaim the first line of the Shema, followed by three renditions of “Baruch shem k’vod” (Blessed be the name of God’s glorious kingdom for ever and ever), and then a final profession of faith “Adonai Hu HaElohim” – Adonai is God – seven times.

This final sevenfold declaration dates back to the thirteenth century. The other two are slightly later. They provide a choreographed bookend to the first words of the Kol HaNedarim service where we brought together an earthly and a heavenly  Beit Din to permit us all to pray with each other who have sinned.

The first two lines of the shema, later additions to the liturgy here, bring to mind the recitation of the shema at the deathbed. Time is running out, we make our last commitment and supplication to our Creator.

But what of the formula “Adonai Hu HaElohim” – which builds to a crescendo that segues into the shofar blast?

And why the sevenfold repetition?

The phrase comes from Deuteronomy 4:35 and is later found in the first Book of Kings (18:37-39) and it is in this latter text that this powerful affirmation is rooted.

It tells the story of the prophet Elijah who comes to King Ahab to bring the Northern Kingdom of Israel away from the idolatrous practises it has chosen. In a series of wicked Kings of Israel, the bible tells us that “Ahab did more to anger the God of Israel, than all the kings of Israel who had preceded him.” married to Queen Jezebel they had persecuted the prophets of God and encouraged the worship of the Canaanite deity Baal and his wife Ashtoreth.  After some tense encounters where Elijah had called for a drought which has now lasted for three years, he has hidden from his enemies amid fears for his life at the hands of this evil couple. Now Elijah comes to ask Ahab to gather the people of Israel, with along the 450 priests of the cult of Baal and the 400 prophets of the cult of Ashtarot on Mount Carmel to prove once and for all who is the true God of Israel, and which a fake and idolatrous cult.

Once everyone is there, he asks the people the famous question – “how long will you  hover between two opinions” (meaning how long will you be undecided whether to worship Baal or Adonai?” The people do not respond. Elijah then offers a contest between the two “divinities”. He suggests both he and the prophets of Baal should each create an altar and offer a sacrifice on it. The god who would send fire down to consume the offering would be accepted as the true God. The prophets of Baal tried all day to get Baal to consume the sacrifice. They prayed loudly and  they danced till exhaustion set in, they whipped themselves into a frenzy – all the while calling out to Baal “Baal answer us”! But nothing happened.

Meanwhile Elijah taunted them – “perhaps he is asleep – shout louder, maybe he is out pursuing enemies – make more noise and movement to attract his attention”.  Still nothing happened, the sacrifice lay on the altar unconsumed.

 Then, in the evening, came Elijah’s turn, he took 12 stones for each of the 12 tribes, he sacrificed his bull, and to make his point that nothing would be too difficult for God, he even poured water over his sacrifice and altar. Then he prayed -and immediately “the fire of Adonai fell and burned up the sacrifice, the wood, the stones and the soil, and also licked up the water in the trench” (v38).

Seeing this miracle, all the people of Israel bow down and declare “Adonai hu HaElohim! Adonai hu HaElohim” – Adonai is the true God, Adonai is the true God. The story ends rather gorily – the priests of Baal are slain by the Brook of Kishon (v40) and Jezebel is determined to wreak her revenge on this troublesome prophet, and once more Elijah has to flee for his life.

Once more in bible, we see that miracles never really change anything….

However the people have unequivocally denied Baal and the worship of idols, they have affirmed the one and only God of Israel, – the moment is one of teshuva, of leaving behind  vain and useless behaviours and attachments and affirming the one-ness and the true-ness of Adonai, the God of Israel. This is the climactic moment of the story – the people call out “Adonai hu HaElohim” – Adonai is the true God. And it is the climactic moment of the neilah service, as seven times (some say this is one for every day of the week, or a way to make a complete and sealed vow – we declare to each other and to ourselves at the end of Kippur – Adonai is the true God. We have returned. We have journeyed to this moment of true teshuvah.

With the sounding of the shofar the moment of perfect teshuvah is sealed. And it will be time to go home, to eat and to drink, to return to life.

But liturgists always have layers of meaning. Choosing this phrase with which to end Kippur is a way of saying – it is truly the end, we are focused only on God and not attached to any idolatrous feelings.  And that is lovely.

But note, Jezebel is about to take her revenge, and the people who have so recently declared for Elijah and for God don’t seem prepared to stop her. They might have proclaimed that only Adonai is the one and true God, but very quickly they revert to their previous behaviours, and they tolerate the machinations of the evil King Ahab and Queen Jezebel – indeed we are soon to learn of the fate of Naboth and his vineyard which the King and Queen wanted for themselves.

So there is an extra lesson the liturgist is asking us to learn. We may have had a deep spiritual experience today. We may feel we have journeyed and we have interrogated ourselves, that we have seen a route to change and decided to commit to it. We may feel exhilarated and cleansed and ready to move on into the world as new-born souls. But we have to remember that old habits are hard to break, that the real world demands real compromises from us, that this feeling of a spiritual high will not and cannot last. We have to face the coming days and we are warned – the miracle at Mount Carmel did not really change anything long term, and the spiritual high we may feel will also not change us long term. What matters now is not what happens in this day for atonement, what matters is what we choose to do differently after we leave the building, after we wake tomorrow morning, after we enter ordinary life.

The shofar blast will alert us not only to the end of Kippur, but to the temptations and bad habits of ordinary life. We need to have it ringing in our ears as they weeks and months take us further from this moment – because change is hard and slow and incremental and requires us to make choices and to actively do things differently.

The sun will soon set. We may reach the moment of catharsis and declare Adonai Hu HaElohim. We may leave this building exhausted but exhilarated. But what really counts is what happens when the sun rises tomorrow, and the day after, and the days after that.

Sermone per Ne’illà – Lev Chadash 2022

Di rav Sylvia Rothschild

          Alla fine del servizio di Ne’illà, in piedi davanti all’Arca aperta e con lo shofar pronto per essere suonato per la tekià gedolà, che segnerà il momento finale dello Yom Kippur, la comunità mette in atto un rituale conclusivo. Proclamiamo la prima riga dello Shemà, seguita da tre interpretazioni di “Baruch shem k’vod” (Sia benedetto il nome del glorioso regno di Dio nei secoli dei secoli), infine per sette volte la professione di fede “Adonai Hu HaElohim” – Adonai è Dio.

          Questa ultima dichiarazione in sette parti risale al XIII secolo, mentre le altre due sono leggermente più tarde. Forniscono una cornice coreografata alle prime parole del servizio Kol HaNedarim in cui abbiamo riunito un Beit Din terrestre e uno celeste per permettere a tutti noi che abbiamo peccato di pregare gli uni con gli altri.

          I primi due versi dello Shemà, che qui sono delle aggiunte successive alla liturgia, ricordano la recita dello Shemà sul letto di morte. Il tempo sta finendo, proclamiamo l’ultimo impegno e l’ultima supplica al nostro Creatore.

          Ma cosa possiamo dire della formula “Adonai Hu HaElohim”, che si sviluppa in un crescendo al suono dello shofar?

          E perché la ripetizione sette volte?

          La frase deriva da Deuteronomio 4,35 e si ritrova anche nel primo Libro dei Re (18,37-39), ed è in quest’ultimo testo che la potente affermazione si radica.

          Vi si racconta la storia del profeta Elia, che giunge dal re Achab per condurre il Regno del Nord d’Israele lontano dalle pratiche idolatriche che quest’ultimo aveva scelto. Nell’ambito di una serie di malvagi re d’Israele, la Bibbia ci dice che “Achab fece più per adirare il Dio d’Israele, di tutti i re d’Israele che lo avevano preceduto”. Sposato con la regina Jezebel, insieme perseguitano i profeti di Dio e incoraggiano il culto della divinità cananea Baal e di sua moglie Astarte. In seguito ad alcuni incontri tesi, dopo che Elia ha invocato una siccità che dura ormai da tre anni, quest’ultimo si nasconde da questa coppia malvagia, temendo per la propria vita. Infine Elia chiede ad Achab di radunare il popolo d’Israele sul monte Carmelo, insieme ai quattrocentocinquanta sacerdoti del culto di Baal e ai quattrocento profeti del culto di Astarte, per provare una volta per tutte chi sia il vero Dio d’Israele, e quale sia invece il culto falso e idolatra.

          Una volta che tutti sono presenti, Elia pone al popolo la famosa domanda: “per quanto tempo rimarrete sospesi tra due opinioni?” (nel senso di “per quanto tempo sarete indecisi se adorare Baal o Adonai?”). Il popolo non risponde. Elia indice quindi una disputa tra le due “divinità”. Suggerisce che sia lui che i profeti di Baal debbano creare ciascuno un altare e offrire su di esso un sacrificio. Il dio che avrebbe fatto scendere il fuoco per consumare l’offerta sarebbe stato accettato come il vero Dio. I profeti di Baal cercano tutto il giorno di convincere Baal a consumare il sacrificio. Pregano ad alta voce e ballano fino a cadere esausti, si scatenano freneticamente, il tutto mentre gridano a Baal: “Baal rispondici”! Ma non accade nulla.

          Intanto Elia li schernisce: “forse sta dormendo, gridate più forte, forse è fuori a inseguire i nemici: fate più rumore e movimento per attirare la sua attenzione”. Ancora non accade nulla, il sacrificio non consumato giace sull’altare.

          Poi, la sera, viene il turno di Elia: egli prende dodici pietre, una per ciascuna delle dodici tribù, sacrifica il suo toro e, per sottolineare che nulla sarebbe stato troppo difficile per Dio, versa persino dell’acqua sul suo sacrificio e sull’altare. Poi prega, e subito “il fuoco ad Adonai cadde e bruciò il sacrificio, la legna, le pietre e la terra, e prosciugò anche l’acqua dell canale” (v38).

          Vedendo questo miracolo, tutto il popolo d’Israele si inchina e dichiara: “Adonai hu HaElohim! Adonai hu HaElohim” – Adonai è il vero Dio, Adonai è il vero Dio. La storia si conclude in modo piuttosto cruento: i sacerdoti di Baal sono uccisi presso il ruscello di Kishon (v40), Jezebel è determinata a vendicarsi di questo fastidioso profeta, e nuovamente Elia deve fuggire per salvarsi la vita.

          Ancora una volta, nella Bibbia, vediamo che i miracoli non cambiano mai davvero nulla…Tuttavia il popolo ha inequivocabilmente negato Baal e il culto degli idoli, ha affermato l’unico e solo Dio d’Israele: è il momento della teshuvà, di lasciarsi alle spalle comportamenti e attaccamenti vani e inutili e affermare l’unicità e l’autenticità di Adonai, il Dio di Israele. Questo è il momento culminante della storia: le persone gridano “Adonai hu HaElohim” – Adonai è il vero Dio. Ed è il momento culminante del servizio di neillà, poiché sette volte (alcuni dicono che sia una volta per ogni giorno della settimana, oppure un modo per fare un voto completo e sigillato) dichiariamo a vicenda e a noi stessi alla fine del Kippur che Adonai è il vero Dio. Siamo tornati. Abbiamo viaggiato fino a questo momento di autentica teshuvà.

          Con il suono dello shofar il momento della perfetta teshuvà è sigillato. E sarà ora di tornare a casa, di mangiare e di bere, di tornare alla vita.

          Ma i liturgisti trovano sempre altri livelli di significato. Scegliere questa frase con cui concludere Kippur è un modo per dire che è davvero la fine, siamo concentrati solo su Dio e non attaccati a sentimenti idolatrici. E ciò è bello.

          Ma è da notare che Jezebel sta per vendicarsi, e le persone che si sono dichiarate di recente per Elia e per Dio non sembrano disposte a fermarla. Avrebbero potuto proclamare che solo Adonai è l’unico e vero Dio, ma molto rapidamente tornano ai loro comportamenti precedenti e tollerano le macchinazioni del malvagio re Achab e della regina Jezebel. Anzi, presto scopriremo il destino di Nabot e della sua vigna, che il Re e la Regina volevano per sé.

          Quindi c’è una lezione in più che il liturgista ci chiede di imparare. Potremmo aver avuto una profonda esperienza spirituale oggi, potremmo sentire di aver viaggiato e di esserci interrogati, di aver trovato un percorso di cambiamento e di aver deciso di impegnarci in esso. Potremmo sentirci euforici, purificati e pronti ad andare avanti nel mondo come anime appena nate. Ma dobbiamo ricordare che le vecchie abitudini sono difficili da rompere, che il mondo reale richiede da noi veri compromessi, che questa sensazione di euforia spirituale non può durare e non durerà. Dobbiamo affrontare i prossimi giorni e siamo avvertiti: il miracolo del Monte Carmelo non ha davvero cambiato nulla a lungo termine, e anche l’acme spirituale che potremmo sentire non ci cambierà a lungo termine. Ciò che conta ora non è ciò che accade in questo giorno per l’espiazione, ciò che conta è ciò che scegliamo di compiere in modo diverso dopo aver lasciato l’edificio, dopo che ci saremo svegliati domani mattina, dopo essere rientrati nella vita ordinaria.

          Il suono dello shofar ci avviserà non solo della fine di Kippur, ma anche delle tentazioni e delle cattive abitudini della vita quotidiana. Abbiamo bisogno di sentirlo risuonare nelle nostre orecchie poiché le settimane e i mesi a venire ci allontaneranno da questo momento, perché il cambiamento è duro, lento e graduale e ci richiede di fare delle scelte e di fare attivamente le cose in modo diverso.

          Il sole tramonterà presto. Possiamo raggiungere il momento della catarsi e dichiarare “Adonai Hu HaElohim”. Possiamo lasciare questo edificio esausti ma euforici. Ma ciò che conta davvero è cosa succede quando il sole sorgerà domani, e il giorno dopo, e i giorni successivi.

Traduzione dall’inglese di Eva Mangialajo Rantzer

Pesach to Shavuot – milestones and memories

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The fifty days between Pesach and Shavuot contain a number of commemorations that range from the most ancient to the most modern of our people’s history.   Beginning with the birth of our nation and our peoplehood with the exodus from Egypt, the period ends with the birth of our covenant relationship with God as a people at Mount Sinai.

In between, the fifty days of the Omer are days of semi mourning for a reason we are never quite clear about. Some say it is in memory of the oppression of Jews under the Romans, and the failure of the revolts against them; Others that 24 thousand students of Rabbi Akiva died in that period of a plague.  One the thirty third day we have Lag B’Omer  – (Lamed Gimel = 33) which provided a brief change in fortunes for the beleaguered Jews of the time. 

Less than a week after the end of Pesach, when we commemorate the miraculous deliverance of the Israelites at the Red Sea on the seventh day of the festival, we remember a period when deliverance did not come.   The abortive uprising in the Warsaw Ghetto, and all the murdered victims of the Holocaust are recalled on Yom ha Shoah ve’ha’Gevurah – the day for remembering the holocaust and the heroism.

 A week later, and more of our dead are remembered on Yom ha Zikaron – the day of memorial for those who gave their lives for the emerging State of Israel.  The day after that we mark Yom Ha’atzma’ut – Israel’s independence day, and this looks forward to the last week of the Omer period and its 44th day when Yom Yerushalayim commemorates the reunification of the city in the Six Day War.

So in fifty days we range over three thousand five hundred years of history.  We see victories and defeats, celebrations and mourning.  We observe Festivals that are at the core of our being as Jews, we see half festivals, not-really-festivals, and festivals in the making.  We see the dynamism and the forward thrust of Judaism which continues to create liturgy and ritual through which to express the most contemporary of events, and we look forward to messianic age promised in all our celebrations at this time But as we look forward, we also remember, are reminded, have memory of, recall, memorialise, commemorate, reminisce.   All these events have one thing in common, both past and future, the intertwined and symbiotic fate of the nation of Israel and people of Israel.

  We are all Israel, connected to each other, to our history, to our future and to our historic land. That connection and what happens to the land remains even today integral to what happens to the people.  We are a people, a tribe, links in a chain that never breaks.

The purpose of the exodus from Egypt was not simply freedom from slavery, it is freedom with a purpose – the purpose fulfilled at Shavuot, the unbreakable covenant we made with God, a covenant made for all generations, for those who were there at the time and those who were not there, for those born into the people and those who chose to join it.

The time between Pesach and Shavuot is a time that we count, a time we make count. We build up to the Sinaitic moment where God and people connect in a way never seen before nor since. We live and are nourished from that moment.

Shavuot is often overlooked, a festival without much ritual in the home, and all night study in the synagogue doesn’t appeal to everyone. But it marks a pivotal moment in our narrative and our formation.

Shavuot is celebrated this year (2022) on Saturday 4th in the evening till Sunday 5th in the evening (or Monday if you follow the diaspora tradition of a second day).

Find yourself a community of learners, a community of pray-ers and celebrate Shavuot, take yourself to Sinai and recommit to the eternal covenant. And then move forward into the rest of the Jewish year, away from Sinai and onto the journey that builds the people of Israel and binds us together as we go through the desert to the promised land.

A Tree of Life – and life giving trees: Tu b’Shevat

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“One day Choni the circle maker was journeying on the road and he saw a man planting a carob tree; he asked him, How long does it take [for this tree] to bear fruit? The man replied: Seventy years. He then further asked him: Are you certain that you will live another seventy years? The man replied: I found [ready-grown] carob trees in the world; as my ancestors planted these for me so I too plant these for my children”.            ( Talmud Bavli: Taanit 23a)

Trees are deeply important in our tradition, and also have their own relationship with God. They are prominent in our texts – mentioned at the Creation, vital to the narrative in the Garden of Eden; the Hebrew word for tree appears in the bible over 150 times and more than 100 different kinds of trees, shrubs and plants are named. The Mishnah follows suit, naming hundreds more plants in its legal codification. In all more than 500 different plants are named in our traditional texts.  Trees are a signifier of the connection the Jews have with the land, and reflect the relationship that we have with the Land of Israel – Moses repeatedly reminds us that we must care for the land and treat it well, and not only land but people – otherwise we will be driven out from there as other nations apparently were before us.  

Trees have a special place in how we create awareness of God. For they are not only part of the natural world, they are also used repeatedly in our texts as a metaphor for humanity, for life, for reaching upwards to God and rooting the self in the world.  Trees symbolise so much, they have a quasi-divine element, a quasi-human element. They feed us, they provide shelter, they bridge the generations, and they act as a bellwether for our moral state.

We read in Deuteronomy “ When you will besiege a city a long time, in making war against it to take it, you shall not destroy the trees by wielding an axe against them; you may eat of them, but you shall not cut them down; for is the tree of the field man, that it should be besieged by you? (20:19)

This image, comparing the fruit tree to human beings, powerfully reminds us of the damage that can be inflicted in a war between people, and in obliging us to protect the trees reminds us of what we have in common with them. If we should not cut down the fruit bearing tree, how much more so should we consider the safety of the people being besieged?

We are about to celebrate the festival of Tu b’Shevat – the fifteenth day of the month Shevat. Originally Tu b’Shevat was simply the way by which the age of trees was measured for purpose of tithing and of orlah (the first three years when the fruit was considered strictly God’s property and not to be eaten by anyone). In effect it marks the boundary of a tax year.

After the destruction of the second Temple in the year 70CE the taking of tithes from fruit trees fell into disuse, but the date remained special in our calendars. The Mishnah recorded four new years  and their dates: – Rosh Hashanah le’ilanot (Tu b’Shevat) for trees, Rosh Hashanah for years, Rosh Hashanah lema’aser behemah for tithing animals, and Rosh Hashanah le’mel’achim for counting the years of a king’s reign.

The date of Tu b’Shevat has stayed in our calendar throughout the time we were without our land, celebrated and noted by communities all over the world. The Kabbalists of Sfat in the 16th and 17th century developed a ritual – the Tu b’Shevat Seder – to represent our connection to the land of Israel and also to reflect the mystical concept of God’s relationship with our world being like a tree.  The Seder consisted of eating the different types of traditional fruits grown in Israel and connecting the different types of these fruit with each the Four Worlds of Kabbalistic theology, drinking four cups of wine that were each mixed with different proportions of wine with each cup of wine symbolizing one of the four seasons, and reading texts about trees.

The mystics understand Tu B’Shevat as being the day when the Tree of Life renews the flow of life to the universe.  And they taught that by offering blessings on Tu B’Shevat, a person can help in the healing of the world. From this came the belief that since on Tu B’Shevat we offer a blessing for each fruit before we consume it, the more fruits we eat, the more blessings we can offer to help heal the world.

In more modern times Tu b’Shevat has been a gift to the Zionist movement and the return to the Land. They have used it as an opportunity to plant trees in Israel as a way of transforming  the land, as well as re-attaching ourselves to the physical Land of Israel. And most recently the Jewish ecological movements have adopted the day to remind us in  powerful messages of our obligation to care for the environment.

All these themes bound up in Tu b’Shevat are important and helpful to our own Jewish identity and spirituality. There is an overarching theme of healing the world through our connections with nature, of the importance and symbiosis of our relationship with the natural world. And in our relationship with nature, we express our relationship with God. Caring for our world is a sacred task. As we read in Proverbs (3:18)

עֵץ־חַיִּ֣ים הִ֭יא לַמַּחֲזִיקִ֣ים בָּ֑הּ וְֽתֹמְכֶ֥יהָ מְאֻשָּֽׁר׃ 

[Wisdom] is a tree of life to those who grasp her, And whoever holds on to her is happy.

Our tradition asks: “How can a person of flesh and blood follow God? … God, from the very beginning of creation, was occupied before all else with planting.  Therefore … occupy yourselves first and foremost with planting.  – Midrash: Leviticus Rabbah 25:3

It reminds us that  “If you have a sapling in your hand and people tell you that the Messiah has come, plant the sapling and then go and greet him” (Avot de Rabbi Natan)

Tu b’Av: an especially joyful festival to be reclaimed

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The three weeks that lead from the 17th Tammuz (breaching of the walls of Jerusalem)  to the 9th of Av (Tisha b’Av) are traditionally a period of mourning, known as bein hametzarim – in the narrow straits. So it is all the more surprising that just one week after Tisha b’Av comes an especially joyful festival – the full moon of Av brings us Tu b’Av – when we are told:

Rabban Simeon ben Gamliel said: Never were there any more joyous festivals in Israel than the 15th of Av and the Day of Atonement, for on them the maidens of Jerusalem used to go out dressed in white garments – borrowed ones, however, in order not to cause shame to those who had none of their own. These clothes were also to be previously immersed, and thus the maidens went out and danced in the vineyards, saying: Young men, look and observe well whom you are about to choose; (Mishnah Ta’anit 4:8)

The rabbis of the Gemara are perplexed – ““On the 15th of Av and on the Day of Atonement,” etc. It is right that the Day of Atonement should be a day of rejoicing, because that is a day of forgiveness, and on that day the 2nd tablets of the Law were given to Moses; but why should the 15th of Av be a day of rejoicing?”

And so begins a fascinating rabbinic journey into what is behind the celebration of the fifteenth (Tu) of’Av :

“ Said R. Yehudah in the name of Samuel: “On that day it was permitted to the members of the different tribes to intermarry.” Whence is this deduced? Because it is written [Num 36: 6]: “This is the thing which the Eternal has commanded concerning the daughters of Zelophehad,” they claim that “this is the thing” implies the decree was only for that generation, but for later generations the decree doesn’t apply.

  1. Joseph in the name of R. Nachman said: On that day the members of the tribe of Benjamin were permitted to intermarry with the other tribes, as it is written [Judges 21. 1]: “Now the men of Israel had sworn in Mizpah, saying: Not any one of us shall give his daughter unto Benjamin for wife.”

Rabba bar bar Hana said in the name of R. Johanan: On that day the last of those who were destined to die in the desert died, and the destiny was thus fulfilled;

Ulla said: “On that day the guards appointed by Jeroboam to prevent the Israelites from coming to Jerusalem were abolished by Hosea the son of Elah, and he said: ‘Let them go wherever they choose.'”

  1. Matnah said: “On that day permission was given to bury the dead who were killed in battle at the city of Beitar”

Rabba and R, Joseph both said: On that day they ceased to cut wood for the altar, as we have learned in a Baraita: R. Eliezer the Great said: “From the fifteenth day of Av the heat of the sun was lessened and the timber was no longer dry, so they ceased to cut wood for the altar.”

There is a golden rule in rabbinic exposition – the more explanations given for something, the less likely it is that anyone knows what the explanation actually is. Clearly a celebration on the 15th of Av, which coincided with the beginning of the grape harvest, is part of the custom and practise of the Jews by the time of the Talmud, but its origin is already lost in the mists of time.

Let’s look briefly at the Talmudic explanations before looking at the festival itself.

The story of the daughters of Zelophehad is told in the book of Numbers- a rare piece of case law in that book and a powerful piece of text about women confronting Moses in order to attain fairness under the law. Zelophehad is dead, he had 5 daughters and no sons, and according to the rules of inheritance at that time, the girls would be left without anything. They approach Moses and argue their case, including the fact that their father will be forgotten in his tribe. Moses has to ask God about the merits of the case, and God tells him that the case of these daughters is valid; they should indeed inherit from their father. Later a problem arises, the leaders of the tribe of Manasseh – which the family of Zelophehad belong to – also bring a petition to Moses. Should daughters inherit when there is no son, and then marry into another tribe, the inheritance and land that would normally stay within the tribe will be given to the tribe that the woman marries into.

So the law is amended – such women who inherit land from their fathers must marry only within their own tribe – a limiting phenomenon that itself causes problems. So Rabbi Yehuda quotes Samuel by saying that tribes may now intermarry freely – and the date of this decision was the fifteenth of Av on the last year before the Israelites entered the Land of Israel.

The second explanation in the gemara is from a much darker story found at the end of the book of Judges, where a woman staying overnight in the territory of the tribe of Benjamin, was gang raped until she died. The other tribes went to war against the Benjaminites who would not give up the criminals for justice, and a ban was proclaimed which meant no one could marry into that tribe. This ban was eventually lifted on the fifteenth of Av. One assumes that this idea comes from the commonality of Tu b’Av to the statement in the Book of Judges ““And see, and, behold, if the daughters of Shiloh come out to dance in dances, then come out of the vineyards, and let every man catch  his wife of the daughters of Shiloh, and go to the land of Benjamin.” (21:21)

The third explanation – This comes from a midrash found in the Jerusalem Talmud amongst other texts, which say that the generation who were to die in the desert because of their connection to the sin of the Golden Calf expected to die on Tisha b’Av. This would cause a problem – if there were to be so many deaths on one day, then who would be able to dig the graves and bury the people? So Moses sent out a decree: On Tisha b’Av everyone must dig their own grave and sleep in it. Those who would die would die, and the survivors would simply have to fill in the graves with the bodies already in them. But many did not die who felt that they too were destined for this fate, and so they continued to sleep in the graves they had dug for themselves until they saw the full moon of Av and realised that Tisha b’Av was well and truly behind them. They would live!

The fourth explanation: King Jeroboam (c900BCE) had challenged Rehoboam the son of Solomon, because of his authoritarian rule, and took the ten Northern tribes with him to his capital Shechem. He built two temples as rivals to the one in Jerusalem (Bethel and Dan) and banned his people from going to worship in Jerusalem.  Fifty years later, the last King of the Northern Kingdom of Israel, rescinded the ban – on Tu b’Av – and the joy that ensued is encoded in the festival.

The fifth explanation also involves graves, in this case the ones slaughtered in the rebellion against Rome led by the false messiah Shimon bar Kochba in 135. The massacre of the Jews by the Romans was estimated by one Roman historian as being at least 580 thousand dead and many more taken captive into slavery in other parts of the empire. The majority of the Jewish population was exiled from the land and the land given a new name by the Romans – Syria Palestina – to try to sever the connection between the land and the Jews. Tisha b’Av saw the final destruction of Temple and hopes, and the fortress of Beitar was breached and its inhabitants murdered and left unburied. So Rav Matnah’s explanation for Tu b’Av is that 6 days after the tragedy (some stories say a year and six days), the Romans finally permitted the burial of the slaughtered Jews – on Tu b’Av.

After such dramatic explanations the final one in the list is more prosaic, but also most likely to be the case. Simply that the full moon of Av is around the summer equinox, the days are beginning to shorten and one might be less sure of enough dry weather for the wood cut down for the Temple sacrifices to be sufficiently prepared for its use, and any wood cut down later would be liable to smoke unpleasantly. This explanation is bolstered by the fact that we know of customs in the near East whereby the end of the season for cutting wood is marked by celebration including dancing and music.

So having established that Tu b’Av was being celebrated in Mishnaic times, that the young women would go out into the vines wearing white dresses they had borrowed so as not to be identified by their clothing, that they danced and sang and that clearly a shidduch market was in full swing on that date – the young men would chase them and choose their brides – the rabbinic tradition tried to explain the event using stories of rape, graves, massacre, orphaned women claiming economic rights and hence losing the right to marry outside of their tribe, civil war and rebellion against both internally among the Jewish people and also against an oppressive occupying power. One has to wonder why.

I am reminded of a recent “tweet” that asks why a prominent politician is tweeting terrible racism, and suggests that the deflection is to stop people paying attention to something worse – the statutory rape of underage girls.  Here the rabbinic tradition has a clear story of strong young single women in public space, helping each other with their clothing and “seductively” dancing and singing among the grape vines, with their symbolism of wine and wealth and fertility. So immediately there is a deflection – Beitar! Bnot Zelophehad! Possibly the darkest story in bible of a young concubine gang raped and murdered, whose fate was to be cut into twelve pieces each of which was sent to one of the tribes of Israel! Sin and death and lying in the grave! Rebellion and Massacre!

It seems to me that the Tannaim (the rabbis of the Mishnah, c50-200CE) were fine with the celebrations of Tu b’Av and the fact of young girls out on a summer evening enjoying their bodies, their strength and their music, but the Amoraim (the rabbis of the Gemara c200-500CE) were decidedly not. So Tu b’Av became a date more often ignored than celebrated. The single attention was liturgical – Tachanun (the penitential section of prayers of supplication and confession) are not said on Tu b’Av. Only since the modern State of Israel has been established has Tu b’Av been celebrated – it has become a kind of Jewish “Valentine’s Day”, a day for love, for weddings, for romance. The 19th century Haskalah poet Judah Leib Gordon wrote about its celebration in the newly planted vineyards and certainly for the more secular Israelis this is a Jewish festival to take to their hearts.

It’s worth noting the framing of the Mishnah where Tu b’Av is recorded. It is mentioned in the same breath as the most solemn day in the calendar – Yom Kippur, the Sabbath of Sabbaths, the white fast. On this day people traditionally wear kittels – the white shrouds they will be buried in. The day is a day of joy as well as penitence, because when we have truly repented, God will forgive us. We leave the day lightened by our activities and return more able to continue with living our lives.

There are real similarities between the two festivals, albeit one is a day out of time “as if dead” and the other a day of sensuous delight. Each reminds us of the importance of living our lives as fully and as well as we can. Each reminds us about living” in the now”, each helps us create our future selves.

So – let’s reclaim Tu b’Av, the full moon that follows three weeks of mourning,  that takes place 6 days after the blackest day in the calendar. Let’s remind ourselves that life must continue, joy must be part of our living, that relationships with others matter and that the future is ours to create

Tisha b’Av: looking back, looking forwards

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From 17th Tammuz we began the “Three Weeks” with a day of fasting to remember the breaching of the walls of Jerusalem. The grieving intensifies from the beginning of Av until we reach the 9th day – the fast of Tisha b’Av, when we mourn the destruction of both Jerusalem Temples.  From early rabbinic times, this period has been seen as a date when terrible things happened to the Jews. The incident of the spies which led to the exodus generation never entering the land is the first catastrophe attributed to Tisha b’Av, but many more have accumulated since. The Talmud tells us (Yoma 9b) that the First Temple was destroyed because of idolatry and immorality, but the second was destroyed even though the Jews were pious and observant. Causeless hatred was rife within the Jewish world, and this brought the cataclysm. Talmud concludes “This is to teach that causeless hatred is as grave as idolatry, sexual immorality and bloodshed together.”

Progressive Jews have abandoned any desire for Temple ritual and while we recognise the disaster that was Tisha b’Av and we mourn the pain, dislocation and vulnerability of our people, we cannot only observe the traditional Tisha b’Av mourning rituals or view it as divine punishment for which we had no agency.  Causeless hatred brought about disaster, Jews hating Jews for no reason. Rav Kook teaches that the remedy must be causeless love for each other, so we must make space for diversity within Judaism and value our differences– this is a direct response to Tisha b’Av, much harder than fasting or lamenting!

But there is another progressive response that comes from our early history. David Einhorn wrote his siddur “Olath Tamid” in the 1850’s and included a service “on the Anniversary of the Destruction of Jerusalem”. The siddur’s name shows how Reform Judaism saw prayers as the successor to the Temple rite, and the service for Tisha b’Av turns tradition around, giving thanks that Judaism could grow and thrive in so many different countries. His prayer speaks of “paternal guidance” to “glorify your name and your law before the eyes of all nations…as your emissary to all…. The one temple in Jerusalem sank into the dust, in order that countless temples might arise to thy honour and glory all over the wide surface of the globe”.  As with all mourning, Jewish tradition is to mark the event and come back into Life.

 

first written for publication in London Jewish News

Ki HaAdam Etz Ha’Sadeh – human beings and trees, or “none of us thrive uprooted”

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In the book of Deuteronomy in a passage describing the rules for besieging a city we find a curious phrase: “When you shall besiege a city a long time, in making war against it to take it, you shall not destroy the trees thereof by wielding an axe against them; for you may eat of them, but you shall not cut them down; for is the tree of the field human, that it should be besieged by you? Only the trees of which you know that they are not trees for food, those you may destroy and cut down, that you may build bulwarks against the city that makes war with thee, until it fall.” (20:19-20)

It begins with the prohibition against destroying trees, and clarifies that the trees to be protected are those that bear edible produce, but within the arc we find the phrase “ki ha’adam etz ha’sadeh” and this has always been a verse that has resonated for me far beyond the rules prohibiting scorched earth policies in war. It can be read either as a question or as a statement of truth, either “Are trees of the field [like] human beings?” or “Human beings are [like] trees of the field”

Trees are everywhere in bible, sometimes for good, sometimes less so. Abraham enters the land from Haran via Shechem and arrives at Elon Moreh (the terebinth (oak) tree of Moreh, he  is encamped under the terebinth of Mamre when God comes to him to tell him Isaac will be born, Deborah the nurse of Rebecca is buried under a terebinth tree,   Jacob buries the household idols of Laban under a terebinth, Deborah sits and judges under a palm tree, David fights Goliath in the valley of the Elah (terebinth), Hosea describes idolaters as worshiping at various trees – “They sacrifice upon the tops of the mountains, and offer upon the hills, under oaks and poplars and terebinths, because the shadow thereof is good;

The Israelite religion valued trees but had an uneasy relationship with them insofar as the hated and dominant Canaanite tradition was one of tree worship. The mother goddess Asherah was associated with sacred trees,  Asherah/Asherim  are  described more than thirty times in the biblical narrative as being a cult centred on a pole or stylised tree, or else a sacred grove of trees. It was to be feared and to be rooted out.

And then of course there are famous trees right at the beginning of the biblical narrative – those planted in the Garden of Eden, not only those whose fruit could be eaten, but more particularly the two from which nothing must be taken – the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, and the Tree of Eternal Life. The trees with which our ambivalence begins.

While the sacred trees of the Asherah/Asherim have been uprooted from the traditions of the biblical Israelite people, we have taken the tree for ourselves –  big time. The candelabrum in the desert tent which transferred to the Temple is modelled on a tree, and botanical terms are used. That candelabrum remains the most ancient symbol of Judaism.  We are used to Torah being described as Etz Hayim, a Tree of Life.  Trees are used in parables and as analogies. Look at Jotham’s use of them to describe the choice of Abimelech as king (Judges 9) or Ezekiel’s use of the cedar and the trees of the field to symbolise Israel and the other nations.  Look at the psalmist who describes the righteous person as like a tree planted by the waters. Wherever you look in bible you can find trees.

So this phrase “Ki Ha’adam etz ha’sadeh” fits into a long and rich tradition and certainly is the subject of a great deal of halachic and aggadic attention and interpretation.

Its plain meanings – the rhetorical question asking whether a tree should pay the price for human greed or stupidity, and the idea that human beings are comparable to trees of the field are both explored, and while for many years I have focused on this as a question which underlies the importance of preserving the fruit trees rather than weaponising them or wasting them in war, this year I found myself niggled into a slightly different direction.

Human beings are [like] trees of the field.

In what way are we like the trees of the field? I think because we put down roots and we reach to the stars. Our roots are hidden away, a complex network of sustaining relationships, anchoring us, holding us to our history, giving us the wherewithal to grow. Our bodies grow, we become a presence in the world that can be fruitful and filled with life. We yearn ever upwards, yet in so doing we can offer shade, shelter, fruit, support to each other. We respond to our environment and we shape our environment.

In the wonderful book “The hidden life of trees” the author Peter Wohlleben writes ““When trees grow together, nutrients and water can be optimally divided among them all so that each tree can grow into the best tree it can be. If you “help” individual trees by getting rid of their supposed competition, the remaining trees are bereft. They send messages out to their neighbours in vain, because nothing remains but stumps. Every tree now muddles along on its own, giving rise to great differences in productivity. Some individuals photosynthesize like mad until sugar positively bubbles along their trunk. As a result, they are fit and grow better, but they aren’t particularly long-lived. This is because a tree can be only as strong as the forest that surrounds it. And there are now a lot of losers in the forest. Weaker members, who would once have been supported by the stronger ones, suddenly fall behind. Whether the reason for their decline is their location and lack of nutrients, a passing malaise, or genetic makeup, they now fall prey to insects and fungi.”

No tree provides everything we need, just as no one person or relationship can provide everything in life:  diversity is important for us. And trees are rarely naturally isolated, even in the biblical desert they generally grow and thrive in groups.  Like trees, we are relational beings, we need each other, we need community.

As the news every day seems to bring yet more stories of those who have been uprooted from their communities because of war and its attendant problems of violence, terror, starvation and chaos, I see how the verse comes alive. Trees are innocent bystanders in war and must be protected. They are the resource from which new society may grow, and to uproot them or damage them may destroy the potential future. As refugees flee into hopeful sanctuary, we know that they are leaving behind a barren landscape where life cannot continue. As refugees enter a new country they bring with them all the possibilities of regeneration, even where despair and terror appears  to have caused irreparable harm – still the hopeful green shoots appear from what looks like the dead stump. People who have been uprooted have lost much more than material possessions – they lose part of their history and much of their future. Their present feels fragile and vulnerable – will they be supported, will they be able to create networks and become part of community, will they be able once more to grow.

As I look at the news stories my heart breaks. Young children alone and scared in Europe, sent by parents desperate to give them a chance at life. Whole families or lone individuals trying to reach safety in rickety boats on treacherous seas.  Victims of trafficking who cannot understand the system which is trying to keep them out. Victims of violence who survive as an act of will. Everyone cut off at the roots, anxiously trying to regrow, to find some shelter and space and sustenance. No one uproots themselves willingly – it is always a final act of desperation.

At Tu b’shevat we celebrate the trees of our land. We plant more, we clear round others so they can reach the light, we mark the new year of life. And this is good, but as the bible reminds us human beings also need what trees need. And so we must find the space for those fleeing the war in their own land to put down roots in ours, help to create the networks of relationships that will support them, give them the wherewithal to flourish. If we protect a material tree from the trauma of war surrounding it, how much more should we be protecting the human being, part of our own family tree, from such trauma.?

 

 

 

 

 

Chanukah and Christmas: chocolate coins and presents as we celebrate God in the world

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On Tuesday evening Jews all over the world will light chanukiot, the 8 branched candelabra used to celebrate the festival of Chanukah. It commemorates the regaining of the Jerusalem Temple in 164 BCE, and its rededication after the occupying Seleucids had defiled it while imposing Hellenic culture over its empire, prohibiting any other religions.  The story of the successful revolt by a small group of pious Jews against the large military power of its day has a touch of the miraculous, and sure enough the narratives first found in the apocryphal first two Books of Maccabees have evolved in their retelling, well beyond the original event.

The dark threads of the story are eclipsed by the reframing in the Talmud, which saw Chanukah as less of a human story of oppression and guerrilla warfare, and more as a demonstration of the divine presence in history. So today we celebrate the miracle of oil staying alight for 8 days rather than one, and we eat foods cooked in oil and play games of chance that refer to the miracle, we give presents each night and generally make merry with friends and family, and think very little of the origin of the rebellion against assimilation with the dominant power.

The date of Chanukah – 25th Kislev – moves around the calendar a little but is always around Christmas. And the date is not the only similarity. Both are festivals rooted in pagan winter solstice where lighting the surrounding darkness is central. Both use tree symbolism – the Chanukiah is based on the Temple Menorah, which bible describes using botanical terms – clearly a Tree of Life, while Christmas uses evergreens – holly, ivy, fir trees – to proclaim Everlasting Life. Both stories are set in times of oppression – the Seleucid Empire and the Roman one, and both embed hope that human oppression is vanquished by divine activity. Both signal God’s presence in the world and both stories have a mythic quality of redemption.

And there are other similarities. In modern times the minor post-biblical festival of Chanukah has taken on some less wholesome aspects of Christmas in a bid to compete for Jewish attention.  Both now struggle against commercialisation overpowering their religious message, both become overindulgent. On Chanukah the ‘gelt’ that began as a way to give children small change to use when playing dreidl quickly grew into a present every evening, as more assimilated communities noticed the joy that Christmas presents brought. Chocolate coins took over. What can you do when your child looks at all the glittering baubles with awe and desire? The festival marking rejecting the dominant culture has assimilated it perfectly. As my young son said to his friend when discussing their different Decembers – “What? ONLY ONE night of Christmas? Poor you”

 This article first published in the London Evening Standard on 11th December 2017