Tag Archives: mishna

Tu b’Shevat – make us more tree

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Mishnah Rosh Hashanah begins with two different set of four dates – the first mishnah speaks of the four new years for taxation/institutional official purposes-

אַרְבָּעָה רָאשֵׁי שָׁנִים הֵם. בְּאֶחָד בְּנִיסָן רֹאשׁ הַשָּׁנָה לַמְּלָכִים וְלָרְגָלִים. בְּאֶחָד בֶּאֱלוּל רֹאשׁ הַשָּׁנָה לְמַעְשַׂר בְּהֵמָה. רַבִּי אֶלְעָזָר וְרַבִּי שִׁמְעוֹן אוֹמְרִים, בְּאֶחָד בְּתִשְׁרֵי. בְּאֶחָד בְּתִשְׁרֵי רֹאשׁ הַשָּׁנָה לַשָּׁנִים וְלַשְּׁמִטִּין וְלַיּוֹבְלוֹת, לַנְּטִיעָה וְלַיְרָקוֹת. בְּאֶחָד בִּשְׁבָט, רֹאשׁ הַשָּׁנָה לָאִילָן, כְּדִבְרֵי בֵית שַׁמַּאי. בֵּית הִלֵּל אוֹמְרִים, בַּחֲמִשָּׁה עָשָׂר בּוֹ:

They are four New Years: On the first of Nisan is the New Year for kings; And for (the order of) the Festivals, On the first of Elul is the New Year for animal tithes; Rabbi Elazar and Rabbi Shimon say: on the first of Tishrei. On the first of Tishrei is the New Year for years, (including for counting)Sabbatical Years and Jubilee Years, for planting young trees , and for (tithing) vegetables, On the first of Shevat is the New Year for the tree in accordance with the statement of Beit Shammai. But Beit Hillel say: The New Year for trees is on the fifteenth of Shevat.

The second Mishnah tells us about the four days of judgement:

בְּאַרְבָּעָה פְרָקִים הָעוֹלָם נִדּוֹן, בְּפֶסַח עַל הַתְּבוּאָה, בַּעֲצֶרֶת עַל פֵּרוֹת הָאִילָן, בְּרֹאשׁ הַשָּׁנָה כָּל בָּאֵי הָעוֹלָם עוֹבְרִין לְפָנָיו כִּבְנֵי מָרוֹן, שֶׁנֶּאֱמַר (תהלים לג) הַיּוֹצֵר יַחַד לִבָּם, הַמֵּבִין אֶל כָּל מַעֲשֵׂיהֶם. וּבֶחָג נִדּוֹנִין עַל הַמָּיִם:

At four times of the year the world is judged: On Passover judgment is passed concerning grain; on Shavuot concerning fruits that grow on a tree; on Rosh HaShana, all creatures pass before Him like sheep [benei maron], as it is stated: “He Who fashions their hearts alike, Who considers all their deeds” (Psalms 33:15); and on the festival of Sukkot they are judged concerning water, i.e., the rainfall of the coming year.

At first sight, the connection between the two seems to be simply that the author of the Mishnah is grouping sets of four. But look a little closer and we see some quirks within the texts that draw attention – specifically I’m interested in the preponderance of trees – three of the eight special days mention them, and that in fact each time rather than mentioning trees (plural), the mishnah speaks of “tree” (singular) – even though the mishnaic word for tree – Ilan – has a regular plural.

The word for tree in bible is עץ  (eitz) whereas the rabbinic literature tends to use the word  ָאִילָן ilan”, influenced by the Aramaic, and also probably in order to distinguish more between different species of tree. 

Curiously in Biblical Hebrew, the word עץ seems to mean either ‘a’ tree (singular) or trees (plural), and when found in the plural form עצים (eitzim), the meaning is never “trees”, but “wood”.

It is likely to be a two letter root, though it may be derived from יעץ ya’atz – meaning to advise or to counsel, or the verb עצם atzam – to be strong or mighty, from which we get the noun  עצם etzem, meaning bones.  Or it could be connected to עצה meaning to bind or to attach.

What does this tell us about ancient Judaism’s view of trees?  Trees appear frequently in our texts and at critically important junctures in the narratives.. In the first story of Creation, on the third day God separated the sea from the dry land and then created the very first living things – trees.

וַיֹּ֣אמֶר אֱלֹהִ֗ים תַּֽדְשֵׁ֤א הָאָ֙רֶץ֙ דֶּ֗שֶׁא עֵ֚שֶׂב מַזְרִ֣יעַ זֶ֔רַע עֵ֣ץ פְּרִ֞י עֹ֤שֶׂה פְּרִי֙ לְמִינ֔וֹ אֲשֶׁ֥ר זַרְעוֹ־ב֖וֹ עַל־הָאָ֑רֶץ וַֽיְהִי־כֵֽן׃

And God said, “Let the earth sprout vegetation: seed-bearing plants, fruit trees of every kind on earth that bear fruit with the seed in it.” And it was so. (Genesis 1:11-12)

In the second creation story we read וַיִּטַּ֞ע יְהֹוָ֧ה אֱלֹהִ֛ים גַּן־בְּעֵ֖דֶן מִקֶּ֑דֶם וַיָּ֣שֶׂם שָׁ֔ם אֶת־הָֽאָדָ֖ם אֲשֶׁ֥ר יָצָֽר׃

The ETERNAL God planted a garden in Eden, in the east, and placed there the Human who had been fashioned.

וַיַּצְמַ֞ח יְהֹוָ֤ה אֱלֹהִים֙ מִן־הָ֣אֲדָמָ֔ה כׇּל־עֵ֛ץ נֶחְמָ֥ד לְמַרְאֶ֖ה וְט֣וֹב לְמַאֲכָ֑ל וְעֵ֤ץ הַֽחַיִּים֙ בְּת֣וֹךְ הַגָּ֔ן וְעֵ֕ץ הַדַּ֖עַת ט֥וֹב וָרָֽע׃

And from the ground the ETERNAL God caused to grow every tree that was pleasing to the sight and good for food, with the tree of life in the middle of the garden, and the tree of knowledge of good and bad.  (Genesis 2:8-9)

It seems as if the creation of trees and the creation of human beings are intimately connected. Each are at the pinnacle of their category of creation.

The midrash (Kohelet Rabbah 7:13) tells the following story ““When God created the first human being he took him and showed him all the trees  of the Garden of Eden and said to him, ‘See my works, how beautiful and praiseworthy they are. And everything that I created, I created it for you. Be careful not to spoil or destroy my world–for if you do, there will be nobody after you to repair it.’”

God tells Adam that the trees were created for human beings, and warns him that any damage to them will be irreparable – beautiful trees created for humanity must be cared for scrupulously. The lives – and potentially the deaths – of trees and humanity are intertwined.

This is, I think beautifully embedded in the idea of our bones being connected to the word for tree. Beyond the idea of a human skeletal frame mirroring a tree, beyond the idea of bones being strong and supportive and connected, the bone is the innermost and most enduring part of the body and so the word comes also to express the core of a person, their essence or substance or ultimately, themselves.

Louis Ginzberg in his “Legends of the Jews” – a compendium of stories and midrashim in Jewish text, tells us

The  main  creation  of  the  third  day  was  the  realm  of  plants,  the  terrestrial  plants  as  well  as  the  plants  of  Paradise. First  of  all  the  cedars  of  Lebanon  and  the  other  great trees  were  made.  In  their  pride  at  having  been  put  first, they  shot  up  high  in  the  air.  They  considered  themselves the  favoured  among  plants.    Then  God  spoke,  ”  I  hate  arrogance  and  pride,  for  I  alone  am  exalted,  and  none  beside,” and  He  created  the  iron  on  the  same  day,  the  substance  with which  trees  are  felled  down.  The  trees  began  to  weep,  and when  God  asked  the  reason  of  their  tears,  they  said :  ”  We cry  because  You have created  the  iron  to  uproot  us  therewith. All  the  while  we  had  thought  ourselves  the  highest  of the  earth,  and  now  the  iron,  our  destroyer,  has  been  called into  existence.”  God  replied :  ”  You  yourselves  will  furnish

the  axe  with  a  handle.  Without  your  assistance  the  iron will  not  be  able  to  do  aught  against  you.”  ”  (Ginzburg legends of the Jews Creation of the World 19)

Deuteronomy 20:19 speaks of behaviour in war,

כִּֽי־תָצ֣וּר אֶל־עִיר֩ יָמִ֨ים רַבִּ֜ים לְֽהִלָּחֵ֧ם עָלֶ֣יהָ לְתׇפְשָׂ֗הּ לֹֽא־תַשְׁחִ֤ית אֶת־עֵצָהּ֙ לִנְדֹּ֤חַ עָלָיו֙ גַּרְזֶ֔ן כִּ֚י מִמֶּ֣נּוּ תֹאכֵ֔ל וְאֹת֖וֹ לֹ֣א תִכְרֹ֑ת כִּ֤י הָֽאָדָם֙ עֵ֣ץ הַשָּׂדֶ֔ה לָבֹ֥א מִפָּנֶ֖יךָ בַּמָּצֽוֹר׃

“When in your war against a city you have to besiege it a long time in order to capture it, you must not destroy its trees, wielding the axe against them. You may eat of them, but you must not cut them down. Are trees of the field human to withdraw before you into the besieged city? “

While we traditionally read the last part of the verse as if it is a question, many commentators note that the literal meaning is not interrogative, but instead translates as “for a human is a tree of the field” (see for example BT Ta’anit 7a, or the comment of Ibn Ezra (ad loc) man is a tree of the field… In my opinion…The meaning is as follows: You may eat of them, but do not cut them down, for man is a tree of the field (i.e., the life of man depends on the trees of the field).

The interconnectedness of human beings and trees can be found all over our texts – from the trees in the Garden of Eden whose forbidden fruit is the catalyst to humans leaving that place, to the Proverb (3:18) that Torah is “Etz Chaim” a tree of life to all who grasp it עֵץ־חַיִּים הִיא לַמַּחֲזִיקִים בָּהּ וְתֹמְכֶיהָ מְאֻשָּׁר׃.  Trees provide shade and security in multiple narratives, most notably when Abraham sits under the oak trees of Mamre when he is visited by the angels who will announce the birth of Isaac, gopher wood  is used in the building of Noah’s ark, olive branches signpost the existence of dry land at the end of the great flood, Deborah sits under a palm tree to act as Judge. Bezalel makes the ark of the covenant from acacia wood, Aaron’s rod blossoms into an almond tree, and of course there is reference to cedars and cypress and olives and figs throughout the text. Trees accompany us through life, and even mark our graves (for example Deborah the nurse of Rebecca is buried under an oak and the place named “alon bacut – a tree of weeping). They are with us in the desert, in the mountains, on the plains – and in exile.  They act as sentry and as shade, signal the presence of water in dry lands and produce essential foods – olives, figs, pomegranates and dates….

So it is possibly not surprising that we have a particular blessing for seeing fruit trees in blossom. However this blessing is unusual, indeed it is unique, for in no other blessing do we refer to any natural being or event as being “of benefit to human beings”. We don’t bless the rain like this, nor crops, nor sunshine nor animals nor food nor wine –it is only when we see more than one flowering fruit tree together that this blessing is invoked.

בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה
יהוה אֱלֹהֵֽינוּ
מֶֽלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם
שֶׁלֹּא חִסֵּר בְּעוֹלָמוֹ כְּלוּם
וּבָרָא בּוֹ בְּרִיּוֹת טוֹבוֹת
וְאִילָנוֹת טוֹבוֹת
לְהִתְנָאוֹת בָּהֶן בְּנֵי אָדָם׃

Blessed are you, Adonai our God, ruler of the universe
who has made nothing lacking in the world at all, 
but Who created a good creation and good trees
for the children of Adam to benefit from them

To return to the midrash: in Bereishit Rabbah we read that as a response to the arrogance of the trees, God is said to have created iron on the same day. The trees cried out in fear – God had created the very material that would be used to destroy them. God’s response is telling – indeed there is the possibility of an axe being used to fell trees, but for such a destruction the trees would have to play a part – the handle of any axe would of necessity be made from wood.

I think of this story every time Tu b’Shevat comes around, and we focus on environmental ethics and ecological need. We often remind ourselves with the midrash from Kohelet that the world was created for human beings, but that if we damage it there is no one who will be able to put it right afterwards. This  is a frightening thought – there are long term and unmitigable consequences to our behaviour towards our world. But I think we should also remind ourselves that when great damage is done, it requires our participation or at the very least our assent. Environmental damage is done not by “others” with no connection to ourselves, but we have to admit that we too are part of the process.  Whether it is the clearing of rain forests for planting crops or palm trees for their oil. Whether it is the plague of plastic pollution in the oceans as well as on land, or the greenhouse gasses, emissions from transport vehicles of all kinds, food waste and food miles…. – we all partake of the creation of the damage. We are the wooden handle holding the iron blade, we are complicit.

I think it is almost impossible not to be party to the damage, though it is good for us to educate ourselves to mitigate our contribution. And trees also teach us that there can be growth and regeneration if the destruction is halted. The very word means has meanings of connection, of strength and wise counsel. And how often have we seen a tree stump regrow – be it the very real sycamore gap tree by Hadrian’s wall (https://www.npr.org/2024/08/01/nx-s1-5060047/sycamore-gap-tree-regrowth-go-tree-go) or the messianic metaphor in the prophesy of Isaiah (11:1-3) that A shoot will come up from the stump of Jesse; from his roots a Branch will bear fruit. /2 The Spirit of the Eternal will rest on him— the Spirit of wisdom and of understanding, the Spirit of counsel and of might, the Spirit of the knowledge and fear of the Lord—3 and he will delight in the fear of the Lord”.    Trees can, and do, regenerate.

We should maybe be “more tree”. Planted firmly on the earth and reaching up into the sky, Generous with our offerings to the world – the fruit and flowers of trees sustain not only human beings but many wild animals and birds. Bringing beauty and stability and strength and comfort to the world -trees provide shade and security and homes for many insects and birds.

Even to begin to understand our connectedness to nature,  to begin to mitigate our actions and our assent to the damage being done in our world, so that with small changes in behaviour we can make a difference, that I think is what these texts are telling us.

Tu biShvat is a date to focus our attention. And I think the date – even the disagreement about the date – is an important signal to us. It is the only  “new year” not to fall on the first of the month, but instead on the new moon. Discussion around the chosen date recognises that it fits no obvious good time for planting, or for the blossom to be open and seen – instead the traditional commentators make rather random claims that the rain is “mostly fallen” – it is still within the rainy season in Israel, a terrible time to plant as any gardener will advise.  So why claim a date that cannot be said to be seasonal for the calculation of tax of the fruit of trees? I think because tradition wants us to look further than the dry calculation of tithing and accountancy, to think about the importance of trees in our world, and to remind us of their deep connection to us.

In the poem by Max Halperin

Aseini K’Ilan: Make Me Like A Tree, Max Halperin
Make me like a tree rooted on the water, with fruit to give in its time.
Make me like lightning descending from the sky, illuminating the earth for a moment.
Make me like rain, light or heavy, that gives strength to a tired world.
Make me like wheat, simple and common, that brings forth our bread from the earth.
Make me like myrtle aside the lulav, that gives its color to joy.
Make me like a red rose with thorns, beautiful and strong in its way.
Make me like an olive with pure oil, a symbol of serenity and our dedication.
Make me like the sun that rises with us, which colors the sky with its light.
Make me like the dew on the grass, making the land glimmer at each dawn.
Make me like the sea, vast and unified, which renews the shore and itself.
Make me like a windflower, little and tall, a dot of color in the winter fields.
Make me like the moon alight in the darkness, smiling from among the stars.
Make me like the desert, open on all sides, strengthening all who trust it.
Make me like a river on the forest floor, rushing to enliven its world.
Make me like a bush with colorful flowers, beautifying its surroundings with its presence.
Make me like a cloud in a blue expanse, and its community that dances with the spirit.
Make me like an unripe fruit on its branch, constantly growing and sweetening.
Make me like nectar within a flower, feeding the smallest animals.
Make me like a rainbow against the gray, a promise of improving times.
Make me like a pomegranate with many seeds, a symbol of new beginnings.
Make me like a lily resting on the water, reaching up from the depths.
Make me like an apple waiting on its tree, prepared to ripen at its time.

עֲשֵׁנִי כְּאִילָן שָׁתוּל עַל הַמַּיִם, עִם פֵּרוֹת לָתֵת בִּזְמַנּוֹ

.עֲשֵׁנִי כְּבָרָק יוֹרֵד מִן שָׁמַיִם, שֶׁמֵּאִיר אֶת הָעוֹלָם לִשְׁנִיָּה

.עֲשֵׁנִי כְּגֶשֶׁם קַל אוֹ כָּבֵד, שֶׁנּוֹתֵן כֹּחַ לְעוֹלָם עָיֵף

.עֲשֵׁנִי כְּדָגָן פָּשׁוּט וְרָגִיל, שֶׁמּוֹצִיא לַחְמֵנוּ מִן הָאָרֶץ

.עֲשֵׁנִי כַּהֲדַס עַל יַד הַלּוּלָב, שֶׁנּוֹתֵן רֵיחוֹ לְשִׂמְחָה

.עֲשֵׁנִי כַּוֶּרֶד אָדֹם עִם קוֹצִים, יָפֶה וְחָזָק בְּדַרְכּוֹ

.עֲשֵׁנִי כַּזַּיִת עִם שֶׁמֶן זַךְ, סֵמֶל שֶׁל שַׁלְוָה וְשֶׁל חֲנֻכָּתֵנוּ

.עֲשֵׁנִי כְּחַמָּה עוֹלָה אִתָּנוּ, שֶׁצּוֹבַעַת הַשָּׁמַיִם עִם אוֹרָה

.עֲשֵׁנִי כִּטְלָלִים עַל הַדֶּשֶׁא, הַמְּנַצְנְצִים עַל הָאָרֶץ בְּכָל זְרִיחָה

.עֲשֵׁנִי כַּיָּם גָּדוֹל וּמְאַחֵד, שֶׁמְּחַדֵּשׁ אֶת הַחוֹף וְאֶת עַצְמוֹ

 .עֲשֵׁנִי כְּכַלָּנִית קְטַנָּה וּגְבוֹהָה, נְקֻדָּה שֶׁל צֶבַע בִּשְׂדוֹת הַחֹרֶף

.עֲשֵׁנִי כַּלְּבָנָה נָגַהּ בַּחֹשֶׁךְ, הַמְּחַיֶּכֶת מִתּוֹךְ הַכּוֹכָבִים

.עֲשֵׁנִי כַּמִּדְבָּר פָּתוּחַ בְּכָל צַד, שֶׁהֶחֱזִיק אֶת כָּל שֶׁהֶאֱמִין בּוֹ

.עֲשֵׁנִי כְּנָהָר עַל רִצְפַּת הַיַּעַר, שֶׁרָץ לִחְיוֹת עוֹלָמוֹ

.עֲשֵׁנִי כִּסְנֶה עִם פְּרָחִים צִבְעוֹנִים, יָפֶה סְבִיבָתוֹ עִם נוֹכְחוּתוֹ

.עֲשֵׁנִי כְּעָנָן בָּרָקִיעַ כָּחֹל, וּקְהִלָּתוֹ שֶׁרוֹקֶדֶת עִם הָרוּחַ

.עֲשֵׁנִי כְּפָגָה עַל עֲנָפָהּ, גְּדֵלָה וּמוֹתֶקֶת תָּמִיד

.עֲשֵׁנִי כְּצוּף בְּתוֹךְ הַפֶּרַח, מַאֲכִיל לְהַחֲיוֹת הַהֲכִי קִתְנוֹת

.עֲשֵׁנִי כְּקֶשֶׁת כְּנֶגֶד הָאָפֹר, הַבְטָחָה לִזְמַנִּים מְשֻׁפָּרִים

.עֲשֵׁנִי כְּרִמּוֹן עִם גַּרְעִינִים רַבִּים, הַמְּבַשֵּׂר לְהַתְחָלוֹת חֲדָשׁוֹת

.עֲשֵׁנִי כְּשׁוֹשָׁן נָח עַל הַמַּיִם, שֶׁהוֹשִׁיט כִּתְרוֹ לְמַעְלָה מֵהָעֵמֶק

.עֲשֵׁנִי כְּתַפּוּחַ מְחַכֶּה עַל עָצוּ, נָכוֹן לְבַשֵּׁל בְּעִתּוֹ

Rosh Chodesh Elul

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1st Elul  2021 Rosh Hashanah Le’ma’aseir Behema    9th August

Mishnah tells us there are four New Years, and the 1st of Elul is the New Year for the accounting purposes of tithing domestic animals.

While this is a date for a Temple practise and therefore has no practical significance today, the date has been glossed in order to publicise the Jewish value of Tza‘ar Ba’alei Hayim  – of preventing the suffering of animals.

The phrase originates in a Talmudic discussion about the treatment of domestic beasts, their loading and the conditions they must work under (BT Bava Metzia 32b).

Hebrew uses a number of words for animals – in Genesis animals, like humans are “Nefesh Chaya” – living souls. Biblically we see behema/ot are domesticated animals, Chaya (literally “alive” the word for wild animals (in modern Hebrew the generic word for animals, while wild animals are chayat bar, animals of the wild). But this  Talmudic  phrase Ba’alei Hayim not only recognises that animals are living, but that they are quite literally the masters or owners of life.

What does it mean to be an owner of life? And how does seeing our domestic animals as such figures influence how we think of them and treat them?

Judaism generally treats God as the Owner of Life – the One who gives and takes away life. We read in Talmud (Berachot 60b) the prayer familiar to all who read the morning service, the Elohai Neshama…:

When one awakens, one recites:
My God, the soul You have placed within me is pure.
You formed it within me,
You breathed it into me,
and You guard it while it is within me.
One day You will take it from me and restore it within me in the time to come.
As long as the soul is within me, I thank You,
O Eternal my God and God of my ancestors, Master of all worlds, Possessor of all souls.
Blessed are You, O Eternal who restores souls to lifeless bodies.

While it is clear that the Talmudic phrase “Ba’alei Chayim” is referencing animals that are in the service of human activity, it uses a lens we frequently ignore or even deny. Animals, even those who work for us or are farmed and herded in order to provide food for us, have a level of existence and meaning that also reflects the Creator of Life. We humans may have accorded ourselves the highest level in the creation story, the ones who name the animals and who will use them for our own benefit, but animal life too is important and has a spark of divine force, and it is not enough simply to avoid unnecessary cruelty.

Talmud tells us (BTBava Metzia 85a) “Once a calf being led to slaughter thrust its head into the skirts of Rabbi [Yehudah HaNasi]’s robe and began to bleat plaintively. “Go,” he said, “for this is why you were created.” Because he spoke without compassion, he was afflicted [at the hand of Heaven].(the midrash tells us he suffered toothache for 13 years)

Then one day, his maidservant was cleaning his house and came upon some young weasels. She was about to chase them away with a broom, when Rabbi Yehudah said to her, “Let them be, for it is written: ‘God’s tender mercies are upon all God’s works'” (Psalms 145:9). They said [in Heaven], “Since he is merciful, let him be treated with mercy.” [Thereafter, his pain ceased.]

This day, Rosh Chodesh Elul, is the day to consider the value of Tza’ar Ba’alei Hayim and ask ourselves, how do we value Creation in our daily lives.

Pesach and the Seder Plate: the lesson of hope

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The festival of Pesach has an extraordinary amount of symbolic and/or coded practises.  The items on the seder plate – the burned egg (beitza) for the additional festival sacrifice of thanksgiving (chagigah) brought during the three pilgrim festival, is also a symbol of fertility and of life.  Hard boiled and touched by flame it has no “speaking” role in the service, but reminds us of both hardship and survival. The charoset, a mixture of wine nuts and fruit, is generally said to symbolise the mortar used by the Hebrew slaves in their building work (its name, first found in Mishna Pesachim 20:3 shows it to have become part of the seder ritual, though there is debate as to whether the charoset is mandatory.) Eaten first with the matza and then with the bitter herbs before the meal, it embodies a confusion of meanings – if it has apples as in the Ashkenazi tradition, it is to remind us of the apple trees under which, according to midrash, the Israelite women seduced their husbands in order to become pregnant – their husbands not apparently wanting to bring a new generation into the world of slavery. If it has dates and figs, as in the Sephardi tradition, it is to remind us of the Song of Songs, read on Pesach, an erotic work which supposedly alludes to the love between God and Israel, as well, of course, as being rich in the symbolism of fertility. The wine-dark colour is supposed to remind us of the blood placed on the doorposts of the houses to stop the Angel of Death from entering, and the blood into which Joseph’s torn coat was dipped to show his father that he had most likely been savaged by a wild animal – the moment from which the Pesach narrative is born.

The zeroa, the shank bone of a lamb, is a reminder both of the lamb roasted on the night of the exodus (exodus 12:8-9) and of the korban pesach, the lamb brought as paschal sacrifice when the Temple stood in Jerusalem. Along with the egg it forms the “two cooked dishes” required by the Mishnah, and the “pesach” together with the matza and the bitter herb (maror), is one of the three objects we are required to discuss in order to fulfil the obligation of the Seder according to Rabban Gamliel. While the zeroa represents the paschal sacrifice, in fact there are a variety of traditions as to what can go on the plate – as it means an arm or a shoulder – so chicken wings can be used, or – should one go further into the etymology where it is used to mean “to spread out” – chicken necks and in fact any meat – even without a bone – can be used (Mishnah Berurah). But for vegetarians there are other possibilities. A beet is an acceptable symbol for the zeroa according to Rav Huna (Pesachim 114b) and it does “bleed” onto the plate in meaty fashion. Vegetarian punsters in the English language are fond of using a “paschal yam”. And for the greatly squeamish a model bone – be it fashioned from craft putty or from paper – can stand in symbolically.

The zeroa also represents the “outstretched arm” with which the bible tells us God first promised redemption from slavery (Ex.6:6) and then took us out of Egypt (Deut 26:8). It resonates and possibly also references Moses’ outstretched arm over the sea of reeds which caused the waters to part and then to return, although a different verb us used here (Exodus 14)

The maror – the bitter herb – is actually only one of two bitter herbs on most plates, the other being the hazeret. Hazeret was usually the bitter leaves of romaine lettuce, and the maror is generally represented by grated horseradish root. However the Mishnah (Pesachim 2:6) gives us five different vegetables that could be used: as well as hazeret and maror there is olshin, tamcha, and char’chavina. Such a lot of bitterness we can sample! According to Talmud, it is the hazeret rather than the maror which is preferred, though somehow we have reversed the order, and often the hazeret remains on the plate to puzzle the seder participants as to its purpose. Some mix the two for each time we eat the bitter herbs, some use one for the maror and the other for the Hillel Sandwich, some leave the hazeret untouched….. The bitter taste is in memory of the bitterness of the slavery – and yet we mix it with the sweet charoset, or eat it with the matza

And then there is the Karpas. Often described as the hors d’oeuvres to turn a meal into a banquet (with the afikomen functioning as dessert), it is eaten dipped into the salt water early in the seder ritual. The word Karpas is not used in the Talmud, which mentions only yerakot – (green) vegetables. Indeed the word only appears in bible once –in the book of Esther – where it means fine linen cloth. It has, one assumes, come into the haggadah through the Greek “karpos” – a raw vegetable – but its connection to the fine linen and its place at the beginning of the seder makes it possible to see it as referencing the coat of Joseph dipped in blood by his brothers – the beginning of the connection with Egypt which will lead us eventually to the exodus and the seder.

The word and the food is open to much speculation. One drash I like plays on each letter of the word: When we look at the four letters of this word kaf, reish, peh and samech, we discover an encoded message of four words which teaches a basic lesson about how to develop our capacity for giving.

The first letter “chaf” means the palm of the hand. The second letter “reish” denotes a person bent down in poverty. When taken together these two letter/words speak of a benevolent hand opened for the needy.

But what if you are a person of limited means, with precious little to give? Look at the second half of the word Karpas. The letter “peh” means mouth, while the final letter “samech” means to support. True, you may not be capable of giving in the material sense, but you can always give support with your words.

Seen in this way, the Karpas is a reminder not just of the springtime with its fresh green leaves, but of our ability to show compassion for others and to support them whatever our circumstances. We dip the Karpas into salt water – which represents the tears shed by the slaves as they worked, and also maybe the water of the Reed Sea which presented a terrible obstacle to the fleeing slaves as the army of Pharaoh charged behind them to recapture them – so the ritual of dipping the Karpas reminds us that however much grief today brings, however painful our circumstances and great our fear of what is happening to us, the ability to empathise and to support others is the quality that will help us in our daily living.

The Karpas is for me the Pesach symbol par excellence, because it combines most powerfully both distress and hope. As a token of the new green of springtime, the bright taste of the parsley awakens a delicious sense of fresh hopefulness. Dipped into the salt water, that hopefulness is immersed in grief – and yet its taste still comes through. While each of the Seder plate symbols – along with the matza which is both the bread of affliction and the bread of liberation – is a potent combination of both pain and joy, the Karpas is the clearest encapsulation of this lesson. Coming right at the beginning of the Seder, it is a harbinger of the Pesach story and reminds us that hope survives through tears and through difficult times.  And hope is the prerequisite for survival.

My teacher Rabbi Hugo Gryn wrote that his father taught him that one can survive without food for three weeks and with no water for three days, but one cannot survive without hope for even three minutes.  The Pesach Seder begins with the encoded lesson – hope survives. We can tell the story of the slavery, of the plagues, of the fearful night of the angel of death, of the darkness and uncertainty, of the panicked leaving without knowing the destination and the crossing of the sea while pursued by the horses and chariots of the vengeful army. We can tell the story of the failed rebellion against Rome and the many oppressions over the generations. We can tell the story and taste the bitterness without fear or distress because the first thing we do after blessing the wine and washing our hands is to dip a fresh vegetable into salt water, bless the creator of the fruit from the ground, and taste the hope even through its coating of misery and grief.

This year has been a Seder like no other for most of us. Alone or separated from loved ones in lockdown, unable to source some of the usual Pesach foodstuffs or anxious about supplies, the story of the plagues has been thrown into sharp relief, no longer in the realm of fairy-tale but bluntly and frighteningly here. We cannot know yet how this story will end. Whether our masks and sheltering in place will keep us safe; whether we or our loved ones will hear the swoop of the wings of the Angel of Death. Everything is up-ended, but the message of the Seder supports us. Amidst fear and distress, through grief and terror, we hold on to hope. Hope is the beginning of our journey and it is our companion through life. The Hebrew word “tikvah” – hope – comes from the word for a cord or a rope. Threaded through the Seder, threaded through the generations who come to the Seder, binding us together through time and space, hope is what holds us in life and to life.

While the Haggadah is often described as the story from slavery to redemption, it is far more importantly the book that imbues us with hope – however long the redemption will take. And it ends with the hope “Next year in Jerusalem” – not necessarily a literal expectation, but a hope for new horizons, new possibilities, a hope for a better world.

 

Bilhah and the man who mistook his wife for his bed

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The last sidra in Genesis brings the denouement of the narratives of the rivalries in the founding family down the generations.  Many of the themes we have seen in earlier texts return to be developed or reworked so that a number of outstanding threads can be tied off. Both Jacob and Joseph will die in this sidra, the deaths and burials of the patriarchs and matriarchs will be recalled as Jacob requests he be buried not in Egypt but in the Cave of Machpela where all but Rachel have been laid to rest. There is a deathbed blessing where the two sons of Joseph, Ephraim and Manasseh, are blessed in a scene resonant of the blessings of Jacob and Esau by their father Isaac.  Except here the process of the blessing is explicit, both boys are present together, as is their father who tries to correct Jacob when he offers the ‘senior’ blessing to the younger boy. Jacob, whose eyes are now as dim as his own father’s had been, knows exactly what he is doing and refuses to be corrected, instead offering a blessing that harks back to the words given to his own mother when she enquired of God why she was in such pain – “[the older] also shall become a people, and shall be great; howbeit his younger brother shall be greater than he, and his seed shall become a multitude of nations.”

Reference is made to the dream Jacob had as a young man leaving Canaan where he encountered God and received the covenantal blessing, and the struggle at the Ford of Jabok when he received the name “Israel”. And then he calls his other sons to his bedside to offer them words of – well, words that are described traditionally as blessing, but seem to me to be words of challenge and bluntly painful truth. In the text, only Joseph and his two sons are the recipients of a beracha, the verbal root is not used for any of Jacobs other sons.

I had set myself the task of writing about the women who often hide in plain sight in the weekly sidra. Sadly in Vayechi, the matriarchs are all mentioned, but only in terms of their burials. There are two other women alluded to in the text –the mother of Ephraim and Manasseh,  Osnat/Asenath the daughter of Potiphera, the priest of On (see https://rabbisylviarothschild.com/2016/12/30/miketz-the-strange-case-of-the-disappearing-women-2/ to read about her) and Bilhah, the maid of Rachel who also bears sons with Jacob on behalf of Rachel and whose status seems to move around in the texts . While she is not named here, the event between Reuben and her years earlier are recalled to devastating effect on Reuben, the eldest son of Jacob, who should have been taking his place as the next link in the generational chain, but who is set aside instead, leaving the field clear for Joseph instead.

When we first meet Bilhah in Paddan Aram she is a servant maid: shifcha   השִׁפְחָ  belonging  to Laban and given by him to his younger daughter Rachel on her marriage, just as Zilpah had been given to Leah. (Gen 29:29)

When Rachel fears she will not be able to conceive a child, she gives Bilhah her שִׁפְחָה to Jacob as a wife – isha  הלְאִשָּׁ (Gen 30:3ff), and Bilhah has again been described in this passage as her maid, while  using a different word אֲמָתִי – a servant even less respected in the household than a shifcha.  The word shifcha is used again when Jacob divides his family across the ford of Jabok while fearing what Esau might do to them and her status with Zilpah and their sons is defined when they are put at the head of the procession, in the most danger. After Rachel’s death the narrative refers to her as פִּילֶגֶשׁ – pilegesh, often translated as concubine, but having real legal and social status, and therefore more correctly seen as a kind of secondary wife.

Bilhah herself never speaks. Yet as the mother of Dan and Naftali – albeit as a surrogate for Rachel – she is an ancestress. Even with the surrogacy/adoption process of her children, she and Zilpah (Leah’s maid) are still described as wives of Jacob (for eg Gen 37:2) but they are essentially only seen in relationship to their children. Her relationship with Rachel is coldly transactional from Rachel’s viewpoint. We don’t of course have any record of Bilhah’s feelings. So when Leah names the sons born to Zilpah there is at least some joy in the names and rationales she chooses (Gad= Fortune has come; Asher = happiness) but when Rachel names the sons born to Bilhah there is no such pleasure (Dan=God has judged me; Naftali=I have wrestled with my sister and won) so it seems that poor Bilhah really is only an object to those around her, her body to be used by both Jacob and by Rachel.

Bilhah is surely a candidate for being one of the saddest women in bible. And things only get worse for her after Rachel’s death. She now belongs to Jacob (she is his pilegesh) and in an almost entirely animal dynamic, Reuben his oldest son decides to stage a challenge to the older man by having sex with her.

The text in Genesis 35 is brief, but we can read into it if we look carefully:

 וַיְהִ֗י בִּשְׁכֹּ֤ן יִשְׂרָאֵל֙ בָּאָ֣רֶץ הַהִ֔וא וַיֵּ֣לֶךְ רְאוּבֵ֔ן וַיִּשְׁכַּ֕ב֙ אֶת־בִּלְהָ֖ה֙ פִּילֶ֣גֶשׁ אָבִ֑֔יו וַיִּשְׁמַ֖ע יִשְׂרָאֵֽ֑ל   פ

  וַיִּהְי֥וּ בְנֵי־יַֽעֲקֹ֖ב שְׁנֵ֥ים עָשָֽׂר:

“And Israel dwelt in that land, and Reuven went, and he bedded Bilhah the pilegesh/secondary wife of his father, and Israel heard      [break in the text but not in the sentence]

and the sons of Jacob were twelve.”

Why is there a physical break in the written text? What is it telling us is missing in the story?

What does Israel hear – can it be the screams of pain and distress by the woman Bilhah who has been so victimised by his arrogant eldest son? There is no story of kindness between them as in the story of Dinah and Shechem that is often called rape – so just how terrible must this abuse of power been that poor Bilhah had to endure? And why is her protest erased?

Nothing is said at the time, at least insofar as the text reveals, but Jacob clearly does not forget, and so in our portion this week reference is made in his deathbed words to Reuben.

 רְאוּבֵן֙ בְּכֹ֣רִי אַ֔תָּה כֹּחִ֖י וְרֵאשִׁ֣ית אוֹנִ֑י יֶ֥תֶר שְׂאֵ֖ת וְיֶ֥תֶר עָֽז: פַּ֤חַז כַּמַּ֨יִם֙ אַל־תּוֹתַ֔ר כִּ֥י עָלִ֖יתָ מִשְׁכְּבֵ֣י אָבִ֑יךָ אָ֥ז חִלַּ֖לְתָּ יְצוּעִ֥י עָלָֽה:

“Reuben, you are my first-born, my might, and the first-fruits of my strength; the excellency of dignity, and the excellency of power. Unstable as water, you have not the excellency; because you went up to your father’s bed; then you defiled it–he went up to my couch!”

I don’t know what I find more appalling. The act of Reuben who mindlessly slept with/raped a woman because he wanted to challenge his father and lay claim to his wife, or the ultimate response (after a long silence) by Jacob, who does not even name the woman, but refers to her as “my couch” יצוע, . To these men she is not a person, not a human being at all, but a possession akin to a beautiful piece of furniture whose only function is to show the status of its owner.  When Jacob tells Reuben that he no longer has the status and promise of the eldest son because of this action, it is because ‘hilalta’ – you have profaned/defiled – not the woman but his bed.  And the fact that he repeats the image of his bed being misused, (almost in a staged aside of disbelief at the actions of his son), only makes it clearer to us just how they ignore and erase the act done to this woman – she is either ‘mishk’vei avicha’ the beds of your father (the place where he has sex) or y’tzui – my couch.        Again contrast with the story of Dinah when Shimon and Levi justify their own horrific violence against Shechem with the question that hangs at the end “shall they treat our sister like a prostitute?” Yet here, there is no avenging the act done to Bilhah – she may be the mother to two of their brothers, yet she is less than nothing to them.

Bad as this text is in its erasure of Bilhah and her pain and outrage, sadly there is a tradition which goes on to blame her for Reuben’s act.

In the pseudopigrapha – specifically the text “the Testament of Reuben” we find the need to besmirch and defame Bilhah is given free rein. Written possibly in the second Temple period it follows the literary conceit of a farewell address written by the sons of Jacob. The words ascribed to Reuben tell his descendants not to be sexually profligate in youth as he had been when he slept with his father’s wife, as he had been struck by an illness and only the prayers of his father had saved him. He continues:

Pay no heed to the face of a woman, nor associate with another man’s wife, nor meddle with affairs of womankind. For if I had not seen Bilhah bathing in a covered place, I would not have fallen into this great iniquity. For my mind taking in the thought of the woman’s nakedness, suffered me not to sleep until I had wrought the abominable thing. For while Jacob our father had gone to Isaac his father, when we were in Eder, near to Ephrat in Bethlehem, Bilhah became drunk and was asleep uncovered in her chamber. Having therefore gone in and beheld nakedness, I wrought the impiety without her perceiving it, and leaving her sleeping I departed.”

There are echoes here of Noah, of Lot and his daughters, of David and Batsheva. But whereas they were not held responsible for their actions, here Bilhah bathed where she could be seen, got drunk, slept in a lewd position and was not even aware of the rape – shades of what used to be called “contributory negligence”.

Rabbinic literature does not only not help Bilhah, but it seems more concerned with protecting the reputation of Reuben, even while explaining why the status that should have been his went to Judah. The Mishnah (Megillah 4:10) suggest that the verse should not be translated when read out in the synagogue, so that the people who did not know Hebrew would not learn about it.  Talmud (BT Shabbat 55b) has R.Shmuel bar Nachman quoting R. Jonathan and saying “Anyone who says that Reuben sinned is wrong, for it is said “now the sons of Jacob were twelve” so all were equal [in sin]..and when bible says he slept with Bilhah the concubine of his father, it means only that he moved his father’s bed without permission and scripture ascribes blame AS IF he had slept with her.” The rabbis are falling over themselves to find Reuben innocent of the terrible act that bible records quite bluntly. They are unaware of either the person or of the plight of Bilhah. How true it is that we don’t notice what is not important to us, but make our world only out of what we see and care about.

Bilhah is the ultimate victim – only her name and those of her two sons are known and recorded. Her life of service begins with being owned by Laban, then Rachel, then Jacob, then Reuben. What else happens to her? Who knows – no one seems to have cared.

Occasionally there is a move towards adding Bilhah and Zilpah to the matriarchs in our prayers. I have always been ambivalent about this, as neither of the women has any relationship with God or prayer that might add to ours. But I am pressingly aware that Bilhah and Zilpah bore and mothered sons to Jacob, they are the ur-ancestors of the twelve tribes just as the ancestors we name. And their story is as much part of our history. A real violence has been done to them – and in particular to Bilhah who is objectified beyond any awareness of her humanity. Her story must once again be told and the gross act of abuse condemned. It is said that the Shechinah weeps over the exile of the children of Israel. The weeping of Bilhah abused at the hands of those same children must also be heard and acknowledged.