Judaism, Nature and the Summer

Dear Rivy:
My husband and I have just moved back to Seattle. I am a native Pacific Northwestener and as such get great joy from being outdoors. Not so my New York husband. It is only despite many an objection that I am able to coax him into the great outdoors. He offers strong protestations and even thrusts Judaism at me as a basis for his nature avoidance, claiming that Jews are indoor people; intellectuals, pray-ers and House of Study folks. Help! I know in my heart that this cannot be true and with summer looming this has become a pressing issue.

What could be more Jewish than nature? But, I appreciate his disconnect. It is perfectly understandable to perceive Judaism as an indoor sport. However, he may be using his religion as a ploy to ditch a potentially intimidating experience or to dodge an activity that is clearly out of his comfort zone. It is your job to initiate him ever so gently into the magnificence of nature and to the inspirational qualities of this precious earth. If Judaism is the palette upon which he has chosen to launch his conversation; then so be it. Here is offered to you, a short “Jews & Nature Treatise” six points strong.

1. The Rationalist Approach
Maimonides in his work, the Mishneh Torah, goes to great lengths and much detail in describing the natural world and its wonders. After setting forth his basic notion that the “foundation of foundations and the firmest pillar of all wisdom is to know that there is a First Being” and in an effort to explicate the commandment to love and be in awe of the Almighty, he urges us, to devote time to reflect on the great works, planets, stars, mountains, glaciers and wonderful creatures of this universe, in order to best understand the matchless wisdom of God and thereby come to love and esteem the Creator. In Maimonides thought then, nature leads to belief.

2. The Mystical Angle
A mystical advance to the Divine urges an encounter with nature. Throughout our tradition from the days of early kabbalists in Safed to the days of the Baal Shem Tov in Eastern Europe, nature was a force to experience first hand. Where most parishioners gathered in synagogues, those adherents to Lurianic Kabbalah in Safed advocated stepping out into the fields in order to greet the Sabbath, imitating Rabbi Chanina of the Talmud, who would wrap himself in his cloak and say, “Come, let us go and greet the Shabbat Queen.” While much later the Baal Shem Tov, founder of Chasidism, would spend lengthy days alone in the woods and surrounded by nature. Reb Nachman of Bratzlav famously declared that every blade of grass is urged to grow. This seeing of the Divine in every element of nature was a break from the more typical search for God on the page of the Talmud and lent a new value to the natural world.

3. A Patriarchal Past
Three Patriarchal scenes. One cannot help but notice the spiritual inspiration situated in nature found in the Torah. It was outdoors to where God led Abraham to help him understand the promise of his children being as numberless as the stars, And he brought him outside, and said, Look now toward heaven, and count the stars, if you are able to count them; and he said to him, So shall your children be. It is the aroma of the celestial outdoors that persuades Isaac to bless Jacob, And he came near, and kissed him; and he smelled the smell of his garment, and blessed him, and said, See, the smell of my son is like the smell of a field which the Lord has blessed. Indeed, it was out camping where Jacob dreamed of a ladder grounded on earth reaching heavenward, And he lighted upon a certain place, and remained there all night, because the sun was set; and he took of the stones of that place, and put them for his pillows, and lay down in that place to sleep. Quite the outdoorsmen our forefathers.

4. Experiential Existentialism
It is no accident that the Torah was given in the desert wilderness of Mount Sinai. Our very existence as a people is grounded in the outdoors. Our tradition esteems the barren qualities of the desert terrain, in contradistinction to the pulsating city civilizations of the day found in Egypt and Mesopotamia. The desert is the great equalizer, teaching humility, accessibility and vulnerability. The vast emptiness of the desert instructs us to empty and un-entitle ourselves with a humility learned uncompromisingly by the vast wasteland of the desert. To experience the desert in all its grandeur is to embrace a compelling seemingly unfathomable infinity. A place fitting for our introduction to God.

5. Heschel-ian Radical Amazement
To really get a powerful feeling for the deep connection between Jewish spirituality and nature - look no further than the rapturous, Psalm 104. Whose heart cannot help but resonate with the splendor described here; He sends the springs into the valleys, they flow between the mountains. They give drink to every beast of the field; the wild asses quench their thirst. Beside them dwell the birds of the sky, among the branches they sing. He waters the mountains from his high abode; the earth is satisfied with the fruit of your works. He makes the grass grow for the cattle, and plants for the service of man, that he may bring forth food from the earth; And wine that gladdens the heart of man, and oil to make his face shine, and bread which strengthens man’s heart. The trees of the Lord have their fill; the cedars of Lebanon, which he has planted, Where the birds make their nests; as for the stork, the cypress trees are her house. The high mountains are a refuge for the wild goats; and the rocks for the badgers. He appointed the moon for seasons; the sun knows its setting time. You make darkness, and it is night; when all the beasts of the forest creep forth. The young lions roar for their prey, and seek their food from God. The sun rises, they gather themselves together, and lie down in their dens.

6. Modern & Secular Connections
If none of this convinces it might be helpful to note that the very founder of the “Outward Bound” movement was a German Jew. He listed, “natural world” as the eighth of his “Ten Expeditionary Learning Principles” justifying it this way; “A direct and respectful relationship with the natural world refreshes the human spirit and teaches the important ideas of recurring cycles and cause and effect. Students learn to become stewards of the earth and of future generations.”
Hopefully, these six points one for each of the six days of creation should do the trick!

A Jewish Look at the Oil Spill

Dear Rivy,
Is the world coming to an end? The oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico is the latest Pandora-like circumstance to plague mankind. One difference; Pandora opened her box out of curiosity while BP drilled the depths of the sea with greed and recklessness; cutting corners in the production and in failing in subsequent attempts at capping the eruption. Every day brings me deeper feelings of despair at the state of the world. Perhaps, a Jews lens on this epic oil leak and man-made catastrophe will lend the issue some perspective. Any thoughts?

Just when we thought it would be safe to watch the nightly news again, what with the economic crisis in a supposed recovery and the world looking possibly less bleak - here we are with perhaps the most uncontainable and unruly situation ever. No amount of resources, bail outs, taxes, congressional hearings, peace keeping forces, speeches, negotiations are going to get us out of this one. People so undeserving of the consequences of this drilling fiasco are losing livelihood, fish and wildlife are being destroyed along with who knows how many eco-systems. And here we are with nothing to do but to watch it all unfold in slow motion. Oil and tar are slowly by slowly washing up on beaches further and even further away from the original site of the imploded rig. Frustration, dismay and futility are being felt by all. Who could have seen this coming?

A close reader of the Torah might have had a clue. Sadly the headline, “Human Actions Destroy World” is not unique the Gulf Coast Oil Spill. There is nothing new under the sun. We humans have been wreaking havoc with our world from the get go. Consider this early series of hair-raising tales from Bereshith.

Scene One: Creation. God plants a Garden in Eden, places the first human into its midst and causes every tree that is pleasant to the sight to grow delicious for his very consumption. In spite of this, immediately upon being put in this abundantly lush garden, the Torah tells us that Adam, paying no heed to the single, only command of God; to not eat of the Tree of Knowledge, tastes of the forbidden fruit and causes an immediate diminution of the workings of the world. And unto Adam He said: 'Because you have hearkened unto the voice of thy wife, and have eaten of the tree, of which I commanded you, saying: You shall not eat of it; cursed is the ground on your account; in toil shall you eat of it all the days of thy life. Thorns also and thistles will it bring forth for you; and you shall eat the herb of the field. What?! Adam and Eve, the two humans on the planet, commit the act of eating of the Tree of Knowledge and as a result the earth is cursed on their account? The good earth that God has created is now suddenly, as a result of man’s actions, become downgraded - it will not yield produce freely, will not bear fruit without struggle. It will take human sweat to flourish and furthermore the fruit itself will come along with thorn and thistle – falling short of some original perfection – now forever lost to us. At first this glance this seems neither fair, nor logical.

But, that is the very point of this first essential lesson to mankind. Don’t cross lines. Do not take what is not yours and that which is seemingly out of your reach. The powerful yet as unlearned basic core lesson; not everything on this earth is for human consumption. Some say this original command of, not eating of the tree, is a foreshadowing of the laws of kashrut, which come as well to teach, not everything is ours to consume. Your taking of it will have dire and long range consequences on you and your surroundings.

Scene Two: Field, east of Eden. Brother murders brother as rabid jealousy leads to bloodshed. Cain cannot bear the pain of being outdone by his brother. God’s look of favor upon Abel leads to the very first fratricide. Again, the earth is grippingly dragged into the drama. And now cursed are you from the ground, which has opened her mouth to receive your brother's blood from thy hand. When you tillest the ground, it shall not henceforth yield unto you her strength; a fugitive and a wanderer shall thou be in the earth.'A fascinating twist of events. Cain’s punishment bleeds out to into his environment. The punishment for fratricide is not limited to perpetrator alone. It is visited upon its accessory to the crime, the earth which had opened up its mouth to accept the blood of Abel. Really? Can there be an authentic culpability in passive soil? They are far from being co-conspirators. Cain has murdered. The inanimate mud beneath the feet of Abel cannot help but reflexively swallow up the blood that pours forth. Is it fair that its yield is permanently crippled as a result of man’s murderous envy?

There seems to be, between human beings and the earth from whence they have been formed, a profound inescapable symbiotic link; “Adam”, “adamah”, earthling, earth. Humans commit atrocities and the soil beneath his very feet cannot help but bear the burden. Man murders and his timeless partner suffers as a result. A mighty lesson.

Scene Three: Mount Ararat. The gig is up; man’s deeds again have led to crushing results for the world. But in the aftermath of the flood, the LORD smelled the sweet savour; and the LORD said in His heart: 'I will not again curse the ground any more for man's sake; for the imagination of man's heart is evil from his youth; neither will I again smite any more everything living, as I have done. While the earth remains, seedtime and harvest, and cold and heat, and summer and winter, and day and night shall not cease.'

This three stage progression in Bereshith draws a clear inextricable link between the earth and man’s actions. These two first pasrhiyot of the Torah were to have provided us with an obvious object lesson for perpetuity and a cautionary tale to have animated the depths of our consciousness. The first human eats of the tree – now there must be toil and sweat, fratricide leads to diminishing returns in all efforts put forth on the farm and finally man’s evil deeds affect the entire world as it is wiped away with water spilling out from above and below.
Some might say that these words, these core ideas have been forgotten. As greed continues to take hold of each of us – all of us consumers, share in the culpability of our manic drive for energy and our continued addiction to a life of luxury fueled by comforts and lifestyles that our own grandparents could never have dreamed of.

A murky summer lurks as we continue to bear witness as this latest “man- earth” travesty unfolds with these words of Koheleth Rabbah echoing in our mind:
When the Holy One, blessed be He, created the first man, He took him and led him round all the trees of the Garden of Eden, and said to him, ' Behold My works, how beautiful and commendable they are! All that I have created, for your sake I created it. Pay heed that you do not corrupt and destroy My universe for if you corrupt it there is no one to repair it after you.

We should speak with humility, God willing

We should speak with humility, God willing
Rivy Poupko Kletenik • JTNews Columnist
Posted: August 19, 2009

Including requests for God’s watchful eye in our conversation makes a difference

Dear Rivy,
I don’t know when I started noticing this or maybe once I did notice it, I just started to notice it more. What I’m talking about is the habit some people have, when talking, to throw in a “God willing” about any anticipated event in the upcoming future. For example, “We are, God willing, going to Los Angeles next week.”

I am wondering about why they do this. Is this mandated by Jewish law? Is it a custom? Is it wrong to not say it?

You have picked up on a subtle nuance that is most certainly an element of the standard parlance of many pious people. Extreme caution when speaking is something encouraged by a host of our traditional texts. Whether in regard to how we speak (“words spoken softly by the wise are heeded”), or of what we speak (“do not be a talebearer”), or when we speak (“say less — do more”). Speech is considered a powerful tool, fraught with potential pitfalls.

But you raise a somewhat different aspect of speech. Some might say that those who invoke the English “God willing” or the Hebrew phrases “im yirtzeh Hashem” which translates as “if God wishes” or “be’ezrat Hashem,” meaning “with the help of God,” are trying to do their best to ward off the evil eye and we might be tempted to leave it there. In truth, there is more here than simple superstition.

Not that I would ever, ever mess with the evil eye. Those of us who grew up with notions of ayin hara, the evil eye, do not cast it aside with ease. By no stretch of the imagination did the thought of it rule our lives, but neither was it to be taken lightly. In fact, I am the duly respectful proprietor of an anti-evil eye incantation. My mother, of blessed memory, confidentially passed on to me a secret Yiddish chant that is assured to ward off the evil eye. I was not, she cautioned, to use this invocation unless it was absolutely necessary. It was certainly not to be evoked casually.

The core belief of ayin hara is that there are bad vibes out there, perhaps from people who may be envious of you. They could cast an “evil eye” upon you at your very pinnacle of success or good fortune, when you might be most vulnerable, to bring you down. Therefore, in a prophylactic effort, some utter “God willing” with the hope that its effect will undermine the muscle of the “evil eye.”

The following Midrashic puzzle addresses this very practice. Here’s the puzzle: One story, two versions. In Devarim Rabbah, we find the following short story: Once Rabbi Simeon, the son of Halafta, went to a circumcision ceremony. The father of the child made a feast and gave those present 7-year-old wine to drink, saying, ‘Of this wine, I will store away a portion for my son’s wedding feast.’ Later on, the sage, having the opportunity to chat with the Angel of Death, was told that though the father had excitedly pronounced, “Of this wine I will store away a portion for my son’s wedding feast,” this father has no idea that tragically, his child’s time has come. He is to be snatched away after 30 days and will therefore never have a wedding feast.

The episode is of course deeply disturbing. Curiously, the same story appears in Kohelet Rabbah, but here the father speaks a bit differently. He says instead, “Drink some of this old wine, and I trust in the Lord of heaven that He will grant me to offer you drink at his wedding feast.” Something has been added: A version of our “God willing.” This is one part of the very different narrative, which goes on to say that the baby’s life is spared. Quite the puzzle.

It is not that we would say that the baby’s life is spared because of the addition of the father’s, “and I trust in the Lord of heaven that He will grant me.” That would be pushing the providential envelope. But rather, there were deeply disturbing elements in the first version and in a subsequent rendition the disturbing elements were tweaked. One of those disturbing elements is the haughtiness of the father, who unabashedly and arrogantly boasts, “Of this wine I will store away a portion for my son’s wedding feast.”

In contrast, in the second version, we feel the humility, some of the “by the grace of God go I” stance that is more behooving of one who walks humbly with the Lord. This stance is what lies behind the pronouncing of “God willing.”

That you hear a number of “God willings” begs the question of overuse. Is there an appropriate utilization of the expression? Is there a point where it becomes a trite aphorism encouraging mockery rather than sincerity? Who’s to say? We are a people taken with adages and rote formulations. My mother would tell of a rabbi who would visit their house on Shabbat and with every mouthful of food he would raise to his lips he would say, “l’kavod Shabbos kodesh,” in honor of the holy Sabbath. Every morsel! It was a visceral devotional exercise in his experiencing the holiness of his food. It left a deep impression on a little girl.

So, too, this “God willing” expression. Though this is not anything that would fall under the rubric of Jewish law, it is instead one of those subtleties that conveys a certain worldview. The skill of speaking carefully and responsibly is a lifetime occupation; few among us have no regrets in this regard. This particular nuance is an opportunity to train ourselves in humility and, God willing, we will be the better for it.

Sober Up, It's Purim

Sober up! It’s Purim
Rivy Poupko Kletenik
Posted: March 21, 2008


The story of Purim is not nearly as uplifting as the holiday we celebrate

In preparation for the upcoming holiday of Purim, I decided to really read the Book of Esther. I feel like I’ve been jolted into reality — I thought Purim was a fun-filled, joyous holiday, but now the mask has been taken off the story. This is no lighthearted tale. The situation is gravely serious and the fate of the Jewish people is at stake. All this is compounded by its unwittingly frightful foreshadowing of later episodes in Jewish history. Why is it such a jovial day with happy-go-lucky celebrations of costumes, food, drink and shtick and spiels, when the story is such a somber one? I don’t want to be the Grinch Who Stole Purim, but I think we need to inject some gravity into the day.

Our angst is appropriate. Sometimes tragedy and comedy collide. Dramatically speaking, in tragedy the end game is usually the death of the hero accompanied by sorrowful lamenting, while in comedy we anticipate the restoration of the disrupted communal order. Yet, as we consider the end of the Megillah, we cannot be entirely satisfied with a narrow comedy label. Though communal order is restored to a strong degree, the story ends without complete resolution. We are left unsettled by at least three disturbing elements of the story: First, the fate of Esther, a Jewish woman trapped in the palace of the gentile king. Second, the Jewish people are still very much grounded in a foreign country rather than returning to the Promised Land. Third, though we were saved from annihilation, our salvation was not the intimate miraculous swooping down of the Omnipotent; instead, deliverance was brought about ambiguously by the hidden hand of the Almighty.

We are in the disconcerting territory of tragicomedy. Each of the disturbing elements causes us a sense of disequilibrium which we must grapple with. It’s okay to be troubled — after all, this is not Shakespeare’s “All’s Well That Ends Well.” Instead it’s more like, “All’s Still Troubling, That Ends Almost Well.” Take Esther for example. As children we are led to believe that Esther was an enthusiastic 
participant in a “beauty pageant” and wanted — just like all the maidens in the land, to become the Queen of Persia. As adults we know that this is quite the sugar coating of a very unsavory situation. As we mature, we become more sophisticated in our awareness of the not so pretty circumstance through which Esther really became the wife of Achasverosh. The text tells us in Hebrew “va’teelakach” — Esther was taken by force. She was not a willing participant. Until she had to take action and voluntarily offer herself to the king to save her people, Esther was a woman under duress. Still, she behaved heroically, considering her dire predicament. Though she starts off silent and subdued, Esther finds her voice and summons up the courage to ingeniously save her people. In so doing, however, she sacrifices not only her life as a member of the Jewish community but also something even more personal.

Brace yourselves, I may be dropping quite the bombshell here — according to the sages in the Talmud, Esther and Mordechai’s relationship goes beyond adoptive uncle and adopted niece. According to Talmudic tradition, the two were married. This approach is not only mentioned several times in the Talmud, it is the basis upon which halachic decisions have been grounded. That Mordechai and Esther are husband and wife in the Megillah casts the story in almost an entirely different light. Now we can begin to understand the depth of the sacrifice of Esther and the monumental tragedy that lingers after the last grogger is sounded, the final hamantaschen munched on, and the last drop of wine imbibed. Esther has given her all.

A second thorn in our Purim side is the realization that this Purim story takes place in a specific historical moment in time. It is not a tale simply floating out there in some never-never-land world. This threat to our existence in the Diaspora takes place after Cyrus, King of Persia, has written the decree permitting Judean exiles to return to the land of Israel. The Book of Ezra records the official declaration;Now in the first year of Cyrus, that the word of the Lord by the mouth of Jeremiah might be accomplished, the Lord stirred up the spirit of Cyrus, that he made a proclamation throughout all his kingdom, and put it also in writing, saying:

“Thus saith Cyrus, King of Persia: All the kingdoms of the earth hath the Lord, the God of heaven, given me; and He hath charged me to build Him a house in Jerusalem, which is in Judah. Whosoever there is among you of all His people — his God be with him — let him go up to Jerusalem, which is in Judah, and build the house of the Lord, the God of Israel, He is the God who is in Jerusalem.”

Some modern Bible scholars put forth the notion that the Megillah has a satirical edge to it. When King Achasverosh summons Vashti his queen to his party, it is the text ever so subtly reminding us that God, our King, has summoned the Jewish people to his palace in Jerusalem — and we have refused to appear. At this point in history there has been one aliyah to the Holy Land of a mere 40, 000 people — by no means have the majority of the Jews in the Babylonian exile returned to the land. Remember these people are the descendants of those who bitterly lamented, “By the waters of Babylon we laid down and wept for the Zion!” This evil, anti-Semitic plot to exterminate the Jews takes place after the Jewish people have been liberated and permitted to return to the land. As the story of the Megillah closes, our people are left connected to Persia and to Persian culture.

Finally, the distance from God is marked by the hidden-ness of the miracle; it is as if God hides His face from us. The name of God does not appear at all in the Book of Esther. Instead the miracle occurs seemingly through happenstance. Though this feels painful and detached, that the Talmud emphasizes that belief in a time when God is obscured is a higher level of belief and commitment. Having faith in a God who is less apparent and more mysterious is an elevated level of conviction. Hence, when the Jews accept upon themselves the celebration of Purim in the Megillah, this indicates their wholesale acceptance of God and recognition of Divine Providence, a veritable affirmation of the Sinai experience, even without the overwhelming presence of the Almighty. Though there is a compelling residue of tragedy in the Purim story, we have chosen as a people to focus on the incredible salvation. We have given ourselves permission to let go of some of the more tragic elements because, bottom line: They tried to kill us, we were saved, let’s eat. Happy Purim!
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What is Jewish about Rosh Hashanah?

The date of Rosh Hashanah first and foremost hearkens back to the universal. It is the day of which we say in our liturgy, Hayom Harat Olam, today the world was created; the event most associated with Rosh Hashanah is the creation of the world. The day does not commemorate any specific Jewish event as patently as Succot marks the travels in the desert, Chanukah, the miracle in the time of the Hasmoneans, Purim the story of Esther, Passover the Exodus.
However, hints are everywhere that this day is more than the anniversary of creation. Notice that Shofar, ram’s horn, for example; that visceral centerpiece of our service? Its alarming wake up call urging us to repent is also to remind us specifically of the Binding of Isaac said to have taken place on this very day - being that it was a ram that replaced Isaac on that fiery altar. Furthermore, our Rosh Hashanah liturgy reminds us that this is the day on which Sarah, Rachel and Hannah were remembered by God, their bareness coming to an end and it is the day that Joseph was freed from slavery. Layers of richness imbued with tradition and significance assigning broader Jewish significance. But, all of this Midrashic layering notwithstanding the essential core event du jour is the Creation of the World. That more than anything drives the atmosphere of the day and the Judgment angle of the observance.
As such it is a day that we view as a day of renewal in regard to not only the majesty of the Creator but also as a day of renewal regarding our own very human existence. It makes sense that the pronouncing of Divine sentence for all mankind is on the very anniversary of their coming into being. Rabbinic literature finely tunes the idea of “today the world was created.”
It seems that, Rosh Hashanah, is not exactly the day the world was created - the first day of Tishrei is not the day that God pronounced, “Let there be Light” on Day One of Creation. No, no, no – the first of Tishei according to rabbininc thought is the day that human beings were created. Day One of our calendar is actually, Day Six of creation. This anthropocentric approach is based on the midrashic idea that everything that was created on Days One through Six were created as if “on hold” until they were “unfrozen” in that Sleeping-Beauty kind of way with the formation of the Crown of Creation; human beings.
That was quite the day; here is how the midrash in Pesikta Rabbati details hour by hour what occurred on that primordial day one for Adam. First hour, there was the thought of creating humans, second hour the consultation with the angels, third hour the gathering of the dust, fourth the kneading of the matter, fifth hour the joining of the limbs, sixth hour Adam was stood up, seventh hour there was the breathing in of life, the eighth hour Adam was brought into the Garden of Eden, the ninth hour brought the command to not eat of the tree, the tenth hour the infamous eating of the fruit, in the eleventh hour there was judgment and in the twelfth hour they went forth from the Presence of God.
We not only call to mind elements of this primeval day we reenact them. Most obviously and demonstratively we envision the judgment; we stand in prayer and recite together plaintively - “The great shofar is sounded; a gentle whisper is heard; the angels quaking with fear, declare; ‘the Day of Judgment is here to bring the hosts of heaven to justice’ all mankind passes before Thee like a flock of sheep” – all mankind. We Jews may be the ones standing in house of worship but we picture an entire world being judged as was our shared common ancestor, Adam.
But there is more that we have drawn for the Adam experience for our New Year; something subtle, maybe even subversive bedecking of our tables. We take a fruit in hand we declare as a bit of a distraction “May it be your will that we that you renew us for a good and sweet year” what we are really saying is God Almighty we take this fruit in hand with Your permission. We hold it up and dip sweetly into honey and beg of You, holder of our fates, to bless us with a year of sweetness. We are not that haughty first human, taking that which is not ours, we know God Almighty, that by the grace of God go we. Please accept this recasting of the eating of the fruit of the tree, perhaps it could serve to correct the deeds of our ancestors in the Garden of Eden - a tikun of sorts for the first misdeed committed by humanity.
But this that was eaten taken illicitly, what was it? It was probably not the classic apple of King James fame. Scholars point out that our Pacific Northwest pride and joy are in fact not indigenous to the Mideast and suggest that perhaps it was an apricot. The text simple says fruit with no further appellation. The midrash wonders about the fruit as well, asking what was the tree from which of Adam and Eve ate?  wheat?  grapes?  the etrog? fig? Many suggestions, all extrapolated from Biblical proof texts. Bottom line, why should the innocent fruit be imputed and vilified it did nothing wrong to be so maligned for eternity thus the Torah chose to conceal its identity.
As Jews the universal nature of this day is experienced by us in a uniquely Jewish way. This fruit of the Garden has positive potential in Jewish thought. The Garden of Eden need not be eschewed as a place of negativity, a scene of sin – there was also a Garden before this eating of the fruit. Kabbalah sees Garden of Eden as “The Field of Sacred Apples” - Tapuchin Kadishin, the place of the Shechinah, the Divine Presence. The very aroma that Isaac smelled as his son Jacob walked in to receive the blessings. This aroma is what we are looking for, this other worldly ambience of humility bowing to receive blessing, rather than grabbing at what is not ours. On this Rosh Hashanah let us think of the blessings that we can each draw down to the world as we take the bite of that apple and pray for a sweet New Year.

Wine, Seder and Secrets

A drop of Shabbat kiddush wine from mother’s fingertip might be a first taste. The four cups at the Seder might be a second and standing under the chuppa might be a third. Memorable Jewish wine-moments thread their way through our lives. For Jews, wine has significance beyond fine bouquets and good years. It is a substance whose subtlety flavors our rituals, life cycle events and holy days. I wonder about the nature of wine and why it is so essential to our practices. Why is it that the Four Cups of wine are at the very core of the Pesach Seder – with liturgy and rituals organized around their being poured, blessed and sipped?
Wine presents early and often in the Torah, Midrash and Talmud. The paradox of wine; it is at once the quintessential primeval fruit of the vine tasted by the first humans, the source of Noah’s drunkenness, the sacred libation offered on the altar of The Almighty, and simply the substance that gladdens the heart of man. Clearly it has a story to tell.
Midrash identifies the fruit of Eden with grapes and the vineyard planted by Noah as having floated forth out of Eden. Two tales of human weakness linked to the vine. But there is more. Another early episode involving exile and new-world building centers again on wine. After the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, Lot inebriated by wine commits incest. Human failing and the state of drunkenness seem to go together. Wine has the power to deviate the behavior of people.
Following the abrupt death of two sons of Aaron, priests are commanded to abstain from wine when serving in the sanctuary. Fittingly, the nazirite who is attempting to embrace the most scrupulously exemplary behavior is commanded to refrain from eating or drinking grape products. Wine is dangerous, those who pursue the holy, hold back.
Where then is the nobility of wine? Wherefrom its crown like appearance at our weekly Shabbat table? Yes, as a libation it too joins other offerings in the sanctuary, holy sacrifices for The Almighty. But there must be more. The subtleties and delicacies of wine emerge in the writings ascribed to David and to Solomon. Wine makes life merry, wine cheers the heart, and lover’s mouth is like the choicest wine.
This ethereal quality of wine leads Rabbi Samuel ben Nahmani of the Talmud to proclaim that a song of praise is sung only over wine. As priests would sing when the libation is offered, we too offer praise to the Almighty with wine, Shabbat kiddush, blessings at weddings, circumcisions and the four cups of wine at the seder.
Those four cups, they have an order to them, a seder. The first cup launches the dramatic cathartic evening with the sacred kiddush. The second one is in hand as we tell the story of the exodus. After the meal a third cup is poured as we offer thanks to The Almighty Almighty for our food and finally the fourth cup is raised in praise of The Almighty, hallel.
The practice of drinking four cups of wine at the seder is based on these words of The Almighty to Moshe in Egypt, “Therefore say to the people of Israel, I am the Lord, and I will bring you out from under the burdens of the Egyptians, and I will rid you from their slavery, and I will redeem you with a outstretched arm, and with great judgments; And I will take you to me for a people, and I will be to you a the Almighty;” A midrash in Exodus Rabbah notices four expressions of redemption:
I will bring you out, I will deliver you, I will redeem you and I will take you.
The Sages accordingly ordained four cups to be drunk on the eve of Passover to correspond with these four expressions. They saw in this action the fulfillment of the verse in Psalms, “I will lift up the cup of salvation, and call upon the name of the Lord.”
Thinking about the expressions of redemption we begin to appreciate that they are no simple arbitrary words chosen randomly but rather reflect a progression of freedom; the slow unraveling of the bondage which brings the Israelites closer to the experience the ultimate, being taken in and bound to the Almighty. Wine is selected to commemorate this particular aspect of the redemption. According to Rabbi Judah Leove, the Maharal of Prague there is great depth and much of the esoteric involved in the four cups of wine.
Wine and secrets go together, he tells us in his haggadah. The numeric value of wine in Hebrew is equal to the word secret and as the Talmud says, drink wine, and secrets are revealed. As for the elixir itself, it is secretly stored away in the grape. It is the intoxicating nature of wine that indicates its special properties. Through wine the mystery of the exodus is told.
The cups of redemption tell the tale of a people enslaved and then elevated to great spiritual heights. It is a people that sheds its enslavement but preserves its experience, reliving each year and together proclaiming, we were once slaves to Pharaoh but now The Almighty has brought us close to Him.
Four cups of wine is enough to take the edge off the pain of years of persecution but not too much to relegate us to the unreality of irresponsibility. We take our experiences as slaves and use it to fashion a society based on morals and ethics. We move closer to our Creator and become for Him, a kingdom of priests and a nation of the holy.
What is the secret that emerges about the Exodus? Each family probably has its own moment. In our home it is comes very late at night when the Seder is already over. The haggadah is taken again in hand together with the Shir Hashirim, the Song of Songs. It is chanted out loud as the dishes are being done. It is the scroll that tells the story of intimacy and love, the great romance of the Bible – the love between The Almighty and the Jewish people. It was in the wee hours of that Pesach night long ago that that relationship began. A battered people scurried out of the only home they had ever known with hearts full of hopes dreams and faith in the good things to come.
Jewish wine moments are lofty and not inebriating; they are the moderation of four cups and the intimacy of home. They reflect the joy of chuppah and the triumph of redemption, the weave their way through our life, l’chaim.

Matzo Matters!

Maybe now in the rare quiet moments before the holiday it might be appropriate to explore this matter of matzo. For starters, what’s the matter with matzo? Lots. Even one of its names hints to a problem. Matzo is called lechem oni by the Torah and by the Haggadah. It is a phrase that seems straightforward - lechem oni, bread of our affliction. The source is a verse which commands, “eat unleavened bread, the bread of affliction, for you departed from the land of Egypt hurriedly, so that you may remember the day of your departure from the land of Egypt all the days of your life.” Devarim 16:3.
Bread of affliction, sounds not quite appetizing. Very little is simple or one dimensional in Torah and lechem oni is no exception. What does “poor bread” mean? What makes matzo, bread of affliction, lechem oni? The ingredients? The ancient consumers? The occasion of its eating? The method of its cooking? Its appearance? Maybe the mode of consumption? Or even the effect of its eating? Each of these categories are possibilities cited on pages of Torah, Talmud and the Haggadah itself. Why is matzo lechem oni? And why does it matter?
Here are some answers. A poor person eats broken pieces of bread, never a whole. Who knows if there will be more? We break our matzo in half and put a piece away for later, afikoman. Matzo is bread for the poor. Two ingredients only, flour and water. No salt, no sugar, no oil. It is poor bread, not rich. Our ancestors had to rush to bake their bread in Egypt, the taskmasters gave them no rest. We bake our matzo speedily to prevent it from rising. Our ancestors had little time the night they were leaving-they grabbed their unleavened bread and ran out. We don’t allow our dough the time to rise. Matzo is flat, very humble-a poor appearance if you will. Lechem oni? Poor indeed is the one who consumes it for they will suffer in its digestion. It is poor bread.
An alternate translation of the word on, is from the root to answer. We recite words over the matzo and answer questions concerning it. This is the bread of many words. There is a lot to say about matzo, it matters.
Truth is multifaceted and each of these answers woven together form a picture consistent with the verse. We eat matzo, lechem oni in order to recall the day we departed from Egypt. We have a lot to remember concerning that day. The rush, the panic, our deprived lives till then and the glory of our redemption. Most of all we are enjoined to remember the pain of being a slave. The pain of not being in control of our time and space, the pain of poverty and the constraints of spirit.
It is odd that the verse tells us to eat this bread of distress on Pesach night in order to remember the exodus all the days of our life. How can the eating of matzo once a year provide us with the memory of redemption for a whole year? Perhaps we should have been enjoined to eat matzo every day of our lives? Lechem oni each day.
Of course not. That is the very point. To eat poor bread every day would be to recreate our pain and poverty each day - we cannot thrive that way. To lead a life of Torah we need to move on, to lead lives of richness and with true appreciation of this world. But on Seder night we eat our lechem oni and we concentrate on its complex message for its taste must last the whole year long. Eating matzo matters.