How Flexible Is Your Judaism?

Those familiar with the cycle of Torah readings will know that at this time of the year, we read about the construction of the Mishkan – the portable desert Sanctuary that accompanied the Jewish people throughout their wanderings. At first glance, the minutiae contained in the hundreds of verses dealing with the Mishkan seem complex and, dare one say, tedious. Yet part of the brilliance of the Torah is that even the most arcane passages convey profound and accessible truths applicable in any circumstance.

The nerve-centre of the Mishkan was the Aron, a container that housed the tablets brought by Moshe from Mount Sinai. In common with the other Mishkan utensils, it was fitted with rings into which carrying poles were inserted; when the Jews travelled through the desert, the Aron would be carried by four bearers. Rather oddly, the Torah instructs that despite their obvious function, the poles were never to be detached from the Aron, even when it was at rest in the Mishkan. This contrasts with the carrying-poles for the other utensils, which were removed and stored as soon as the journey was over.

The Talmudic sources question how the poles could be made so that they couldn’t be removed from the Aron. Apparently, their ends were thicker than their middles, so once the poles were forced through the rings, the Aron could slide around on them but never actually fall off.

Now all this seems obscure, irrelevant and so far removed from 2006 that you may even have stopped reading. But please don’t, because, believe it or not, this ancient building instruction contains one of the most fundamental truths about Judaism and the survival of the Jewish people. Bear with me!

The permanently attached carrying-poles testify to the unqualified portability of Judaism. The relevance and applicability of Judaism is absolutely independent of place and time. While, of course, Judaism is ideally lived in the Land of Israel, it is always possible to pick up the Torah (the contents of the Aron) and move it to new surroundings. No matter where we end up, we can set the Torah down and immediately make it the focus and driving force of our lives. Throughout our long and often torturous history, we have lived in places that have been friendly to us as well as those that have been hostile; we have encountered theologically sophisticated as well as primitive peoples, lived through eras that were technologically advanced and others that were functionally backward. We have been hosted by nations sympathetic to our spiritual pursuits, those for whom they were utterly alien, places where we were respected as people of God, others where we were viewed as the devil incarnate; environments where the beliefs of the locals enticed us away from our faith, still others where they offered nothing whatsoever of interest to us. The common feature shared by these disparate national experiences is that the Torah has been successfully transplanted into each of them. Part of its genius is its immense portability – whether in sixth century Babylon or 21st century New York, the Torah has been equally applicable, inspirational and indispensable to the Jewish experience.

A sad fact of Jewish history is that we have needed to travel from place to place to escape persecution; we have had to demonstrate the portability of the Torah in every century, for our past is littered with tales of displacement, expulsion and flight from discrimination and hatred. To ensure our spiritual survival, we have ‘lifted the Aron’, often at a moment’s notice, set it down in new surroundings and then began the arduous task of building a new Torah-centred life from scratch. This is a truly remarkable, and perhaps one may suggest, miraculous achievement, one that for at least for me, testifies to the historical truth of the Torah and the eternal survival of the Jewish people.

The nature of the carrying-poles educates us how this is to be done – remember that they were thick at the ends and thinner in the middles, enabling the Aron to move about on them without ever falling off. This teaches the critical concept of the need for flexibility within certain boundaries; the Torah itself has many different valid expressions, corresponding to the different positions that the Aron could occupy on the poles. It is hard to overstate the importance of this to a mature and properly-functioning Jewish community. The fact is that there are many manifestations of authentic Judaism. Of course, they all share the core belief in the historical truth of the Sinaitic revelation and the eternal imperative of Jewish law; nothing without these can be considered Judaism. Yet within these parameters, Judaism contains a great wealth of styles, philosophies, attitudes, complexions, emphases and even variations of observance. All of these are part of the amazing, and unsurpassable multichromatic Divine system we call Judaism.

Differing manifestations of Judaism (all, of course, committed to the core principles outlined above) are required in different places and times. In some societies, such, as I believe, our own, a whole range of different types of Judaism will be required, sitting comfortably next to each other, benefiting immeasurably from each other’s company. While the truth of Torah is absolute and eternal, it is hardly likely that the same style of Judaism would have suited 12th century Provence as 19th century Galicia.

The idea of flexibility (albeit within limitations) is fundamental to the survival of Judaism. The Aron could only be carried to its next destination because it could move about on the poles; without this latitude, attempts to carry it would have resulted in the poles snapping and the Aron being left behind. This conveys a stark message – that portability is absolutely contingent on flexibility. Lack of flexibility will result in the Aron (and the Torah it represents) remaining forever at its previous location, absent from its rightful place as the focus of activity at all future destinations. In short it could spell the death of Judaism.

Sadly, in parts of the Jewish world today, we see a tendency to ignore this truth. There are many people who believe that Torah can be anything one wishes to believe, whatever one chooses to observe, a kind of insipid humanism with a Jewish flavour added at will. By denying the fundamentals of Judaism, they have, in effect, detached the Aron from its poles, for they believe that the Torah can be prostituted into anything they wish.

Yet at the other end of the Jewish world there is another, quite different, but almost equally worrying, phenomenon - the trend to extreme rigidity in Halachic practice and Jewish outlook. By this I mean the promotion of the attitude that there is only one right way to observe Judaism, only one way to view the world through Jewish eyes, and only one mode or style of Jewish life that is really ‘correct’. In reality, in most areas of observance there is a range of practices, as well as a variety of philosophic positions on almost every issue, all within the parameters of Judaism. We deny the validity of other authentic expressions of Judaism at our peril, for once we ‘shtetelise’ it to the extent that observance in any other form is unimaginable to us, we endanger the very future of the Torah world. If we link Torah observance to specific conditions, be they socio-economic, cultural, educational, or any other, we jeopardize the portability of Torah, for when they change, as they must, Judaism disappears together with them. When we force the poles into the Aron so that it cannot move about, we deny ourselves the flexibility that has enabled us to carry the Torah with us proudly through history.

It is vital that we capitalise on the immense cultural heritage that we have gained from our travels through history. The Jewish world is immeasurably enriched by every experience that our past has thrown at us. We should enjoy, explore and revel in every nuance, style and custom gained on our journey. But when our Judaism becomes contingent on a certain set of external factors, when only one way of doing things becomes conceivable, the existential warning sign should light up.

We should have known this idea from the experiences of recent history, profited from the sad example set by a generation of European Jews who left their Judaism in the shtetl; learned the lesson of those who threw their tefillin into the sea as they approached the United States. But not all of us have internalised this message; the attempt by some to turn Jewish practice and thought into an unbending monolith is testimony to that.

We have much to gain from investing our energies into developing a diverse and heterogeneous Jewish society and a great deal to lose by not. We live in a dangerous and unpredictable world, one in which we cannot be sure of our long-term security wherever we may be. We hope and pray that we will remain comfortable in our host countries, but history has taught us that we must be ready to travel at any time. Are we up to the challenge? Is our Judaism portable? Only flexibility within the system will ensure its portability. Our very survival may depend on it.

Based on a sermon given at Golders Green Synagogue on 4th March 2006 a version of this article first appeared on Jewish World Review

A Seder In February?

Tu B’Sh’vat (15th Sh’vat) is best known today as a celebration of the importance of trees in Israel, but it actually hails from ancient times. The Mishnah (Rosh HaShanah 1:1) offers two choices for the date of the ‘new year for the tree’; Jewish law follows the School of Hillel, who opt for the 15th of Sh’vat.

This ‘new year’ is relevant only to the laws of tithes pertinent to fruit trees that grow in Israel. Since each year’s produce must be tithed separately, the ‘year beginning’ is important, as it divides one crop from the next. For most fruit-bearing trees, the moment when the buds appear determines the year in which they are tithed – so those that bud before Tu B’Sh’vat are tithed in one year and those that bud after Tu B’Sh’vat in the next. Although a good part of the winter is still to come, Tu B’Sh’vat is chosen as the cut-off date as most of the winter rains have passed and, as Rashi puts it, the sap starts to rise in the trees at this time of year. Although these laws were hardly observed for many centuries, the return to the Land means that they are widely applicable in modern Israel.

Other than agricultural laws, there are few formal practices associated with Tu B’Sh’vat. However, in recent centuries, a number of forms of celebration have emerged. Some sources mention that one should mark the day by eating fruit, thereby acknowledging the importance of trees in the Torah Weltanschauung. In some circles this is accompanied by psalms and songs of praise; in some Chassidic courts, Yom Tov clothes are worn and the Rebbe holds a ‘tisch’ – a festive table gathering with songs, food and words of Torah. Many people attempt to eat fruits from Israel, or at least the varieties (such as dates and pomegranates) for which the Torah praises the Land. The esoteric thinkers understand that the Divine blessing flows first to the Land of Israel and only then to other places in the world. So while in Europe, Tu B’Sh’vat is in the middle of the winter, the start of the spring season in Israel (as evident by the wakening of the trees from dormancy) is critical to the wellbeing of all humanity. The great Chassidic thinker Rabbi Zvi Elimelech records a tradition of praying on Tu B’Sh’vat for a beautiful etrog for the coming Sukkot. Rabbi Yitzhak Luria (Ari) understood that when one eats fruit on Tu B’Sh’vat, one should intend to rectify the error of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, who sinned by eating the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. Even the precise number of fruits eaten is deemed significant; examples are 12 and 15.

In 16th century Sefat, the circle of kabbalists surrounding the Ari developed these ideas into a ‘Tu B’Sh’vat Seder’, not dissimilar from the more-familiar Pesach version. One enjoys certain types of fruits in the context of readings that express the philosophical and mystical aspects of the day. Apart from the fruits for which Israel is famed, fruits and nuts of various types are eaten, accompanied, à la Seder, by four cups of wine. The first cup is white wine, the second white with a little red, the third half white, half red, the fourth red with only a little white. As white wine indicates the latent and red wine the actual, the progression through the cups represents Man’s increasing capacity to maximise his potential as he grows spiritually, as well as our capacity to appreciate God’s design and greatness in the world. Fruits with inedible shells (such as nuts) are eaten first, then those with inedible stones (such as peaches), then those that are entirely edible (such as blueberries). This sequence too refers to development from potential to actualisation. The edible part of nut is completely encased by an inedible shell, representing the start of spiritual growth, in which potential is still deeply concealed by negativity. Peaches are mainly edible but partly only potential (the inedible stone). Blueberries are entirely edible, representing the world of complete actualisation.

A major goal of any Tu B’Sh’vat celebration is for the participants to gain a heightened appreciation of God’s bounty and the centrality of the Land of Israel in Jewish life.

A version of this article first appeared in the Jewish Chronicle. It is republished with permission.

Shemirah - Guarding The Dead

Shemirah or ‘vaching’ refers to ‘guarding’ the remains of the deceased from the moment of death until burial. It is usually performed by close relatives of the deceased, sometimes with assistance from friends or, who sit with the body in shifts, not allowing it to be left unattended even for a moment. Some communities organise a rota of volunteers to help with this practice; in the past, there were even paid ‘vachers’ to call upon.

This practice is well-ingrained into the Jewish psyche and is observed in every segment of traditional society. While the imperative to ‘guard’ the deceased is not mentioned explicitly in the Talmud, we learn in Mishnah Berachot that those who are engaged in the shemirah are exempt from other Mitzvah observances during their shift of duty. It is evident from this that shemirah has been a widely observed practice since ancient times.

One practical reason for shemirah is clear from the word itself – to guard the deceased from any physical harm. Left unattended, there is a concern that the body may be stolen, interfered with in some way, burned in a fire or attacked by rodents. In hot or insecure environments, these are reasonable concerns. It is also understandable why some would suggest that in modern mortuaries, where the area is usually secure and the temperature carefully regulated, that shemirah is no longer necessary.

There are, however, other reasons for the practice. The corpse, until recently a living human being, must be treated with the utmost respect. Leaving it unattended would imply that one now regards it as useless. The esoteric thinkers explain that the body, once the receptacle for the holy soul, is susceptible to negative spiritual forces until burial. We are assured that attending it prevents this from happening. Another view understands that the soul is in a state of flux soon after leaving the body – it is starting the long journey into the afterlife, yet remains attached to the body, its only anchor in the physical world, which has been its ‘partner’ for so many years. It causes the soul great distress to see the slightest ill treatment or neglect of the body; this may impede the soul’s progress. However, assured that the earthly remains are accorded every possible dignity, the soul can proceed on its journey, without, as it were, looking back. Of course, these reasons mitigate in favour of shemirah, no matter the circumstances.

It follows that since shemirah is a sacred duty, there are strict rules governing the conduct of those performing it. One may not engage in idle chat, eat, drink, smoke, greet others or even pray, learn Torah or perform Mitzvot when in a room with the deceased. Anything that distracts one from the task at hand is forbidden. However, it is appropriate to read psalms or learn Mishnah in memory of the deceased. Ideally, even these should not be read right next to the body; we are required to remain sensitive to the fact that while we can learn and pray, the deceased cannot.

A version of this article first appeared in the Jewish Chronicle. It is republished here with permission.

Swarming Supper

Fancy locust shish-kebab, locust chips or stir-fried locusts? Apparently, locusts should be cooked alive, otherwise they become bitter! The locust plague that attacked Eilat at the end of 2001 gave Israelis as well as workers from Thailand (where locusts are considered a delicacy) an opportunity to try these recipes.

While most Westerners don’t normally regard them as part of a kosher diet, the surprising fact is that the Torah in VaYikra 11 explicitly permits some types of locusts. The code of Jewish Law (Yoreh Deah 85) summarises the tradition for permitted locusts: any variety that has four walking legs, four wings that cover the majority of its length and girth, as well as two extra legs for jumping. In later Jewish literature, the presence of a ‘chet’-shaped mark on the insect’s thorax was also considered evidence of its kosher status.

Although locusts don’t require shechitah (just image if they did!) one must ensure they are dead before consumption and not simply pluck them straight from the air to eat. A Midrash (Shemot Rabbah 13:7) describes the ancient Egyptians attempting to profit from the plague of locusts by pickling them. Indeed, locusts remain a highly-prized dainty in some countries. While we would normally associate a swarm of locusts with catastrophic devastation, for many North African and Yemenite Jews, the 2001 plague in Southern Israel (the first for over 40 years) evoked memories of a culinary treat not tasted in a generation.

So why aren’t locusts on the menu in my local kosher restaurant? The Shulchan Aruch notes that in order to actually eat them, we require an unbroken tradition passed through the generations as to the identity of the correct species. In Ashkenazi, and most Sefardi communities, this tradition has not been preserved and although there is plenty of literary evidence that locusts were eaten in many countries where Jews lived through history, most communities have discontinued their consumption.

Rabbi Ari Zivotofsky, a prolific contemporary writer who is fascinated with obscure kashrut issues, quotes numerous sources to indicate that until quite recently, the consumption of locusts was very common; nowadays the tradition is maintained by a small number of Yemenite Jews. Eager to ensure that the tradition is preserved and even spread abroad, Zivotofsky organised a ‘halachic dinner’ in Israel at which he demonstrated the kosher varieties of locusts according to the Yemenite tradition. He then served locusts for desert! Another expert, Dr. Zohar Amar, himself of Yemenite descent, provided the tradition through which the insects were identified. A number of academic studies have appeared on the subject; the Encyclopaedia Talmudit devotes seven pages to the subject and issue 19 of the Israeli Halachic Journal ‘Techumin’ offers 17 pages of detailed analysis from a Rabbi Sari in collaboration with Dr. Amar.

The likelihood is that cultural factors and unavailability (they’re not too common in Northern Europe!) led to the loss of the tradition. Will they ever appear on Ashkenazi menus? While Zivotofsky, who clearly has a very strong stomach, would have us eating all manner of strange foods, I think it may be some time.
A version of this article first appeared in the Jewish Chronicle. It is republished here with permission.