Rabbi Yosef Zvi Rimon

Rabbi Yosef Zvi Rimon

The Shemitta Etrog, After the Shemitta Year

A member of the Mizrachi Speakers Bureau mizrachi.org/ speakers Although the Shemitta year has ended, many of its laws continue to apply, even after the Shemitta year is over. As we approach Sukkot, it is critical to determine the status of etrogim that began growing during the Shemitta year. The Shemitta sanctity of vegetables is determined by the date of harvest. This is why, from the very beginning of the Shemitta year, one must be careful when purchasing vegetables, because if they were picked after Rosh Hashanah, they have Shemitta sanctity. Regarding fruit, on the other hand, the critical date is that of chanata – when the fruit first begins to assume shape, or when it reaches a third of its growth. Therefore, the fruit that is brought to the market at the beginning of the Shemitta year does not have Shemitta sanctity, and it is only towards Pesach of the Shemitta year that fruit with Shemitta sanctity becomes available.

What is the status of an etrog? At first glance, it seems clear that an etrog is the fruit of a tree, and therefore Shemitta sanctity should apply to it only in the eighth year (because any etrog that is available for Sukkot of the seventh year had reached chanata during the sixth year). This is the position of the Ra’avad (Hilchot Ma’aser Sheni 1:5) and most Rishonim, based on the Mishnah in Bikkurim (2:6). The Rambam, however, rules that an etrog is treated like a vegetable, because an etrog needs extensive watering just like a vegetable (as indicated by the Gemara in Kiddushin 3a), and therefore the critical date regarding Shemitta sanctity is the date on which the etrog is picked. According to most Rishonim, the etrog used on the Sukkot celebrated at the beginning of the Shemitta year does not have Shemitta sanctity. However, according to the Rambam, it does have Shemitta sanctity. In practice, despite the fact that strictly speaking we rule an etrog is treated like a fruit, we try to be stringent and assign it Shemitta sanctity according to the date of its harvest, as if it were a vegetable (see Chazon Ish, Shevi’it 7:10; Shevet ha-Levi, I, no. 175). Strictly speaking, it is permitted to use a Shemitta etrog to fulfill the mitzvah of the four species, only that the sale of such an etrog raises certain problems and must be done through the Otzar Beit Din. This Sukkot, during the eighth year, etrogim do have Shemitta sanctity, and therefore must be sold through the Otzar Beit Din. After Sukkot, the etrog should not be thrown in the garbage, but rather it should be eaten, or else placed in a bag and later discarded in a respectful manner.

When an etrog is purchased with kashrut certification, the certification presumably related to the Shemitta sanctity as well.

Rabbi Yosef Zvi Rimon is Head of Mizrachi’s Educational Advisory Board and Rabbinic Council. He serves as the Rabbi of the Gush Etzion Regional Council, Rosh Yeshiva of the Jerusalem College of Technology and is the Founder and Chairman of Sulamot.

The Arba’a Minim and Chag HaAsif

"And you shall take for yourselves… the fruit of goodly trees, branches of palm-trees, and boughs of leafy trees, and willows of the brook” (Vayikra 23:40). The most familiar explanation for this mitzvah is that each of the four species represents a certain type of person, and so we bind these four species together to symbolize the necessity of all of them for the wholeness of the people of Israel: “Pri etz hadar – this is Israel; just as the etrog has a good taste and scent, so too among Israel are found people who possess both Torah and good deeds. Kapot temarim – this is Israel; just as a date tree has a good taste but no scent, so too among Israel are found people who possess Torah but not good deeds. V’anaf etz avot – this is Israel; just as the hadas has a good scent but no taste, so too among Israel are found people who possess good deeds but not Torah. V’arvei nachal – this is Israel. Just as the aravah has neither a good taste nor a good scent, so too among Israel are found people who possess neither Torah nor good deeds. Said the Holy One, blessed be He: To destroy them is impossible; rather, bind them together as one and they will atone for one another” (Midrash HaGadol, Vayikra 23:40). Along with the beautiful midrashim, it is worth paying attention to the simple layer of the mitzvah, which is also of great significance to our lives. Chag HaSukkot is also Chag HaAsif, the festival of the harvest, and the mitzvah of the four species is clearly related to the agricultural aspect of Sukkot: “When you have gathered in the yield of your land, you shall observe the festival of Hashem… And you shall take for yourselves on the first day the fruit of goodly trees, branches of palm-trees, and boughs of leafy trees, and willows of the brook and you shall rejoice before Hashem your G-d seven days” (Vayikra 23:39–40). There are several aspects of Chag HaAsif, which are reflected in the taking of the four species.

Calm at the end of the agricultural year and the Days of Judgment:

Rabbi Yosef Bechor Shor sees the four species as “bouquets of flowers” that decorate our lives and make them more pleasing. Dealing with the four species is a sign of luxury, an activity that only a person free from the stresses of making a living can afford himself. Until Sukkot, everyone was preoccupied with agricultural work and the fear of judgment of the High Holidays. At the end of this season, a person begins to feel physical and spiritual calm and contentment, a feeling expressed through the four species: “So that you will be seen as emerging meritorious from the courthouse, so that you will be seen as princes carrying beautiful and scented fruit in your hand, strolling joyously with branches for seven days... On Pesach and Shavuot you are busy gathering grain. But now you are free…” (Rabbi Yosef Bechor Shor, Vayikra 23:40).

Joy in this year’s produce:

At the time of harvest, man recognizes that the grain grown that year is from G-d, and he rejoices and thanks G-d for it. Taking several kinds of plants that represent the crop, and rejoicing in them before G-d, is the proper way to thank G-d for the crop. The etrog represents fruit, the lulav represents fruit trees, hadassim represent fragrant plants, and aravot represent non-fruit bearing trees.

Prayer for rain and produce:

Alongside joy and gratitude for last year's crop, we also look forward to next year, and pray it will be blessed. On Sukkot we bring the water libation and begin to pray for rain, which allows for growth and existence. Rabbeinu Bechayei sees the four species as part of the prayer for rain: “These four species grow through water and require more watering than other fruit. Therefore, we are commanded on Sukkot, the time of the water libation and the day of judgment for the upcoming year’s rain, to please G-d with the four species which represent water…” (Rabbeinu Bechayei, Vayikra 23:40). These three aspects of the four species explain, together, one unified process. We pause to reflect on the year just completed, we express thanks for the abundance we have received, and from this we recognize that we must, once again, pray to G-d for abundance and blessing in the year ahead. Rabbanit Sharon Rimon teaches Tanach and is Content Editor for the HaTanakh website.

Rabbanit Sharon Rimon

Son of Rabbi Naftali Zvi Yehudah Berlin (the Netziv), Rabbi Meir Bar-Ilan (1880–1949) was one of the Mizrachi movement’s greatest and most passionate advocates. Living in Berlin in 1911, he founded HaIvri, the world’s first Hebrew weekly newspaper. It soon became a primary forum for leading Zionists to grapple with the great questions of the day.

In 1915, as World War I engulfed Europe, Rabbi Bar-

Ilan moved to the United States, where he lived for the next ten years. He soon became the recognized head of the Mizrachi movement and established an

American counterpart to his HaIvri paper, which was published weekly until 1921. The following essay was published in Hebrew on the front page of HaIvri on October 11, 1916, and is translated here for the first time.

“Every citizen of Israel shall dwell in Sukkot” (Vayikra 23:42).

rom our study of mussar we know that it is not enough to help one’s friend when he is in pain and to give him support and strength. Rather, we are obligated to join our friend in his suffering, to see ourselves as if we too are suffering in the same way. We must truly feel his pain. This obligation is not restricted to individuals, but applies to nations as well. Nations that dwell securely and peacefully in its own land are obligated to feel the suffering of those poor and unfortunate peoples

who dwell in exile. Settled nations must see themselves as if they, too, are suffering in exile. When our people were םיִחָרְזֶא, citizens, settled securely in our own Land of Israel, we were commanded to leave our permanent homes for a few days to live in sukkot, in temporary tents, so that we ourselves could could experience a taste of wandering and exile. We would remember that we were not always established citizens in Israel, but that we too had dwelled in sukkot when we left Egypt. Living in sukkot helped us identify with other nations who had been exiled and could not live in their own land, people who only knew a life of sukkot.

Temporary and impermanent – this is the tragedy of every wandering nation. A nation that dwells in its own land lives a life of permanence and order. If there is value to its actions, the value is lasting and does not change from day to day. And if there is holiness in its way of life, its holiness has permanence. But this is not the fate of wandering peoples, whose lives are not in healthy order. Its people dwell in one land for a period of time and become accustomed to its ways, but are forced to move on to another land, and adopt their ways instead. This is the history of wandering. There is no nation in world history that walked in exile, whether willingly or against its will, that was not diminished in reputation and numbers. By definition, exile weakens a people, for their children inevitably assimilate into the host nation’s population. And if there are groups of people who are permanent wanderers, such as the gypsies, they do not even qualify as proper nations possessing their own unique culture and literature. Only Am Yisrael, despite wandering for years in the desert, merited to be covered by the clouds of glory. Only Am Yisrael, despite our wandering, raised children who retained our identity and stepped into the shoes of their fathers who died before their time. And not only that, but there, in our exile in the wilderness, our national identity was formed and we received G-d’s Torah! But even as we lived in temporary sukkot, we hoped for future days when we would cease to be wanderers and dwell in our own Land.

Just as this hope for our own Land protected the generation of the wilderness, who despite their wanderings did not lose their identity and preferred to wander in the wilderness than to return to slavery in Egypt, so have we had many generations since then of “temporary dwelling”, during which the spirit of Israel remained strong and our independent identity did not waver. Even as we wandered, the “clouds of glory” did not leave us, and our children remained with us, accepting the heritage of their father and preserving their unique qualities and achievements. From the exiles of Babylonia, Spain, France and Germany through the exiles of Poland and Lithuania in recent times, we were wanderers, but we did not dwell in a “foreign environment”. We built walls of the spirit around us, and within these walls we lived in a world of our own. We had great centers, of the Geonim in Babylonia, of the wise men of Israel in Spain, and the Gedolei Torah in other lands. And all this time we kept one hope within our hearts: that soon, in just a few more years, our nation would return to life in its own land. When we dwelt as citizens in our own land, we would test our strength, to see if we possessed the endurance to live a life of wandering. We practiced a life of wandering during the holiday of Sukkot, to see what impact it would have on us and whether we would be able to survive if our land was taken from us.

This “practice” served us well. For when we lived in exile, our temporary homes were spiritually healthy, with an atmosphere of permanence. We kept apart from nations among whom we lived, creating spiritual kingdoms within the physical kingdoms of others. We fulfilled the dictum of ורודָת ןיֵעְכ ובְׁשֵת, “dwell in [sukkot] as you dwell [in your homes]” (Sukkot 28b), not only during Sukkot, but all year long. Torrential rains of decrees and suffering poured down upon us, and if the sun occasionally shone with promises of kindness, we still refused to leave our temporary sukkot for permanent buildings that were not our own!... We recognized that we can never live in permanent dwellings in lands not our own. And if our host nations came and destroyed our sukkot and sought to erase the memories of our past and our hopes for the future from our hearts, we would leave that place and build our sukkot anew in a different land.

Only in recent generations have we sought to truly dwell among foreign nations. The wandering has become too much for us; we yearn for a permanent home, and seek it in the homes of others… We have ventured outside of our walls, destroying the mechitza that separated us from our neighbors. If we still have temporary sukkot in our time, they are no longer kosher sukkot, for they are not built from the materials of our own Land and they are also tainted with materials that are הָאְמוט לֵבַקְמ, susceptible to impurity. How beautiful were our sukkot when they stood in our own Land, and we dwelled in them with pleasure and joy! How beloved were our sukkot when they stood within our borders and aroused thoughts of building David’s fallen sukkah [the Beit HaMikdash]! But how different are the sukkot that possess no joy in the present nor hope for the future but serve only as a place of refuge from the stones thrown at us… But today, [as the world is convulsed in war,] we see sukkot that give us some hope. It is possible that through the many “sukkot” in which millions of soldiers now find themselves, in the trenches and battlefields [of World War I] – perhaps through this experience the citizens of the world will begin to understand the suffering of the stranger and wanderer. Perhaps now, when so many millions are forced to leave their comfortable homes for the temporary dwellings of war to fight for the freedom of their nations – perhaps now they will have some sympathy for our people, for our yearning for freedom and for our homeland…

Only one year after this essay was published, on November 2, 1917, Rabbi Meir Bar-Ilan’s hope for compassion from the nations materialized with the issuance of Great Britain’s Balfour Declaration, expressing the British government’s support for a Jewish homeland in Palestine.

Katharina Hadassah Wendl

The Simple Letters in a Scroll

The weekly Torah readings are surrounded by many halachot and minhagim. The scroll we read from is stored, usually with a few others, in the Torah ark that forms the focal point of a synagogue. Often made of delicate wood and covered with an embroidered parochet, the ark is in this way like a Torah scroll. In batei knesset following Ashkenazi minhagim, a scroll is covered with a highly decorative mantle. In Sefardi ones, it is housed in a metal cast with detailed etchings. We stand up when the Torah scroll is taken out and carried through the synagogue, we recite verses and individuals are called up to read from it – especially on the occasion of upcoming lifecycle events like weddings. Wound up between two atzei chaim, it is presented to the congregation. The Torah is read, we listen.

Though the Torah scroll is a central part of the regular synagogue services, the heritage and holiness that such a scroll emanates when carried through the synagogue and we read from it are unique. Outside the Jewish communal context, scrolls as a type of written document have become exceedingly rare. This is due to the advent of the codex in late antiquity and the introduction of printing in the late middle ages. But as Jews, we still read from them. The text of our scrolls is written nicely and clearly, dark ink on light parchment. But aside from the ark, the rituals, songs and readings, there is nothing more to the scroll than this: black ink on white background, row after row.

Why are Torah scrolls written and kept this way – and have been ever since? Illuminated Hebrew manuscripts and beautiful printed editions – halachic, midrashic, mystical and liturgical works – have proliferated over the centuries, impressing their readers with ever diverse aesthetics. The illuminated Kennicott Bible and the Barcelona Haggadah are just two examples of these kinds of artfully created manuscripts.1 Torah scrolls do not have such kinds of illuminations – far from it.

Eruvin 13a of the Talmud Bavli records a conversation between Rabbi Meir and Rabbi Yishmael. Asked by Rabbi Yishmael about his profession, Rabbi Meir says that he is a scribe, upon which Rabbi Yishmael responds: “My son, be careful in your vocation, as your vocation is heavenly service, if you omit a single letter or add a single letter, you will end up destroying the whole world in its entirety.”2 Here, writing a Torah scroll is attributed great responsibility – it is guided by clearly proscribed laws – no letter may be added, only certain writing utensils, only some types of parchments may be used. Also the ink has to fulfil criteria (see Rambam’s Hilchot Tefillin, 1.4; Shulchan Aruch, Yoreh De’ah 271). One criterion is that it is black

ink. The Midrash Tanchuma-Yelamdenu (Bereshit 1) that Rashi refers to in his commentary on Devarim 33:2 describes that the law was written in black fire upon white fire – black ink on white parchment. Other colours are outrightly forbidden. That a Torah scroll is to be written with dyo – a certain type of black ink with the exclusion of other colours – is considered halachah leMoshe miSinai (Masechet Sofrim, chapter 1). There is, however, an interesting question about whether gilding letters that have already been written in black ink is permissible. According to the Talmud Bavli, Masechet Shabbat 103b, names of G-d must not be written in gold – this gives a leeway for scribes: Could that mean that gold can be used for other letters? The poskim rule this out for G-d’s name – this makes a Torah scroll invalid. Additionally, it is forbidden to remove the gold as this would be considered blotting out Hashem’s name. Gold dust that has fallen on other letters in a Torah scroll is a different question, though. In theory, as the Shulchan Aruch (Orach Chayim 32:3) writes, adding gold dust onto letters other than those belonging to G-d’s names does not make it invalid, but fixable. As long as the ink underneath remains intact, the Torah scroll can still be used – but only once the gold dust is removed again! The Keset HaSofer points out that this Perhaps the simplicity of a Torah scroll is an expression of the will to maintain an authentic connection to the experience of Har Sinai that transcends time and ephemeral artistic trends.

case is fairly uncommon, but knowing about this halachah may enable scribes to save Torah scrolls that otherwise would be considered entirely unfit. Thus, the Torah scroll remains black ink on light parchment. However, there is diversity in the way Torah scrolls are written and there are even decorative elements, albeit small ones. Scribes from different centuries and regions write in slightly different styles and traditions. Additionally, scribes are also careful to add tagin – three intricate serifs on top of certain letters – shin, ayin, tet, nun, zayin, gimmel, tzadi. Menachot 29b of the Talmud Bavli tells of G-d himself adding these tagin to the Torah and thereby another layer of meanings that we can learn from. Over time, a vast array of mystical traditions about them (and of tagin on other letters) developed. But it is the simple text, the dark ink on the light parchment, that connects us to our mesorah. Its content, not its outer appearance is crucial. Perhaps the simplicity of a Torah scroll is an expression of the will to maintain an authentic connection to the experience of Har Sinai that transcends time and ephemeral artistic trends. The word itself is of higher significance than its shape. Linguistically speaking, the signified is more important than the signifier. The Torah scroll, as much as it is read, is heard. And in a way, this is reminiscent of how the Jewish people experienced Matan Torah at Har Sinai – the words of G-d, as written in Shemot 20:15: “And all the people see the voices” (תֹלֹוקַה תֶא םיִאֹר םָעָה לָכְו).

1. Both of them are part of British archival collections and are available online as scans.

The Bodleian Library houses MS. Kennicott 1, the British Library is home to Add MS 14761, the Barcelona Haggadah. ,איִה םִיַמָׁש תֶכאֶלְמ ךְתְכאַלְמֶׁש ,ךֶתְכאַלְמִב ריִהָז יֵוֱה ,יִנְב — תַחַא תֹוא רֵתיַיְמ ֹוא תַחַא תֹוא רֵסַחְמ הָתַא אָמֶׁש .ֹולוכ םָלֹועָה לָכ תֶא ביִרֲחַמ ָתאֵצְמִנ .2

Katharina Hadassah Wendl is a participant of Lilmod Ul’Lamed, a women’s educator programme of Mizrachi UK, United Synagogue and Bnei Akiva, and part of an interdisciplinary research project on Medieval Ashkenazi Torah scrolls based at the Free University of Berlin. As a PhD researcher, she focuses on the historical development of Hilchot STaM. She has degrees in Education and Jewish Studies and lives in London with her husband.