Beginnings: Torah and Jewish Philosophy Insights from Ramaz Upper School Faculty and Alumni

‫התחדשויות‬ BEGINNINGS

Torah and Jewish Philosophy Insights from Ramaz Upper School Faculty and Alumni Yamim Noraim & Sukkot 2021

‫ימים נוראים וסוכות תשפ״ב‬‎

This publication is dedicated in memory of our dear father & grandfather

‫יהודה לייב בן ישראל ז״ל‬ J. Leonard Spodek z"l

Our dear brother in-law and Uncle

‫חיים יוסף ז״ל בן אפרים העניך נ״י‬ Gary Turkel z"l

And in loving memory of our grandparents & great-grandparents

‫ישראל בן דוד ושרה בת דוב בער (בערעש) ז״ל‬ Israel and Sarah (Elbaum) Spodek z"l

‫יצחק בן אברהם ולאה בת חנוך ז״ל‬ Irving and Lillian (Bernheim) Tyras z"l

They loved their family and aspired to build generations grounded in the tradition of Torah Avi, Evelyn, Isaac, David & Jack Spodek

Table of Contents Rabbi Kenny Schiowitz

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Introduction

YAMIM NORAIM (ROSH HASHANAH & YOM KIPPUR): Rabbi Ilan Schimmel

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Rosh Hashanah: A Day of Rememberence and Judgement

Rabbi Ruben Gober

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Days of Awe and Days of Celebration?

Ms. Gabby Rahimzada

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Yonah and Yom Kippur

Ms. Sarah Cabot '17

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On the Path to the Kodesh HaKodashim: Remembering We Are Beloved

Ms. Miriam Krupka

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Prayer as Grief, Prayer as a Language of Life

Rabbi Moshe Stavsky

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What Does it Take to be a Tzaddik?

SUKKOT: Rabbi Kenny Schiowitz

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Remembering, Sukkot Style

Ms. Miriam Gedwiser

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Sukkot and the In-Between

Cover Art: Creator Unknown. Rosh Hashanah Card; ca. 1900, Printed Material. Brooklyn Museum Archives, Exhibitions: The Great East River Bridge, 1883-1983, Brooklyn, NY.

Words of Introduction

‫אקדמות מלין‬ Rosh Hashana seems to be the most singular day of the year. It is the birthday of the universe and the Jewish New Year’s Day. Nevertheless, the uniqueness of Rosh Hashana is stripped away in the opening phrase of the Mishna Masechet Rosh Hashana: “There are four Rosh Hashanas each year”. Thus, one third of the months of the year contain a New Year’s Day for different purposes, including the New Year for trees in Shevat. Moreover, the three major holidays of the year are structured in a sequence, opening with Pesach and concluding with Sukot. The month of Nisan (which contains Pesach) is the “first of the month”, despite the fact that it is six months away from Rosh Hashana. Apparently, the first day of the year is merely one of many firsts, and in many ways it is also the middle and end of the year. I believe that this phenomenon underlies a profound truth about Judaism and humanity.

Teshuva is one of the most commonly discussed Jewish topics, especially at this time of year. Profound insights into this cornerstone principle are found in a number of the essays in this publication. It seems obvious that there must be an opportunity to correct our pasts and improve ourselves for the future.

Oftentimes, however, we are hesitant to truly forgive others and are more cynical in our beliefs that people can truly change. Perhaps the “teshuva season” can be best used as a time to reflect on the true ability of humanity to change. Education is founded on the belief that people - both children and adults - can improve and change.

Rosh Hashana, the day of renewal, represents the human capacity for change. This unique ability, however, is not limited to this day or season. The opening words of Masechet Rosh Hashana remind us that there are many “Rosh Hashanas” in the year. Indeed, every day can be a new start, when we choose to make it that.

We hope that this Rosh Hashana will usher in a year of new beginnings that will offer health and limitless growth in our school, in our communities, and in our world. We also hope that the ideas shared in this publication will deepen all of our understandings of the meaning of these days and the impact that they can offer on our lives.

Sincerely, Rabbi Kenny Schiowitz Director of Judaic Studies and Religious Life

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Yamim Noraim

‫ימים נוראים‬

Rosh Hashana: A Day of Remembrance and Judgment Rabbi Ilan Schimmel, Faculty “On Rosh Hashana, all the inhabitants of this world file before Him. As it is said, “He that fashioneth the hearts of them all, that considereth all their doings (Ps. 33:15)” [Mishnah Rosh ha-Shanah 1:2] According to our tradition, Rosh Hashana is depicted as the day when God administers judgment on mankind.

Numerous passages in the Talmud discuss the nature of this judgment, its scope and significance. Examining the liturgy that we recite on this exalted day, we find that it is replete with awe-inspiring passages, describing humanity in a state of suspense concerning its fate and ultimate destiny. For many people, the Unetaneh Tokef, a poem composed in the 11th century, which forms the crescendo of the Mussaf service, is embedded in their memory from attendeding shul as children. This poem is centered around the stirring, vivid imagery of nations and individuals receiving judgement for their actions. With this in mind, it is most surprising that when we examine the description of Rosh Hashana in the Torah, we fail to find a reference to God’s judgment of the world. Instead, we read the following enigmatic description of the holiday: “In the seventh month, on the first day of the month, it shall be a solemn rest unto you, a memorial proclaimed with the blast of horns, a holy convocation.” The notion that man stands before God and his actions are judged is absent from the Torah text. One would expect that the Torah would instruct us regarding the unique character and metaphysical significance of the day, as it does when discussing the other holidays. Is there any ambiguity that Pesach commemorates our Exodus from Egypt? Does the Torah not specify the reason for our celebration of Sukkot?

And yet, here, when Rosh Hashana is described, we are pressed to find any explanation for the religious meaning of the day, nor a specific reference to God’s judgment.

Recently, I discovered an answer to this question that was suggested by Nachmanides in the 13th century in a sermon that he delivered on Rosh Hashana in the city of Acco upon making aliyah to the land of Israel.

The sermon is considered by scholars to be a remarkable achievement for its mastery of rabbinic sources as well as for its unique blend of religious, philosophical and halachic ingenuity. In commenting on many disparate aspects of Rosh Hashana, Nachmanides develops a unifying explanation that gives profound insight into the nature of the day. Confronting our specific problem, he notes that one must have familiarity with the semantics of the term zikaron (remembrance) as it appears in Tanach. He explains that the word zikaron, when used to describe God’s relationship with man, always connotes an act of judgment. Thus, when Noach is rescued from the impending deluge, the Torah writes, “And God remembered (vayizkior) Noach and all the beasts and all the cattle that were with him in the ark…"(Gen. 8:1). Likewise, when we are informed of Rachel’s long-awaited conception of Joseph, the Torah writes that “God remembered (vayizkior) Rachel, heard her and her womb was opened"(Gen. 30:22). In these instances the Torah is explaining that Noach and Rachel were deemed worthy of salvation as a result of an act of judgement. Therefore, Nachmanides explains that the Torah’s depiction of Rosh Hashana as a day of zikaron (remembrance) indicates to us that God is involved in the judgement of mankind.

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It would appear that the Torah’s choice of the term zikaron (remember) to express God’s judgement of man as opposed to shafat (judge), a term that would seem more appropriate, expresses a profound idea: namely, that God’s judgment of humanity ensues naturally from the fact that we were created by Him. While the word shafat implies examining man’s actions in his present state, zikaron connotes an evaluation of man with reference to an earlier point in time, specifically creation. Zikaron means an examination of whether the decisions that we make and the life that we choose to live reflect our potential as created beings. In this context, to receive a positive judgment, or to be remembered favorably, implies that fulfilled our purpose as created beings and live in a way that reflects God’s intended purpose for humanity. It is for this reason that on Rosh Hashana- the day that we are judged- we also celebrate the creation of the world, for both concepts are integrally related.

This idea is succinctly expressed in the following prayer from the Mussaf service, when we refer to Rosh Hashana as: “the anniversary of the start of Your handiwork, a remembrance of the first day. For it is a decree for Israel, a judgement day for the God of Jacob.” May the fact that we are remembered by God provide us all with a greater sense of meaning, fulfillment and happiness. On behalf of myself and my family, I would like to extend my sincerest wishes to the entire Ramaz community for a year of blessing, good health and happiness.

G’mar chatima tova.

Days of Awe and Days of Celebration?

Rabbi Ruben Gober, Faculty

The days of Rosh HaShana and Yom Kippur are known as the Yamim Noraim, “The Days of Awe”. Awe is generally associated with feelings of fear and angst, as we are concerned with our judgement and fate for the coming year. In fact, this experience is supported by the well known explanation in the Talmud as to why we don’t say Hallel on these days. The Talmud states in Masechet Arachin (10b) that it is not appropriate to say Hallel, a festive prayer of praise and thanks to the Almighty, when the books of life and death are open.

At the same time, these days are also Yomim Tovim, translated literally as “good days”, that are categorized generally as celebratory days. We have an obligation to eat and drink in a festive fashion. Interestingly, Rambam makes this contrast quite clear when explaining the omission of Hallel on Rosh HaShana and Yom Kippur (Laws of Chaunka 3:6), saying that these are days of repentance and fear, not excessive celebration.

Note that the Rambam does not say that there is no celebration, but rather only that the celebration should not be excessive.

How are we to understand the dual nature of these days? How can we make sense of the fact that we are supposed to be in awe while also celebrating?

When thinking of judgement, it is natural to have a sense of fear. People generally don’t like the idea of being judged by others, as we are quite aware of our own failings and flaws. How much more so when it comes to 6

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the idea that we are judged by our Creator, who sees our actions as well as all of our thoughts and feelings.

The sense of insecurity we feel in this context engenders a sense of fear and awe as to what our verdict will be.

At the same time, to be judged by the Creator means that we have a relationship with Him. The very notion of judgement contains within it the idea that there is a God that takes notice of each and every individual.

Even more, God has standards and morals that He wants us to live by in order to live a meaningful life. The idea that we exist in this world with a design and purpose is something that should give us all a sense of joy.

In contrast to the view that humans pass through this meaningless world only to turn to dust, Rosh HaShana and Yom Kippur remind us that we have the ability to live a meaningful life by choosing to follow God’s Will, as expressed in Torah and Mitzvot, and that God relates to us based on this framework.

We live in a culture in which the idea of objective morals and standards are derided as antiquated and purely prejudiced. In such an atmosphere, it can be challenging to appreciate how those very morals and standards come from the Creator and enable us to aim for an elevated and sanctified life. Our existence is not merely a transient one in which, like dust in the wind, we move in the direction that the culture moves. Fortunately, with the Torah as a whole, and specifically during the Days of Awe, we have an opportunity to appreciate how laws and morals establish a means for us to grow and progress towards a truly meaningful and joyful life. May we merit a good verdict by taking advantage of this opportunity.

Yonah and Yom Kippur Ms. Gabby Rahimzada, Faculty After much anticipation and preparation, we finally approach the holiest day of the year, Yom Kippur. At the height of the day, right before beginning the final Neilah prayer, we read the book of Yonah. This seems to be a simple story about a Navi who flees from God, gets swallowed by a fish, ends up in Ninveh, inspires them to repent, and then gets angry at God for forgiving them. Aside from the theme of teshuva, it is hard to recognize a strong connection between the story and Yom Kippur. In the last perek of sefer Yonah, we read about a sukkah that Yonah built, and the kikayon, a shady tree that comes to fruition and withers soon after. With that we are led into the highly anticipated Neilah prayer which closes the Yom Kippur services and marks the sealing of our fate for the year. What is it about Sefer Yonah that resembles the day of Yom Kippur? Why is this, of all stories or passages, read as the mincha haftarah?

The simplest way to approach this question can be derived from the text itself. In chapter 4, after the people of Nineveh do teshuva, Yonah becomes displeased and angry. He says to God: “This is the reason I fled to Tarshish. Because I know that you are a gracious and merciful God, slow to anger, with much kindness, and relenting of evil.” Yonah believes that God has displayed too much mercy and kindness to the people, lacking justice. In his eyes, justice would demand that these people deserve punishment for their evildoings. Yonah’s anger here could be the reason why God sends the kikayon. The kikayon represents a clear expression of God’s

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mercy. Yonah is not deserving of it, and does not even need it (he has the shade of the sukkah), yet Hashem grants it to him out of His lovingkindness. When he receives it, Yonah is overjoyed. A gift from God, and more shade from the blazing sun! Through the worm, God causes the kikayon to wither and die, causing Yonah to become so heartbroken that he asks God to take his life. The kikayon is a lesson to Yonah: one cannot survive in this world without God’s mercy. God caused Yonah to experience what it means to actually live God’s kindness and then have it taken away. On Yom Kippur we are meant to internalize this message. We have reached this point due to God’s abundant and constant mercy. The day of Yom Kippur is a gift from God and we must take advantage of by using it to come closer to Him through teshuva, instead of having it wither away.

This is an encouraging and comforting message for the day that our actions are accounted for.

After Ninveh’s teshuva movement, Yonah leaves the city and sits outside of it in a sukkah that he built for himself. Soon after, Hashem sends the kikayon. A sukkah is built from mostly temporary materials that one has.

A kikayon cannot be created by ourselves (in such little time). Yonah builds a sukkah with what he has, but God then provides for him the kikayon, which he loves. Yonah did not have to do anything for the kikayon. It was an expression of God right in front of him. Yom Kippur can be compared to the kikayon. It is a gift that comes every year, undoubtedly. All we are to do is "show up," resolve in our hearts to improve, and the day in and of itself cleanses us from our sins. The Midrash in Shir HaShirim Rabbah says: [God says]: “make me an opening (of teshuva) the size of a pinhole, and I’ll make you an opening big enough for carriages to drive through.” If we exert just a little bit of effort to do teshuva, God will open up so many other spiritual opportunities for us and we will be given divine assistance in our teshuva process. The kikayon, however, does not last. One cannot find permanent spirituality in “the kikayon.” While Yom Kippur can (and should) be a boost of inspiration for the rest of the year, just like the sukkah, we must actively build on that inspiration and closeness to God and work to maintain it throughout the rest of the year.

Rav Soloveitchik explains that the liturgy of the day of Yom Kippur are mostly prayers that concern the welfare and success of our own people. It is therefore appropriate that as the day of Yom Kippur comes to a close, after almost 24 hours of prayer for the people of Israel, we are reminded through the story of Yonah, that all of humanity are God’s children. We reinstate “the universal dimension of our faith”, especially when we are constantly persecuted and would be inclined to regard the world in purely confrontational terms.

May we internalize the messages of Sefer Yonah and use them to strengthen the inspiration of the day to become closer to God and carry the inspiration with us through the rest of the year.

On the Path to the Kodesh HaKodashim: Remembering We Are Beloved Sarah Cabot '17, Alumna Masechet Yoma, the tractate of Talmud devoted to the rituals of Yom Kippur, portrays a holiday that appears vastly different from the one we know and celebrate yearly. The Talmud details the service of the Kohen Gadol in the Beit Hamikdash. In a world where we no longer offer sacrifices, much of this masechet may seem 8

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irrelevant to our lives today, but an in-depth study of these sources proves that there is much to be learned from this rich text.

One of the climaxes of the Yom Kippur service is the moment that the Kohen Gadol enters the Kodesh HaKodashim, the Holy of Holies. The Talmud (daf 51b) records a discussion of the three possibilities as to the precise walking path that was taken by the Kohen Gadol as he approached our holiest place on this one occasion each year.

Rabbi Yehuda holds that two curtains separated the Heichal, or Sanctuary, and the Kodesh HaKodashim. The entrance in the outermost curtain to the intermediary space was on the south side, while the entrance in the innermost curtain to the Kodesh HaKodashim was on the north side. Thus, the Kohen Gadol would walk along the south side, “between the inner altar and candelabrum,” enter the first curtain, walk across to the north side, and then, at last, enter the Kodesh HaKodashim.

Rabbi Yosi, on the other hand, is of the opinion that there was just a single curtain separating the Heichal and the Kodesh HaKodashim with an entrance on the north side. Therefore, the Kohen Gadol would walk along the north side, between the table and the wall, directly into the Kodesh HaKodashim.

These two opinions agree that the entrance to the Kodesh HaKodashim was on the north side, each presenting the most direct path, given their views on the setup of the curtains. A third view is presented by Rabbi Meir who disputes this assumption. According to Rabbi Meir, he walked between the table and the altar, down the center of the room. This questionable path is not the most direct no matter whose curtain-opinion Rabbi Meir follows. The Talmud offers two explanations of Rabbi Meir’s view: The first possibility is that Rabbi Meir follows the opinion of Rabbi Yosi, but the path “between the table and the wall” was too narrow to pass through. Therefore, the Kohen Gadol would walk around the table, down the center of the room. Although this is a reasonable and practical resolution, the Talmud also offers a more philosophical answer. Although there was enough room to walk along the north side “between the table and the wall,” the Kohen Gadol would walk down the center of the room because, due to the honor of the Shechina, it was not proper conduct for the Kohen Gadol to enter the holiest place in the Beit HaMikdash so directly; he purposefully followed a hesitant and circuitous approach to meet our Creator. This route reinforced the gravity of this moment and the harrowing responsibility that the Kohen Gadol carried into the Holy of Holies.

Rabbi Yosi counters, arguing that the Jewish people are so beloved to God, evidenced by the fact that the Torah did not require them to make use of an agent who would intercede on their behalf. Instead, God hears the nation’s prayers directly, and, for this reason, the Kohen Gadol, who represents all of Israel on Yom Kippur, does not need to enter in a roundabout fashion.

Our intimate relationship with God is specifically reinforced in the context of the Yom Kippur service. One of the most prominent tefillot of the Yom Kippur service discusses who will survive the coming year and who will not. We spend Yom Kippur praying to God with the utmost humility, asking for the continued health BEGINNINGS

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and happiness of our families and friends. We pray that we are forgiven for the mistakes we made and that which we could have done better. In many ways, Yom Kippur can feel like an ominous and intimidating day; one that makes us think of our shortcomings, our fragility, and our mortality. The sentiment of this Gemara’s conclusion, however, places our experience of Yom Kippur in a drastically different light. The vulnerability and honesty that we embody on Yom Kippur does not make it a day in which we are solely focused on worrying about following “proper protocol,” but a day in which we can speak comfortable and directly to God and, according to Rabbi Yosi, enter directly into the place of God’s presence. Rabbi Yosi and Rabbi Meir describe the two sides of our dialectical relationship with God: the transcendent and intimate. Yom Kippur accentuates both of these dimensions. We follow a prescribed and detailed service and are represented by the High Priest who approaches God on our behalf. At the same time, we each engage our Creator in a direct and personal conversation in our tefilot. This Yom Kippur, I hope that we remember how beloved we are, and internalize that it is precisely when we are most vulnerable with ourselves that we are most beloved to God.

Prayer as Grief, Prayer as a Language of Life Ms. Miriam Krupka, Faculty It was March of 2008 and we were all standing shocked in the Ramaz auditorium. We had just learned about the massacre that had taken place in the Bet Midrash at Yeshivat Merkaz Harav on the eve of Purim and we were saying some Tehillim together. The room was filled with an awesome silence; empathy and pain was on every face, and the words were spoken with a level of emotion and strength that is difficult to accomplish during a usual daily tefillah. Sadly, painfully, watching our brothers die was bringing our community closer to each other and to God. The principal of Ramaz at the time, R’ Eliezer Rubin, was shaking with tears as he led the tefillah. He had attended Yeshivat Merkaz HaRav and knew the family of one of the young victims. Ramaz students who had never heard of this yeshiva before today, and who didn’t know any of the victims personally, cried, and prayed along with him. It was an intensely painful, yet inspirational, moment.

And yet something bothered me.

And so I tried to pinpoint what that was. The room was such an intense place at that moment. We felt so bound together as a community. The prayers were powerful and meaningful. Jewish unity was generated through pain, victimization, prayer, tears and empathy.

But my mind kept jumping to what Alan Dershowitz, law professor at Harvard University, calls the “tzuris theory of Jewish survival,” or the idea that we’ve become so focused on our history of persecution that sometimes tragedy and pain can become the only things that bring us together, inspire us to empathize, force us to create space for God in our lives: and create a fire of Jewish passion, pride, action, and deep spirituality.

Do we only bond through difficulty? Has our history forced us to become a people that can pull together and define itself only as a result of its tragedies? Are the most meaningful moments of prayer when we imagine IDF soldiers in danger or when someone I know is experiencing something difficult? Why is it that our most inspiring moments manifest from sorrow? Why is it that tefillah on a ‘normal’ day feels empty and trite, but

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only picks up meaning when our classmate has a sick relative and we are praying for them together? CAN PRAYER FEEL POWERFUL ABSENT OF PAIN? Can I be inspired from a regular Tuesday morning Shacharit on a regular school day? Or must I wait for a ‘reason,’ for a teacher to tell me “Pray! X is at risk!’?

Can we create inspiration from daily existence??? We live in an intensely beautiful world (our prayers on Shabbat celebrating creation should be as inspiring as our prayers for the sick). God has given our community so much (daily expressions of gratitude should feel as heartfelt as our prayer for the soldiers of IDF) and is assisting and watching as we take every small step in our lives (prayer should be as powerful a moment at our births, graduations, and marriage festivities as we do when it comes to our hard times). The beauty of prayer on Rosh Hashanah is that the day is NOT a holiday that celebrates salvation from doom, vanquishing enemies, or shared tragedy. It is a day that is about creation, life, daily existence, and community, who we are, what we expect from ourselves and each other, and who we want to be. It is an existential day, not a memorial. It is a day to reflect on who we are. It is not a day to dwell on historical reasons for a relationship to our Creator or each other, but that our daily lives can bring us joy and fulfillment every time we sit down to a meal, hang out with a friend, or enjoy something small and wonderful. But how do we do that? Here’s where prayer can be a powerful tool. Prayer is vocal, it is an oration, it is the reciting of words out loud. As therapists, concert-goers, and motivational speakers can all attest to, vocal recitation can be a very powerful, meditative, emotional experience. Humming a tune is different than hearing it played at a concert. Thinking “I love this steak” is quite different than ritually reciting a formal acknowledgement of gratitude for the food on our table. Communal, vocal, and yes, repetitive rhetoric, is a path to group bonding, a focus on joy and a key to inspiration and acknowledgement, without the ‘crutch’ of tragedy. Because, of course, as my students know I love to say….

“When the band sings the song you know at their concert, it is far more powerful than when they sing the one you don’t.” As Susan Handelman, English professor at UCLA points out in her book “The Slayers of Moses”: Indeed, the Greek term for word, onama, is synonymous with name. By contrast, its Hebrew counterpart – davar- means not only word, but also thing. It was precisely this original unity of word and thing, speech and thought, discourse and truth, that the Greek enlightenment disrupted…One of the most important consequences of this disruption was to make the word suspect and to steer the seeker of truth away from language towards a silent ontology , or towards a purely rational system of signs, an artificially constructed ideal language such as mathematics…And the Christian tradition – whose philosophical roots became deeply embedded in Greek thought – also ultimately calls for transcendence of the word and language altogether.

The central doctrine of the Church – Incarnation – celebrates not the exaltation of the word but its transformation from the linguistic order into the material realm, its conversion into flesh. For the Rabbis, however, the primary reality was linguistic; true being was a God who speaks and creates texts and imitateo deus was not silent suffering, but speaking and interpreting.

Expression through language, ‘words’ as tangible ‘things’ (davar) has always been a mainstay of Jewish theological belief and experience. When we talk out loud, we reflect upon, experience, and live those ideas more deeply (think about how therapy works through talking!). This is what prayer can be.

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Can we cultivate a joyful awareness and feeling of contentment, intellectual curiosity, and inspiration, through daily oration and language, and not only as a result of calamity and heartbreak? Of course we can. At this start of an energizing new year, let’s see if we can approach our hours of daily prayer as expressions of language that expand our relationship to ourselves and to community, through a focus on ideas, experiences and new beginnings.

What does it take to be a Tzaddik?

Rabbi Moshe Stavsky, Faculty The gemara in Rosh Hashana (16b) cites Rabbi Yochanan’s teaching that there are three books open before Hashem on Rosh Hashana: one for complete tzaddikim (righteous), one for complete reshaim (evil) and one for the beinonim, the average peoople. The gemara continues to explain that the righteous individuals are immediately written and sealed for life, while the sinful individuals are immediately written and sealed for the end of their life. What about the middle of the road person, someone who is fifty-fifty? His judgement is suspended and waiting until Yom Kippur. If he is meritorious, then he is written for life; if not, then, unfortunately he is not written for life. This familiar image inspires us yearly to maximize our mitzvot during the Aseret Yemei Teshuva, the days from Rosh Hashana to Yom Kippur, to tip the divine scales to the side of merit. As long as we are majority-righteous, in Hashem’s complex calculus, we will emerge from being a beinoni and end up in the lot of the tzaddikim.

In codifying this teaching, the Rambam makes one noticeable change. Concerning the beinoni, the Rambam writes (Hilchot Teshuva 3:3): “if he performs teshuva, he is sealed for life; if not, he is sealed for death.”

Whereas the gemara appears to afford an individual the opportunity to perform any mitzvah as a merit, the Rambam limits the possibilities. The beinoni must do teshuva; anything else will be ineffective. Why did the Rambam change the formulation of the gemara? If the person is indeed right in the middle, with the scales even, then any mitzvah should be sufficient.

Rav Yitzchak Hutner (1906-1980, Rosh Yeshiva of Yeshiva Rabbi Chaim Berlin) presents a new way to read this gemara, which solves the difficulty in the Rambam. According to Rav Hutner (Pachad Yitzchak, Rosh Hashana, essay 18), the three categories of individuals, represented by the three books, are fundamentally not about Divine calculus and counting a person’s mitzvot and aveirot. If that were so, a person could fluctuate from being a tzaddik to a rasha or vice versa from one moment to the next throughout the year, which is hard to imagine. (I would add that it also seems unlikely that there is a sizable group of people who are exactly in the middle, despite the mystery of Hashem’s impenetrable algorithm to weigh virtues and vices.) Rather, the three categories reflect religious character traits. A tzaddik is defined by his merits, even if he stumbles from time to time. He is committed to being a merit-filled person, even if he finds himself in a period of time where his sins outnumber his mitzvot. Conversely, a rasha is defined by his will to rebel, to be a sinful person, even if he occasionally, or even often, performs mitzvot.

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Who is the beinoni? He is someone who does not identify with either the tzaddik or the rasha. He is pareve.

His characteristic is a lack of identification. Coasting through life, he may sometimes have more mitzvot on his spiritual ledger and sometimes not. Either way, he is still a beinoni because he is not committed to one way or another. He doesn’t identify with doing right or wrong. For this reason, the Rambam believes that it is not enough for the beinoni to simply perform one mitzvah more than the number of his sins. He needs to change his religious identity. The individual must do teshuva and identify as one who is committed to Hashem and His mitzvot.

It is significant to note that, other than in the piyyut of U’netoneh Tokef, our Rosh Hashana davening does not contain overt references to teshuva or even to being a day of judgment. Rather, as the Rambam writes (ibid.

3:4), the shofar serves as a call to wake up from our slumber, search our ways, perform teshuva and remember our Creator. Rosh Hashana is a day to identify the type of person we want to be and commit to developing a sincere religious character, marked by dedication, growth and enthusiasm. In short, we are inspired on Rosh Hashana to live life as tzaddikim, not as beinonim.

According to this new definition, living life as a beinoni reflects a fundamental flaw in one’s character. It signifies a person who isn’t fully committed in his Judaism and relationship with Hashem. He likely engages in religious routines, but isn’t looking for opportunities to grow in his performance of mitzvot. A beinoni lacks the dedication to serve Hashem on a consistent basis, especially when a mitzvah might be inconvenient, not “cool,” or difficult. Instead, his engagement is sporadic, lackluster and weak. Just like such a level of commitment will not work in a relationship with a parent, child or spouse, similarly, it won’t work in our relationship with Hashem.

The goal of this season of the year is to cultivate a mindset of religious commitment. The keyword is commitment, not perfection. No one is perfect, but we can all aspire to growing, engaged Jews. Let us further invest in our relationship with Hashem and make it a primary, vibrant and powerful force in our lives.

How do we achieve this level of commitment? There are many facets of our religious lives to consider. Below are just a few: How do we approach our Judaic Studies classes at school? Let’s take a moment to appreciate that these classes provide us daily opportunities to learn Torah and inspire us to live active and thoughtful Jewish lives. I recommend we think about how we can incorporate the lessons and values of our learning into our lives. In addition, perhaps we want to commit to attending more mishmars this year or other shiurim outside of the classroom. Maybe this is the year to join Chidon HaTanach, Torah Bowl or study for the YU Gemara Bekiut competition.

How can we improve our tefillot? Let us think about how we can daven with greater kavanah. Perhaps we can focus daily on the meaning of one tefilla and say it with a greater appreciation that we are standing before our Creator. Let us think of other people we can daven for, even when we can’t think of anything we need for ourselves. Can we be more careful to avoid using our cellphones and talking to our friends during davening?

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How do we interact with our friends and classmates? Let us all commit to being more sensitive with how we talk to and about other people? Do we use social media to unify and uplift others or to disparage and shame others? If you’re ever unsure, ask yourself the following question: “Would I be embarrassed if my parent heard what I said or wrote?” If the answer is yes, skip it. Perhaps we can be more mindful of the struggles of our classmates and reach out to listen and talk and offer assistance, when appropriate.

The beginning of the Jewish year and school year is a great time to reflect meaningfully upon our religious lives. The very process of engaging seriously in these questions already demonstrates where our commitment lies. I look forward to joining with you in this process as we all aspire to identify as tzaddikim and not beinonim and God-willing, be inscribed for a year of health and blessing.

SUKKOT

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Memory, Sukkot Style Rabbi Kenny Schiowitz, Faculty The Kiddush of Shabbat and Yom Tov assert that all these celebrations commemorate the Exodus from Egypt.

However, Pesach and Sukkot are most dedicated to this particular memory, as the Torah itself links these holidays with the purpose of memorializing this extraordinary event. However, there is a subtle but significant difference in the language used in reference to these two holidays: Pesach is celebrated in order to guarantee our memory of this history; it is a zikaron, “and this day should be a zikron for you and you shall celebrate it as a holiday to Hashem for your generations it shall be an eternal law that you will celebrate” (Shmot 12:14).

Similarly, we are instructed to eat matza “so that you will remember the day that you left Egypt all the days of your lives” (Devarim 16:3). In respect to Sukkot, however, we are instructed to live in the Sukkot “so that your generations will know that I caused you to live in Sukkot when I took you from Egypt” (Vayikra 23:43). On Sukkot we are to know and on Pesach we are to remember.

Zechira is the awareness of something that occurred in the past. Knowledge is when that memory informs a feeling or action in the present. On Pesach we remember by retelling and reliving the exodus. We put ourselves into the past and see ourselves as if we are participating in that historic redemption. On Sukkot, however, this awareness of our past dependency on Hashem enables us to feel that dependency today. We leave our homes and live in God’s protective shade in order to feel Him in our lives today. We do not talk much about the past; we focus on an experience of today. The sequence of our year, therefore, begins with Pesach and culminates with Sukkot.

The difference between memory and knowledge is illustrated in the opening pasuk of the story of the Exodus when a new king was established in Egypt who did not “know” Yosef. This troubled many of the commentators who questioned the possibility that a king would not be aware of Yosef, who was solely responsible for the wealth and the power of the king of Egypt, just a few years prior. Rashi suggests that he “made as if he did not know”. In other words, the king remembered Yosef, but did not live in the present with an awareness of that 14

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knowledge in a way that would impact his actions. He remembered, but did not know. On Pesach we are to develop our memory and by Sukkot we are to transform that awareness into a knowledge that will impact our actions.

The mishna teaches us the halacha and minhag that we do not roast our meat on the night of Pesach, lest an onlooker will think that we are offering an illegitimate Pesach sacrifice (Pesachim 4:4). Similarly, we are careful not to point at the shankbone, like we point to the matza and maror, for this same reason. On Pesach, the holiday dedicated to establishing our national memory, we are careful to be precise. We celebrate our past, recognize the fact that there is no Beit HaMikdash today, and are careful not to behave as if it is here. The only solution to our lack is the rebuilding of the Beit HaMikdash, as we conclude the seder, “Next year in the rebuilt Yerushalayim”. On Sukkot, however, we are instructed to behave as if there is a Beit HaMikdash, as we now take the lulav on all seven days of Sukkot, like we did in the Beit HaMikdash.

This is codified in a the mishna in Masechet Sukkah (3:12) which describes two of the rulings of Raban Yochanan ben Zakai that were established at the time of the destruction of the Beit HaMikdash: ‫בראשונה היה לולב ניטל במקדש שבעה ובמדינה יום אחד משחרב בית המקדש התקין רבן יוחנן בן זכאי שיהא לולב ניטל במדינה‬ ‫שבעה זכר למקדש ושיהא יום הנף כולו אסור‬ In the beginning the lulav was taken in the Mikdash for seven days and outside the Mikdash for one day. When the Beit HaMikdash was destroyed Raban Yochanan ben Zakai rules that it should be taken for seven days in all places in order to remember the practice of the Beit HaMikdash. And he ruled that on the entire Day of the Waving the new grain should be prohibited.

Despite the fact that there were 9 rulings that he made at the time of the churban, two are mentioned, one related to Sukkot and one related to the permissibility of the new grain on the second day of Pesach.

Tosfot Yom Tov speculates that these two rulings were legislated together, despite the fact that the mishna in Menachot (10:5) mentions the law of the new grain without referencing the law of Sukkah. It seems that these two laws are fundamentally linked.

The Talmud (Sukkah 41a) explains that during the time of the Beit HaMikdash, the new grain can be eaten immediately after the Omer sacrifice was brought, which would have occurred in the morning. Similarly, in a time when there is no Beit HaMikdash, the new grain is permitted immediately in the morning, as there is no sacrifice to wait for. However, we are concerned about the possibility that the Beit HaMikdash would be built overnight, and the kohanim would be delayed in the offering of the sacrifice on their first day of service.

Perhaps people will not realize this and eat the new grain before the offering. Therefore, in the first century, Raban Yochanan ben Zakai established this decree to protect us from that possibility.

This rule, related to the second day of Pesach, is consistent with the Pesach-theme of zechira. On this day we are focused on the past, aiming for a clear awareness of the differences between the past and the present, leading to our aspiration for the future. The decree of Sukkot, however, is to take the lulav for seven days like we did in the Beit HaMikdash. We behave as if the Beit HaMikdash is here now and we are not fearful that someone might “get the wrong impression”. This is consistent with the theme of Sukkot as we attempt to bask BEGINNINGS

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in the shade of Hashem wherever we are, and rebuild miniature Batei Mikdash in our Sukkot outside our own homes.

Rav Soloveitchik (Sefer Reshimos Shiurim on Sukkah, daf 41) noted that one would say shehecheyanu when shaking the lulav for the first time, whether it is the first, second or third day of Sukkot, despite the fact that on the third day of Sukkot we are merely fulfilling the rabbinic decree of Rav Yochanan ben Zakai of “Zecher LeMikdash”. In contrast, the Baal HaMaor (Pesachim 28a in the pages of the Rif) suggests that there is no bracha of shehecheyanu on the mitzva of Sefirat HaOmer because it is rabbinic today, Zecher LeMikdash, and is a point of anguish over the destruction of the Beit HaMikdash. The difference is the Sefiras HaOmer, rooted in the Korban Omer of Pesach, is focused on the memory of the past, and can trigger only pain when reminded of the Beit HaMikdash which is missing. On Sukkot, however, we are not focused on our memory of history, but an awareness of the meaning for today. On Sukkot we try to capture the experiences and power of the past and try to live it in our lives today. Thus, the lulav that we shake for seven days is an attempt to draw us closer to Hashem, as if we were in the Beit HaMikdash. It is therefore a joyous experience, not a sad one.

Thus, this mishna in Sukkah merges these two particular takanot of Raban Yochanan ben Zakai, in order to educate us of these paradigms that are to be synthesized in our celebrations of the holidays and in the development of our spiritual identities. We must remember our history very well for the purpose of living the present to the fullest.

Sukkot and the In-Between Ms. Miriam Gedwiser, Faculty Rabbi Akiva and Rabbi Eliezer famously debate the symbolism of our Sukkot, as recorded in a Baraita on Sukkot 11b: “I made the children of Israel to reside in sukkot” (Vayikra 2:43); these booths were clouds of glory, this is the statement of Rabbi Eliezer.

Rabbi Akiva says: They established for themselves actual sukkot.

Rabbi Eliezer identifies the sukkot in which we dwelt in the desert, the sukkot that our own holiday booths commemorate, with the clouds that God provided to protect the people. Rabbi Akiva, in contrast, identifies the sukkot of the desert with the actual booths that the people build for themselves.

Do our sukkot symbolize God’s protection, or our own handiwork? Perhaps the sukkah is intended not to symbolize one or the other, but a balance between both.

1 See also Sifra Emor 17:11 where the positions are reversed.

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Mishnah Sukkah 1:4 (which appears on Sukkah 11b in the Talmud) offers the following guidelines for what constitutes kosher sechach (sukkah roof): It must grow from the earth (but no longer be attached), and it must not be susceptible to impurity (mekabel tum’ah). Susceptibility to impurity is the hallmark of a “keli,” a human-made utensil. Rabbi Dov Berkovits points out that the rules for sechach require an earthly material (grown from the ground), that has been somewhat separated from its natural state (disconnected), but not entirely worked over by human hands into a utensil susceptible to impurity. These rules seem to balance on a thin edge between Rabbi Eliezer (sukkah represents God’s protection) and Rabbi Akiva (Sukkah represents human-made structures). The sukkah, it seems, is neither one nor the other, but an in-between space where human activity meets God’s presence.

The Gemara in Sukkah (11b) searches for a source for the rule that sechach must be a product of the land, but not susceptible to impurity. Surprisingly, the first suggestion, from Resh Lakish, comes not from any verse about the holiday of Sukkot or about Benei Yisrael’s sojourns in the desert, but rather from the very beginning of time (and of the Torah), Bereshit 2:6: “But there went up a mist from the earth and watered the whole face of the ground.” The mist, Resh Lakish says, was a product of the land (“went up from the earth”) and is not susceptible to impurity, so the sechach should be too.

The Gemara is aware that this connection is a bit unexpected - what does the mist have to do with our sukkot?

It must be, says the Gemara, that this answer follows the opinion (of Rabbi Eliezer) that the sukkah symbolizes the clouds of glory. Clouds, like mist, form from earthly water evaporating and then condensing. So primal mist = product of the earth but not susceptible to impurity, primal mist = clouds, clouds = sukkah, therefore sukkah must = product of the earth but not susceptible to impurity.

I would like to suggest, however, that the mist also captures some of the in-between-ness that the very nature of the sechach, detached but not totally reworked by humans, entails.

The mist of Bereishit chapter 2 stands in contrast to the way water has been depicted until this point. The first earthly process (ie, after the creation of light) of the six days of creation in chapter 1 is the stark separation of upper and lower waters, followed by the cabining of the lower waters into “one place” (see 1:6-10). The mist of chapter 2, in contrast, is the first time we see water move. And it moves in an unexpected direction: up.

• As much as we know that clouds, too, come from water droplets that were most recently on earth, there is something about the designation “clouds of glory” that suggests that clouds from God must, in some way, come not up but down to us. In fact, the question of God’s “descent” is the subject of much debate earlier in Masechet Sukkah (5a), where the Talmud is adamant that God’s presence (shechinah) never descends 2 Details.aspx?itemId=25619 See https://daf-yomi.com/DYItem

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within 10 tefahim (handbreadths) of the earth. This assertion (which seems contrary to the plain meaning of a host of biblical verses) comes up because the minimum height for a sukkah is 10 tefahim.

So we know that: • The schach may represent the clouds of glory from God, or the huts the Israelites built for themselves.

• The schach must be a product of the earth, collected by humans but not worked into a fully human-made “utensil.”

• The schach is somehow connected to the primal mist that rose “up” from the ground in Bereshit, because it is connected to the clouds.

• The minimum height of the sukkah, 10 tefahim above the earth, is also the farthest down that God can “descend.”

Putting this all together, we may begin to form an image of the sukkah as an in-between meeting place: Neither fully natural nor fully human made; Rising from the earth but reaching high enough for God to join.

In-between-ness can be destabilizing. When we find ourselves in between we may rush to pick one side or the other: either a rooted tree or a wooden spoon, but not a pile of branches. The rules of the sukkah, however, ask us to pause where we are and consider the possibilities of the in between space, to contemplate the processes we ordinarily take for granted and imagine where we would be without each step, without both our own and God’s intervention. During this unique week, we take natural elements and elevate them, literally, into schach, but we don’t fully work them into utensils (or into a full roof). We make sure the space is tall enough to welcome God’s presence in, but if we make it too permanent then it loses this status. When we leave the familiarity of our home for the impermanence of the sukkah, we embrace precisely this in-betweenness as the place where connection to God can happen.

After Sukkot, after we leave the ethereal clouds of the sukkah, hopefully we can bring some of the attitude that we developed back with us. Indeed, starting right after Sukkot, the weekly parshah will bring us from the mist of Gan Eden (Garden of Eden) forward in time to the founding of human civilization and of the Jewish People, encouraging us to focus on mitzvot even in our ordinary, more permanent homes and lives.

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