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Kelal Yisrael A CHALLENGE OF COLLECTIVE SURVIVAL BY Eugen Schoenfeld AJT Contributor
W
e all know that the basis of all Shabbat laws rose out of and was legitimated by the creation story, which tells us that G-d labored for six days but rested on the seventh. Therefore, we are instructed not to perform any kind of labor on the seventh day of our week.
But what is “labor”?
During the Talmudic period, the rabbis defined the Sabbath laws with great specificity in a tractate of Moed (the second Order of the Mishna); they classified as labor the 39 activities performed in the building of the Tabernacle as well as the acts that are subsumed under yetziot – the laws pertaining to the labor of carrying objects from private to public domain. For instance: It is not permitted on Shabbat to remove any object that is located in a private domain and carry it into public domain, or vice versa. And beyond that, the laws of yetziot also prohibit a person from walking more than 2,000 amos (about 2,500 feet) from his house on Shabbat, at which point he would cross the boundary, t’chum Shabbat. The Virtuous Man Who Must Walk on Shabbat
FEBRUARY 22 ▪ 2013
Of course, conflicts arise in a system so complex as that of Shabbat law. To illustrate, I think back with great fondness and a deep sense of nostalgia to my life with my maternal grandparents in a small village in the midst of the Carpathian Mountains. Talamas was a tiny village of seven or eight Jewish families nestled in the valley between two clear streams, just a scant two-and-a-half miles from the next larger village, Huklivy, which had a more populous Jewish community as well as both the synagogue and the mikveh. In fact, all the institutions and persons necessary for Jewish life were there: The rabbi lived in Huklivy, as well as the shochet/moyel, kosher meat, the cheder and the Jewish cemetery.
During the week, my grandfather – Reb Avrohom – kept a small store that served the Ruthenian farmers. 8 Shabbat was truly the “day of rest”
for us, but nonetheless some labor had to be performed. For instance, the cow had to be cared for; after all, she is one of G-d’s creatures, and it is forbidden to cause her any pain, regardless of the holiness of the day.
and thus forbidden by Jewish law, there is this little door that, by the magic of the eruv, nullifies or at least reinterprets t h e l a w . H o w does it work?
“Most Jews today, faced with anitquated rules, become their own interpreters of halacha”
What’s more, all three of us – my grandfather in his bekishe, shtreimel and tallis; my grandmother in her white outfit; and myself – had to make the trek to the synagogue. And on the way, we were joined by other Jews from our village rushing to be in time for the Sabbath services. Now, my grandfather was an observant Chasidic Jew. He lived not only by the letter of the law but also believed himself to be committed to the spirit of the law. To him, for instance, being guided by the laws of Shabbat was the sine qua non to being enveloped by the spirit of Shabbat. But did he not violate the law of t’chum Shabbat when he walked to the synagogue – more than four times the permissible distance – on Saturdays? The “Small Doors” My fraternal grandmother liked to teach me Jewish wisdom through aphorism. “Remember, Naftuli,” she would tell me, “when you come to a gate and it is locked, look for the small door next to it; most often is open.” What she tried to teach me is that if something is forbidden by halachic law, there is always a way to reinterpret the law or, by some ritual performance or device, legalize the otherwise forbidden act. Indeed, these performances or devices – eruvim – are designed to alter the perception of reality and thus allow for circumvention of Shabbat laws. Take, for instance, the “solution” to t’chum Shabbat. While climbing the hill leading from Talamas to Huklivy was by any definition hard labor
E v ery Friday afternoon, my grandfather (and I, were it summertime) went to a designated place that marked t’chum Shabbat. There, we would create a hollow, place in it a boiled egg and a bilkeleh (basically, a small challah) and finally cover the hole with a stone. Then, all it took was the recitation of the appropriate blessings, and this hole in the ground assumed the status of my grandfather’s new home, thus allowing him and the whole family to walk an additional 2,000 amos from that spot! Now, does not such an eruv violate the intended spirit of the Sabbath as a day of rest? Of course it does! We had to expend a great amount of energy climbing the hills to and from that spot. Any of you readers would be utterly tired, as we were, after such a walk! Yes, the creative game underlying the eruv obfuscates the idea of the Sabbath as the day of rest from all labors. While the eruv alters the perception of reality by symbolically creating an imaginary new home, it does not shorten the distance and the labor of walking it. We have become skillful in using deductive logic to legalize the forbidden. We excel not in altering the law, even if it is dysfunctional; instead, we play the game of circumvention. A Fragmenting Identity Times have changed since the laws were enacted and so have the means and mode of production – that is, the nature of labor. Most of what we considered labor at the construction of the Tabernacle either is no longer necessary or has been replaced by new forms of labor.
For example, the making of fire
– which 3,000 years ago was an act of intense labor – is no longer so. Similarly, distances have shrunk by the use of technology, and travel is no longer is dependent on animals; therefore, we do not violate the animal’s right to have a day of rest. Still, instead of changing the laws, we found ways of circumventing it; say, by employing Shabbat goyim. And while the rabbis consider electricity to be fire and thereby not permissible to use in the home on Shabbat, today we have Shabbat electric switches and Shabbat elevators and escalators, the use of which is permissible by rabbinical interpretation. Thus, to me and to many other Jews, the ancient laws have become anachronisms. But by creating ways of their circumvention, are we not at the same time detracting from the spirit that they once represented? History teaches us that any system the outlived its functionality or usefulness must change; if it does not, it is destined for the dustbin. Today, the parking lots in Conservative and even Orthodox synagogues are filled with cars on Shabbat and High Holy Days, and the Shulchan Aruch laws are observed by no more than 8 percent of the population who identify themselves as Jewish. In short, most Jews today, faced with antiquated rules, become their own interpreters of halacha. They “pasken their own shaales,” as we used to say; they redefine laws and create their own versions, customs and ceremonies. But could not this process of individuation detroy our unity and collective identity? And so, we have come to a crossroad that demands that we redefine our behavioral requirements and find a common foundation upon which new norms – based on the ancient spirit but not the ancient laws – can be established. In that way, we can rebuild our collective identity. Otherwise, I am afraid that if we continue to follow the path underlying the idea of the eruvim, it will lead to the destruction of the kelal Yisrael. Eugen Schoenfeld is a professor and chair emeritus at Georgia State University and a Holocaust survivor.