Orot Shalhevet Tishrei

DEAR SHALHEVET COMMUNITY, RABBI ARI SEGAL HEAD OF SCHOOL

WWW.SHALHEVET.ORG

The Jewish New Year is a time of awe, inspiration, and intense spiritual exercise. But though this is one of the holiest times on our calendar, it can also be challenging to reset our lives and immerse ourselves in the meaning of the holidays. Last year feels like yesterday. Weren’t we just standing here in this same spot, whispering these same words? Have we really changed since the last go-around, or are are just moving through the motions?

This is where I return to the metaphor of exercise. The Yomim Noraim are, in a very real sense, a hard-core workout for the rest of the year.

Like physical exercise, these days can change us radically — but only if we’re smart about our approach.

Just like you can’t run a marathon without training, we can’t expect ourselves to jump into the spiritual tests of the New Year without preparation. Let’s be honest, Rosh Hashana, Yom Kippur, and Sukkos are draining holidays! It’s easy to get emotionally exhausted, to zone out, to say it’s too hard and abandon our hope for change.

That, I hope, is where our newest edition of Orot Shalhevet can help. In this compendium, you will find thoughts, insights, and inspiration from Shalhevet faculty and alumni, specifically designed to get your mind and heart in shape for our upcoming spiritual bootcamp. And as always with Orot, we hope to inspire and enlighten, and to help infuse each moment of the Yomim Noraim with the Shalhevet philosophy of engagement, commitment, and respect.

Our previous editions of Orot Shalhevet have been wonderfully received, and we’re honored to continue this project and hopefully make it a staple of your holiday experience. It is the hope of the entire faculty that Orot Shalhevet will help you prepare for the Yomim Noraim, and give you inspiration and strength as we enter these intense days of dialogue with the Ribono Shel Olam.

Wishing you and your family wonderful chagim and a Shana Tova, Rabbi Ari Segal

TABLE OF CONTENTS ‫סוכות‬

RABBI DAVID BLOCK

PAGE 17

‫היום הרת עולם‬

MS. JOELLE KEENE PAGE 9

‫סליחות‬

‫תשובה‬

‫אושפיזין‬

RABBI ARI SEGAL

PAGE 19

‫הושענא רבה‬

RABBI DAVID STEIN

DR. JONATHAN RAVANSHENAS

BENNETT SCHNEIER

PAGE 11

PAGE 22

‫ראש השנה‬

‫תשובה‬

‫שמיני עצרת‬

PAGE 13

PAGE 23

PAGE 3

MS. ILANA WILNER

MS. NA’AMIT NAGEL

‫שופר‬

‫יום כיפור‬

PAGE 5

YOETZET HALACHA ATARA SEGAL

PAGE 7

RABBI ARI SCHWARZBERG

THANK YOU TO THE FOLLOWING SUPPORTERS WHO HAVE GENEROUSLY SPONSORED THIS EDITION OF OROT SHALHEVET. WE ARE GRATEFUL TO THEM FOR HELPING TO PROMOTE THE SPREAD OF MEANINGFUL TORAH LEARNING AND SPIRITUAL GROWTH IN OUR COMMUNITY. PLEASE ENJOY THE TORAH YOU WILL FIND WITHIN IN THEIR MERIT.

PAGE 15

TALI SHLACHT

‫שמחת תורה‬

RABBI ABRAHAM LIEBERMAN

PAGE 25

DIANE AND LESLIE BOTNICK AND FAMILY CINDY AND NOAM DRAZIN AND FAMILY STACY AND RANON KENT AND FAMILY IN HONOR OF ATARA SEGAL ARI SCHWARZBERG AND NAOMI WEISS IN CELEBRATION OF BABY BOY SCHWARZBERG TAALY AND ADAM SILBERSTEIN AND FAMILY SUSIE AND FRED TOCZEK AND FAMILY ILANA WILNER IN HONOR OF A REFUAH SHELEIMA FOR CHAVA YOCHEVED BAT SARAH

‫סליחות‬

SELICHOT AND THE PROCESS OF TESHUVA: EXPLORING ACTION AND EMOTION IN JEWISH TRADITION RABBI DAVID STEIN R ABBI D AV I D S T EI N IS TH E D I REC T OR O F GEM ARA E DU C AT I ON AT SH AL HEV ET HI GH SCH OOL AND I S TH E C O- F OUND ER O F THE LAHAV CU R R I C ULUM PR O JE C T . D AV I D ATTE ND ED Y ESHI V A COLLEGE AND R IE TS F OR HI S U NDE RGRAD UAT E AN D SEM I K HA STU DI ES. HE R ECEI V ED HI S MASTER’S D EGREE IN ME C HANI C AL E NGIN EERI NG FR O M C OLUM B I A U NIVERS I T Y AND H IS MAST ER’S DEG REE I N TE ACH I NG F ROM AME RI C AN J EWI SH U NIVERS I T Y ’S G R ADUAT E C ENT ER FOR JE WI SH E DU C AT I ON AS A W EXNER FEL LOW/D AV I D S ON SCH OLAR. HE H EL PE D WRI T E T HE FIR ST EV ER STAND ARD S AND BEN CH M ARK S F OR G EMA RA E DU C AT I ON AS A ME M B ER OF T HE L EG AC Y HERI T AGE L EADERS HI P INSTIT UT E WRI T ERS G R O UP.

“Repentance,” wrote Rav Soloveitchik in Halakhic Man, is the process through which one “creates himself.” Yet we don’t generally think of teshuva in such grandiose terms - if at all.

Sure, there’s much to look forward to during this time of year: the sweet honey dripping off the apples, the piercing call of the Shofar blast, or even the beloved melodies of the mussaf service. But somehow “create yourself ” or “happy repentance” don’t figure too prominently in our customary Rosh Hashana greetings.

The truth is that the challenge we face with the experience of teshuva makes a lot of sense.

Repentance - reflecting upon an action in the distant past, resolving to avoid it in the future, and then repeating the process for the untold deficiencies we see in ourselves - isn’t easy.

Furthermore, the liturgical formula we use for the process of teshuva doesn’t make it any easier. Selichot - the centerpiece of our Elul and Aseret Yemei Teshuva prayer experience - are long, unfamiliar, and written in a difficult language. Yet there may be an even more fundamental challenge at play here: even if we understand the language, at times it feels like we may sit or mumble through the service without feeling - or knowing what to feel - when we recite the text of selichot. In a word, the act of reciting the prayers is at times disconnected from the emotion or experience of teshuva.

Rav Soloveitchik provides two useful categories to describe this disconnect in his work Al HaTeshuva, “On Repentance.” On one level, there is the physical act or performance of a mitzvah, which he refers to as the maaseh ha-mitzvah. On the other hand, there is an experiential or emotional component to every mitzvah as well, which he labels the kiyyum, or fulfillment, of the mitzvah. In many cases, such as the shaking of a lulav or the sitting in a sukkah, the maaseh and kiyyum are identical and contemporaneous - the act itself is the fulfillment of the mitzvah. In other cases, however, the action is meant to lead to or enable a separate feeling or emotion. Giving tzedakah, for example, is not just a mechanical or rote activity. At its core, the commandment to give charity is rooted in an emotional experience - care, compassion, and empathy for a fellow human being. Similarly, the mechanical act of praying - moving your lips to produce a particular sound or word - is not, according to Rav Soloveitchik, an end in of itself. Instead, tefillah is an activity that is designed to lead to a particular experience - in this case, an encounter or relationship with Hashem. Without the action, there can be no experience; without the experience, the mitzvah itself has not been fulfilled.

This formula, argues Rav Soloveitchik, finds expression in the selichot liturgy as well. The act - recitation of selichot, and, more specifically, the viduy, or confession - is meant to facilitate a specific experience: self-creation or actualization. Rav Soloveitchik detects this relationship in the Rambam’s description of repentance in his opening introduction to hilkhot teshuva: [The laws of repentance encompass] one positive ‫ והוא שישוב החוטא‬,‫מצות עשה אחת‬ mitzvah - and that is to do teshuva and to confess. .‫מחטאו לפני ה' ויתודה‬ Here Rav Soloveitchik identifies the exact formula we discussed above: a mitzvah, experience, or process called teshuva, which is accompanied or facilitated by a specific action - the formula of confession found at the core of the selichot service.

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Our selichot liturgy, then, captures a foundational value in Jewish tradition: our religious and personal goals can only be accomplished through concrete action. To be sure, Judaism has been criticized throughout history for this very notion, with Christian disputants arguing that we have reduced religion to dry laws and rote performances that miss the point of religious experience. Paul’s “by faith alone” aphorism neatly captures the critique. And, of course, the argument is not without merit. How often - as both individuals and as a community - do we lose the proverbial forest for the trees, going through the religious motions of our traditions while failing to experience the depth of religious encounter or spiritual transcendence that we must always aim for? Yet Judaism has unabashedly and systematically responded with an axiom of human experience: both action and emotion are essential to our lives. Faith, personal growth, and inspiration do not develop in a vacuum, and instead must be continuously nurtured by the ritual structure of our daily lives in order to crystalize our emotions and maintain our spiritual momentum.

In the final analysis, then, Rav Soloveitchik’s notion of repentance as “self-creation” is not merely an attempt to atone for the sins of the past. Instead, it is the continuous journey of self-discovery and improvement, of learning from past mistakes and harnessing them towards a better future. Like all journeys, however, teshuva can only begin with small, sometimes uncertain steps. Whether we understand the words today or not, the lifelong process of self-transcendence and transformation does not happen by itself, and is certainly not instantaneous. Instead, it can only be achieved through the determined and sustained performance of our liturgical routines and daily rituals - by showing up to our Judaism each day and trying to connect as best we can - beginning every year with the selichot service.

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‫ראש השנה‬

ROSH HASHANA AND CHANA’S LEGACY MS. ILANA WILNER MS. ILANA WILNER IS THE DIRECTOR OF STUDENT ACTIVITIES AND LIMUDEI KODESH TEACHER AT SHALHEVET. ILANA HAS A MASTERS IN BIBLICAL AND TALMUDIC INTERPRETATION FROM YESHIVA UNIVERSITY’S GRADUATE PROGRAM FOR ADVANCED TALMUDIC STUDIES (GPATS) , AS WELL AS A MASTERS DEGREE IN EDUCATION FROM AZRIELI SCHOOL OF EDUCATION AND ADMINISTRATION.

On the first day of Rosh Hashana we read the story of Chana’s struggle to conceive a child as the haftara. The haftara is composed of two chapters of Shmuel I (both of which are referred to as tefilot): The first is about Chana’s struggle to conceive and her prayer to God asking for a child, and the second is Chana’s song of gratitude to God after the birth of her son Shmuel.

Growing up, Rosh Hashana was about two things in our home – family time and tefilah, so it seemed only fitting to me to remember Chana on this day, as it’s a story of the creation of a family through the power of tefilah. But in truth, Chana is read with a much deeper purpose in mind – to guide us in achieving effectual and meaningful tefilah. Chana teaches us to view tefilah from a different vantage point than we might normally think. We usually focus on God’s role and the best way to convince Him to give us what we want. First, we “butter Him up” with praise, then ask for our needs, and conclude with a big thank you. But as we will see, Chana teaches us to view tefilah as a process for change that begins with introspection even before the dialogue with God, thereby creating a partnership that propels us beyond ourselves and causes us to think about the lives of others.

If we look at the beginning of the story and Chana’s situation, it would seem that she is stuck in a rut – each year she accompanies her husband, Elkana, to Shiloh, and as the years pass she finds herself in the same circumstances as before, sad and disappointed to still be childless. Chana wants change; she wants a child. While Chana feels bitter and angered by her lot, her husband urges her to make peace with it and to move on. Elkana’s other wife, Penina, who had children, only adds to Chana’s bitterness, and angers Chana by taunting her. Thus, both Elkana and Penina cause Chana to feel alone and powerless. At this juncture, Chana takes matters into her own hands. She decides not to accept her situation as unchangeable, and begins to pray.

Chana’s life sounds all too familiar to us, as it reminds us of the imahot, the Matriarchs, who were also initially childless at first, and specifically of Rachel Imenu. Both women were the favored wives, were barren and alone, and had spouses who had given up hope of them conceiving (see Bereshit 30:2). But Rabbi Shalom Carmy, professor of Tanach and Philosophy at Yeshiva University, notes a distinction between the two. He says that Rachel’s tefilah is a ‫תפילת העתיד‬, a tefilah of destiny. Rachel knew, as did Sarah and Rivkah, that she was going to conceive and be part of the creation of the nation, but didn’t know when it would happen. The tefilah of Chana, on the other hand, he terms a ‫תפילת דאגה‬, a tefilah of worry. Chana wasn’t promised a legacy, and was not guaranteed anything at all. She was worried about the future of her personal life, and asks Hashem to grant her request.

Nevertheless, despite the nature of the tefilah as one of worry, it culminates in a promise to give her unborn child to God, by which Chana commits herself to a different life course and initiative. Moreover, this commitment is one designed to institute change in the religious and spiritual life of the Jewish people. She prays to God not just for a child but for “‫זרע אנשים‬,” the offspring of people. The word ‫אנשים‬/‫ איש‬in Tanakh usually connotes someone of importance. Evidently, she doesn’t want a son for herself, she wants a leader (see Berachot 31b). Chana was thus prepared to give her child away for the betterment of the community. This sacrifice is especially striking given the historical context of Sefer Shmuel, 5

which takes place right after Sefer Shoftim, a book of anarchy and religious strife. It is at that time that Chana wants to have a child and give him to God. She is rejecting the religious leadership of the time and wants to partner with God to create change. She wants to give the people a place for individual religious growth, the role of the navi, as well as communal religious growth and order, the role of the King, of which Shmuel appoints the first two in Israel’s history.

Chana is a role model for tefilah because even when she needed something most, she still looked at the world around her and prayed for what it needed as well. This is also evident from her prayer of gratitude to God after He grants her a child (in chapter two), which begins in the singular and ends in the plural. In essence, she is saying that now that God has saved her personally and given her a child, He should save all of Am Yisrael as well.

Chazal (Berachot 29a) take the lessons derived from Chana one step further: Not only do we read tefilat chana on Rosh Hashana, but her tefilah (specifically the nine instances in which Hashem’s name is mentioned in her prayer of gratitude in chapter 2) also serves as the basis for the fact that we recite nine berachot within Tefilat Musaf on Rosh Hashana, which includes three additional sections: ‫מלכיות‬, recognizing God as King, ‫זכרונות‬, reminding us that God remembers all, and ‫שופרות‬, which discusses the significance of the shofar, including the shofar blasts blown on Har Sinai and those to be blown at the final redemption. We can expand further on this connection that these three additional berachot/categories are actually mentioned in Chana’s tefilah. Chana praises God and affirms his rule over all things: ‫אין קדוש כה' כי אין בלתך ואין צור כאלוקינו‬, just like we pray in ‫מלכיות‬. Chana also sings of God’s remembrance of all, and doesn’t forget the poor and raises them up: ‫מקים מעפר דל מאשפות ירים אביון להושיב עם‬ ‫נדיבים‬, corresponding to ‫זכרונות‬. And finally, she warns our enemies of God’s power and His “blasts”: ‫ה' יחתו מריביו‬ '‫עליו בשמים ירעם ה‬, which parallels the two blasts mentioned in the section of ‫שופרות‬, the blasts of ‫ הר סיני‬and the blasts of the final redemption. Thus, Chazal remind us of Chana’s tefilah during our own tefilah. They are stressing the importance of communal growth and ‫ערבות‬, our responsibility for each other, even on the most personal of days.

There is a discussion in Tractate Yevamot (105b) regarding some of the details of tefilah between Rabbi Chiya and Rabbi Shimon bar Rebbi. One of them believed that during tefilah our eyes should be directed below, while the other disagreed and said that our eyes should face upward toward heaven. Rabbi Yishmael then tells them to synthesize the two: Our eyes need to be facing downward, but our heart should be facing upward. This approach of Rabbi Yishmael beautifully reflects the symbolism of tefilat Chana and the role it plays as the epitome of tefilah: Tefilah begins with the individual, and our personal struggle or needs enable us to reflect and introspect (as symbolized by the eyes facing downward), but it shouldn’t stop there. It should continue beyond oneself and empower us to affect change (as symbolized by the heart directed upward). This idea also explains the description of Chana as the “mother of the children” (see Tehillim 113:9 and commentaries there) – it was not because she struggled to have children, but because even in her toughest of struggles, she prayed for all of Am Yisrael like they were her own children.

Rosh Hashana is a time for self- reflection and introspection. We think about what we want, what we need and what we can do better – the focus is usually on ourselves. But Chana breaks that barrier. Chana teaches us that when we pray for ourselves, we must also look around and pray for those around us, and be there for one another. On Rosh Hashana, in our most private and personal tefilot, I hope we can succeed in embodying this trait of Chana and extend a tefilah for a friend and for the betterment of the world.

6

‫שופר‬

THE DEEPER MEANING OF THE SHOFAR YOETZET HALACHA ATARA SEGAL YOETZET HALA CHA ATARA SEGAL IS THE MASHGICHA RUCHANIT, A MEMBER OF THE JUDAIC STUDIES LEADERSHIP TEAM, AND DIRECTS ISRAEL GUIDANCE AT SHALHEVET HIGH SCHOOL. ATARA RECEIVED HER BA FROM STERN COLLEGE AND HER MA IN JEWISH STUDIES FROM THE BERNARD REVEL GRADUATE SCHOOL. SHE RECENTLY COMPLETED HER STUDIES AT NISHMAT IN JERUSALEM TO BECOME A YOETZET HALA CHA.

The Shofar plays a very prominent role in our liturgy on Rosh Hashanah. We blow the shofar many times (ideally one hundred) over the course of the Tefilla, it is mentioned in the Torah reading of the day, and one of the three special berachot for Rosh Hashanah, Shofarot, recited within Musaf is dedicated entirely to the theme of the shofar.

Despite its prominence, the goal and purpose of the blowing of the shofar is not entirely obvious. Within the beracha of Shofarot, it is referenced in a wide variety of contexts – Akeidat yitzchak, Messianic days, and a call to assembly in the desert. But it does not seem as if the essence of the shofar and its most basic meaning is encapsulated by the verses we recite during davening. Moreover, it might seem that even some of the ten famous suggestions offered by R.Saadia Gaon as to the reason behind this mitzvah (some of which refer to the above ideas), don’t quite suffice in explaining the inner significance of the shofar, since the existence of a large number of explanations for a mitzvah, idea, or halacha often highlights the inherent ambiguity and difficulty in understanding its simple meaning.

I would suggest that the most fundamental understanding of the shofar can be understood by turning to the etymology of the word - ‫ר‬, ‫פ‬, ‫ש‬. This root is often understood to mean “improvement,” “enhancing,” or beautifying, as in the following examples.

1. When Yaakov blesses his sons shortly before his death, his blessing to Naftali states as follows: ‫נפתלי אילה שלחה הנתן אמרי שפר‬ “Naftali is a released hind who gives forth words of ‘shefer’”.

Among the explanations given for the phrase “words of shefer” are words of praise, words of song, or words of advancement.1 2. In the book of Shemot, the midwives who helped the Jewish women give birth in Egypt were named ‫ שפרה‬and ‫( פועה‬Shifra and Puah). The Midrash explains that Shifra was, in fact, Yocheved – but nicknamed “Shifra” because she would beautify - “meshapret” - the babies that she ushered into the world.

3. In Talmudic and Rabbinic Hebrew, the expression ‫( דמי שפיר‬shapir dami) is the imprimatur of an approved position, approach, or understanding of the correct halachic reasoning.

4. In modern Hebrew, the transitive form ‫( לשפר‬leshaper) describes the process of improving something else. The reflexive ‫להשתפר‬, on the other hand, indicates mindfulness and often is used to refer to self-improvement.

In all of these examples, the word refers to something positive or making something better in some way. But the fourth example, I believe, is especially emblematic of the Rosh Hashanah experience and may be the most fundamental meaning and significance of the Shofar on Rosh Hashanah. As the Midrash (Vayikra Rabba 29) states, the word shofar stems from the expression shapru maaseichem, improve your actions. On Rosh Hashanah, the shofar awakens us to the need to reflect upon ourselves, our status, and our motives. It 1 See also Daat Mikra to this pasuk, where it is suggested that the word shafer might actually be related to the shofar based on the fact that a hind, or female deer, has a horn. The symbolism refers to the fruits, which are cut off the tree in the same way that the shofar-horn is cut off for use.

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reminds us to always be in the process of identifying what each of us can do to be our best selves.

Rosh Hashanah is the holiday of setting high expectations for ourselves and trying to meet them. Yom Kippur, although the day of repentance, is also a day of modeling malachim, who are, interestingly, the antithesis of personal change. The word malachim, commonly translated as “angels,” literally means the “messengers” of God. These messengers are also called omdim, “those who stand” (see Yeshayahu 6:2), because they have no choice whether to follow God or not; they have no means to move forward or backward in their personal development. We wear white and refrain from physical pleasures in order to model ourselves after these malachim. But although the perfection of the malachim seems ideal, it is devoid of the process of self-improvement that is unique to humans. This is the process that must be undertaken by us on Rosh Hashanah, with the help of the shofar, as a prerequisite for the teshuva process, before we can raise ourselves before God in the attempt to imitate the angels on Yom Kippur.

The Ramchal, R. Moshe Chaim Luzzatto, explains in his classic work Derekh Hashem that God created the world in order to enable humans to make the choice to follow God and to choose good, l’hishtaper. We may not always make the correct decision, but we always cherish the opportunity to do so. The ability to make decisions and choose our direction in life with an understanding of the consequences is what defines us as humans. This Rosh Hashanah, when we hear the shofar, let us remember that we may never achieve perfection, but always have the opportunity to improve.

8

‫היום הרת עולם‬

HAYOM HARAT OLAM: OF

CHILDREN, SLAVES AND CHOICES MS. JOELLE KEENE MS. JOELLE KEENE TEACHES MUSIC AND JOURNALISM AT SHALHEVET HIGH SCHOOL, WHERE SHE DIRECTS THE CHOIRHAWKS, ADVISES THE BOILING POINT, AND IS FOUNDING EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR OF THE JEWISH SCHOLASTIC PRESS ASSOCIATION. SHE EARNED HER BA FROM OCCIDENTAL COLLEGE AND MASTER'S DEGREES FROM COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY'S GRADUATE SCHOOL OF JOURNALISM AND THE UNIVERSITY OF WASHINGTON SCHOOL OF MUSIC, AND IS DESIGNATED A MASTER JOURNALISM EDUCATOR BY THE NATIONAL JOURNALISM EDUCATION ASSOCIATION.

You are standing by your seat with your eyes closed: it’s Rosh Hashanah and the shofar is sounding. It wails and blasts and you’re filled with spirit and awe. It goes on forever – and you partly want it to go on forever, because it takes you to a place of such gratefulness and majesty. And you partly want it to end, because it makes you so humble, uncertain and afraid.

Then, finally, silence – just for a moment. And then, a prayer that is said only now: Hayom Harat Olam.

Hayom harat olam literally means today is the "conception" or "pregnancy" of the world. The idea, according to Rabbi Adin Steinsaltz1, is that the year is a kind of embryo, all its DNA already present, the future already created and we know it is there but we cannot yet see it, it has not yet developed to a point where it is visible. We don't know what it's going to be like.

An embryo presumes the presence of parents, and sure enough God is depicted in this text partly as a parent – but only partly. Pleading for a favorable judgement, the prayer goes on to say, "If as children, have compassion as a father has compassion for his sons; if as slaves, our eyes are raised and fixed on You until You show us favor."

So we are not only children, but slaves. What is the difference between these two? One, it seems to me, is that a child is being trained to choose what is right in the future, when he or she will have free will, many, many choices and much responsibility. A slave, however, has no choices and does not anticipate them.

Yet both of these describe our relationship with God: on the one hand, we have free will, and we choose to follow God’s laws because we understand that they are for our and society's benefits. On the other, we have no choice; in the case of chukim, or even of laws that bother us or that we find difficult, we must follow them anyway. God created the world, we are in awe of Him; we obey. He teaches us like a parent, with Torah and the particular gifts and challenges of our lives. But we are in awe, and we know He has the last word. Along with so many other things, He is truly the ultimate Master.

Perhaps this dichotomy finds its way into the climax of the Rosh Hashanah service because the challenge of free will vs. our commanded state and role is the crux of our religious struggle. On the one hand, we want to do what’s good and right, and we are grateful for God’s instruction. But we are also God's slaves – commanded and not looking forward to a day when we can do whatever we want; there is no such day coming. On Pesach, we celebrate "freedom," being free to follow God. But Rosh Hashanah is the holiday of malchut – when we accept God's kingship.

Kingship and "subject-hood" can be difficult themes/constructs/paradigms for Jews raised in a modern democracy – especially in a country which was formed for the purpose of throwing off a king’s power and which famously has replaced that template with government by consent of the governed. We naturally push back against it; I personally find that part of the liturgy difficult every time – even in Avinu Malkenu.

1 https://steinsaltz.org/essay/hayom-harat-olam/

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But in fact we are subjects of the King. The king of kings – of parents, of presidents and governors, of bosses, of corporate leaders, of cultural icons. Hayom Harat Olam says: Please do both – see us as dependents and love us, and when You can’t, show us favor anyway. This relationship is – complicated. And it's obvious that You have the last word.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks affirms this. Quoting Rav Soloveitchik in the new Koren Machzor, he says that on Rosh Hashanah we ourselves crown God as king, because there can be no king without subjects. Perhaps Hayom Harat Olam reminds us that not only are we subject to God's judgements, compassion and commands, but we are the followers whose fealty actually makes Him the king! Kingship is complex and our feelings are too; therefore, we appeal to God on many levels, trying to grasp (and show that we have grasped) the complexity of what is going on here: God is our master; God is our parent; and God is our also consent-of-the-governed - chosen King.

So again and again, throughout the holiday and especially when the shofar is sounded, we crown Him our king – because we want to be subject specifically and most profoundly to Him, and really only to Him. He governs absolutely, He governs with compassion, and He governs with our consent.

It's complicated – and it's part of what makes Rosh Hashanah so rich, and the shofar-blowing so mind-blowing, and what fills us with hope even though we are partly scared and overcome by the shofar's sounds. So just as the echoes of the tekiah fade in the room, we sing: Today the year is an embryo, we know it's complicated, we understand who we are and who You are, and we therefore appeal to You on all these levels, understanding that Your role is complex beyond anything we can fathom.

And from there we go back into the liturgy of the day, hopefully even more than before on the same page with the One who is judging us at that very time, on that very day, moment by moment.

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‫תשובה‬

TESHUVA: A TRANSFORMATIVE PROCESS DR. JONATHAN RAVANSHENAS DR. JONATHAN RAVANSHENAS HOLDS UNDERGRADUATE AND DOCTORAL DEGREES FROM UCLA AND USC IN EDUCATIONAL PSYCHOLOGY, BUSINESS AND CHILDHOOD DEVELOPMENT. DURING THE YEAR JONATHAN WORKS AT SHALHEVET HIGH SCHOOL AS THE DEAN OF STUDENT LIFE AND AS THE YOUTH DIRECTOR AT THE YOUNG ISRAEL OF CENTURY CITY. HE IS A WEXNER GRADUATE IN THE DAVIDSON SCHOLARS PROGRAM. DURING THE SUMMER, JONATHAN CONTINUES HIS FOCUS ON JEWISH YOUTH WHERE HE IS CO-FOUNDER AND CO-DIRECTOR OF LA'S MJ SPORTS CAMP, WHICH HE CONSIDERS TO BE AN INTEGRAL PART OF JEWISH EDUCATION AND SOCIALIZATION.

"‫כי כשלת בעונך‬ ‫"שובה ישראל עד ה' אלהיך‬ “Return, O Israel, to the Lord your God, for you have fallen because of your sin” (Hosea 14:2) To err is human; we all make mistakes. The Torah is replete with people - great people - such as Yehuda, Moshe, King David and even Eliyahu Hanavi — who have made mistakes. As the wise King David wrote, “No righteous person on this earth does only good and does not err” (Psalms 53:3). In fact, the concept of teshuva (literally “to return”) was fashioned even before the actual creation of the world (Pesachim 54a), because God knew that teshuva would be a necessary agent for change. The Zohar corroborates this idea by stating that prior to creating this physical world, God conceived the notion of teshuva and said, “soon, I am going to create mortal human beings, but I do so on one condition: when they, because of their iniquities, turn to you, you must be prepared to erase their faults.”

The greatness of teshuva can be appreciated by noting that according to the Gemara, those who have tasted sin and nevertheless suppress their evil impulse receive an especially great reward for the difficulty involved: “Where repentant sinners stand,” our Sages teach, “even entirely righteous individuals are unable to stand” (Berakhot 34b). This implies that their merit is superior to that of individuals who never sinned, for the former had to exert greater effort in suppressing their impulse to turn away from God’s law.

The essence of teshuva is that the past can be redeemed if it is connected to a present that endeavors to transform it. As the philosopher Max Scheler explains in his essay “Repentance and Rebirth” found in his book On The Eternal in Man, “The past is indeterminate in significance until it has yielded all its potential effects. Every event of our past remains of indeterminate insignificance and incomplete in value until it has yielded all its potential effects.” In other words, even historical reality or an action that has already taken place is incomplete and thereby redeemable. The past can be transformed if it can be connected to a present that endeavors to grow from that mistake. In this manner, the concept of teshuva thereby establishes the principle that we are not condemned to repeat the past and provides us the opportunity to transform our mistakes into growth. In the words of Resh Lakish, the famous Amora, “great is repentance in that willful acts of disobedience are thereby transformed into merits” (Yoma 86b). Consequently, teshuva provides a way not only to repair our mistakes, but perhaps also to alter the past, allowing us to “better ourselves” through our mistakes.

If this is the case, we can say that the concept of teshuva does not necessarily only refer to “returning” to God (as the root of the word, shuv, return, might indicate), but also “going forward” toward God” – it is, in many ways, a part of our essential growth in life. God performed a tremendous chesed (kindness) by providing us with the power of teshuva — the process of self-transformation, and we must make use of it, with action steps, to strive to improve to a “mistake-free” pure state (even if we cannot actually achieve it), by acknowledging our errors and resolving not to repeat them. This of course presupposes that we are free and morally responsible agents who are capable of change, specifically the change that comes about when we recognize that something we have done is wrong and we are responsible for it. The more we internalize this notion that we can indeed change 11

ourselves in this manner, the more successful our teshuva will be.

However, performing teshuva properly is not a simple thing to do. True teshuva requires a recognition of the past harmful act, a willingness to ask for forgiveness for it, and a firm determination – made consciously and with a humble heart — not to repeat it. Asking for forgiveness is an admittedly difficult task. After all, who likes to admit to their own faults or shortcomings? However, asking for forgiveness is an essential aspect of teshuva, as teshuva is a process of self-evaluation and self-improvement - a transformative process, as described above. This is why we cannot simply resolve not to repeat the prior harmful act, but we must recognize that the prior act is detrimental to our spiritual growth. This recognition then actually serves as the source and catalyst for our transformation into a better self (a better Jew, a better parent, student, teacher, husband, wife, brother, sister, etc.). In fact, doing teshuva is not a request to G-d to erase your evil acts. On the contrary, you are asked specifically to remember the act vividly through reflection and introspection. Teshuva is the tool used to ask G-d to help you recognize your mistakes or flaws and use them proactively as aids to achieve and unlock your full potential. Teshuva allows you to become different and transform mistakes into opportunities for growth and corrective behavior.

If a person’s Teshuva is sincere and performed properly, the prior negative acts are retroactively transformed into mitzvoth, as stated by Resh Lakish, as they are the acts that brought the penitent to his current state of understanding, and they become the source of the penitent’s spiritual growth. What a powerful lesson and tool for us lucky Jews (the Chosen People) to have in our constant struggle/effort to improve ourselves and become a light unto the nations. We have the ability (G-d given/created) to change the past. Not by going back in time and changing a sequence of events, but by using the past to shape our own present and our future, and by osmosis, the present and future of those around us as well.

We can better appreciate the effects of teshuva by comparing it to the following academic example. A teacher or parent implores their student or child to study for an exam, but out of neglect, irresponsibility or laziness, the student does not correctly apply themselves and fails the exam. The student undoubtedly feels a sense of shame, inadequacy or embarrassment. From an academic standpoint, the failed exam could severely impact the student’s GPA and ability to enter a good university. The failed exam could also have a detrimental effect on the student’s motivation and self-confidence and could stifle his or her academic growth. However, if the student seriously reflects on his or her actions (or lack thereof), recognizes its global impact, and uses the experience to resolve never to come unprepared to an exam again, he or she has applied the lesson and tool of teshuva, experienced its benefits, and achieved its ultimate goal. The student has used his/her prior mistake to grow, to improve character and to serve as the source of future successes, thereby transforming the failed exam into perhaps one of the most productive and useful lessons the student could have ever learned.

Teshuva is not something that can be learned or appreciated in the abstract. It must be internalized and practiced in order to be effective. Through one’s self-reflection and subsequent action, the individual is empowered with a tool that can be used in a myriad of scenarios and for the rest of their life. God gave us the tools to achieve greatness, but it remains incumbent upon us to put those tools into practice to unlock our limitless potential.

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‫תשובה‬

BEIN ADAM L’OLAMO: PERSONAL

REFLECTIONS ON SOCIETAL TESHUVA MS. NA’AMIT NAGEL MS. NA'AMIT STUR M NAGEL TEACHES 11TH GRADE BRITISH LITERATURE AND A JEWISH LITERATURE SAS CLASS THAT SHE CREATED FOR SHALHEVET SENIORS, AND IS A JUST COMMUNITY FACULTY ADVISOR. SHE RECEIVED HER B.A. FROM UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO AND HER MASTERS IN ENGLISH LITERATURE FROM BRANDEIS UNIVERSITY. SHE IS ALSO A UCLA WRITING PROJECT FELLOW AND HAS PUBLISHED ARTICLES IN THE FORWARD, LEHRHAUS, THE JEWISH JOURNAL AND KVELLER.

This past summer, I traveled to Germany to visit the towns where my family comes from and where my grandparents lived before the Holocaust. Throughout the many long train rides, I was surprised to find myself thinking about the complexities of teshuva, repentance and forgiveness. While much of Yom Kippur focuses on sins of bein adam l’makom, between person and God, as a child I remember being so focused on my misdeeds bein adam l’chavero, between person to person. In our school, we used to spend the days before Yom Kippur asking each other for mechila, forgiveness, for being mean or unfriendly. Some of my friends relished in withholding instant forgiveness (even though the halakha is that one should ideally grant forgiveness from another right away), leading others to obsessively pursue the halakhic guidance that one must ask forgiveness at least three times before giving up. But on the heels of my trip to Germany, I could not stop thinking about communal repentance, and whether societies, when they collectively sin, can repent and receive forgiveness from others.

Most of my family has no interest in visiting Germany. I grew up being told that we did not buy German products. We did not associate with the country that killed large portions of our family and decimated European Jewish life in the early twentieth century. And it made sense to me then.

But this summer I went to Germany in spite of these reservations. My grandmother, may she be blessed with good health and long life, turns 95 later this year. I wanted to learn everything I could about her and my grandfather’s past. I needed to go back and see the lives they led before the war. Unable to convince any of my family members to join me, I went to Bavaria alone. Ironically my grandmother kept extolling me for my bravery, even as I politely reminded her that she was the one who left home by herself at the age of fifteen on a Kindertransport. My “courage” paled in comparison.

Throughout my whirlwind three-day trip, I kept noticing the train tracks and benches everywhere. I visited two cities and two smaller towns, traveling by trains and rail. On those train tracks, all I could think of was “these are the rails that took so many Jews to the camps” and whenever I saw a park bench I thought, “there was a moment when Jews could sit on these benches and the next day they couldn’t.” The feelings were exhausting. Every train station and every bench was a reminder of these crimes against the Jewish people.

I was in Germany for such a short time. But Germans see these benches and trains every single day. Do they think about their past when they see a park bench? In America, I’ve never looked at a park bench wondering about its history and the times when certain people could not sit on them. The American landscape, like many societies, is replete with its own respective signs of oppression and inequality, but I’ve never associated those landmarks with injustice. This left me wondering, is it only the victims and their descendants that remember? Should I be thinking more about, and taking responsibility for, the sins of my society, both past and present?

Looking at the destruction of my grandparents’ towns and communities, at all the lives lost, I wondered how the people of these towns forgave themselves after the Holocaust. We read about the reparations and how Germany did everything they could to change their 13

education system and societal structures, but is it really possible for a society as a whole to successfully make such a transformation, to do teshuva? And if so, HOW? While I do not have the answers to any of these questions, and I may never have the answers, it is important to be reminded that entire societies can display moral indifference and either passively or worse, directly, commit atrocities. But it also behooves us to try and think about how to deal with those atrocities.

In each of my grandparents’ towns of Furth and Bad Kissingen, a non-Jew who spent their lives tracing and studying the history of the Jews of the town guided me through the cobblestone streets. Both were women who had committed themselves to digging through archives and trying to rebuild the memory of a destroyed world. These righteous non-Jews are reclaiming history and trying to fix something that was broken. I still cannot understand how entire societies do teshuva, but I now see how individual people try to repair the world. When thinking about personal repentance this Yom Kippur, I plan on also contemplating my responsibility to our society and my role in repairing the brokenness in our lives in and in our world. In this manner, hopefully we as individuals can positively impact society and effect some degree of communal teshuva.

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‫יום כיפור‬

THE INSPIRATION OF IMPERFECTION: READING YONAH ON YOM KIPPUR RABBI ARI SCHWARZBERG R AB BI A R I S C H WA R Z BER G I S T HE F OU N DER A N D D I R E CT O R O F TH E SHA LHEV ET I N ST IT UT E A N D DEAN OF S TU DENT S A T S H ALHEV ET H I G H SCHO O L. H E RECEIV ED H I S S E MIKHA F R OM Y ESHIV A U N I V ERSIT Y AN D HO LDS A MA ST ERS O F TH EO LO GICA L S TU DIES FR O M H AR V A RD D I VI N IT Y S C H OO L.

As we transition into the more climactic moments of Yom Kippur late in the day, we may find it somewhat surprising that Chazal (Megilla 31a) instituted the public reading of Sefer Yonah as the haftara at Mincha. For one, Yonah, the famously stubborn prophet, doesn’t appear to model the attributes of teshuva, repentance, or self-reflection that embody the day’s themes himself. Moreover, God’s focus in the sefer is on the repentance of the Assyrian city of Nineveh, rather than the Jewish people. Although the story of Yonah is fascinating in its own right, its role on Yom Kippur is less than obvious.

To help clarify this selection, I’d like to highlight two different approaches to reading the conclusion of the story. In the fourth chapter, the drama between Yonah and God reaches its crescendo: Yonah accuses God of being overly merciful and unjust to Nineveh, and God responds with a lecture on mercy, closing the story with an ode to compassion: ,‫עשרה רבו אדם‬-‫בה הרבה משתים‬-‫נינוה העיר הגדולה—אשר יש‬-‫ על‬,‫"ואני לא אחוס‬ "‫ רבה‬,‫ ובהמה‬,‫ימינו לשמאלו‬-‫ידע בין‬-‫אשר לא‬ “and should not I have pity on Nineveh, that great city, that has within it more than twelve thousand people, which cannot discern between their right hand and their left hand, and also much cattle?”

The narrative concludes with God having the final word. Even if Nineveh technically does not deserve to be saved, God is unwilling to mete out a death sentence upon the inhabitants of the city. The text, however, doesn’t reveal whether Yonah is convinced by God’s closing statement. The story ends with us wondering whether Yonah remains indignant to God’s behavior or if he is now a changed man who has shifted sides from Team Justice to Team Mercy.

Troubled by this ambiguity, the Midrash (Yalkut Shimoni, Yonah 4:10) clarifies that in reality, Yonah underwent a complete transformation: ‫ הנהג עולמך במדת הרחמים‬:‫"באותו שעה נפל על פניו ואמר‬ .'‫דכתיב 'לה' אלקינו הרחמים והסליחות‬ “At that moment, Yonah fell upon his face and said, ‘May You continue to govern your world with the attribute of mercy…’”

According to this midrashic reading, any past tension between Yonah and God fades as Yonah dramatically changes his stance by prostrating himself before Hashem. The story thus concludes with the two in theological agreement. Yonah will not go down in history as a rebellious prophet, just one that needed a clearer understanding of God’s ways.

The Midrash may not be alone in adopting this interpretation. Interestingly, there are three pesukim from Sefer Micha (7:18-20) that are tacked on as an epilogue to the haftara that may act as Yonah’s voice praising God’s charitable and compassionate ways: ‫מי־אל כמוך נשא עון ועבר על־פשע לשארית נחלתו לא־החזיק לעד אפו כי־חפץ חסד הוא‬ ‫ישוב ירחמנו יכבש עונתינו ותשליך במצלות ים כל־חטאותם׃‬ ‫תתן אמת ליעקב חסד לאברהם אשר־נשבעת לאבתינו מימי קדם‬ “Who is a God like You, Who forgives iniquity and passes over the transgression of the remnant of His heritage? He does not maintain His anger forever,

15

for He desires loving-kindness. He will take us back in love; He will cover up our iniquities, You will hurl all our sins into the depths of the sea. You will keep faith with Jacob, Loyalty to Abraham, as You promised on oath to our fathers in days gone by.

The addition of these additional pesukim likely indicates that the Sages who instituted their recital1 within the haftara were also uncomfortable with the story’s ambiguous ending. For this reason, these verses are “snuck in” despite altering the literary ambiguity of Sefer Yonah’s independent form.

These additions or interpretations, however, leave me wondering about the possibility of an alternative approach to Sefer Yonah’s conclusion. What if Yonah remains unsatisfied with God’s explanation? God will always have the final word, but is it necessary for the story to be neatly tied together where both parties, God and Yonah, live happily ever after? This, I think, is how the Midrash wants the story to end, but I’m not convinced it’s the simplest reading of the sefer. And more importantly, I’m concerned that it obfuscates a deeper theological message about our relationship with Hashem. What seems more convincing is that while Yonah is ultimately submissive and performs his prophetic task dutifully, he remains frustrated, even angry, with God’s decision to spare Nineveh.2 Yonah, perhaps unlike other prophets, typifies a relationship with God that is at times thorny and contentious, but one that is no less intense and committed. The Yonah that flees from before God is the same Yonah that reveals his identity to the sailors at the beginning of the story (1:9) in the most certain of terms: ‫היבשה‬-‫ ואת‬,‫הים‬-‫עשה את‬-‫ אשר‬,‫ אני ירא‬,‫ה' אלהי השמים‬-‫עברי אנכי; ואת‬ “I am a Hebrew; and I fear the Lord, the God of heaven, who has made the sea and the dry land.”

In the midst of his escape from God, Yonah offers an unalloyed declaration of faith. Even while rejecting God’s mission, his identity - “I am a Hebrew” - is defined by his belief in God - “I fear the Lord, the God of heaven, who has made the sea and the dry land.”

What may appear as a contradiction - how can you believe and reject? - may actually be descriptive of a textured or a more honest relationship with God. In any strong relationship, even when a piece of it is contentious, the totality of the relationship, its impact and purpose, still remains healthy. This, then, is an alternative read of Sefer Yonah’s conclusion: Rather than compelling us to view Yonah as a changed man, the Torah here conveys that a relationship with Hashem can be deep, meaningful, and intense, even if it’s not completely harmonious. In truth, our relationships with others are often more enriching when they are unsettling and challenging. And for Yonah, although this prophetic journey does not end agreeably, he is no less the Ivri or Navi than he was beforehand.

Yonah’s discordance with God, in this instance, is reflective of an authentic relationship that naturally generates disagreement and dispute.

As we enter the final hours of Yom Kippur, the message of Yonah looms large. The nature of religion and the human condition rarely allows for matters of faith and belief to be fully squared. We will always have questions and concerns, and even if the majesty of Yom Kippur transcends those gripes, we know they’re likely to return. This can be a depressing thought. How do you engage in teshuva while knowing that your struggles with God will likely remain?

Perhaps this is the role of the haftara. Upon the wings of Sefer Yonah, we can feel reassured by the story of this covenantal relationship between God and his prophet, whose commitment to each other also allows space for grievances and tension. Yonah’s relationship with God is a deeply human one, and therein lies its profound resonance.

It’s this image that I hope makes the gates of teshuvah feel ever so wider.

1 The addition of these pesukim is codified in the Shulchan Aruch (O.C. 622:2), yet no reason is offered for their addition. Other achronim who quote this practice also don’t include a rationale behind their inclusion.

2 See the introduction of Elyakim Ben-Menachem in the Daat Mikra on Sefer Yonah (p. 9) where he notes the ambiguity of Yonah’s silence at the end of the story and says: “there is no clear answer to this question in the text.”

16

‫סוכות‬

BETWEEN THE WALLS AND THE S’CHACH: THE INHERENT CONTRADICTION OF THE SUKKAH RABBI DAVID BLOCK RABBI DAVID BLOCK IS THE ASSISTANT PRINCIPAL OF JUDAIC STUDIES AT SHALHEVET HIGH SCHOOL. HE FORMERLY WORKED AS THE CONTENT AND CURRICULUM DEVELOPER AT ALEPH BETA AND AT RAMBAM MESIVTA IN NEW YORK. DAVID RECEIVED RABBINIC ORDINATION AT YESHIVA UNIVERSITY, WHERE HE ALSO COMPLETED AN M.A. IN JEWISH HISTORY, AN M.S. IN EDUCATION, AND IS CURRENTLY WORKING ON HIS DOCTORATE AS A WEXNER GRADUATE FELLOW/ DAVIDSON SCHOLAR.

When learning Torah b’iyun (in-depth), whether it be Gemara, Halakhah, or even Tanakh, one of the most engaging and rewarding endeavors is resolving ostensive contradictions.

Some have made careers of it: The medieval Ba’alei Tosafos (12th-14th centuries) sought to iron out seeming incongruities in the Talmud, while R. Chaim “Brisker” Soloveitchik (19th century), did the same with the Rambam. The goal of these pursuits is the same: To unveil one, unified, internally consistent Torah and halakhic system.

And yet, the Sukkah – the structure that we live in throughout the holiday of Sukkos – has somehow flown under the radar. When we look at the laws of Sukkah, we’ll uncover a fascinating contradiction and duality, which, once explained, may well teach us something essential about the nature of the holiday itself.

One of the hallmarks of a Sukkah is its s’chach – the roof. Without knowing much about the intricacies of its laws, simply looking at a Sukkah’s roof reveals one of its most defining characteristics: The leaves, branches, and bamboo highlight its impermanence. And perhaps the underlying lesson of living under such a “roof ” is clear: It is meant to remind us that God is the One who provides protection, not our secure homes (Ramban, Vayikra 23:43). And, indeed, many of the more detailed halakhos of s’chach point to this very idea.

For example, the Gemara (Sukkah 11a) teaches that s’chach must be made out of gedulei karka, materials that grow from the ground. Slate, hides, metals, plastics, and any other man-made materials are “off the table.” And the natural material must no longer be connected to the ground, thereby disqualifying an overhanging tree as s’chach. Apparently, that would make the s’chach too permanent.

But just because a material may have grown in the ground and then been detached from it does not mean it is necessarily s’chach material. It also cannot be mekabel tumah, susceptible to contracting ritual impurity. Consequently, branches are ok, but once one fashions that wood into a functional utensil1, it is mekabel tumah and no longer usable for s’chach. That, again, would make the roof far too durable and permanent2.

Further s’chach laws reflect these same values. The Gemara (Sukka 14a) discusses the gezeiras tikra, the rabbinic law that, sometimes, even otherwise “kosher” material cannot be used for s’chach if it appears too similar to a standard roof that is used in a permanent home.

This rule thus disqualifies a wooden plank that is four tefachim (about 12-13 inches) wide.

The gezeiras tikra highlights that not only is permanence a problem for s’chach, but anything that resembles permanence is barred as well.

Once one has the right materials, s’chach must be tzelusa m’ruba michamasa – it must provide more shade than there is sun (Sukkah 22b). But, it also needs to be spread sufficiently apart such that through it one can see the stars. If one cannot see the stars, it is technically still valid (Sukkah 22a), but the medieval Hagahos Maimoniyos (Sukkah 5:9) quotes a fascinating view of Rabbeinu Tam: If it is so thick that water won’t be able to 1 Usually defined in halakha as one that has a receptacle.

2 In his seminal Jewish philosophical work Horeb, R. Samson Rapahel Hirsch magnificently explains the restriction differently – though quite related to the theme at hand. S’chach must be entirely natural, free from any vestige of human creativity. Objects that are mekabel tumah are not problematic because they contract ritual impurity and are considered more permanent, but because it is the mark of a manufactured object with the clear stamp of human craftsmanship. Just like the s’chach’s impermanence, the requirement for the material to be natural and entirely human-free teaches that it is not humanity that protects, but God.

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penetrate, it cannot be used. In other words, without the possibility that rain won’t drip into your chicken soup, the s’chach is invalid3. The reason offered by the Hagahos Maimoniyos is that s’chach that thick is too similar to the roof of a permanent home.

All of these halakhos are captured in one sweeping statement of Chazal (Sukkah 2a): ‫ כל שבעת הימים צא מדירת קבע ושב בדירת עראי‬:‫ אמרה תורה‬.‫בסכת תשבו שבעת ימים‬ “In sukkos shall you dwell for seven days (Vayikra 23:42) – the Torah is saying: For the entire seven days, leave your permanent residence and reside in a temporary residence.”

Now, if we were to extend this concept beyond the roof to the walls, we’d expect precisely the same thing: Guidelines and rules that require impermanence. The problem is, we find the opposite to be true.

First, Sukkah walls can consist of any and every material (Sukkah 12a; Shulchan Aruch 630:1). If one would want a Sukkah made of thick steel walls firmly attached to a subterranean foundation – by all means. And, how many walls must a Sukkah have? While the tradition of Halakha L’Moshe M’Sinai (oral laws given to Moshe straight from God at Mt. Sinai) says that 2 complete walls and one partial wall are sufficient, some argue that such a Sukkah is certainly not ideal (and only acceptable because it is the minimum needed for a stable dwelling). Rather, the archetypal Sukkah should have four walls (Chayei Adam 146:3)4. We see, then, that in contrast to its roof, the structure of the Sukkah can, and should be, quite durable and lasting.

Finally, R. Acha bar Yaakov teaches that the walls need to be stable enough to withstand a ruach metzuyah, a regular wind (Sukkah 23a). Practically, that means that the walls should not be capable of swaying the amount of three tefachim (9-12 inches). Again, we see that the Sukkah walls can – and even should – be durable or permanent. In fact, if one had a permanent structure with the retractable roof, those walls would be ripe for a perfectly kosher Sukkah.

Apparently, then, the Sukkah in its very structure contains these two entirely opposite, contradictory elements.

While the Sukkah’s roof points to a diras arai (a temporal, flimsy dwelling), its walls seem to promote the idea of at least a partial diras kevah (a more permanent, sturdy dwelling). How are we meant to understand this?

I’d like to suggest that this duality in the Sukkah’s structure cuts to the heart of the holiday itself. Each year, we leave our homes for seven days and live an ostensibly less secure, less comfortable, less guaranteed lifestyle. By not just recalling but reliving desert life, Sukkos is meant to help us realize that, in truth, everything we have in our secure homes is just as much from God as were the huts and manna in the desert millennia ago - albeit less overtly so.

The first part is often the easier task: As we leave our homes, sit in our temporary huts, and look up at the stars, it’s not too hard to remember God. It’s the second part that’s far more difficult: How can we take that message back into our lives, so we appreciate God’s protection and sustenance throughout the rest of year?

That’s where the beautiful duality of the Sukkah shines. If we were to just leave our homes and go camping in tents, we would have a spiritual seven (or, here in the Diaspora, eight) days. But that spiritual feeling would remain in the tent. There’s nothing that’s all that replicable from the tent to the home. They are so different.

But a Sukkah is not a tent. On Sukkos, we leave our homes and enter another one – one that, just from looking at the walls, feels like a bona fide home. The walls are sturdy, maybe even permanent. And they’re decorated beautifully, just as we might adorn the walls in our homes (Shut HaRashba 1:55). But then we look up. And where we might expect to find an equally sturdy roof, we find leaves, branches, and bamboo. Where we might expect to find protection, we find a porous covering. Where we might expect to find expert human craftsmanship, we find stars and galaxies. It replicates our homes around us but reminds us of its temporality above. And then, seven days later, we re-enter our homes. Our walls are sturdy, permanent, and beautifully decorated – just like our Sukkah walls were.

But now, after training for seven days, we don’t need to look up to remind ourselves of the Godliness that exists there.

That is the intentional contradiction within the Sukkah. If the entire Sukkah were to be temporary and flimsy, it would provide a spiritual holiday. But with its sturdy walls and delicate roof, it provides a spiritual life.

3 It should be noted that Rashi disagrees with Rabbeinu Tam, and the Shulkhan Aruch omits this halakha. Some commentaries derive from this omission that the halakha is not in accordance with Rabeinu Tam, while others argue that the halakha is nevertheless in accordance with his more stringent opinion.

4 Even the allowance for a 2+ wall sukkah is limited to specific cases. See Shulchan Aruch (O.C. 630:2-5).

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‫אושפיזין‬

A NEW LOOK AT THE USHPIZIN: THROUGH THE EYES OF A RATIONALIST RABBI ARI SEGAL RABBI ARI SEGAL IS THE HEAD OF SCHOOL OF SHALHEVET HIGH SCHOOL IN LOS ANGELES. HE HAS PREVIOUSLY WORKED AT ROBERT M. BEREN ACADEMY IN HOUSTON AND RAMAZ IN NEW YORK CITY. R' SEGAL EARNED MASTERS DEGREES IN BUSINESS ADMINISTRATION FROM EMORY UNIVERSITY AND COMMUNAL ORGANIZATION FROM YESHIVA UNIVERSITY. IN ADDITION TO HIS PASSION FOR THE MINNESOTA VIKINGS AND GOURMET COFFEE, RABBI SEGAL HAS FOUR AMAZING DAUGHTERS WHO KEEP HIM BUSY AND ONE INCREDIBLE WIFE WHO KEEPS HIM VERY SANE.

Of all the chagim on the Jewish calendar, my memories of Sukkos are the most distinct.

Sukkos is an especially tactile holiday, and I vividly remember the old-fashioned beams and tarp that my family used to build our Sukkah — none of this pre-made stuff that we can get today! I remember the simple decorations (no extravagant lights or dazzling chandeliers) that made the Sukkah our own. And I remember the weather — the Maryland landscape often resembled a Northeastern tundra as opposed to the picture-perfect Californian climate where I celebrate Sukkos these days. But my family loved spending time in our Sukkah even as we shivered. There was something magical about it. We’d huddle together in the Sukkah on chol hamoed, watching football games, drinking hot chocolate, and enjoying the company of family.

Sukkos was and is a holiday that my family took very seriously. But there was one ritual, in between the schach and the fragrant esrogim, which we never really got into: The practice of welcoming the Ushpizin (lit. guests in Aramaic), our seven ancestors who visit us in the Sukkah according to Kabbalistic tradition. You see, I’ve got a brilliant family of a decidedly rationalist bent. My father is a mathematician. One brother is a philosopher, another a bible scholar. To put it mildly, we definitely prefer to stay within the lines of intellectualism and deductive decisions. Oftentimes, anything that fell outside those lines was pushed to the periphery of our Jewish practice.

So, as you can imagine, it was hard to know what to make of the idea that we should welcome metaphysical guests from ancient times into the practical confines of our modern Sukkah. In a word, it just seemed… weird. So I’ve lived my life and raised my own family celebrating Sukkos year after year, and I’ve never paid much attention to the Ushpizin.

This year, however, I wanted our relationship with Ushpizin to change. Maybe I’m inspired - or rather, disturbed - by the state of political discourse in our world. We’re so quick to dismiss the unfamiliar, to say “this idea or action is in and this one is out.” Rabbi Norman Lamm once observed that we Jews are often only too happy to appreciate and accept the accomplishments of other religions and cultures — but when it comes to Jewish practices that differ from our own, we are rarely as tolerant.

In that spirit, I wanted to challenge myself, together with all of you, to go outside of my religious and spiritual comfort zone. How, I wondered, can the Ushpizin speak to me -- and speak to all of us?

Here is a bit of historical context on the Ushpizin before we dive into the spiritual questions.

The idea of the Ushpizin comes from the Zohar, the foremost book of Jewish mysticism. The Zohar explains that the Sukkah generates such an intense concentration of spiritual energy that the divine presence actually manifests itself there, in much the same way as it does in Gan Eden. During Sukkos, the souls of the seven great leaders of Israel – Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Moses, Aaron, Joseph, and King David – actually leave Gan Eden to partake in the divine light of the earthly Sukkot (Zohar - Emor 103a). Based on this notion, Rabbi Isaac Luria, the great mystical sage known as the Arizal, developed the ritual of welcoming the Ushpizin with the recitation of the paragraphs found in most siddurim today.

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So: A beautiful concept, but not one that anyone would mistake as part of the rationalist tradition. But even far from my spiritual comfort zone, I still found remarkable meaning in this seemingly irrational custom.

The Ushpizin embody two central themes of the Sukkos experience, namely simcha (happiness) and achdus (communal unity), as will be explained below. The Torah describes Sukkos as zman simchaseinu, our time of celebration, and of course, we conclude the Sukkos experience with the dancing and singing on Simchas Torah. The second principle, achdus, unity, is similarly bound to the physical concepts of Sukkos. The Gemara (Sukkah 27b) remarks: “It is fitting that all of Israel should dwell in a single sukkah.” The holiday is a binding of elements — the walls of our sukkah with the schach overhead, the arba minim gathered in a famously poignant symbol of Jewish togetherness (and I don’t know about you, but I’ve rarely been inside a sukkah that didn’t leave me feeling quite close — not just spiritually, but also physically — to the people I shared it with).

So, the Ushpizin represent the blending of these two concepts of simcha and achdus.

We are commanded to invite the poor into our Sukkah, an idea expounded on by the Zohar (Emor 103a) immediately after discussing the Ushpizin, saying: "One must also gladden the poor, and the portion [that would otherwise have been set aside for these Ushpizin] guests should go to the poor. For if a person sits in the shadow of faith and invites those guests and does not give their portion [to the poor], they all remain distant from him….”

This is a pretty remarkable connection. The Ushpizin, the veritable royalty of the Jewish faith, are tied intrinsically to those on the opposite end of the socioeconomic spectrum. Sukkos, we can see, is the great unifier. It transcends time and space. It brings together the rich and the poor, the young and the old, men and women, Jews from all across the spectrum of religious life.

In an increasingly fractured society at large, and even within the Jewish community, I find that this idea resonates deeply. A Sukkah is such a simple thing; it barely even needs three walls to exist. And yet, within these most humble confines, we can all come together to feast, to sing, and to celebrate our connections to each other and to Hashem.

But there’s one more question I have before I can consider my understanding of the Ushpizin complete. There’s a glaring omission among the Ushpizin, one that quite a few commentators pick up on. For some reason, we do not appear to be inviting or expecting exactly that one person who usually gets invited to these sort of parties (like a bris or a Pesach Seder).

Where, I wonder, is Eliyahu HaNavi?

I’d like to suggest an answer that I find quite meaningful. Sukkos is a commemoration of the huts we built on our way to Eretz Yisrael, used for momentary stops on our way to our Promised Land. The holiday reminds us of the dignity and meaning of the journey itself towards redemption. Sukkos is the act of setting up camp on shifting sands, night after night — even if we never make it out of the desert. It is an uncertain and often trying path, but one with tremendous inherent rewards for the effort involved.

And in fact, the people we invite are all people who led the Jewish people on exciting journeys, but never got to actualize and see the completion of those journeys. They are “Sukkos Jews.” The Avos, as well as Yosef, never saw the full grandeur of the Jewish people, Moshe and Aharon never entered Eretz Yisrael, and Dovid HaMelech never completed the building of the Beis HaMikdash. Their nobility derives from their incredible faith and persistence, not necessarily their success, and they remind us that the Sukkos/huts we build along the way still invest meaning and importance into each of our personal journeys.

Eliyahu, on the other hand, represents redemption itself – the end of the journey. Sukkos, therefore, is not quite his venue.

Now, being a person of logic and practical ideals, I couldn’t come away from the Ushpizin without some kind of real-world application of their lessons. And this idea, that it is the journey that is of utmost value, not necessarily the destination, fits perfectly into the practical challenges that we face after the spiritual highs of Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur.

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This post Yom Kippur period definitely has some similarities with the post (secular) New Year period where resolutions so famously go to die. We all know how it goes: The moment the proverbial ball drops, we rush into our impossibly ambitious resolutions (for years, I’ve been “going to Equinox five times a week...” for the first two weeks of January). For a brief time, we feel like Arnold Schwarzenegger…but all of that zeal and resolve dissolves fairly quickly. Work is hard, we have to make dinner, the kids need help with homework, something hurts us…before you know it, we face the pivotal crossroads between ambition and reality: should we scale back and hit the gym once a week - an attainable goal - or give up on the endeavor altogether?

That crossroads so often gets the best of us, right? It’s in our nature. It’s so much easier to say that the goal we’d set is out of reach — so let’s just get off this path (this treadmill!) all together.

On a spiritual and religious level, this is exactly what we’re battling against after Yom Kippur, as we head into Sukkos.

We’ve made grand plans and commitments to the Ribbono Shel Olam — we’re gonna make it to minyan for mincha five times a week! But getting to minyan is hard, isn’t it? And we have to make dinner, and the kids need help with homework… before we know it, five melts away to zero.

The lesson of the Ushpizin is: Don’t go down to zero. Sukkos is about the journey, and even one small step carries you back to the Promised Land; even one tiny stone can build the Bais Hamikdash. It’s a beautiful, noble ideal to be a Sukkos Jew. After all, it’s about the effort, as our Sages remind us: “Lo alecha hamelacha ligmor” — it is not upon you to complete the work.

This is something I speak about constantly as a Jewish educator, perhaps my most oft-repeated idea. No journey, no achievement, is all-or-nothing. Eliyahu HaNavi is an amazing persona, but what he represents is not what Sukkos is about. As we engage in this wonderful struggle to be the best versions of ourselves, perhaps the Ushpizin are telling us to model ourselves not after the man who rode a chariot to heaven, but instead, on those who built the road he took to get there.

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‫הושענא רבה‬

THE ARAVOS AND HOSHANA RABBA

The culminating ritual of the Hoshana Rabbah service is “the taking of the willow,” a ceremony wherein bundles of Aravos are taken exclusively without the other three species (lulav, esrog, and hadasim) and beaten on the ground as a petition to God for rain and agricultural success. Superficially, it seems perplexing that the lowly Aravos, possessing neither taste nor smell, are chosen for this most important of overtures. Moreover, the Talmud expresses the notion that God should be served in a grandiose manner in the following comment: “Bow to the Lord in the beauty of holiness… [this is] like Rabbi Yehuda, who would adorn himself [in beautiful clothes] and then pray (Berachos 30b).

Consequently, it seems that one should stand before God with the opulence with which one stands before a king. If so, wouldn’t it make more sense to choose one of the more prominent species for this ceremony?

Rav Soleveitchik offers a resolution to this conflict in his seminal essay, The Lonely Man of Faith. In discussing Adam II (referring to the personality of Adam that is prominent in Perek 2 of Bereishis), which represents the aspect of man that strives to know God (as opposed to Adam I, which is focused on physical matters), he asserts the necessity of God forming Adam “from the dust of the Earth” (see Bereishis 2:7). This indicates that humility is a prerequisite for an honest commitment of faith in God. It is only with the awareness of one’s insignificance in the grand scheme of the universe that one is able to truly acknowledge an omniscient, omnipotent God. Once one has achieved this status, one can approach God in prayer in the manner of Rabbi Yehuda, demonstrating the importance of the occasion, and yet still retain one’s humility.

In fact, images depicting modesty and humility as an instrument for religious intimacy abound in the classical sources of Jewish literature. This notion is perhaps best exemplified by the sagely pauper: a man whose material abandonment somehow allows him unlimited knowledge of the immaterial and mystical.

Consequently, it is not in spite of the Aravos’ modesty, but because of it, that renders them the perfect tool with which to beseech God. We petition Him for rain and a successful year of planting using the lowest of the arba minim, demonstrating to Him that we recognize that the results are in His hands, not in ours. May we merit to achieve this level of appreciation of our status and the significance of the Aravos and thereby receive tremendous blessing from Hashem.

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BENNETT SCHNEIER BENNETT SCHNEIER IS A GRADUATE OF SHALHEVET'S CLA SS OF 2017, STUDIED AT YESHIVAT ERETZ HATZVI IN JERUSALEM, AND IS CURRENTLY ATTENDING VANDERBILT UNIVERSITY.

‫שמיני עצרת‬

SHEMINI ATZERET’S IDENTITY CRISIS TALI SHLACHT TALI SHLACHT IS A GRADUATE OF SHALHEVET'S CLASS OF 2018 AND IS CURRENTLY STUDYING AT MIGDAL OZ IN GUSH ETZION.

The holiday of Shemini Atzeret is celebrated every year at the conclusion of Sukkot, bringing an end to the “chagim season” that began on Rosh Hashanah. We often associate the day of Shemini Atzeret with Sukkot, which it immediately follows, yet it also has some tefilot and brachot that are different than those of Sukkot. In addition, Shemini Atzeret is linked with Simchat Torah, when we complete the yearly cycle of the Torah reading. In Israel, Simchat Torah is celebrated on the same day as Shemini Atzeret, but in the Diaspora, Shemini Atzeret alone is celebrated on the day that follows the seven days of Sukkot, and Simchat Torah is on the next day, serving as a ‫ יום טוב שני של גלויות‬of Shemini Atzeret, the added day that the Rabbis instituted for each festival in the Diaspora. So this day is associated with Sukkot, as well as Simchat Torah, but this still does not tell us what exactly Shemini Atzeret is all about.

What can we glean from the Torah and rabbinic sources about this day? The Torah mentions Shemini Atzeret together with Sukkot, and refers to it as the yom hashemini, the eighth day, implying that it is simply the eighth day of Sukkot. The Mishna in Sukkah also refers to Shemini Atzeret as the “‫”יום טוב אחרון של חג‬, the last day of the chag, as the last day is still considered Zman Simchateinu, a time of rejoicing, like Sukkot, and we still recite Hallel, like the rest of the days of Sukkot.

Rashi (Vayikra 23:36) famously gives a mashal, a parable, to explain the relationship between Sukkot and Shemini Atzeret based on this common theme of rejoicing. The celebration of Sukkot and Shemini Atzeret is similar to a king who invites his sons to feast with him for a few days. When it comes time for them to leave, the king asks his sons to stay with him for just one more day. According to this idea, Sukkot is a more universal holiday while Shemini Atzeret is a day for the Jewish people alone. We want one more day to rejoice with Hashem as the season of chagim comes to a close.

And yet, the unique mitzvot of Sukkot do not apply anymore (at least by Torah law). We finish shaking the Lulav and Etrog on Hoshana Rabba, the last day of Sukkot, and we sit in the sukkah only based on rabbinic law, but do not recite a Bracha. This is because Shemini Atzeret was instituted in Chutz La’Aretz, the Diaspora, as reflecting the safek, or doubt, that originally existed regarding the correct day on the calendar (the reason that every festival has a second day added to it outside of Israel). Therefore, we are machmir and perform the deoraita mitzvah of sitting in the Sukkah on Shemini Atzeret as well (though without a beracha to illustrate the difference), but not the derabanan mitzvah of shaking the four minim (which was only biblical on all seven days in the Beit HaMikdash).

In addition, the Gemara (Sukkah 48a) calls Shemini Atzeret a ‫רגל בפני עצמו‬, a separate, distinct holiday in and of itself. It proceeds to list six ways in which Shemini Atzeret differs from Sukkot, four of which are related to the avodah (service) in the Beit Hamikdash, and two that are relevant nowadays: A) We recite Shehechiyanu on the first night of Shemini Atzeret, which is generally only recited at the onset of a new holiday.

B) We refer to the day as Shemini Atzeret, rather than Sukkot, in our Tefila.

We see that this day contains a certain duality: On the one hand it is related to and part of 23

Sukkot. At the same time, Shemini Atzeret is portrayed by the Gemara and reflected in our practices as an independent chag, as it is a day devoted to celebrating the Jewish people’s unique relationship with Hashem.

In addition to its relationship to Sukkot, as mentioned Shemini Atzeret is also linked with Simchat Torah, which serves as its Yom Tov Sheni. But it is difficult to understand why we would celebrate Simchat Torah and the completion of the cycle of Keriat HaTorah on Shemini Atzeret, rather than the day that we received the Torah, Shavuot. Wouldn’t it make more sense to celebrate its completion on the day we received it?

The common answer given is that there is a major thematic difference between the giving of the Torah and completing its study. On Simchat Torah, we celebrate the completion of the Torah, not the giving of the Torah, and the two celebrations should remain distinct. However, the Lubavitcher Rebbe1, Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson, offers a more creative answer to this question as well that highlights an additional theme of the day.

They explain that Sukkot and Shemini Atzeret directly parallel Pesach and Shavuot. The latter of each of the two pairs are referred to as “Atzeret” (Shemini Atzeret in the Torah, and Shavuot by Chazal), and the former of each pair both begin on the fifteenth of the month (not a coincidence!). Moreover, both Shavuot and Shemini Atzeret culminate a cycle of seven: Shavuot concludes the seven weeks of the Omer, and Shemini Atzeret concludes the seven days of Sukkot. Lastly, Nissan and Tishrei are both beginnings of the year.

According to the Lubavitcher Rebbe, the word “Atzeret” in these parallels can be understood as an initiation and implementation of an earlier realization, which is then put into action. Thus, the giving of the Torah at Har Sinai serves as the initiation and implementation of the process that began with Yetziat Mitzrayim – serving as Hashem’s chosen people, and Shavuot serves as the Atzeret of Pesach. Shemini Atzeret though serves as a different type of Atzeret: The second set of Luchot, which were given following the sin of the golden calf and Moshe’s breaking of the first set, were given on the tenth of Tishrei, the day of Yom Kippur. Yom Kippur is generally not observed as a festival or day of rejoicing, but as a more personal, introspective day. Nevertheless, it is the day that we received the second Luchot, and we also want to celebrate!2 Therefore, we are actually rejoicing for the second Luchot, which represent Teshuva, in place of doing so on Yom Kippur. Consequently, on Shemini Atzeret we implement the rejoicing over Teshuva that began on Sukkot in a manner that enables us to make this celebration of Teshuva part of our day-to-day lives.

Perhaps we can apply this idea of Atzeret being an implementation and initiation of an earlier process in an additional manner as well. Rav Yaakov Tzvi Mecklenburg (19th Century Germany), author of the commentary HaKetav VeHakabala, translates “Atzeret” as “retain,” which can be applied as follows: Throughout the season of the Chagim, we experience a rollercoaster of emotions. We accept Hashem as our king on Rosh Hashanah, we recite selichot, reflecting on our sins, and ask for forgiveness on Yom Kippur. We spend hours sitting in shul, (hopefully) reflecting and thinking forward as to how to improve during the coming year. Shemini Atzeret and Simchat Torah are the final days of this season, when we must determine how all of this will affect our lives during the coming year.

Thus, we can view these days as a time to take all the kavana we had on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, retain it, and channel it towards the rest of the year. As a day of an “initiation of an earlier realization,” it is a time where we focus on the year ahead and how we can actualize those Yom Kippur resolutions for the upcoming year.

1 Maamar Lehavin Inyan Simchat Torah (5742), adapted by Yanky Tauber (meaningfullife.com).

2 See Taanit 26b and commentaries there, which also indicate that Yom Kippur has the status of a day of celebration for this reason.

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‫שמחת תורה‬ A CIRCLE OF JOY: UNDERSTANDING THE HAKKAFOT OF SIMCHAT TORAH RABBI ABRAHAM LIEBERMAN RABBI ABRAHAM LIEBERMAN IS A MEMBER OF THE LIMUDEI KODESH FACU LTY AT SHALHEVET HIGH SCHOOL. HE PREVIOUSLY SERVED AS THE HEAD OF SCHOOL AT YULA GIRLS HIGH SCHOOL. RABBI LIEBERMAN LEARNED AT YESHIVA UNIVERSITY AND RECEIVED SEMIKHA FROM EMEK HALAKHA IN BROOKLYN. HE RECEIVED HIS M.A. IN JEWISH HISTORY FROM THE BERNARD REVEL GRADUATE SCHOOL (YU), WHERE HE IS CURRENTLY WORKING TOWARDS HIS DOCTORATE.

The holiday of Simchat Torah is a very unique one on the Jewish calendar. It is not just the second day of the Yom Tov Shemini Atzeret (the holiday with which it is associated) observed in the Diaspora; rather it has taken on a life of its own. “Born” in Bavel (Babylonia) sometime during the Amoraic or Geonic period, it has spread and enriched our spiritual lives in so many ways. It has spawned myriads of minhagim that are all related in some way to the fact that on this day, we complete our annual Torah reading cycle with great joy and celebration. In fact, an entire book (over 500 pages) entitled “Toldot Chag Simchat Torah”1 is devoted exclusively to the numerous customs of this holiday.

I would like to discuss specifically the minhag of hakkafot on Simchat Torah, the seven circular processions in which the Sifrei Torah are removed from the ark and are carried around the Bimah, the lectern in the middle of the synagogue from where the Torah is read.

Like many other customs observed on Simchat Torah, this one appears to have developed over time and was not necessarily practiced in this form originally. The custom is first mentioned by Rabbi Simchah of Vitry (11th Cent.), a very important student of Rashi, records (Machzor Vitry, Siman 383) that on Simchat Torah all the Torah Scrolls would be removed from the Aron Kodesh, the ark, and verses and piyyutim (religious poetry) would be recited. However, there is no mention of dancing or hakkafot as we know them. Similar customs to that mentioned by Rabbi Simchah of Vitry are recorded in the writings of rishonim living in Provence and Spain, but those sources also omit any mention of a practice of hakkafot, including through the time of Rabbi Yosef Karo (1488-1575), who makes no mention of it in the Shulchan Aruch2.

R. Moshe Isserles (1530-1572), known as the Rema, in his comments to the Shulchan Aruch (O.C. 669), does report an earlier custom of doing a hakkafah: “It is customary in these lands (Poland) to remove all the Sifrei Torah from the Aron on Simchat Torah, both in the evening and in the day... and to encircle the Bimah with the Sifrei Torah, just as we go around with the Lulav, because of Simchah (happiness).” However, even from this source it is quite evident that in his day the hakkafah was a one-time encircling of the Bimah and then returning the Sifrei Torah to the Aron.

The custom of performing seven Hakkafot as we know it is first mentioned by Rabbi Haim Vital (1542-1620), the most important student of the famous Kabbalist of Tzfat (Safed) Rabbi Isaac Luria (1534-1572) lovingly known as the Ari Ha-Kadosh z”l. Rabbi Vital mentions the custom of his teacher to dance and rejoice with all his might and perform seven Hakkafot (Shaar Ha-Kavvanot, p.104).

Over the next two hundred years, the custom of performing seven hakkafot spread across the Jewish world, taking on different forms in different communities, including differences in at what point they should take place, how many Sifrei Torah should be removed, what verses and piyutim should be recited with each Hakkafah, and who should be honored with 1 This book was written by Professor Avraham Yaari and published by Mossad HaRav Kook. With regard to the custom of hakkafot discussed in this article, see the detailed discussion and historical background in chapter 30.

2 Also no reference is made to any type of celebration at night until the 14th Century in Germany (Minhaggim Dbei Maharam Rothenburg, p.69) and even then only in a few areas.

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holding the Torah. In a number of places, some felt it was disrespectful to dance with a Sefer Torah (Divrei Kohelet, p.138) but the custom eventually became accepted universally.

It seems that this notion of circling around the Bimah has its roots in the Hakkafot of Hoshanah Rabbah, the last day of Sukkot that immediately precedes Shemini Atzeret, when we march around the Bimah with the Arba Minim, the four species shaken on Sukkot, seven times, usually with a Sefer Torah on the Bimah3. This, in turn, was done as a remembrance of the practice in Temple times as recorded by the Mishnah (Sukkah 4:5): “Each day (of Sukkot) they walked around the altar once… on that day [Hoshanah Rabbah] seven times.” The Talmud Yerushalmi (Sukkah 4:3) explains that the significance of circling seven times is to recall Yehoshua’s conquest of Yericho when the walls fell (Yehoshua 6:1-21), which occurred on the seventh day of them surrounding it, and was accomplished by encircling the city seven times with seven Kohanim and seven shofarot. The Kabbalists also offer additional mystical reasons for the number seven4.

The Yom Tov of Sukkot is known as zeman simchateinu, the time of rejoicing. This joy culminates on the last day, Simchat Torah, with our completion of the yearly cycle of Torah reading. When we celebrate while dancing with the Torah and performing the hakkafot, we should remember what a great privilege it is to partake in this ceremony and how grateful we are to Hashem for this gift of the Torah. The Hakkafot and other Simchat Torah celebrations are testimony to the love the Jewish People have for the Torah. As the Zohar (Parshat Pinchas 256) notes, the Jewish people exhibit great joy and exultation of when they dance with the Torah and adorn it with a crown every year upon the completion of the yearly cycle. Sisu v’simchu b’simchat Hatorah – Let us rejoice and exult in the happiness of the Torah!

3 See Sukkah 43b 4 The Mishna Berura notes that some communities only practiced three hakkafot while others practiced seven, though today the vast majority practice seven.

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