Man's search for meaning in the four species

'Businessmen, they drink my wine, plowmen dig my earth. None of them along the line know what any of it is worth'. (Dylan, 'All along the Watchtower'). 

The relationship between wealth and spiritual existence is one explored in last week's Torah portion and is a theme that is frequently raised around Sukkot. On the one hand, the Torah is particular to warn that the excesses of wealth can easily lead to religious laxity. On the other hand, as Maimonides writes (Hilkhot Teshuvah 9:1) worldly pleasures are required to enable the individual to focus on the deeper areas of life. In fact, the common association of spirituality being a product of the mind and feeling alone is misleading for this very reason. Without the peace of mind provided by worldly joys, loftier ambitions are far harder to focus upon. The meaning we associate with religious events usually depends on our own personal situation and this applies equally to our relationship with specific mitzvoth and festivals. 

The taking of the Arbah Minim, or four species, is a classic example of this. When contemplating the prospect of schlepping a Lulav around Glasgow next week I was struck by the concept of what 'meaning' actually 'means' in the context of shaking the Lulav. I remember the question in school: 'Why do you carry around a lemon and a leek?'.

Usually, the buzzword for exploring the commandments is 'depth'. But a deeper understanding of the Mitzvah depends on the vantage point from which it is approached. What constitutes depth can depend on the individual, the surroundings or perhaps simply the moment in the life of the individual. 

When a mitzvah is considered primarily as a divine duty, its significance lies in its details. The halakhot of lulav and etrog take primacy. In an environment which is undisturbed by outside intrusions, this element takes on the greatest significance. Details and particulars are the most important element of fulfilling this duty, and in a world created for the sake of God's will alone this is the greatest depth possible. ( See Rav Soloveitchik's halakhic man for the classic analysis of what I would consider the Yeshivah mindset).

Outside of this environment, however, the primary significance of the mitzvah is found within its ability to reconnect you with God. As you will find in many sermons at shul, the mitzvah is conceived of primarily in terms of its ethical or deeper spiritual significance. Depending on the crowd, the lulav is presented symbolically, either in terms of material prosperity used for purposeful intent, the unity of the Jewish people or a wondrous metaphysical tool in the divine sphere. 

This form of inspiration can act as a jump-start to a life which feels in need of a  boost. 'Depth' here means a spiritual examination of the details of the mitzvah and its appeal to the more emotive side of human nature. In accordance with the Hasidic model, mitzvoth are understood in terms of God's love for His creatures, a point of contact between finite man and the infinite God.

But there is a third way of understanding depth and it has little to do with details but rather has broader, more general implications. This depth is often found in simplicity rather than complication and can often be dismissed as childlike, particularly by the intellectually inclined. This, I suggest, appeals when we just don't care or engage with the above. Because hey, sometimes 'depth' is wearying, tiresome and not remotely meaningful. I am talking about aesthetics, community, memory and action. 
To quote Eliezer Berkowitz in God Man and History , p.107 (107 Modox points right there):
 'Meaning is realised in this world by the interpenetration of mind and matter. Matter must be informed by mind, and mind must be rendered potent by matter'. Action alone without any other thought has very powerful implications that are not always appreciated. In taking the four species in shul we are coming together as a community, retaining the consistency and commitment towards a purposeful existence and enjoying the atmosphere, singing and the splendour of the sight of the lulav and the etrog, which after all, is referred to in the Torah as a Pri etz hadar (The fruit of a beautiful tree). 

It also might trigger memories of previous years and positive associations. In fact, vague associations sometimes act as the subtle nudge we need. Like I mentioned with Yom Kippur, overly thinking the concept of 'depth' can be detrimental to the experience of the occasion.      

In an excellent book I finished recently, The Crisis of the European Mind 1685-1715 (Paul Hazard, 1961), the author comments that many of the rationalists who had begun to crusade against organised religion in the late 17th Century 
'had never paused to enquire whether these people had nourished in their hearts a religious fire that nothing could extinguish. They had simplified the problem, as they thought, and deemed that they had said the last word when they brought in such terms as "prejudice" and "superstition"'. 

Often we think that in order for religion to be meaningful we must justify our experience of it in terms of an intellectual rigour but perhaps it is more useful to think about it in terms of of an inextinguishable fire requiring different forms of stoking at different points in life. 
Something to think about,
Chag Sameach.  

Yom Kippur and hitting the wall: Time to stop thinking so much?

Online ranting differs from online writing in that it is less coherent, more rambling, more heartfelt and often more offensive. I think a good resolution for this year is to write fewer rants, write more frequently and shorten the length of the posts on this blog. (Naturally, excluding this one):

If you ever have the chance to leaf through Andrew Flintoff's career statistics on statsguru you will notice nothing remarkable. In fact, statistically Flintoff seems to be only slightly better than the traditional stereotype of an English all-rounder, 'can't bat, can't bowl'. But anyone who watched the Ashes series of 2005 or some of his great spells of bowling will know that he had the ability to transform a game like few others in the modern game. Statistics only tell part of the story. The hard data of facts seems a million miles away from lived memory.  

Perhaps with Freddie in mind, one of the pioneering figures in the early Hasidic movement, R. Jacob Joseph of Poloyne, made the following observation about the difference between personal interaction with a human being and book knowledge: "The book is composed of words on a page. He who teaches the words and lives the words, who teaches the words by the way he lives the words, makes the book come alive.” The human individual has a complex inner world that can never be fully expressed in the written word. These two worlds, the world of theoretical knowledge and learning and the world of human experience are ones that we constantly try to reconcile without ever quite managing to do successfully. Most idealism is marked by partial frustration. It is a theme that I am particularly mindful of this time of year.

The ten days of repentance are days to reflect on ideals, aspirations and regrets. We listen to talks about the essence of repentance and self-improvement. Yom Kippur approaches, a day of deep introspection containing moments where we experience true spirituality, attempting to cross the abyss that separates us from God. 

But then we hit the wall. How do I take the utopian vision in my mind and transfer it to practical reality? How do I convert it into a significant contribution towards the future of my religious life, human society, the Jewish people, my family and loved ones? The circle keeps on going: The experience fades and we are often left doubting the purpose of such exalted emotion altogether, in the words of Bruce Springsteen, we are left to question 'Is a dream a lie that don't come true or is it something worse?' And those lofty thoughts in my mind, like words on the page, close, dormant for another year.

It is true that commitments to small improvements can have significant consequences. I can make a list of things to change like every year and reflect on personal failures. But it seems that the problem is that these commitments of a personal ethical, moral or religious nature never seem enough in those moments of deep experience. The world flashes before us - the divides, the rifts, the battles and the pain. For a moment we stand above them all with the ability to cure these evils. The gap between dreams and reality narrows for a moment. 

Then the eureka lightning flashes take place that make you think that you are on to something truly unique, convincing you 
'Into thinking you’re the one
That can do what’s never been done
That can win what’s never been won
Meantime life outside goes on
All around you' (Dylan, It's alright Ma).

Then the wall reappears and you are somehow incapable of properly explaining the ideas or realising your visions. Yom Kippur comes along again, the same posts are posted online, but what can break the wall? Are we destined to roll our eyes at some point during our lifetimes and drawl in a Beatles impersonation 'Yeah you know, we all wanna change the world'.

But this year I take comfort from a few things I have thought about over the past year:

One is learning to embrace limitations: Over-planning, over-thinking and over-analysing is overrated. Every theory, model and plan is regularly put to shame by the most elementary of experiences. How do I look back at my own personal educational development? I don't think about the books I've read or the marks I've received:  
When I think of primary school, for example, what stands out is the powerful attachment to the land of Israel that I received from a year three teacher. When I think of being a teenager, yes I studied a lot but what stands out is the experience of solidarity and Achdut on Summer and Winter camps, both as a Chanich (student) and as a Madrich (leader). My most positive memories of Yeshivah are those of quiet serenity in the Beit ha midrash. 

The impact of the individuals behind these experiences was that they facilitated rather than created, often in discreet ways. Changes happen in unexpected ways and there is often no way of really planning them.

A few months ago on a trip to Israel with the Montefiore Leaders programme this feeling was put in sharp relief by a visit the nature museum in Jerusalem which had been converted into a theatrical display. Without ruining the details for those who would like to pay the museum a visit (open once a week at night, highly recommended), the experience highlighted the gulf between knowledge learnt, lessons internalised and the actual realities of friendship, companionship and love, particularly in addressing the hardest questions in life such as suffering.

Often the very best we possibly can do in a capacity of responsibility is to create a particular environment which enables the 'flock' to find themselves. Thinking, planning and dreaming can only take you so far and will meet a wall somewhere along the way. The mind will always take us places far beyond our reach, and our experiences will teach us things that our minds couldn't have conceived of alone.  

This was Maimonides' problem. If I was to summarise every critique that has been levelled at Maimonides with regard to his system of thought, particularly from the mystics, it would simply be that his rationalism did not accurately reflect the religious experience of the Jewish people. Many saw Maimonides' philosophy as detrimental to the religious life of the layperson as people are creatures of sentiment.

But Maimonides himself concludes the Guide of the Perplexed by suggesting that wisdom alone cannot suffice in the pursuit of God. It is not enough to know the God of the heavens, He must also appear down here on earth watching over us. It is not enough to know the theories behind righteousness but rather our actions must express justice, kindness and goodness. The mind, theories and resolutions can only take us so far.

Education is much more than a curriculum, personal development is much more than a list of boxes to improve upon and changes must be measured by more than data. So we act. So we do. And our actions stimulate our experiences and our thoughts and they try and work in harmony. 

So Yom Kippur comes. We think. We dream. We aspire. We regret. It provides a framework which can then be filled by our actions and deeds, but not necessarily a manual or blueprint. It shouldn't be a source of guilt. It will be our actions that have the greatest impact on those around us and most valued in service of God and overthinking can easily lead to stagnation and worry. It is easy to 'take me disappearing in the smokescreen of my mind in the foggy ruins of time' (Dylan, Mr Tamborine man). As Maimonides writes, the act of a mitzvah stimulates greater understanding of it and understanding of it is in itself a call to action. Knowledge, experience and action are interwoven and when we hit the wall then maybe it's just time to stop thinking so much? 

G'mar ve chatima Tova.