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.