National Scholar Updates

Thoughts for Succoth

by Rabbi Marc D. Angel

Most of our religious observances are indoors--in our homes, in our synagogues.We generally do not like to create a public spectacle of our religious experiences, but we behave modestly and try not to call attention to ourselves as we perform mitzvoth.

There are some exceptions to this. On Hanukkah, it is a particular mitzvah to publicize the miracle by placing our hanukkiyot where they can be seen by the passers-by. Succoth also has some aspects of taking our religious observances into the public square. The Talmud records the custom in ancient Jerusalem where people carried their lulavim into the street when they went to synagogue, when they visited the sick, and when they went to comfort mourners. Even today, many Jews carry their lulavim in public. When it comes to the succah itself, this structure is generally in view of the public: it's built on a patio, or yard, or courtyard etc. i.e. where Jews and non-Jews can see it

Although so much of our religious life is indoors--in the private domain of family and friends--we are sometimes obligated to make a public demonstration of our religious commitments. On Hanukkah, we want to remind the entire world that the Jews heroically defended themselves against the Syrian Hellenists and won independence for the Jewish people. We want everyone to know that, with God's help, we were victorious against powerful and far more numerous enemies.

On Succoth, we also want to convey a message to the general public. The lulav and etrog are symbolic of weapons; they indicate that we are proud of our faith and we are prepared to fight for the honor of our Torah and for our people. The succah is a symbolic statement that although we wandered in the wilderness for 40 years, God's providence protected us, and we ultimately entered the Promised Land. The public demonstration of these mitzvoth indicates our pride and commitment in who we are and what we represent. If we have respect for ourselves and our traditions, we can expect that the nations of the world will also come to respect Judaism.

Sometimes it is necessary for us to stand up in public on behalf of our faith and our people. When Jews betray their faith and their people in public, this undermines the entire Jewish enterprise. If Jewish storekeepers open their shops on Shabbat and holidays, why should non-Jews respect our Sabbath and holy days? If Jews ignore the laws of kashruth, why should non-Jews respect our dietary laws? If Jews don't live up to the high standards of Torah ethics, why should non-Jews admire the Jewish way of life? If Jewish political figures hold press conferences and public meetings on Jewish holy days, why should non-Jews show any deference to our holy days?

Succoth is an important reminder that being Jewish also entails a public stance, the courage to be who we are and stand for our traditions without embarrassment or apology. We need to remind ourselves and others that our holy days and traditions cannot be trampled upon and cast aside in a rubbish bin. If we do not stand up for ourselves, who will stand up for us? And if we do stand up for ourselves, we will be worthy heirs of a great people who have given so much--and have so much more to give--to our world.

“The Disciples of the Wise Increase Peace in the World”:

The Use of Traditional Scholarship to Build Bridges and Mend Rifts

(This article appeared in Hayyim Angel, The Keys to the Palace: Essays Exploring the Religious Value of Reading the Bible (New York: Kodesh Press, 2017), pp. 292­–308.)

Introduction

At the end of five different tractates of the Talmud, we find the following teaching:

Rabbi Eleazar said in the name of Rabbi Hanina: The disciples of the wise increase peace in the world, as it says, And all your children shall be taught of the Lord, and great shall be the peace of your children [banayikh] (Isaiah 54:13). Read not banayikh [“your children”] but bonayikh [“your builders”] (Berakhot 64a, cf. Yevamot 122b, Nazir 66b, Keritot 28b, Tamid 32b).

Genuine Torah scholars are supposed to be builders of society and increase peace in the world. When rabbis and scholars are seeking heaven and communal unity, their Torah scholarship is the ideal tool to unite diverse people.

The Talmud celebrates the diversity of the Jewish people by coining a blessing: 

Rabbi Hamnuna further said: If one sees a crowd of Israelites, he should say: Blessed is He who discerns secrets (Berakhot 58a).

Rather than considering conformity a blessing, the Talmud idealizes diversity as something for which God deserves praise. We seek Jewish unity, but not conformity.[1]

Command of a multiplicity of opinions, the hallmark of a Torah scholar, can be used to teach the many legitimate avenues into Torah. The sixteenth-century commentator Rabbi Samuel Eidels (Maharsha) explains that God revealed the Torah in the presence of 600,000 Israelites because the Torah can be interpreted in 600,000 different ways![2] Although the cliché “two Jews, three opinions” may be true, a more telling adage would be, “one learned Jew, dozens of opinions.” When Torah scholars learn sources in depth, they realize that every single point is debated by the greatest rabbinic minds. The dazzling range of possibilities teaches uncertainty, and also that people can hold significantly different opinions and still be unified under the roof of the Torah.

We live in an age of terrible fragmentation. Whereas debates are hardwired into Jewish tradition, rifts are detrimental to the Jewish community. Often, rifts arise when each side adopts a partial truth from within tradition to the near-exclusion of another partial truth held by the other side. Good Torah scholarship, in its attempt to navigate the two halves, offers an opportunity to build bridges and mend these rifts.

In this essay, we will briefly survey a few areas pertaining to (1) relations between Orthodox Jews; (2) relations between Orthodox and non-Orthodox Jews; and (3) relations between Jews and non-Jews. The guiding principle is that a faithful commitment to Torah and unity coupled with the range of opinions from within tradition offers models to build bridges and mend rifts without demanding conformity.

Within Orthodoxy

Religious Authority of Midrash

Jewish tradition venerates earlier rabbinic scholarship and places a premium on the Talmud and other midrashic collections. Simultaneously, the peshat school from the post-talmudic Geonim down to the present has established that the biblical text remains at the center of inquiry, and non-legal rabbinic teachings are not binding. The scholarly pursuit of truth in Torah is imperative.[3]

            Many within the Orthodox world adopt only half of that truth at the expense of the other. One side dogmatically embraces selected talmudic and midrashic teachings as literal, and insists that this position is required as part of having faith in the teachings of the Sages. Another group dismisses the talmudic traditions as being far removed from biblical text and reality. The first group accuses the second of denigration of the Sages, whereas the second group accuses the first of being fundamentalists who ignore science and scholarship. 

            The truth is, this rift has been around for a long time. Rambam (1138–1204) lamented this very imbalance in his introduction to Perek Helek in tractate Sanhedrin. He divided Jews into three categories:

The first group is the largest one….They understand the teachings of the sages only in their literal sense, in spite of the fact that some of their teachings when taken literally, seem so fantastic and irrational that if one were to repeat them literally, even to the uneducated, let alone sophisticated scholars, their amazement would prompt them to ask how anyone in the world could believe such things true, much less edifying. The members of this group are poor in knowledge. One can only regret their folly. Their very effort to honor and to exalt the sages in accordance with their own meager understanding actually humiliates them. As God lives, this group destroys the glory of the Torah of God and says the opposite of what it intended. For He said in His perfect Torah, “The nation is a wise and understanding people” (Deuteronomy 4:6)….

Such individuals are pious, but foolish. They misunderstand the intent of the Sages, and draw false conclusions in the name of religion. 

Misguided as this first group is, at least it is preferable to the second group, which also takes the words of the Sages literally but rejects their teachings as a result:

The second group is also a numerous one. It, too, consists of persons who, having read or heard the words of the sages, understand them according to their simple literal sense and believe that the sages intended nothing else than what may be learned from their literal interpretation. Inevitably, they ultimately declare the sages to be fools, hold them up to contempt, and slander what does not deserve to be slandered…. The members of this group are so pretentiously stupid that they can never attain genuine wisdom…. This is an accursed group, because they attempt to refute men of established greatness whose wisdom has been demonstrated to competent men of science.... 

The first group is reverent to the Sages, whereas the second group is open to science and scholarship and therefore rejects the Sages and their teachings. Both groups fail because of their fundamental misunderstanding of the Sages. 

            Rambam then celebrates that rare ideal scholar, who combines those two half-truths into the whole truth:

There is a third group. Its members are so few in number that it is hardly appropriate to call them a group…. This group consists of people to whom the greatness of our sages is clear…. They know that the sages did not speak nonsense, and it is clear to them that the words of the sages contain both an obvious and a hidden meaning. Thus, whenever the sages spoke of things that seem impossible, they were employing the style of riddle and parable which is the method of truly great thinkers....[4]

            In addition to Rambam’s insistence on the fact that the Sages did not always mean their words literally, we must add that the greatest peshat commentators, from Rabbi Saadiah Gaon to Rashi to Ibn Ezra to Ramban to Abarbanel and so many others, venerated the Sages without being bound by all of their non-legal comments. These rabbinic thinkers combine reverence for the Sages with a commitment to scholarship and integrity to the text of the Torah.[5]

Openness to Non-Orthodox and Non-Jewish Scholarship[6]

Jewish tradition’s commitment to truth should lead us to accept the truth from whoever says it. Rambam lived by this axiom,[7] and many great rabbinic figures before and after him similarly espoused this principle.[8]On the other hand, it is difficult to distinguish between knowledge and theory. Scholarship invariably is accompanied by conscious and unconscious biases of scholars, some of which may stray from traditional Jewish thought and belief. 

This tension is expressed poignantly in an anecdote cited by Rabbi Joseph ibn Aknin (c. 1150–c. 1220). After noting the works of several rabbinic predecessors who utilized Christian and Muslim writings in their commentaries, he quotes a story related by Shemuel Ha-Nagid:

Rabbi Mazliah b. Albazek the rabbinic judge of Saklia told [Shemuel Ha-Nagid] when he came from Baghdad… that one day in [Rabbi Hai Gaon’s] yeshiva they studied the verse, “let my head not refuse such choice oil” (Psalms 141:5), and those present debated its meaning. Rabbi Hai of blessed memory told Rabbi Mazliah to go to the Catholic Patriarch and ask him what he knew about this verse, and this upset [Rabbi Mazliah]. When [Rabbi Hai] saw that Rabbi Mazliah was upset, he rebuked him, “Our saintly predecessors who are our guides solicited information on language and interpretation from many religious communities—and even of shepherds, as is well known!”[9]

All scholarship is valuable, but all scholars are necessarily biased. There is no easy solution to this dilemma, and rabbinic scholars continue to espouse different approaches for the proper balance in this issue.[10]

Sins of Biblical Heroes

In recent years, particularly in Israel, there has been a raging debate regarding the sins of biblical heroes. One side insists that even ostensibly egregious sins, such as David and Bathsheba-Uriah (2 Samuel 11), Solomon and idolatry (1 Kings 11), and others should not be taken at face value. On the contrary, numerous rabbinic sources insist that these biblical figures did not violate cardinal sins as the plain sense of the text suggests.

Others maintain that the biblical texts speak for themselves. The Bible exposes the flaws of its greatest heroes, teaching that nobody is above the law, and nobody is perfect. There also are many rabbinic sources in support of this position.

            In this instance, each side of the debate represents a half-truth. One group properly teaches a deep sense of awe and reverence for our heroes, whereas the other group correctly insists that nobody is above the Torah, and even the greatest figures are vulnerable to sin. Both of these messages emerge from the biblical texts and rabbinic tradition. However, people who adopt only one or the other half-truth cannot even engage with one another. The first group accuses the other of irreverence, whereas the second group protests that the first ignores the biblical text and its commentaries, and also justifies the immorality of religious leaders in the name of tradition.

            Responsible rabbis and educators carefully integrate those two half-truths into a balanced picture more in tune with the biblical texts and rabbinic tradition, teaching that nobody is above the Torah, while maintaining proper awe and reverence for our heroes.[11]

Orthodox and Non-Orthodox Jews

Judaism includes the basic tenets of belief in one God, divine revelation of the Torah, and a concept of divine providence and reward-punishment. Although there have been debates over the precise definitions and contours of Jewish belief, these core principles are universally accepted as part of Orthodox tradition.[12]

            The question for believing Jews today is: How should we relate to the overwhelming majority of Jews, who likely do not fully believe in classical Jewish beliefs? 

As we will discuss at length in the following essay, there are two medieval models to approach this issue. Rambam adopts a dogmatic approach: Jews who do not fully believe in all central Jewish beliefs are considered heretics and must be excluded from the community. Rambam includes even Jews who are ignorant of Jewish belief or who make honest errors in the category of heretics.

Most medieval rabbinic figures, however, distinguish between heretics who willfully reject Jewish beliefs; and Jews who make honest errors or are ignorant. We must teach the latter, and include them in the community. We ideally want all Jews to learn, observe, and believe in the Torah and tradition. However, we should not exclude as heretics those who fall short unless they intentionally wish to exclude themselves from the community.

The approach espoused by Ra’avad, Duran, and Albo reflects a productive means of addressing today’s fragmented society from within tradition. We stand for an eternal set of beliefs and practices, and we embrace and teach all Jews as we build community together.

Jews and Non-Jews

The Torah embraces universalistic values that apply to all humanity. All people are descended from one couple, so there is no room for bigotry (Sanhedrin 37a). All people are created in God’s image (Genesis 1:26).[13] There is a universal morality demanded by the Torah, codified in the Talmud as the Seven Noahide Laws. The messianic visions of the prophets foresee that all humanity will one day live in harmony by accepting God and the requisite moral life demanded by the Torah.[14]

            Simultaneously, God made a singular covenant with the people of Israel through the Torah. Israel plays a unique role as a “kingdom of priests and holy nation” (Exodus 19:6), has a separate set of laws revealed by God, and occupies a central role in the covenantal history between God and humanity. 

            Many within the Jewish community focus almost exclusively on the particularistic elements of tradition, and consequently look down upon non-Jews and non-observant Jews. Many other Jews focus almost exclusively on the universalistic vision of Judaism, ignoring Jewish belief, law, and values in favor of modern Western values. Needless to say, the respective espousing of half-truths again leads to rifts within the community.

            Tradition teaches a sensitive balance of universalism and particularism.[15] The Torah has a special vision for Jews and simultaneously embraces all of humanity in an effort to perfect society.[16]

Conclusion      

            We have seen several areas where traditional scholarship can build bridges between half-truths that divide people. Within the Orthodox world, reverence toward heroes and the Sages must be balanced with fidelity to the biblical text, commitment to prophetic integrity, and commitment to truth in scholarship. In relating to non-observant or non-believing Jews, we must espouse and teach traditional belief and observance, but not exclude those who are not fully connected to tradition. The Torah teaches both particularistic and universalistic values, and it is critical to adopt both in a faithful religious worldview. This position enables believing Jews to sincerely love all humanity and to long for universal morality and harmony.

            It is easier to espouse a half-truth than to struggle for the whole truth. The perils of this approach are not theoretical, but an unfortunate and avoidable part of our current reality. It is up to the disciples of the wise to build the ideological basis for increasing peace in the world by upholding and promoting the eternal values of the Torah. 

Notes

It is probably safe to say that the dominant symbol in contemporary Jewish life today is the Star of David. It appears on or in almost every synagogue worldwide, no matter what its affiliation, hangs around the necks of an untold number of individuals, and is the focal point of the flag of the State of Israel. However, the Star of David was not always a Jewish emblem, let alone the central symbol in Jewish life. Surviving mosaics floors from synagogues of the Roman-Byzantine Period, such as those in Beit Alfa and Sussia, often depict other symbols, including three ritual objects: the seven-branched candelabra (menorah), the ram’s horn (shofar), and the so-called four species that the Torah commands Jews to take on the Festival of Sukkot (Tabernacles, Lev. 23.40; see below). 

The menorah was a centerpiece of the Temple. Fashioned from gold and lit daily, it was such a well-known Jewish image that the Romans recognized it and placed it on the Arch of Titus without any explanatory caption to symbolize Titus’s victory over Judea. The shofar was connected to Rosh Hashanah but also played an essential role in the history of the Jewish People (e.g., the conquest of Jericho; see Josh. 6) and in public prayer in times of distress. However, the use of the four species seems to have been limited to the Festival of Sukkot. While it is often difficult to say why certain symbols are adopted, it is particularly strange that the four species attained such an important place in ancient Jewish self-consciousness, given their limited place in Jewish life. A fresh look at the character of the commandment may shed some light on why these plants assumed a place in Jewish self-identity that went far beyond the Festival of Sukkot.

Leviticus 23.40 commands, “And on the first day you should take the fruit of a beautiful tree, the branches of the palm, the bough of the thick tree, and willow of the brook and rejoice before the Lord your God seven days.” Jewish tradition has understood this as an order to take an etrog (citrus medica), a palm branch (Heb., lulav), three myrtle branches (hadassim), and two willow branches (`aravot) and hold them together on the fifteenth day of the Hebrew month that is now called Tishrei. This and sitting in the sukkah (tabernacle, hut; see Lev. 23.42) have become the defining rituals of the festival. 

The Torah offers no reason for taking the four species, and this exegetical vacuum left the rabbis of the Midrash to suggest numerous possibilities for what underlies the precept. One explanation suggested that the four species represent the Patriarchs, Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, and Joseph; another that they represent each of the Matriarchs: Sarah, Rebecca, Leah, and Rachel. One rabbi proposed that each of the variety of plants corresponds to parts of a human being that are central to the worship of God. According to this view, the lulav represents the spine, the hadassim, eyes, `aravot, the mouth, and the etrog, the human heart. Yet another approach focused on the taste and smell of each plant and used them as metaphors for different types of Jews. In the etrog, which has both taste and smell, the author of the midrash saw Jews who were knowledgeable in their traditions and did good deeds. Other Jews are like the lulav that has taste but no smell. Such Jews are familiar with the Torah, but it does not translate into good deeds. According to this midrash, the hadassim, which have a smell but no taste, represent Jews who do wonderful things but lack awareness of the Torah. Finally, Jews who are not knowledgeable and do not do things to help others are like the willow that has neither taste nor smell. 

These and other explanations enjoyed great popularity in Jewish homiletical literature, for they saw the four species as symbols of humanity, pivotal figures in the historical consciousness of the People of Israel, and reflections of the relationship between God and Israel. However, at least to the modern mind, they hardly explain the Torah’s rationale in creating this precept, let alone how the four species evolved into such an important symbol in Jewish life. Moreover, why these four plants?  There was undoubtedly other important flora in the biblical world. The Torah itself asserts that the Land of Israel is a land of seven species: wheat, barley, grapes, figs, pomegranates, olives, and fruit honey (generally interpreted by the Rabbis to be dates; Deut. 8.8). This characterization of the produce of the land, echoed in several biblical passages (e.g., Isa. 36.16–17), imbued these seven crops with a unique standing in Jewish tradition yet none of them was included in the precept of the four species. That four plants that otherwise have no place in Jewish ritual as outlined in the Torah came to be an integral aspect not only of the Festival of Sukkot but of Jewish self-definition in late antiquity demands some rethinking of the precept.  Instead of accentuating metaphors that extend beyond nature as the Midrash does, it may be productive to consider the four species simply for what they are: the flora of four distinct topographical regions of the Land of Israel. 

To people living in the agrarian society of biblical Israel, these plants represented different areas of their country. The palm tree grows in the relatively harsh desert zones of the south and the Judean desert. Jericho was famous for its palms and, in biblical times, was called “the city of palms” (Deut. 34.3). The moniker stuck for in 2 Chronicles 28.15 Jericho is again referred to as the “city of palms.”  Jericho was not the only place in the region known for its trees. Ein Gedi, about 30 kilometers south of Jericho on the eastern border of the Judean desert, also had a second name that was connected to what must have been one of its essential agricultural products: the palm (see 2 Chron. 20.2). When the prophet Ezekiel described the southern borders of the Land of Israel, he twice referred to a town in the Negev called “Tamar,” or palm (47.19, 48.28). Palms were, and still are, part and parcel of the arid regions of the Land of Israel. 

The Hebrew word “hadar” or beautiful, is used to describe the tree from which a fruit was to be taken and used as one of the four species. It is difficult to know what specific tree the Torah refers to, for there are many “beautiful” trees. The prophet Isaiah speaks of the “beauty [hadar] of the Carmel and the Sharon” (35.2), and when he warned of destruction, he said the Sharon would become like the Arava (barren land) and the Carmel would lose its fruit (33.9). The prophet did not use the word “Carmel” to refer to the mountainous area around Haifa as the word is used today, but rather to the region that is a choice place for fruit trees (see too, 2 Kgs. 19.23). To this day, the Sharon, or coastal plain, is famous for its agricultural produce. When Jeremiah wanted to speak of the bounty of fruit and goodness in the land the Israelites had entered, he described it as “the land of the Carmel” (2.7). The “beautiful” or hadar tree, whose fruit was to be used in the four species, likely came from the “beautiful” or hadar region of the Land of Israel, the fertile area along the coastal plain. 

Concerning the willow branches, Leviticus already makes clear that this species was to come from the “nahal” signifying a low area where water gathers to form a stream or a creek, even if only seasonal. In some ways, the “boughs of the thick trees,” or the fragrant myrtle branches, are the opposite of the willow. This variety of myrtle grows in high places, as the prophet Ezekiel alluded to when he complained that the House of Israel worshiped on every high hill they saw and at every `ez `avot (“thick tree,” 20.28). “Thick trees” were associated with high places and, indeed, when Ezra and Nehemiah told the people to go out to collect material for the building of sukkot (pl. of sukkah), they told them to go towards the mountain where they would find, among other trees, `ez `avot (Neh. 8.15), the tree also mentioned for use in the four species. To this day, choice myrtles used on the holiday come from the high regions of the land, such as Safed and the Golan Heights. Not surprisingly, one can infer from the words of Isaiah that the hadas could only flourish in the desert by a miracle (see Isa. 41.19). 

The topographical divisions that characterized the Land of Israel were part and parcel of biblical terminology. “The Land of the Negev” (Josh. 15.19) was the arid land of the Judean desert and the south. In Deuteronomy 8.7, the Land of Israel is specially referred to as a “land of streams of water” (nahaley mayyim), the very place where willows grow, and in Deuteronomy 11.11 Israel is called “a land of mountains,” precisely the place where the myrtle grows. As for the coastal plain, it was called the shefelah or “low land” (Josh. 10.40, 11.16). Thus, biblical terminology often reflects the varied nature of the place.

The four species represent the different regions of the land to which agrarian society was attuned. The etrog grows in fertile zones, the palm in arid regions, the willow in low areas of the nahal, and the myrtle in the high places. This is not to say that palms, for example, cannot grow in other locations, for they certainly can (see, for instance, Neh. 8.15). However, just as maple trees are native to Asia, Europe, and North America but have very much become associated with eastern Canada and New England, so too, as the above-noted citations from the Bible make clear, these four species were primarily related to specific topographical areas of the Land of Israel. 

The local nature of the four species may be precisely why the so-called “seven species” had no place here. Wheat and barley grow in many conditions, albeit with different levels of success, and fruit honey can come from any number of fruits. Grapes, figs, olives, and pomegranates can be seen in many places in Israel, from the north to the south. The prophet Amos, who was born in Judah but prophetized in the Northern Kingdom of Israel, spoke of peoples’ vineyards, figs, and olives (4.9), just as the prophet Haggai spoke of vines, figs, pomegranates, and olives to the people of Judah some centuries later (2.19). These were typical crops in the more temperate zones of the Land of Israel well before drip irrigation. In biblical times the seven species characterized the Land of Israel; the four species used on Sukkot were associated with specific regions.

Why was it so important to include the different topographical regions of the Land of Israel in a biblical commandment, and why was it so important for the Festival of Sukkot?  Sukkot was unique among the three pilgrimage holidays because Jews were commanded to spend the entire festival in Jerusalem. Deuteronomy 16.15 notes this holiday, “Seven days will you celebrate to the Lord your God in the place that the Lord will choose...” Indeed, King Solomon sent the pilgrims who had come to Jerusalem to celebrate the Festival of Sukkot in the Holy City back home after the entire holiday (1 Kgs. 8, cf., 2 Chron. 7.9–10). The Festival of Sukkot was significantly different from the other pilgrimage festivals. The Passover sacrifice had to be brought to Jerusalem at a specific time, but the Torah notes that one could go home after the paschal lamb was brought and consumed. “And in the morning,” after having brought the sacrifice, “you shall turn and go to your tent [i.e., home],” says the verse in Deuteronomy 16.7. The Festival of Passover lasted seven days, but one was only obligated to be in Jerusalem for the first night and no more. The holiday of Shavuot (Pentecost) was only one day, but on Sukkot, the Jewish People were commanded to remain in Jerusalem for the entire week. Herein lays one of the essential reasons for the building of sukkot, the temporary huts that are the source of the festival’s Hebrew name. “You must sit in sukkot for seven days; every full member of Israel shall live in sukkot” (Lev. 23.42). 

Sukkot were not used exclusively for the holiday. Quite the contrary. They were well known in the Bible and were most often used for non-ritual purposes. Isaiah speaks of a sukkah as being for shade (4.6). Jonah made himself a sukkah when he left the city to protect himself from the sun (4.5). They were also temporary shelters used by people on the move, such as in times of war (2 Sam. 11.11). During Sukkot, pilgrims who came to Jerusalem needed short term accommodation and they made sukkot as a place to stay during the holiday. With no modern hotel chains to billet everyone, where was everyone to stay in Jerusalem for seven days?  A sort of “hut city” sprouted up around the Holy City, likely on the Mount of Olives and the other hills surrounding the town, where pilgrims could quickly enter the city and participate in the festivities. Granted that the Levitical text makes the sukkah a mnemonic device with which to remember that the Israelites lived in sukkot when God took them out of Egypt (Lev. 23. 43); however, sitting in the huts during the seven days of the festival was first and foremost a practical matter.

Bringing a nation together for a week-long festival in Jerusalem was a challenge. Old rivalries would no doubt come to the fore, and new ones could certainly begin as people from across the country crowded into a city built for far fewer people than crammed its streets during the week-long festival. There was a need to unite the people who came together from disparate places, and the four species were an attempt to do so. Four very different regions were represented in this ritual, and each needed the other to perform the precept. Each group could take pride in its area’s contribution and recognize the importance of others to the whole. An agrarian society focused on what it knew best: agriculture. The four species symbolically linked the nation.

There is little doubt that other aspects of Israelite society were important in instilling a sense of national unity. The Temple service, the Kingship, and the belief in God were probably far more important than the four species. However, little things can also be important. On a holiday that brought much of the nation together for a week in one place, the four species let each group take pride in its region while giving the group a sense of cohesiveness. The central place given to the four species as a Jewish symbol in later times suggests that this message may ultimately have been internalized.

Angel for Shabbat, Parashat Ha’azinu

By Rabbi Marc D. Angel

Give ear, O heavens, let me speak;
Let the earth hear the words I utter! (Devarim 32:1)

As Moses approached his death, he offered a final message to the Israelites. He called the heavens and earth as witnesses to indicate the eternal covenant between God and Israel. He underscored the importance of hearing, listening and internalizing.  There is a message here as we approach Rosh Hashana.

Suppose that two people were walking by a synagogue on Rosh Hashana just at the time when the shofar was being sounded. The synagogue windows were open so that both people outside heard the shofar. The first one thought: I wish to be included among those who are fulfilling the mitzvah of hearing the shofar. The second one simply kept walking, having heard the shofar but without paying any particular attention to the sounds. Did either, or both, or neither of them fulfill the mitzvah of shofar?

In fact, both of them heard the exact same sounds of the shofar. The only difference was in their intention. But the intention is exactly what determines that the first person fulfilled the mitzvah, while the second one did not. Both of them "heard" the shofar; but only one "listened" to the shofar.

This halakhic ruling underscores the role of proper intention in fulfilling the mitzvah. It is not enough just to hear the shofar as random sounds; rather, one must recognize--at least on some minimal level--that he/she is listening to the sounds of the shofar and thereby fulfilling the mitzvah.

Maimonides points out that the shofar is intended to awaken us from our spiritual slumber, to generate within us thoughts of repentance and personal renewal. For this message to reach us, we must be "listening". If people hear the shofar but do not tune in to its significance and its message, then they have missed the essential feature of this mitzvah.

There are those who attend synagogue services on Rosh Hashana and "hear" the shofar--but somehow the prayers and shofar and sermons don't stir up much spiritual energy for them. They are pretty much the same people after Rosh Hashana as they were before Rosh Hashana. There are others who are transformed by Rosh Hashana, who "listen" to the prayers, and the shofar and the sermons--and are genuinely moved. All these people may be sitting in the same synagogue, and yet the results are radically different. Some only "hear" the services; others actually "listen".

Whether or not we are spiritually energized by the High Holy Day season depends largely on ourselves. The more receptive we are to its powerful messages and the more we cultivate our own spirituality, the more we will experience religious meaning and spiritual transformation. Let us focus very carefully on our prayers, on the Torah readings, on the sounds of the shofar, on the sermons. Let us "listen" with great attentiveness. If we will "listen" and not simply "hear", we will not only find a key for greater fulfillment of the holidays but for greater fulfillment in our lives. Shana Tova, Tizku leShanim Rabbot.

In today's global battle of narratives, advocating for Israel's right to exist and thrive is a task too crucial to be left solely to Israelis and Jews in the diaspora. As we navigate the complex and often hostile international landscape, it becomes increasingly clear that some of the most compelling voices in this struggle are those of non-Jews. Their involvement in advocating for Israel is not just beneficial—it is essential.

"In the face of extreme jihadism and the influence of organizations like the Muslim Brotherhood, Israel's advocacy needs to transition from a defensive posture to an offensive strategy" says Adv. Ariel Averbuch, the Founder and Chairman of TIAF – "The Israel Advocacy Force", a unique project aimed at providing non-Israelis with the tools and means for an effective advocacy for Israel and the free world, especially in battling extreme jihadist ideology.

TIAF is not just another advocacy group; it is a pioneering initiative that seeks to fundamentally shift the way Israel's narrative is communicated on the global stage. TIAF was created to empower non-Jewish voices, particularly Muslims, in advocating for Israel. This approach not only broadens the base of support for Israel but also challenges the prevailing narratives that often pit Israel against the Muslim world.

The organization currently involves a diverse network of over 150 dedicated advocates from around the world, including influential Jewish, Muslim, Christian, and other non-Jewish supporters. These individuals are trained and equipped with the tools and resources necessary to effectively communicate Israel's story, counter misinformation, and promote a message of peace and coexistence. By focusing on non-Jewish advocates, TIAF taps into a powerful reservoir of voices that can resonate in communities and regions where traditional pro-Israel messaging may not have the same impact.

One of TIAF's key projects is the development of a specialized messaging toolkit that its advocates use to address various audiences. This toolkit is tailored to resonate with different cultural, religious, and social contexts, ensuring that our messages are not only heard but also understood and embraced. This strategic approach has already yielded significant results, with the advocates making inroads in regions traditionally hostile to Israel and successfully shifting public opinion in a more favorable direction.

TIAF's work is not without challenges, but the impact it's making is undeniable. By mobilizing non-Jewish voices, especially those of Muslims, TIAF is creating a ripple effect that has the potential to transform the global discourse on Israel. The success of TIAF lies in its ability to unite people of different faiths and backgrounds around a common cause—supporting Israel and standing against extremism.

TIAF is focused on showing that the battle against extreme jihadism is not just Israel's fight; it is a fight for all who value peace, tolerance, and coexistence. By empowering non-Jewish voices, especially Muslims and Christians, to take a leading role in this advocacy, we can create a broader, more inclusive movement that transcends national and religious boundaries.

For too long, Israel and its supporters have focused on countering accusations and justifying Israel's actions. This defensive stance, while necessary at times, is not sufficient to win the ideological battle against those who seek to delegitimize the Jewish state.

When Muslims speak out in favor of Israel, they challenge the prevailing narrative that pits Israel against the Muslim world. Their advocacy sends a powerful message: support for Israel is not a betrayal of Muslim identity, but rather an affirmation of shared values such as peace, coexistence, and the rejection of extremism.

"What the Arab world needs most right now are courageous local voices championing the cause of peace. In these challenging times, it's essential for these brave individuals to step forward and articulate the vital importance of peace within their communities. Their message has never been more crucial." says Bassam Aldoseri, a Muslim Bahraini activist and a team member in TIAF.

The influence of extreme jihadism and the Muslim Brotherhood has long been a source of tension between Israel and many Muslim communities. These groups have successfully propagated a narrative of enmity that has been difficult to counter. However, by elevating the voices of Muslims who reject this narrative, we can begin to dismantle the ideological foundation of jihadism. These advocates can expose the true nature of extremist ideologies—how they manipulate religious beliefs for political gain and spread hatred and division.

And not only Muslims are vital in this battle. From a Christian perspective, the involvement of Christians in advocating for Israel is equally significant. Christians share a deep historical and spiritual connection to the land of Israel. Their voices in support of Israel underscore the universal values of peace, religious freedom, and mutual respect. When Christians advocate for Israel, they reinforce the idea that Israel's right to exist is not merely a political issue but a moral one, deeply rooted in shared Abrahamic traditions.

"As a Christian, I believe our destiny is deeply intertwined with Israel and the Jewish people," says Bill Litster, founder of Better Biz Info and a dedicated member of TIAF. "We have a sacred obligation to stand with our brothers and sisters in Israel, who serve the same God as we do."

In conclusion, the future of Israel’s advocacy must go beyond merely defending the state against its detractors. It lies in actively promoting a proactive vision of peace and cooperation, drawing on the support of all people of goodwill, regardless of their background. By transitioning from defense to offense and by amplifying the non-Jewish voices, we can forge a new path forward—one where Israel's right to exist is not just defended, but celebrated by a diverse and united global community.

Angel for Shabbat, Parashat Noah

By Rabbi Marc D. Angel

Dr. Roger Mesznik, a longtime friend and member of our Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals, recently gave me two books in which he traced his family’s genealogy—with both Sephardic and Ashkenazic roots. In the Prologue to his book on the Mesznik family, he notes that “in some cases we know more about their deaths than about their lives. History has conspired to leave more records about how and when they died than about who they were, what they dreamed of, and what they were about to become, or aspired to be.”

This profound observation is true of so many human beings who have lived and died, and who left only faint—if any—traces of who they actually were. Indeed, over the past thousands of years, billions of people have died and have sunk into eternal anonymity. 

And yet, all of these anonymous ancestors played their roles on the stage of human history. They had families and friends; they worked, played, dreamt, struggled, rejoiced, mourned, hoped. Although we have little trace of who they were, they impacted in some way on the progression of human history. 

This week’s Torah portion relates the story of Noah, the great flood, the survival of Noah’s family, the beginning of a new chapter of humanity. The Torah tells us that Noah took his wife, sons and daughters-in-law onto the ark with him. But it doesn’t give us the names of Mrs. Noah, Mrs. Shem, Mrs. Ham or Mrs. Yafeth. These women are left in anonymity. Yet, according to Biblical tradition, these women were the matriarchs of all later humanity, including us! Why don’t we know anything about them, even their names?

Tradition attempts to fill in historical vacuums so that the Midrash in Bereishith Rabba refers to Noah’s wife as Naamah. In the Dead Sea Scrolls her name is given as Emzara. Other sources have provided her with other names. These sources were uncomfortable leaving Mrs. Noah without a name of her own. Giving a name, even if fictitious, is an attempt to ascribe an identity to an otherwise anonymous individual.

Let us try to imagine something about the life of Noah’s wife. Her husband was righteous; he defied the immoral society in which his family lived. He must have been a social outcast, being viewed as a self-righteous trouble maker. He spent years building the ark and must have been subjected to scorn and abuse by the public. Noah obviously had moral strength but he must have been pained and isolated. It was his wife who stood by him and with him, who gave him the courage and confidence to persist. Without her support, Noah may well have failed in his mission. Mrs. Noah was a heroic person who shared the trials of her husband.

By omitting reference to Mrs. Noah’s name, perhaps the Torah is thereby imparting a vital lesson. Some of the most important people in history—and in our own times—are people who may be entirely unknown to us. Their behind the scenes sacrifices, courage and faith have helped shape and strengthen the moral fabric of society.  Thank you Mrs. Noah!

The process of law-making in any nation is a complex task. In most legal systems, the creation of law usually involves a structured process anchored in the nation’s foundational legal documents, or constitution. For example, in the United States, the process of lawmaking involves both the legislative^[1] and judicial^[2] branches of government, each playing distinct but complementary roles.^[3] 

However, this process presupposes the physical and institutional integrity of a nation. For example, if we were to imagine a hypothetical scenario where a nation such as America is forced into exile with the doors of the Congress and Supreme Court shut, the standard legislative and judicial processes would be disrupted. Such a situation poses a significant question: How does a nation uphold the integrity of its legal system when the required mechanisms of law-making are rendered inoperative? The journey of the Nation of Israel through its period of exile offers a unique perspective on such a scenario.

In Jerusalem, the Sanhedrin functioned similarly to a combination of the U.S. Congress and the Supreme Court. As an assembly of Sages (comparable to Supreme Court judges), it interpreted the Torah (akin to the U.S. Constitution), shaping the laws and setting legal precedents. Members of the Sanhedrin were instrumental in transmitting and shaping the Oral Law. However, the destruction of the Second Temple marked a profound transition in Jewish history, leading eventually to the cessation of the Sanhedrin’s activities.^[4] The Jewish community faced a crisis with this loss of this central institution.^[5]

In response, the Bet Din HaGadol (Great Court)^[6] was established in Yavne, functioning as a new type of Supreme Court. This period marked a significant shift from a Temple-centered worship to a rabbinic and textual tradition. This decentralization was a direct consequence of the Jewish people’s geographical dispersion and the ensuing fragmentation of their society, leading to the closure of the oral tradition. 

The Formulation of the Mishna

The monumental shift toward writing down the oral tradition^[7] and publishing it in oral texts begins with the formulation of the Mishna, primarily spearheaded by Rabbi Aqiba, and completed by Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi in the second century ce. This transformation was necessitated by the precarious situation of the Jewish people following the destruction of the Second Temple and subsequent Roman persecution. The dispersal of Jewish communities and the erosion of traditional learning centers heightened the risk of losing the rich oral traditions that had been meticulously preserved and transmitted through generations.

Recognizing the urgency to safeguard these traditions, Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi embarked on the formidable task of compiling, editing, and organizing the Oral Law. This was not simply a work of transcription, but rather a selective process that involved synthesising various oral teachings, laws, debates, and interpretations that our Sages had been discussing for centuries. The Mishna emerged as a strategic effort to retain Jewish oral tradition captured across six orders (sedarim), and it laid the foundation for subsequent rabbinic discussions and commentaries, leading to the creation of the Talmud.

The Formulation of the Talmud

In the aftermath of the Mishna's completion around 200 ce, our Sages recognized the need for further elucidation. The Mishna was often succinct and enigmatic, calling for extensive interpretation and clarification. This necessity was heightened by the diverse living conditions and challenges faced by Jewish communities dispersed after the Second Temple's destruction, as well as the emergence of varied practices and interpretations within these dispersed communities.

Babylonia, now modern-day Iraq, emerged as a key center for Jewish learning. It was mainly here that the Jewish legal scholars of the era, known as the Amoraim, engaged in rigorous oral discussions and debates, delving into the Mishna.^[8] As these oral deliberations evolved, they were gradually recorded, forming what is known as the Gemara. This crucial addition to the Mishna offered not only interpretations but also legal precedents, ethical teachings, and historical narratives. This period of intensive scholarship led to the creation of the Babylonian Talmud (Talmud Babli),^[9] which came to represent a significant link in the chain of nationally recognized rabbinic scholarship and authority.

The End of New Rulings

There are two key figures of this period that are traditionally credited with the final editing and organizing of the Talmud Babli: Ravina and Rav Ashi.^[10] Their contributions to the compilation and codification of the Talmud were instrumental in preserving and transmitting our authorized legal tradition. This newly compiled Talmud thus came to represent a culmination of centuries of authoritative rabbinic scholarship, including decrees, customs, and judicial decisions derived through the application of authorized Torah exegesis. In other words, this Babylonian Talmud contained the last agreed-upon rulings of our last-sitting national and authorized legal bodies (the Sanhedrin and Bet Din HaGadol). The doors of Israel’s Supreme Court were now shut. With this compilation of Ravina and Rav Ashi, we arrive in the era of “sof hora’a” (end of ruling),^[11] marking the end of new law creation.

Recommended or Binding?

Given the reality of an exilic existence without a Sanhedrin or Bet Din HaGadol, our dispersed legal decisors (posekim) have since turned to the Babylonian Talmud in order to analyze and apply its laws in the context of new challenges arising in exile. However—and this is key—without a Sanhedrin or Bet Din HaGadol, the posek’s role is limited to offering legal recommendations based on their analysis of talmudic law. These post-talmudic posekim lack the authority to create new laws or customs that are legally binding.^[12] This remains a key point of contention between the Geonic-Sephardic tradition and the Ashkenazic-Tosafist tradition.^[13]

Ultimately, this inability of post-talmudic posekim to establish new binding laws (or annul earlier ones) in the absence of the national and authorized legal processes and institutions ensures the very continuity and integrity of our legal system.^[14] It underlines the need for a formal and national legal body to create binding laws, and such limitations serve as a motivation to rebuild our nation and our legal institutions. 

The Mishneh Torah: Restatement of National Law

With the lack of national and authoritative legal structures and the ensuing diasporic dispersion, the Jewish people encountered a void, necessitating a unifying judicial anchor. The Rambam’s Mishneh Torah emerged as this anchor, offering a comprehensive presentation of the entirety of talmudic law and, therefore, of the Oral Law. Rambam meticulously examined the Talmud and the juridical traditions of the Geonim (who were both the students of the Talmud and the predecessors to the Sephardic tradition^[15]). His work not only collated the legal rulings of Talmud, it also engaged in a critical analysis, addressing the gaps and ambiguities left by its dialectical style and the whimsical alterations introduced by generations of scribes.^[16] 

Rabbi Yosef Karo, in his Kesef Mishneh, notes that “Rambam’s practice is known, in that he simply records the law as it emerges from the Talmud.”^[17] Therefore, the Mishneh Torah is essentially the restatement of the Law of Israel. No other project of such magnitude existed then or now. This body of work remains our prime portal to access an unadulterated and concise version of our people’s National Law.^[18] Further, its accessibility in Hebrew, as opposed to the Aramaic of the Talmud, democratised legal knowledge for Jews around the world. 

However, the Mishneh Torah, with its exceptional clarity and transparency of Israel’s national law, was bound to challenge entrenched customs and opinions formed in exile. Indeed, many in the Ashkenazic community, which constituted merely ~10 percent of the global Jewish population at the time, viewed the Mishneh Torah as a potential disruption to their worldview. In the words Rabbi Ratson Arussi, the foremost rabbinic authority of the Yemenite Jewish community today:

Opponents rose up against the Mishneh Torah, whether against his teachings or against Rambam himself. Amongst the circles of Ashkenaz…there were those who perceived his halakhic writings as challenging their world of Torah. For their world of Torah was characterized by pilpulic talmudic study, digging deep, inquiring—[but] not halakhic. The legal component was very heavy among Ashkenaz Jewry. It rested upon customs (minhagim). It rested upon various approaches. It rested upon stringencies (humrot). For this reason, when they saw Rambam’s halakhic work [Mishneh Torah], first they were worried that his work may shove aside their halakhic tradition. For this reason, from the Bet Midrash of MaHaRa”M of Rottenburg, who is one of the great early scholars of Ashkenaz, one of his students, Hagahot Maimoniyyot, immediately wrote an amendatory commentary to Rambam’s Mishneh Torah, i.e. to indicate the positions of the sages of Ashkenaz and the customs (minhagim) of Ashkenaz, in order to show, “we are on the map!”^[19]

A How-To Guide to Post-Talmudic Opinions

Thus far, we have presented the following chain of logic: the Sanhedrin/Bet Din HaGadol shaped the Oral Law, and the primary method of preserving and transmitting their rulings was through oral tradition. This body of knowledge was eventually compiled into a structured written form known as the Mishna. The Talmud subsequently emerged as a detailed analysis and expansion of the Mishna. The Mishneh Torah, produced by Rambam, distills the Talmud's broad discussions into clear conclusions and practical applications, thereby serving as a concise restatement of the Oral Law.

So, what are we missing? After all, when we have clear guidance from the Mishneh Torah on a particular law, managing our diasporic existence seems feasible. But what happens when new questions arise that the Talmud (and therefore the Mishneh Torah) did not specifically address, and there is no Sanhedrin or Bet Din HaGadol around for us to call upon?

The answer lies in a pivotal talmudic rule,^[20] incorporated into the Mishneh Torah.^[21] It dictates that where the law is uncertain in Scriptural Law (de’oraita) matters, we should adhere to the more stringent post-talmudic view. On the other hand, where the law is uncertain for Rabbinic Law (derabbanan) issues, the more lenient post-talmudic stance is advisable. This approach implies that in the post-talmudic era, decision-making is not as straightforward as simply siding with the majority or minority opinion. After all, the principle of “majority rule” is legally relevant only in the context of judges sitting on an authoritative legal body, such as a Sanhedrin or Bet Din HaGadol.^[22]

Deviating from Due Legal Process

The principle of updating and adapting Jewish law to contemporary life is not just a desirable goal but a biblically mandated one, as evidenced in Deuteronomy 17:9: “And you shall come to the Kohanim, the Levi’im, and to the Judge that will be in those days.” This verse highlights the necessity of seeking guidance from the legally authorized representatives of our era, emphasising the interpretation of God’s law in a manner relevant to the current context. The evolution and application of God’s eternal law, adapted to contemporary life, is the very essence of the Oral Law and the Rabbinic enterprise.

Therefore, the problem with various reformist Jewish movements that emerged during exile is not their intention to evolve and update talmudic law. Rather, the issue lies in their approach to it, which attempts to implement changes without the rigorous legal scholarship and national authoritative bodies like a Sanhedrin or Bet Din HaGadol.^[23]

Indeed, the absence of authoritative institutions in our times makes many of our talmudic laws appear outdated or less relevant.^[24] Just imagine living in the United States in the year 2024 and adhering to legal rulings from a Supreme Court that last convened in the year 1924…let alone following rulings from the year 500 in exile! Yet, our commitment to the Talmud—our most recent nationally recognized legal rulebook—has been crucial in preserving the integrity of our legal system across generations. Ultimately, however, this unmoving commitment represents more than just legal adherence. It symbolizes an aspiration to rebuild our land, reconvene our assembly of Sages, and govern according to our days, in Covenant with God. 

May we witness this realisation in our times.

(This op ed piece by Rabbi Marc D. Angel appeared in the Jewish Journal of Los Angeles, August 20, 2024.)

We are rightfully concerned with anti-Semitism and anti-Zionism and we are quick to publicize every instance of malice and injustice against our people. Our media decry the spread of Jew-hatred. Our various spokespeople lament the increase in anti-Semitic acts, especially since October 7.

It is important to expose and combat anti-Semitism and anti-Zionism with all our might.

But is our messaging unwittingly actually leading to an increase in Jew-hatred?

In his book, Subliminal, Dr. Leonard Mlodinow discusses a surprising phenomenon. Public service announcements sometimes backfire. For example, some ads urge visitors to national parks not to litter. In one controlled study, an ad denounced littering and this resulted in less littering. But another ad included the phrase “Americans will produce more litter than ever.” This ad actually led to an increase in littering. Dr. Mlodinow points out that the subliminal message of the latter ad is that it’s really okay to litter; everyone is doing it! (pp. 170-171).

When people are constantly told that anti-Israel sentiment is rampant, subliminally at least some of them will think: it’s okay to hate Israel, lots of people do.  If people are given statistics that anti-Semitic or anti-Israel acts are increasing dramatically, at least some of them will conclude: if so many people hate Jews and Israel, it’s okay for me to do so also. 

Publicizing anti-Israel and anti-Jewish behavior can be a double edged sword. We need the world to know what’s happening and rally good people to fight the injustices against us. But by highlighting how many people hate us, we actually may be encouraging closet anti-Semites to come out into the open with their venom. The more visibility anti-Semites have, the more they create a snowball effect drawing others into the hatred syndrome.

In another of his books (Emotional), Dr. Mlodinow writes about psychological contagion. Research is being done about “the spread of emotion from person to person or throughout an organization or even an entire society” (p. 184). When crowds get fired up against Israel and against Jews, the hatred can become “contagious.” It is difficult to combat this type of psychological contagion; but just condemning it will not make it disappear.

We fight the anti-Semites and anti-Zionists by strengthening our own communities; by insisting on prosecution of hate crimes; be electing pro-Israel officials; by working with good people to foster civil society. But we also have to promote positive messaging to the general public.

Instead of constantly publicizing the increase in anti-Jewish words and deeds, we ought to be emphasizing the many millions of people who admire and support Israel and Jews. Instead of giving front page attention to anti-Israel “celebrities” we ought to highlight the pro-Israel voices and reserve the bad actors for the back pages. 

The overwhelming majority of the public abhors terrorism. They resent “activists” i.e. haters who block highways, disrupt college campuses, vandalize businesses, attack innocent individuals on the basis of religion, race, nationality or other reasons. Instead of the media showering so much attention on the haters, we should be demanding even more attention on those who promote civility, mutual respect, and intergroup cooperation.

We certainly must condemn and fight anti-Semitism and anti-Zionism. But our messaging must be positive and must draw on the goodwill of millions of people who appreciate the values of Israel and the Jewish People. 

Angel for Shabbat, Parashat Nitsavim

by Rabbi Marc D. Angel

"You are all standing today before the Lord your God..." (Devarim 29:9)

Moses reminds the entire people of Israel that they are each standing before God. Whether one is the head of a tribe or a water-carrier, all are ultimately judged by God. Rabbi Moshe Alsheikh, the great 16th century mystic and commentator, notes that we humans do not know how to evaluate each other properly--this is only known by God. There are people who may seem important to us--but who are deficient in the eyes of God. There are people who may seem insignificant to us--but who are highly regarded by the Almighty.

Not only may we be deceived in our evaluation of others, we also may be deceived in our evaluation of our own selves. We may either over exaggerate our virtues or underestimate our good qualities. If we remind ourselves that we are standing before God, we can hope to come to a truer understanding of ourselves and others.

Rabbi Haim David Halevy, late Sephardic Chief Rabbi of Tel Aviv, offered a poignant insight into the season of holy days we are about to observe. A dominant symbol of Rosh HaShana is the Shofar. The law is that a Shofar must be bent. The moral lesson is that we, too, should bow ourselves in penitence and contrition. We come before the Almighty, humbly asking forgiveness for our sins and shortcomings. Indeed, the theme of the period between Rosh HaShana and Yom Kippur is repentance.

Shortly after Yom Kippur, we observe the Festival of Succoth. A dominant symbol of that holiday is the Lulav. According to halakha, a Lulav must have a straight spine--if it is bent over, then it is not valid for the performance of the mitzvah. The Lulav reminds us that we must stand tall, that there are times when contrition and meekness are not appropriate. We must conduct ourselves with principled commitment to our ideas and ideals, being straight and upright in our words and deeds.

Rabbi Halevy notes that we each need to learn from the Shofar and the Lulav. We need the humility symbolized by the Shofar, and the strength symbolized by the Lulav. We need to balance these qualities to reach a realistic and proper approach to life.

As we enter the holy day season, it is important for us to remember that we each stand before the Almighty, who Alone knows the essence of who we are. The ultimate Arbiter of the value of our lives is the One to whom we are answerable. There is no point in pretending to be what we aren't, or in posturing to make ourselves more important in the eyes of others--God always knows the Truth about who we are.

So let us come before the Almighty with honesty and humility, bent over like the Shofar. Let us note our errors and weaknesses, and let us resolve to do better with our lives. But let us also come before the Almighty as a Lulav--upright and straight, strong in our commitment to the teachings of Torah. Let us neither over-estimate--nor under-estimate--who we are, and what our lives mean.