Parashat Nitzavim/Rosh Hashana: Formidable family festivals

We're entering a period in which anything not crucially important is put off until "after the holidays."

By SHLOMO RISKIN
rosh hashana 88 (photo credit: )
rosh hashana 88
(photo credit: )
We are entering the period in which anything which isn't crucially important is put off until "after the holidays [hagim]"; and the festival period is formidable indeed, lasting more than three weeks. It begins with the first two days of Tishrei - Rosh Hashana or New Year - and continues into the tenth day of Tishrei, the Day of Forgiveness and Purity (Yom Kippur), concluding with the glorious eight days of Succot and Simhat Torah, when we dance with Torah scrolls in the street. But as emotionally dizzying as this period might be, it is difficult to put together the various sounds, sights and smells, the feasts and the fasts, the contrition and the camaraderie. Although Rosh Hashana marks the creation of the world, our biblical reading - which generally defines the precise sanctity of the day - does not recount creation, but rather describes the early experiences of the first Jewish family: Patriarch Abraham, Matriarch Sarah, and their sons Ishmael and Isaac. Especially since we shall soon conclude the yearly cycle of biblical readings, why not invoke the majestic opening passage - "In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth" - on the anniversary of the day on which the world was conceived? And why do we interrupt a distinctly festive period with a Yom Kippur fast and the exhortation to "afflict our souls"? And why do we rush to erect (within four days) a seven-day, almost make-believe home, decorated with fragrant vegetation, a green garden roof, and wall hangings of biblical personalities and Temple experiences? What single idea connects these sacred days? And why cram the succot huts - reminiscent of the desert "trailer homes" of the wandering Israelites - into the fall season of the New Year, when they really belong in the spring after Passover? I believe that the uniting scheme for the festival month of Tishrei will emerge when we contemplate the universal human reaction to the New Year. The change in the calendar reminds each of us of our mortality; the passage of another year - whether it be New Year, a birthday or an anniversary - engenders feelings of nostalgia, remembrances of those who are no longer with us, and cause us to wonder whether we ourselves will be privileged to live another year. The older we are, the more poignant are these feelings. There are two contrasting responses to intimations of mortality: the Greco-Romans cried out, "Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die," while the Jewish message is "Repent one day before you die." Hence, our Jewish New Year ushers in a period of repentance and introspection, a questioning of priorities, a stocktaking. After all, although no one knows precisely how long he/she will live, we are able to best spend the time at our disposal, and perhaps the higher reason for our mortality is to teach us how precious every day really is, and the importance of making the most of whatever time we have. Only that which is finite and susceptible to decay is truly valued. Therefore, on Rosh Hashana the biblical readings stress the first family of Israel - parents and children - recording their tests and their triumphs, their satisfactions and their sacrifices, their rivalries and their victories. What emerges is that in large measure the world for each individual is his/her family, and for the Jew this includes his/her identity as a member of the family of Israel. It also reminds us that, for better or for worse, Ishmael - the Arab world - is also part of our family. And on the day when we consider our mortality, the first priority must be our family; when all is said and done, the objects we acquire are even more vulnerable than we are, but the fruits of our loins have the potential to take us, with them, into eternity. And so the Jewish New Year ushers in a 10-day period of re-assessment which culminates in a 25-hour fast of atonement and divine forgiveness. And despite the fast, it is still considered a major festival. On Yom Kippur we are given the divine gift of a fresh slate, a total sense of renewal, along with the empowerment and self-confidence which comes at the end of disciplined denial and the realization that we can rise above our physical needs and instinctive drives. Indeed, we even have the ability to re-create ourselves. And on Yom Kippur, dressed in simple white garb, removed from the physical accoutrements of food, drink and sexual relations, ensconced for the entire day in synagogue with prayer book, Bible and God, it is almost as if we have moved from the temporal world of the living to the eternal world of the spirit. Such a state can be frightening, but it can also be uplifting. I know an important Jewish leader and philanthropist who - at age 40 - left a carefree playboy existence and entered into marriage, family and commitment to the Jewish future. How did it happen? He was skiing all alone and was stranded on a mountaintop in a storm. As he reported on his feelings at the time, he said that (strangely enough) he wasn't afraid of death - although he believed his death was imminent - and didn't make any kind of bargain with God. He only thought about who would mourn his passing, and realized that the only one would be his mother; and since his mother would have mourned him even if he had been stillborn, it was as though he had never lived. He emerged from that ski experience transformed, and changed the rest of his life…. Indeed, as a rabbi I have been with many terminally ill patients; not one has regretted time spent away from the office, but almost all regretted time not spent with family or on behalf of the community. The climax of this holiday period takes place when we leave our usual and generally comfortable homes and build fragile huts - replete with natural vegetation and a garden roof through which we can see the stars. Perhaps the message of these "halachic homes" is that the goal of Israel is to bring light to a world often enmeshed in darkness, and that we really don't need the large and sometimes luxurious homes in which we dwell. As the sages of the Talmud put it: "If there is strong love between a couple, they can sleep on the edge of a piece of metal and there is plenty of room; if love is absent, a bed of 60 parasangs [several miles] becomes too small" (B.T. Sanhedrin 7a). The real strength and security of a home comes from our time-honored traditions and eternal values. "One thing do I ask of the Lord, only this do I request: allow me to dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life, to see the sweetness of the Lord and visit in His tent." The writer is the founder and chancellor of Ohr Torah Stone Colleges and Graduate Programs, and chief rabbi of Efrat.