Shabbat HaGadol: On Lambs, Preparation, and the Birth of a Nation

Shabbat HaGadol is always the Shabbat immediately preceding Pesach. It is very fitting that Pesach, the ultimate holiday of preparation, should have its own day honoring the very fact that Pesach requires preparation. In his 13^th century master work of halachic codification, the Arba’ah Turim, Rabbi Yaakov ben Asher tells us the origins and history of Shabbat Hagadol. The Torah commanded each Jewish household in Egypt to take a lamb into the house on the tenth of Nisan, four days before the sacrifice of the korban Pesach. Each household was to tie the lamb to the leg of a bed and keep it there for four days. Their Egyptian neighbors came asking the Jews why they were doing such a strange thing. The Jews responded with the truth, “Our God has commanded us to keep this lamb with us for four days and then to slaughter it as a sacrifice on the fourteenth of Nisan.”

Now, the Egyptians were very upset at this, since the lamb was a deity for them. Indeed, that is why the lamb was chosen to be the Paschal sacrifice, in order to show God’s dominion and the emptiness of idolatry. Although the Egyptians were upset, they were not able to stop the Jews from preparing for and carrying out this mitzvah. On the year of the first seder in Egypt, the redemption took place on a Thursday, which placed the tenth of Nisan on Shabbat. Therefore, it is known as Shabbat HaGadol because of this miracle of Pesach preparation. It is in recognition of this miracle that we continue to mark Shabbat HaGadol as a special pre-Pesach date.

Rabbi Yoel Sirkis in his work Bayit Chadash, a commentary on the Arba’ah Turim, asks an obvious question. That first year in Egypt it happened to be that the tenth of Nisan fell out on a Shabbat. But the mitzvah of the Torah is to take a lamb into your home specifically on the tenth of Nisan. The fact that the tenth of Nisan was a Shabbat was seemingly only a coincidence. If so, why do we continue to celebrate this event on Shabbat even if Shabbat is not the tenth of Nisan? We should be celebrating on the tenth of Nisan! What is the intrinsic connection between Shabbat and this miraculous event of Pesach preparation?

I thought to answer Rabbi Sirkis’s question by taking a look at a unique aspect of the holiday of Pesach. The entire holiday of Pesach revolves around the home and the household. The first mention of the Paschal lamb instructs us to take it into our home. Carrying out the mitzvah of Pesach required a home to spread the blood on the doorposts. Even the redemption itself came to homes and not just individuals: God passed over the houses of our ancestors in Egypt. Even today, the central mitzvah of Pesach is performed by the household in the home, together around a communal meal. Other holidays may have a festive meal, but on Pesach, the meal is the central mitzvah of the day. The individual would not have been saved on Pesach were it not for their connection to the group. Even Moses himself could not perform this mitzvah and merit redemption without the structure of a home and community. The mitzvah of the Paschal sacrifice itself was not even done by every individual, but rather a household together performed the mitzvah, one act which included every member of the household. The Torah even relates to us that the idea of a household could be extended beyond the immediate family for this mitzvah to include relatives and friends. The central act of salvation was joining oneself to a community and sitting with that community the duration of the night in solidarity.

Pesach is not only the holiday of freedom; it is also the birthday of the Jewish nation. Indeed, our freedom was merited through becoming a nation. The essence of the holiday is the “taking of one nation from the midst of another nation”. The redemption of Pesach is inextricably linked to the Jewish sense of community and nationhood. The central act of the holiday is simply belonging, joining, and connecting to the whole. This is of course the sin of the wicked son at the seder. He sees himself as separate from the community, and he does so specifically at the time we celebrate our peoplehood. The hagaddah relates that in so doing, he denies that which is fundamental. Peoplehood and community is the fundamental principle of Judaism and of Pesach.

I believe this is why the sages chose to always commemorate the start of Pesach, its preparation, not on the tenth of Nisan, but on Shabbat. Shabbat is our time for community and family on a continual basis. It is the time we set aside to be a part of the Jewish nation as a whole. It is therefore very fitting that the real preparation for Pesach should begin with Shabbat, a day of community and belonging.

Rosh Hashana: Tshuva and Yom HaZikaron

            

In our prayers we refer to Rosh Hashana as Yom Hazicharon, usually translated as the Day of Remembrance, and accordingly one of the main sections of the prayer service is called zichronot – remembrances.  Gd is omniscient, so why are we asking for remembrance when there surely can not be any forgetting?

In Modern Hebrew the word zicharon means memory, but we see several verses in the Torah which clearly indicate that zicharon can not mean memory.  Every Hebrew word has a three letter root; any combination of words can be made using this root according to set grammatical patterns.  For example, zicharon is the noun we call memory, lizkor is the verb to remember, and zecher is a remembrance.  In the story of the flood, the bible relates that "Gd remembered (viyizkor) Noah and all the animals in the ark".  During the slavery of the Jews in Egypt the Torah relates, "And Gd heard their cry and remembered (viyizkor) the covenant with Abraham, Isaac and Jacob".  Our definition of zicharon proves irresolvable in these verses – since Gd cannot forget, what does it mean to remember?  Furthermore, in the Rosh Hashana prayers themselves we ask Gd to "remember us with a good memory before You", while in the very same prayer conceding that "there is no forgetfulness before Gd's Holy Throne". 

To better understand the word zicharon, we can look to its root letters, similar to the way we can dissect the original meaning of English words by sourcing them to their Greek or Latin roots.  In Hebrew it is possible to cross-reference to another word with the same root.  Zicharon has the root Z-Ch-R (zion, chaf, resh); those three letters also make up the word zachar meaning masculine. Since the two words share a common root, understanding the idea of zachar, male, will help us understand the meaning of zicharon. In biological terms, the male represents the smallest possible building block for life, the seed which is the blueprint, but without any of the physical matter which sustains it: the essence. 

The feminine also contributes the blueprint for life, but her contribution is combined with the physical sustenance that life needs.  From the beginning the female feeds new life through the egg, development of the fetus and nursing the young.  The male contribution is only a drop, the absolute minimum, an idea for building life without the practical ability to carry it out.  I believe this is why prayers for the sick are said with the mother's name: when someone is sick we are praying for their physical well-being and their whole physical being is connected to the mother. 

The root word of z-ch-r refers to something in its essence, its most boiled down state, which is just potential because as soon as the actualization is realized it loses the simplicity of its essence. Zicharon, memory, shares this core meaning with zachar, male.  The Hebrew word zicharon would better be translated for the biblical context as the essence of something, or the potential nature of the thing.  Of course, this is related to how memory works.  Memory is not simply recalling something that happened; if this were the case, to remember something would take as long as the actual experience.  Rather, memory is the mental ability to recall the essence of something, whether it be a person or an event.  The very act of remembering almost always folds time and space, combining different actual events into more condensed thought which we call memory.  Through smell we can remember the entire essence of a person or experience in one moment.  Memory is much more than the opposite of forgetting, it is "essentializing" life experiences, and boiling life down into a very powerful mental experience.

The zicharon of something always refers to its essence.  Rosh Hashana is Yom Hazicharon, the Day of Essence.  The essence referred to here is to us, to people.  Adam, the first person, was created on Rosh Hashana; people were created with an essential purpose, a potential to be in the image of Gd.  This is the essence we are asking Gd to recall on Rosh Hashana and that we are remembering in ourselves.  The actualization of our lives lies out of balance and off target from our true nature, and we are asking Gd not to judge us on our actualization, but to see our potential, our essence, and to give us time to right ourselves.  The day of Rosh Hashana is for us to contemplate what this essence is for ourselves, and what we believe our true nature is. 

Rosh Hashana is of course also the beginning of the eseret yamai tshuva, the ten days of tshuva. Tshuva literally means to return.  Most people think that the act of tshuva is to identify aspects of ourselves which we don't like and to get rid of them. That may be part of tshuva, but it isn’t how tshuva starts. Tshuva is a process of becoming more ourselves, of identifying what makes us great or unique and connecting our lives to that core.  Tshuva has to start with a self reflection on what makes us great, and only then to ask ourselves what is stopping us from achieving that potential. That is why Rosh Hashana is the beginning, crucial step in the process of tshuva: connecting to ourselves in essence, as individuals, Jews and humans.  The rest of tshuva is figuring out how to live more in harmony with that true nature, thinking about what hinders the fruition of that seed.

On Yom Hazicharon, the work is to recall our essential nature before the Almighty in a sincere and personal way; to break ourselves down to a seed, our smallest most essential selves and connect with what's there.  To refocus on what makes us unique as individuals, identify as Jews, and connect to humanity at large.  Of course there is no forgetting before Gd, but the act of remembering ourselves is much more than the opposite of forgetting, it is the most profound act of self-consciousness, to "essentialize" ourselves, and that is the first and most fundamental step in tshuva.  

Walking to the Mir

The Walk

Morning prayers finish at about 7:30.  I come home, and I have breakfast with my wife, Jenny. Then about 8:30 I leave.  My walk takes me up the hill and out of our neighborhood of Katamon, through the upscale neighborhood of Rehavia and past the Prime Minister's house.  I take a left on King George Street and walk past the Great Synagogue and through the center of town.  All around me I sense Jerusalem bustling to work, feel the summer sun getting hotter and hotter, and see the incredible variety of the faces I encounter. Someone calls out “Shlomo!” and eight guys turn their heads.  I make my way up Strauss Street, past the Geula-Bnei Berak taxi stand, turn right and head down the hill.

As I cross Mea Shearim Street, I enter a different place and time.  Suddenly everybody speaks Yiddish and the bustle of modern Jerusalem melts away in the summer sun.  Not much has changed in this neighborhood: now there's electricity instead of candles and cars instead of carriages.  That's about it.   Even the all-pervasive cell phone hasn't made a big splash here.  The streets are very narrow (about wide enough for a bus to whiz past and come an inch from your face), the stores and homes are packed very tightly with very little urban planning.  There are no trees here.  It's just as I would imagine an old European shtetl to be – like all immigrants they've recreated the familiar.  The stores are different – no Nikes or coffee shops, no fast food or boutiques.  Here they sell carp. My favorite is "the House of Carp" where you can pick your own out of their in-store tank and they'll grind it up fresh for you in the back.  The chasid who owns the store is full of fish recipes.  I told him one Thursday evening that I heard carp isn't so healthy.  His response: "If that's the case, Mea Shearim's in trouble.”  The bakeries are packed with haymish goodies: rugelach, challah, cheese cakes, cookies and kugels.  Independent craftsman and traders can still be found here doing their thing: the furniture guy, the wood maker, the tailor, the baker, the glass blower, the painter.  There are no chains, no big stores. 

One factor which makes the neighborhood feel so different, so isolated, is that no one talks politics, a very rare silence in Israel. 

I make my way down Mea Shearim Street, weaving between the buses and the chasids returning from morning minyan, take a left, pass the 24 hour bakery and down the street which leads to the yeshiva.  This particular street is packed with about a dozen woodworkers who make shtenders (a thin metal and wood stand which holds a book at the correct height and angle for reading) by the dozens, bookshelves and everything else.  Then like a tractor beam I get sucked up into the world of The Mir.

The Yeshiva

The Mir is one of the oldest and biggest yeshivas in the world.  It started in Russia in the town of Mir.  Most of that world was wiped out in the war; the Mir survived by moving the whole yeshiva to Shanghai for the duration of the war.  After the war, the yeshiva settled in Jerusalem.  You can very much feel the old-world here.  The lingua franca of the place is Yiddish; the biggest classes (300-400 guys) are in Yiddish.  When the head of the yeshiva speaks, it's in Yiddish.

The yeshiva is packed, absolutely packed.  Everything here is a battle.  To get in the front door and up the stairs requires a lot of bumping and determination.  None of it is mean or deliberate; that's just the way it is -- crowded and lacking personal space. I don't think there is a Yiddish word for personal space.  One floor up is the main beis midrash (study hall).  It fits about a thousand guys, all sitting side by side on wooden benches with shtenders in front of them, all facing the same direction. 

And all learning Talmud at the top of their lungs. 

The place literally rocks with Torah.  I go one more flight up to the balcony section which rings the main beis midrash.  There are another few hundred guys up here, same set-up.  The yeshiva is a total maze, lacking any clear plan.  It was expanded over the years layer by layer, rendering it totally bonkers.  Around one corner is someone's dorm room, around another corner an office. Take another turn and you're in another beis midrash with another couple hundred guys shouting Talmud. 

Then there's my personal favorite corner: the otzar (which means "treasure" in Hebrew).  I found this place in my first couple of days at the Mir.  I was looking for a certain Talmudic commentary and asked someone if the yeshiva had a copy.  "Not here, but if you're shlepping it'll be in the otzar".  After deciphering his statement and taking what seemed like six left turns, I found the otzar:  a quiet, catalogued library in the middle of the madness. The only sound is the buzz of the rest of the building which feels like it's in the far off background.  Jenny has likened this yeshiva to a Harry Potter movie, a bunch of wizards in a castle learning the ins and outs of the world and her mysteries with shtenders instead of broomsticks and blessings instead of spells. And books which yell at you and stairs which seem to move and lead nowhere.

I make my way out on to the porch for a post-walk stretch. Some onlookers are captivated and some appalled at such strange behavior.  Then at 9:30 my chevrusa (study partner) and I start learning.   Everyone learns in pairs, reading to each other out loud, thinking, talking, and yelling.  My chevrusa is named Binyamin Mahr. He's 21, originally from Buffalo, N.Y.; his family moved to Israel when he was 10.  When we first started learning together I asked him how long he'd been learning Talmud for.  He gave me a puzzled look and said, "Whatya mean?  Since cheyder."  As if amazed there could be any other answer.

At noon we walk over to our "class room".  The yeshiva itself is busting at the seams, so all the morning classes are held in run-down shuls around the neighborhood.  Ours is on Mea Shearim Street, down a little alley you would never otherwise notice. All the window glass is broken and heaven help you if you have to use the bathroom. Sixty guys huddled around and hanging on Rebbe's every word.

The Rebbe

There's a culture in yeshiva of deep respect for the rabbi.  People talk to their rav (not only about their rav but to their rav) in the 3rd person: "what did Rebbe mean when he said...".  The guys are there a few minutes early, staking out their seats.  Then Rebbe walks in, briskly and to the point, everyone stands up, and he hangs his hat on a nail in the wall and begins his Talmudic discourse.

Rebbe is a small, slightly built man, about 5'9" and 135 lbs. in his late 30's.  He sports a short, wispy, reddish beard and horn-rimmed glasses.  He sits at the front of the room and speaks quickly and directly, free-flowing between 4 languages (English, Yiddish, Hebrew and Aramaic), all in equal proportions.  He doesn't look at notes and rarely looks at the text.  Without a pause he begins to lay out his ideas about the different ways of understanding the piece of Talmud we're working on.  The whole time he's speaking his hands are up by his face, constantly moving, jabbing the air in front of him, quick, punchy jabs, and touching the rim of his glasses.  As his discourse picks up pace, so do his hands - jabbing and then touching the glasses, jabbing and touching, jabbing and touching.  His discourse is a religious experience, with dizzying heights of religious ecstasy.  Rebbe takes your mind on an hour long flight of religious awakening, through the passages of seemingly irresolvable contradictions, up to the heights of resolution and clarity.  Someone calls out a question (there's no hand-raising), and he takes it right in stride.  Outside on Mea Shearim Street the business day is in full swing and the Jerusalem sun is burning.  Trucks and buses crowd the street, the horns and yelling screeching into our little shul.  Sometimes Rebbe pause for a minute and I think the noise outside has penetrated his focus and that he's contemplating asking someone to close the window.  And then he continues at full-force, rolling straight through the commotion and dragging us all along with him. 

The guy who sits next to me is named Eliyahu.  He's 30 years old and has been studying Talmud his whole life.  Eliyahu is a thin, tall and handsome Israeli.  He has an angular inviting face with a short trimmed beard.  He's a soft spoken and kind man.  One afternoon he took five minutes out of study (very rare in yeshiva) and told me his story.  He was born in Syria, where his family had lived since the destruction of the second Temple.  In 1979, when he was five and his younger sibling about three, his family escaped on foot.  They left everything behind and walked north, past the area where Abraham was born, over the mountains and into Turkey.  They made their way to Istanbul where the Jewish Agency put them on a plane to Israel.  His dad, now retired, worked as a government minister; they live in Jerusalem.  A beis midrash filled with hundreds of guys learning Talmud, each with his own story, his own path about how he ended up here in the Mir yeshiva, a 20 minute walk from the Western Wall.

About 6:30 I leave, reversing my steps from the old world back through downtown and back to the tree lined streets of elegant Rehavia and then to our neighborhood of Katamon.  Back to a world of color, personal space and modernity.  A walk of about forty-five minutes and eight hundred years.

Starting the Penn Learning Initiative

I started the Penn Learning Initiative for a couple of reasons. One, there was no good option at Hillel for an open learning program. We offer a lot of classes at a very high level, but the bar is set pretty high. I sensed from talking to students that there was interest in a more accessible learning group. Two, lots of students have expressed interest in learning with and getting to know other students from different backgrounds. I felt that a learning group which was accessible to the full range of students would be a very stimulating environment for dialogue and intereaction. Three, most of the classes that we offer are frontal teaching. PLI is based on student involvement in all aspects. This is a great way for students to take ownership of their Jewish growth and learning, while driving a very interesting conversation with one another.

It is worth mentioning how the idea developed. As I began to sense these trends and interests among students, I set up dozens of one-to-one conversations with students from across the spectrum. These conversations centered around what they would like to see offered at Hillel. I started off with an idea that I bounced off people in these conversations, and the idea changed and grew with each conversation.  It is not really my idea, but rather a program formed by a wide swath of Hillel students and their ideas and input. My major student partner in building the program has been Ariel Fisher, without whom the idea would never have been put into practice. As the leader of Heart to Heart on campus, he also felt the need for such a program. H2H gets dozens of students who are inspired by their interaction with religious students and become interested in Jewish learning. We wanted to create an open and engaging space for them to learn, grow and interact with people from different religious backgrounds.

Once we had the basic outline down for PLI we began to recruit students. We used a peer-to-peer model for recruiting. Since diversity was important to us, we gathered seven students from different groups and backgrounds. This group of 7 bought into the program and agreed to find a chevruta (study partner) and recruit one more couple. The first meeting we had 20 participants. By the second meeting we had 35.