A Time for Every Purpose

By Eliezer Segal

A Time for Every Purpose continues the series of collections of Eliezer Segal’s witty and penchant articles about the Jewish sacred calendar that originally appeared in his “From the Sources” column in the Calgary Jewish Free Press between 2011 and 2015. As always, the author strives to maintain a balance between accurate scholarship and entertaining readability as he introduces his readers to fascinating aspects of the Jewish festivals and holy days and how they evolved in ongoing dialogue with historical changes, geographical diversity and intellectual challenges. The articles are written from a sympathetic but non-dogmatic perspective by a recognized authority on the academic study of Judaism.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Quid Pro, LLC
• Release date: Jun 8, 2015
• ISBN: 9781610278201

Eliezer Segal

Professor of Religious Studies at the University of Calgary.

Book preview

INTRODUCTION

To every thing there is a season, and a time for every purpose under the heavens

(Ecclesiastes 3:1)

"And a time for every purpose under the heavens"—

Rabbi Bebai said: A purpose that is above the heavens was given to Moses from the heavens. And what is this purpose? —It is the Torah.

When was this? —"In the third month, [when the children of Israel were gone forth out of the land of Egypt... They were come to the desert of Sinai... and there Israel camped before the mount. And Moses went up unto God...]" (Exodus 19:1)

(Pesikta de-Rav Kahana 12:7)

That there is an appropriate time for every purpose in life is an insight that permeates all of Jewish thought and is aptly embodied in the verse from Ecclesiastes that inspired the title for this volume. In a general sense, as Ecclesiastes goes on to say, time provides the settings for the diverse activities and moods that make up a normal human lifespan: love and conflict, joy and sorrow, war and conciliation. Human existence takes place in a setting that is governed by temporal cycles measured by the sun and moon.

This quintessentially human reality is reflected in the ritual dimension of Judaism in the elaborate latticework of sacred hours, days and months that bestow meaning on the chronological patterns of nature and astronomy. Not only do the holy days have their individual themes (often several of them)—of spiritual repose, mourning, thanksgiving, freedom, triumph, judgment, repentance and more—but their interpretations and observances have evolved in remarkable ways over history. Indeed, the Jewish sages were ever attuned (in ways that are not always obvious from the Bible itself) to the profound paradox that the revelation of their timeless source of spiritual meaning, the eternal Torah, was situated precisely within a temporal sequence of events that are commemorated on designated dates of the calendar.

The studies in this volume try to celebrate just a few examples of the innumerable possibilities of meaning that have been elicited by the historical Jewish tradition in its ongoing process of pondering the cycle of sacred times.

Like my earlier books — Holidays, History and Halakhah; In Those Days, at This Time; Sanctified Seasons; and For Signs and for Seasons — A Time for Every Purpose assembles studies that were originally printed in my From the Sources column in pre-holiday editions of The Jewish Free Press in Calgary, Alberta.

Eliezer Segal

Calgary, Alberta

Sivan 5775

May 2015

New Moon

The Jewish month (Hebrew: hodesh) signifies the start of the astronomical cycle of the waxing and waning of the moon, which takes twenty-nine and one half days. In ancient times, the beginning of a new month had to be officially sanctified by the supreme Jewish court in Jerusalem on the basis of testimony of witnesses who had observed the new moon in the heavens; and this autonomy over their sacred time was regarded as cherished expression of the covenantal partnership between God and Israel. Although a fixed calculated calendar is now used for this purpose, vestiges of the former importance of the New Moon are still perceptible in Jewish liturgy and practice.

New, Newer ... Newest Moon

The fact that we observe the Jewish New Year in the autumn month of Tishrei creates a misleading impression that Tishrei is the first month of the Jewish year. This is clearly not the case. The Torah explicitly designates the springtime month of the exodus—the one that was later called Nisan—as the beginning of months.

From the study of old liturgical compendia and fragmentary manuscripts of prayer books, we learn that in the land of Israel it was customary to attach special prominence to the month of Nisan in prayers and blessings. In Arabic, the first day of Nisan was given the title Ras al-Halal al-Kabir, the Great New Moon. Where the normal New Moon service refers to this beginning of the month, the prayer for Nisan spoke of "this beginning of the beginnings of the months. The evening service—which marks the onset of a new day according to the Hebrew calendar—was introduced by a special recitation of Psalm 97: The Lord reigneth, let the earth rejoice."

Moreover, there was even a special Kiddush blessing for this day that was recited over a cup of wine in the synagogue following the evening service, a rite that had no equivalent for any of the other New Moons of the year. In some respects—such as its elaborate preamble of rhymed stanzas designed to be sung in a variety of musical styles—the solemnity of this Kiddush more than rivaled those of the major biblical festivals.

Indeed, the New Moon of Nisan inspired a distinctive genre of liturgical poetry (piyyut) that stressed the primacy of this date as the time when the ancient Israelites were first notified of their approaching liberation from Egypt. Hence the day also served as an inspiration to strengthen the people’s faith in the imminence of the messianic redemption.

A popular genre of piyyut for this occasion took the form of literary debates in the Aramaic language between Nisan and the other months, as each argued its case for why it was more deserving to be chosen as the time for Israel’s liberation from Egypt. Other poetic creations dwelled on the numerous events associated with the first of Nisan. The poets commemorated such themes as the inauguration of the Tabernacle in the desert, the offerings of the tribal princes, the investiture of the priests and the centralization of the sacrificial rites. And of course they recalled that the month as a whole was the occasion of the very first Passover celebration, the exodus and the miraculous parting of the Red Sea.

Documents from the Cairo Genizah allow us to trace the development of these prayers from the mists of antiquity through to the thirteenth century. Most of the testimonies relate to the "Shami" Jewish community [referring to the followers of the Palestinian rite] of Cairo, and all indications point to the fact that they were celebrating the first day of Nisan as a lively and popular spring festival. Although the Shami community originally observed special prayers for the beginnings of all the Hebrew months, the one for Nisan was the only one to survive past the thirteenth century.

In April 1906, a young Semitics student named Herbert Loewe (who would later become a prominent scholar at Cambridge University) was living in Cairo, and he submitted an article for the London Jewish Chronicle in which he provided an eyewitness description of the mass celebration by the Jewish community in Cairo’s Abasiyya quarter on the evening of the first of Nisan.

The ceremony was known by the Arabic name "Al-Tawhid—literally: the oneness, unification or uniqueness. In a compendium printed in 1908 chronicling the Jewish customs of Cairo, Rabbi Raphael Aaron Ibn Simeon associated that puzzling name with an Arabic prayer that was chanted by the cantor extolling the greatness of the creator, his uniqueness and his many acts of kindness toward his creatures." I consider it more likely that the original meaning was probably related to the idea that this is Day One of the first month of the year. A special prayer book for the occasion was published in Alexandria in 1887.

In his newspaper report, Herbert Loewe described how the festive venue and the roads leading to it were adorned with oil lamps, banners, wreaths and branches, and the local police tried ineffectually to keep the street open to the pedestrian traffic. The interior of the synagogue, whose construction was not yet completed at the time, was decorated with colourful tapestries, and the organizers positioned chairs upholstered in garish red for the benefit of the community dignitaries. The crowd partook of the food, drink and singing that are the norm at Jewish religious festivities.

The service combined a standardized set of hymns that were recited from year to year—Loewe singled out for mention the "Mippi El, which is still a hit at our Simhat Torah festivities—alongside a few novel offerings composed especially for that year’s celebration. In general, the songs exhibited conspicuous influences from prevailing Arab musical fashions. Several of the hymns were bilingual, consisting of alternating Hebrew and Arabic stanzas. The service concluded with a version of the Prayer for the Welfare of the Sultan" that was all but indistinguishable from the one that was recited in the mosques.

When the rabbi rose to deliver his sermon in Arabic, it was not, as we might have anticipated, on such themes as Passover or redemption from oppression, nor about the mysteries of the Hebrew calendar or any of the usual ideas that are standardly associated with the first of Nisan; but rather he spoke about the construction of the Tabernacle, an event that had indeed occurred on that date, and had the added advantage of allowing him to divert his sermon into a fund-raising pitch on behalf of the synagogue building fund. There was no subtlety here. After the sermon, the beadle individually approached each and every Effendi in the congregation, and the cantor chanted a "Mi-shebbeirakh" blessing in honour of each contributor.

In spite of all the public recognition that was bestowed on the donors, the campaign was a dismal failure and netted the community nothing more than a bit of small change. Only the community’s elders were delighting in the venerable and familiar ceremony, whereas the younger attendees seemed bored and fidgety through the whole affair. Raphael Ibn Simeon noted that in the early twentieth century the custom was losing much of its popularity as a result of urban sprawl, as young Jewish families were moving away from the traditional Jewish quarter to become scattered in the far-flung reaches of Cairo’s suburbs. Furthermore, the mercenary tone of the proceedings likely contributed to a widespread disaffection on the part of the community’s younger members.

It appears unlikely that we will be witnessing a revival of the public First First Month festivities any time soon. Nonetheless, there is much to admire in this powerful symbol of national and spiritual renewal.

Bibliography:

Fleischer, Ezra. Additional Data concerning the ‘Great New Moon’. Sidra 7 (1991): 49–65.

———. Seder Al-Tawhid: A Late Recurrence of an Ancient Palestinian Custom. Pe’amin: Studies in Oriental Jewry 78 (1999): 75–99.

———. Studies in Piyyut and Medieval Hebrew Poetry. Tarbiz 39, no. 1 (1969): 19–38.

———. The Great New-Moon Day. Tarbiz 37, no. 3 (1968): 265–278.

Wieder, Naphtali. Concerning the Article ‘The Great New-Moon Day’. Tarbiz 38, no. 1 (1968): 92.

Don’t Go Near the Water

In the days of Rabbi Judah the Pious (1140 – 1217) it once happened that the first day of Passover fell on March 21, the day following the Spring equinox. Since talmudic law insisted that the water with which matzah dough is kneaded must be left to settle overnight, and the time-honoured Ashkenazic custom forbade the baking of matzahs earlier than the afternoon preceding the seder, the community had no apparent alternative but to make use of water that had been drawn on the previous day.

In this particular instance, however, they were faced with a grave predicament: Jewish tradition categorically forbids the use of any water that was drawn from its source prior to the equinox.

If you are not familiar with this obscure prohibition of pre-equinox water, I refer you to the Shulhan Arukh, the authoritative compendium of Jewish religious law. It includes an enumeration of various practices that must be avoided because they were believed to be dangerous or unhealthy. In his glosses to that passage, Rabbi Moses Isserles of Cracow added a few more items to the original list, basing himself on traditions that had evolved in Ashkenazic communities. In this context Rabbi Isserles noted that "the prevalent custom is not to drink any water at the time of the seasonal transition (Hebrew: te kufah). This is in accordance with the earlier authorities, and should not be changed."

Indeed, the avoidance of water at the four te kufahs of the solar year—that is: the vernal and autumnal equinoxes and the summer and winter solstices—has a long and enigmatic history in Jewish lore. The Jews of Kairowan, Tunisia, addressed an inquiry about this practice to the distinguished head of the Babylonian academy Rav Hai Ga’on (d. 1038) asking whether it had any genuine basis in Jewish tradition. The Ga’on responded that he personally was unable to explain the reason for the custom, but that it was nevertheless a venerable one that should be treated very seriously. He speculated that its main purpose might to be to add solemnity to these important seasonal transitions by partaking of something more substantial than mere water. Rabbi Abraham Ibn Ezra amplified that explanation, noting that these four milestones have the status of New Year days and should therefore be ushered in with a flavorful beverage.

To be sure, there were respectable authors who rejected the practice—which could lay claim to no clear source in the Bible or Talmud—as a piece of popular superstition that should be dismissed out of hand. Such, for example, was the attitude of Rabbi Abraham bar Hiyya of Barcelona.

It would appear nonetheless that Jews in many different communities were scrupulous about refraining from water on the four key te kufah dates, whether in obedience to an entrenched custom or—and this was probably the most common case—because they were truly convinced that not to do so would imperil their lives.

To return to our case of the matzah kneaders, the problem was averted there thanks to a judicious decision by Rabbi Judah the Pious who stated that whatever danger might otherwise lurk in the pre-equinoctial waters did not apply when they were being used for the fulfilment of a religious precept; as declared by the wise Ecclesiastes: whosoever keeps the commandment shall experience no evil thing.

Other authorities found different