Tag: Messiah

Land connections

Dried fruit and almonds are traditionally eaten on Tu b’Shevat. (photo from Gilabrand (talk) via commons.wikimedia.org)

Until Jews began to return to Eretz Israel in 1948, no one thought of them as farmers. For nearly 2,000 years, we had been dispersed throughout the world and, in many places, were not permitted to own land or engage in agriculture. But, in ancient Palestine, we were an agricultural people. We treasured the olive tree, the grape vine and the date palm. The Bible encouraged us to plant “all manner of trees” and forbade the destruction of trees of a conquered land.

Just as we believe that on the first day of the seventh month, Rosh Hashanah, we are judged and our fate for the coming year is inscribed in the Book of Life, so we are taught to believe that trees are similarly judged on the New Year of the Trees, Tu b’Shevat (the 15th day of Shevat, this year Jan. 25), the first day of spring.

This semi-holiday has always been associated with tree planting. In ancient times, one planted a tree at the birth of a child – cedar for a boy, cypress for a girl. Special care was given to these trees on Tu b’Shevat and, when the children married, branches of their own trees were cut for the chuppah (wedding canopy).

It is said that, on the 15th day of Shevat, the sap begins to rise in the fruit trees in Israel. So, we partake of the fruits of the land: apples, almonds, carobs, figs, nuts, dates and pomegranates. The pious stay up very late on the eve of the holiday reciting passages from the Torah that deal with trees and the fertility of the earth. We read the story of how trees and plants were created (Genesis 1:11-18), the divine promise of abundance as a reward for keeping the commandments (Leviticus 26:3-18 and Deuteronomy 8:1-10) and the parable of the spreading vine, which symbolizes the people of Israel (Ezekiel 17).

Sephardi Jews have their own special manual, The Fruit of the Goodly Tree. It was first published in the Judeo-Spanish language, Ladino, in Salonica, composed by Judah Kala’i. Each verse is recited as the relevant fruits are eaten, and some of the verses translate as follows:

  • “G-d increase our worldly goods / and guard us soon and late / and multiply our bliss like seeds / of the pomegranate.”
  • “For our Redeemer do we wait / all the long night through / to bring a dawn as roseate / as the apple’s hue.”
  • “Sin, like a stubborn shell and hard / is wrapped around our ssoul / Lord, break the husk and let the nut / come out whole.”

Each of the fruits has symbolic meaning. The rosy apple stands for G-d’s glowing splendor; the nut represents the three kinds of Jews – hard, medium and soft. The almond stands for swift divine retribution, for it blossoms more quickly than other trees. The fig means peace and prosperity, and the humble carob stands for humility, a necessary element of penitence.

Judaism’s strong ties to agriculture and ecology are captured by Rabbi Yohanan ben Zakai, who once declared: “If you hold a sapling in your hand and hear that the Messiah has arrived, plant the sapling first and only then go and greet the Messiah.”

Dvora Waysman is a Jerusalem-based author. She can be contacted at [email protected] or through her blog dvorawaysman.com.

A long wait for redemption

 

We were fortunate to be guests at two warm and spirited seders this year. As designated song-leader, I tried to ensure that the singing was fulsome and sufficiently rowdy to rescue late-night flagging energy levels. One heartfelt moment was singing Ani Ma’amin. Based on Maimonides’ 13 Principles of Faith, the song declares, “I believe, with complete faith, in the coming of the Messiah.” It’s a song familiar to attendees of Jewish summer camp and Holocaust remembrance ceremonies. It’s beautiful and haunting and, with its concise lyrics, contagious for group sing-alongs.

There was an Israeli-Canadian couple at the seder and so, after singing about the Messiah’s hoped-for arrival, I grabbed the opportunity to insert another song from my favorite genre: Israeli ’70s and ’80s pop music. Shalom Hanoch’s 1985 hit, “Waiting for the Messiah,” launched onto the Israeli music scene an iconoclastic cry of frustration: “The Messiah isn’t coming – and neither is he phoning.” The few at the seder who knew it sang and air-banded for a bit before turning solemn as we wound down the seder with Hatikvah.

In Ani Ma’amin there is the belief that the world will one day improve, if only we are patient. Hanoch’s song, by contrast, is an attempt at hard-edged realism.

In 1985, Israel was gripped by hyperinflation. “The stock market crashed,” he sang. “People jumped from the roof; the Messiah also jumped, and they announced that he was killed….” Serious political ills were also ramping up, with the Lebanon War fresh in the memory of an increasingly restless nation. And, with the intifada breaking out two years later, more would follow.

Even in the absence of belief, messianiam is an ever-present notion in Jewish culture. In the 17th century, there was Shabbetai Tzvi, known as the false Messiah; later, there was the rejection of modern Zionism among the ultra-Orthodox who believed – and still do – that the experiment in Jewish sovereignty should wait for the Messiah’s arrival. Then there is the belief of some within the Chabad movement that the Rebbe, Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson may himself have been the Messiah. For my part, given that I speak only Hebrew to my kids, I’m stuck with phrases that I normally wouldn’t use in English – and which don’t always reflect my worldview – phrases like “what are you waiting for – the Messiah to come?” when my then toddlers would rest in a snowbank between their JCC preschool and the parking lot.

But what really struck me that night at the seder as we sang Hanoch’s lyrics was a two-fold question. First, which stance better fulfils the Judaic imperative of tikkun olam: the traditional belief in messianic redemption, or the belief that it is all up to us? And second, how can we agree on what of the many problems in the world are deserving of fixing in the first place?

Clearly, the world is in disrepair. Just within the last few weeks, for example, two infants died in unregulated South Tel Aviv day cares serving African refugees; Islamic militants of the al-Shabab Somali group slaughtered 148 Christian students at a university in Garissa, Kenya; bloodshed continues in Syria and Yemen; antisemitic attacks are on the rise, especially in France; and, in Canada, according to Make Poverty History, one in 10 children here lives below the poverty line.

Certainly, none of us in our lifetime will solve all the world’s ills, and with humanity’s imperfections, including our own mental and emotional flaws, our lust for power and the natural drive for accumulation amid scarcity, it’s hard to believe that widespread suffering will ever be overcome. Some believe that messianic yearnings lead to passivity; others that it spurs us to action.

But perhaps the biggest conundrum is how to agree on which of the world’s ills we should actually care about. For some, the criterion is whether the problem is local; for others it is the perception of how the solution will implicate their own well-being; for others it hinges on whether they think the problem is actually the fault of the sufferer. Whether or not one believes in the possibility of messianic redemption, or whether one believes that it is up to us mortals to repair the world, we would do well to start with something that is hard to contest: the importance of compassion for suffering wherever it is found.

Mira Sucharov is an associate professor of political science at Carleton University. She blogs at Haaretz and the Jewish Daily Forward. This article was originally published in the Ottawa Jewish Bulletin.