“Whence Worry?” – On the Murky Trail Of An Aphorism
by Yitzhak, of בין דין לדין
[I am greatly indebted to Wolf2191 and Mississippi Fred MacDowell for reading an earlier draft of this essay and for providing numerous valuable references.] This past Rosh Ha’Shanah, my friend A.F. showed me a collection of various homilies of the Rav related to the days of Awe, “prepared, translated and edited by B. David Schreiber”. While browsing through them, I noticed the following passage:
Every Jew must also ensure the continuity of future generations
(45) There is another dimension to the equation between man and tree, כי האדם עץ השדה. In addition to roots, a tree also has נוף, branches which form a panoramic vista. Chazal debate if אילן בתר עיקרו או בתר נופו, whether the roots of a tree are more important than its expanse. A tree must have both roots and branches in order to exist and flourish. Likewise, it is insufficient for man to be merely involved in the past; he must also identify with the future. The roots are bound to the tree’s past; the flowers and branches relate to its future. Likewise, the bris yisroel comprises both past and future. Nowadays, Jews are concerned with the bris of the past, but in the days of antiquity, in the time of Avraham and Moshe, they were concerned with the future. את אשר ישנו פה ואת אשר איננו פה עמנו היום. Moshe was very troubled and wanted to ensure the continuity of the Jewish religion. Through אדם עץ השדה, man is bound to the past, nonetheless, he must anticipate the future and take all actions necessary to ensure that continuity. The past requires a future, and the future requires a past. Had Jews not identified with both the past and the future, the Jewish people could not have survived.
People often say incorrectly and sarcastically,
,העבר אין, העתיד עדיין, ההווה כהרף אין, אם כן דאגה מניין,
The past is remote, the future has not yet occurred, the present is fleeting, why, then, should one be concerned?
Yahadus disagrees. Yahadus proposes:
העבר יש, והעתיד יש, וההווה גשר המקשר את העבר ואת העתיד. אם כן, יש לדאוג.
The past exists. The future exists. The present is the bridge between the past and the future. Therefore, one should be concerned.i
The first time I ever heard this “incorrect, sarcastic” aphorism was a decade or two ago, as a catchy hit song composed by Yossi Green and sung by Mordechai ben David (a contemporary cover of the song at a wedding). In an interview with the Israeli magazine בקהלה, Green discusses the provenance of the lyrics and his composition of the song:
“הקריטריון שלי”, מספק יוסי גרין את הנוסחה, “אינו אם השיר יהיה קצבי או רגוע. הניגון צריך להיות מיוחד וחייב להיות בו חידוש מוזיקלי או קונספטואלי. זה המוטיב המאפיין כל שיר שלי. אתן לך דוגמא. כשהלחנתי את ‘דאגה מניין’, זה היה בתקופה שבה רווח בכל מקום המשפט ‘דונט וורי, בי הפי’ (אל תדאג, היה שמח). לאברמ’ל פריד הלחנתי באותה עת את ‘נישט געדאגהט יידן’ ולמרדכי בן דוד את ‘דאגה מניין’. זה היה בלתי שגרתי בעליל, משהו שכולם דיברו עליו”.
על ‘דאגה מניין’ יש לו גם סיפור, אחד מני רבים. “זאת באמת שאלה טובה, איך הגעתי למילים הללו”, הוא אומר כשאני תוהה על כך באוזניו. “אמי הייתה מאושפזת במצב לא טוב. רציתי להשמיע באוזניה דברים שייתנו מרגוע לנפשה. עיינתי בספרים הקדושים ומצאתי באבן עזרא את המילים הללו, שהן מילים נפלאות והקראתי לה מתוכן. הדברים נסכו בה עידוד רב.
“כשבאתי הביתה, קראתי למרדכי בן דוד לביתי ואמרתי לו, יש לי מילים נפלאות לשיר. כשהשמעתי לו את המילים, הוא אמר לי, אני לא מאמין. איפה מצאת מילים כאלו. הוא תמיד קורא לי, ‘הנה יוסף בעל החלומות’. גם הפעם השתמש בביטוי הזה באומרו, מאיפה אתה מוצא את המילים הללו. כך הולחן השיר”.
Green’s attribution of the aphorism to Ibn Ezra is a common error; while there are, indeed, many relatively recent works that do so (one of which Green probably encountered), none provide a source, and it is fairly certain that this is a misattribution. Wolf2191 points out another apparent misattribution; Rav Baruch Epstein ascribes authorship to Shelah, but unfortunately provides no source:
ולפעמים כשהיה אבי זקני רואה איש שקוע בצער ודאגה, היה משתדל לפזר מעליו ענני העצבות ולהשיב רוחו ולהרגיע נפשו, והטעים לו דברי נחומים ותקוה, ובתוכם זכר את דברי השל”ה שכתב בענין מניעת הדאגה בכלל, כזה:
העבר אין והעתיד עדיין וההוה כהרף עין ואם כן הדאגה מנין
והכוונה, כי אחרי אשר הזמן העבר כבר איננו, ואם כן איננו בדאגה עוד, והעתיד – איש לא ידענו, ועל כן אינו צריך להיות בדאגה עליו, וההוה ימשך כהרף עין, ומה ערכו ושויו של זמן קצר כזה כי נדאג עליו ..ii
As Wolf2191 notes, not only is our aphorism not to be found in Shelah, but on the contrary, Shelah is quite in favor of worrying:
גם יהיה דאגה בלבו. הנה צער ויגון שייך על העבר, שיצטער ויהגה על העבר דהיינו מה שעשה. ודאגה על העתיד, ידאג ויפחד מעונש עוונותיו, כי יש עוונות שהתשובה תולה כפרתן ויסורין ממרקין, כמו שנאמר (תהלים לח:יט) ,כי עוני אגיד אדאג מחטאתי’.
ועוד שנית, ידאג ויפחד תמיד אולי הוא מקצר בחובת התשובה, בצער ובמרירות ובצום ובכי. וגם כי הרבה צער והרבה בכי, יזחיל ויירא, אולי לעומת זה הרבה אשמה ולא השלים חקו, ויבונן בגודל עבודת הבורא על יצוריו, וכי אין קץ לרעת הממרה את פיו. כל אשר יוסיף בעבודת ד’ ובדרכי התשובה, הלא מצער אצלו ויהיה למעוט בעיניו.iii
The aphorism is found, though, in a work by a contemporary of Shelah, whom the latter esteemed – the יוסף אומץ (Frankfurt 5483) of Rav Yosef Yuspa Nördlinger, chief דיין of Frankfurt , who mentions and explains a version of the “מליצה”, but gives no hint of its provenance:
ואכתוב עוד צרי ליגון מחלת לב תוחלת ממושכה על ידי מיעוט הבטחון והיא מליצה, לחזק לב האדם שיבטח בלב שלם באלקיו ולא יצטער כלל על מה שישיגהו בעניני העולם הזה וזאת היא המליצה:
אנוש מה תדאג ותעיין, העבר אין והעתיד עדיין, וההוה כהרף אין, אם כן דאגה מניין.
וזה פירוש המליצה: העבר אין ולמה תצטער עלין הלא מה שעבר עבר ולא תוכל לשנות מה שכבר נעשה, והעתיד עדיין רצוני לומר עדיין עתיד לבא ולמה תצטער עליו והלא ישועת ד’ כהרף עין, גם אפשר שתצטער על עולם שאינו שלך כי שמא קודם באו עת הדאגה שעתה מצטער עליה יקחך ד’ לעולמך, וההוה כהרף עין רצוני לומר ההוה אין זמנו אלא כרגע ואם כן למה תצטער על דבר שאינו אלא כרגע ורצוני לומר אף אם זמן צערך ויגונך ארוך הלא כל רגע ורגע זמן בפני עצמו ואפשר שאחרי כלות הרגע ישתנה ענינו כמו שפירשתי העתיד עדיין.
אתה בן אדם כתוב זאת המליצה על לוח לבך ואז תפיק דאגותיך.iv
[From the Jewish Encyclopedia:
Hahn was the author of “Yosif Omeẓ,” which was published at Frankfort-on-the-Main in 1723 by Moses Reiss Darum, son-in-law of Joseph ben Moses Kosman. This interesting work treats of liturgical questions, of the most important moments of religious life, of education, charity, morality, the Christian holidays, and the civil calendar. It is written in a popular style; and short remarks show the author to have been a master of the Halakah. As such he was acknowledged by his contemporaries Isaiah Horowitz, author of “Shene Luḥot ha-Berit,” and Joel Särkes, author of “Bayit Ḥadash.” He expresses rational views in regard to pedagogics. He recommends adherence to the old rule given in Prov. xxii. 6, “Train up a child according to its way” (A. V. “in the way he should go”), and that the scope, method, and subject of instruction be adapted to the capacity of the child: it should not be compelled to learn what is beyond its comprehension. If not fit for the study of the Talmud, it should receive thorough instruction in the Bible, which is plain and wins the heart for the fear of God. In this work Hahn also tells of the troubles that befell the Frankfort Jews before and during the persecutions caused by Vincent , of their expulsion in 1614, and of their readmission in 1616.]
The יוסף אומץ was brought to my attention by Wolf2191, who also notes that the work הדרת אליהו (Prague 5545) attributes it to “the early ones” and an anonymous “sage”:
והואיל דאתא לידן דברי הרב בעל עקרים הנ”ל … אזכור מה שפרשתי בזה בס”ד דברי התנא במס’ (אבות פרק א’) וז”ל
הוא היה אומר אם אין אני לי מי לי וכו’ ואם לא עכשיו אימתי.
… ועתה לא באתי אלא לפרש הסיפא דאמר ואם לא עכשיו אימתי. אשר בזה נפלא ממני פירושו שעל איזה זמן אמר התנא בלשון עכשיו כאלו הזכיר קודם לזה איזה זמן מוגבל.
אמנם על פי דברי הרב בעל עקרים הנ”ל דיבר התנא דברי תוכחת מוסר. ונפרש תחילה דברי הרב הנ”ל שאמר לעיל וז”ל
ואולם העתה עצמו אינו זמן על דרך האמת וכו’
רצונו בזה כי אין עת בעולם אשר יאמר עליו כי הוא זה עתה או יעלה במחשבה שהזמן זה הוא עתה. כי טרם יכלה מחשבת מלת עתה ממחשבתך אף שהוא זמן קצר מאוד מאוד. עם כל זה כבר עבר וחלף הזמן המעט הזה ונעשה ממנו עבר ואין זמן בעולם נמצא אשר תהיה וחל עליו זמן עתה אף במחשבה ופשיטא שלא יכלכלו הדבור לומר עתה כי טרם יפתח פיו לומר מלת עתה כבר עבר זמנו ובטל מחשבתו ונעשה עבר. ואם כן אין זמן עתה בעולם כי אם העבר והעתיד נפגשים זה בזה תמיד ואין תווך מבדיל בינותם.
וכבר ידוע מה שהביאו הקדמונים ז”ל. אמר החכם
העבר אין והעתיד עדיין אם כן דאגה מניין.
אך פן יאמר האומר אמת דעל זמן העבר אין לי שום דאגה ועל העתיד גם כן לא אדאג כמאמר החכם אל תצר צרות מחר. אך עכשיו הנה רע ומר לי. לזה בא התנא ואמר ואם לא עכשיו כלומר אם אין עכשיו בעולם נמצא על איזה זמן תדאג וק”ל:v
Returning to Yossi Green – he was actually apparently not the first to turn the aphorism into a song; it is claimed that it used to be sung in the great Yeshivah of Novardok:
סיפר הרב שנשאל מהו המקור של המאמר שהיו שרים בנובהרדוק “העבר אין והעתיד עדיין וההוה כהרף אין ודאגה מנין”, ופלוני אמר שהוא ב”אבן עזרא”, ולא מצאתיו אבל מקור המאמר נמצא בספר “פלא יועץ” (אות “דאגה”).vi
The ‘Rav’ (Rav Chaim Kanievsky) refers us to the celebrated nineteenth century moralistic treatise פלא יועץ, by the Bosnian-Bulgarian Rav Eliezer Papo:
כתיב (משלי יב:כה) דאגה בלב איש ישחנה. ופרשו רבותינו ז”ל (יומא עה.) יסיחנה מדעתו, אי נמי ישיחנה לאחרים.
ותרויהו איתנהו, שבתחלה ישתדל להסיחה מדעתו במחשבות טהורות וטענות מספיקות שיש ויש כדי לדחות הדאגה,
ואם לא יכול ישיחנה לאחרים, דהינו תלמידי-חכמים ואנשי מדע שידעו לתקנו בעצה טובה וידברו לו דברים המבטלים הדאגה ומישבים את הלב, כי כבר אמר החכם (מראה מוסר, ה) העבר אין, העתיד עדין, דאגה מנין, קום שתה יין. שאם הדבר כבר עבר מה יועיל בדאגה, האם יוכל להשיבו, ולא די לו רעת הרעה שארע לו אלא שיוסיף רעת הדאגה וחיי צער יחיה יסיחנה מדעתו. ואם הוא דבר שעתיד להיות, אם יש תקנה יעשה התקנה, ואם לא יש תקנה מה יועיל בדאגה, יבטח בשם ד’ וישען באלקיו זה כלל גדול להסיר הדאגה:vii
[The referral of the sufferer of depression to “men of science who will know how to repair him with good counsel and will speak to him words that will nullify the worry and settle his heart” is a remarkably modern-sounding endorsement of therapy.] While the earlier editions of the work, from its first publication in 1824 and on, that I have checked provide no source for the “sage’s” statement, a recent edition (Yerushalayim 5767) refers us to something called מראה המוסר. As described in בית עקד ספרים:
מראה מוסר, דער צוכט שפיגל, איין געטליך אונ’ וועלטליך ספר, שפריך ווערטר פאן אונזרע חכמים, מה”ר זליגמן אולמא מגינצבורג
A mere decade ago, I might have given up here, since I do not have ready access to a good library, but today, thanks to the incredible work of those behind HebrewBooks.org, the work is easily available with the proverbial click of a mouse. While the work is now rather obscure, it was apparently quite popular in its day, going through four printings in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. It is an alphabetical collection of miscellaneous aphorisms, moralisms and other quotable passages, in Hebrew and Aramaic, with Yiddish explanations, many from the Talmud, but many of much murkier provenance, our aphorism obviously among the latter.viii HebrewBooks has the third edition (Ovibach 5476):
אנוש אח קין. מה תדאג ותעיין.
בהפקד קנין. ורוב ענין
במשקל ובמנין. הכל הבל ורעיון.
העבר אין. והעתיד עדין.
וההוה כהרף עין. אם כן דאגה מנין:ix
Anyone can use HebrewBooks, but it takes Mississippi Fred MacDowell to point out that the other three editions (in addition to the Ovibach one) are available from the Jiddische Drucke collection at the Universitätsbibliothek Frankfurt a.M.:
The claim that this is the (direct) source of the פלא יועץ is problematic, though, in light of the differences between the versions: R. Papo omits the phrase “וההוה כהרף עין”, and adds the phrase “קום שתה יין”. In any event, here the trail goes cold; while מה”ר זליגמן אולמא מגינצבורג is clearly not the originator of these verses, I have been unable to trace them back any further, and so I pass the baton to the erudite readership of the Seforim blog: where and when does this aphorism originate?
A Picture is Worth a Thousand Questions
If you look at the 7th line on the picture shown, you will see it says מבוי עקום ושני פתחיו לר”ה כזה, but there is no space left to indicate a diagram was supposed to go there. One wonders what went through the mind of a young Yeshiva student when he studied this line. It is perhaps no wonder that Marvin Heller quotes R. Raphael N.N. Rabinowitz comment regarding this edition of Eruvin that “the tractate is almost impossible to learn from, and is, therefore, worthless.”[7]
However, as noted above, there were some editions that had the blank spaces filled in by artists or through the addition of woodcuts. Such is an edition housed in the Library of Congress, where the page in question looks like this.
The words inside the diagram are smudged, but at least it is somewhat clear that the alley in question is “L” shaped.[8]
It is safe to say that the editors belonged to the minimalist group of diagram makers. We can see the “L” shape, but no indication of where the reshut ha-rabim begins. You will also notice that the word מכאן is spelled incorrectly as מיכן, in the text of the Rashi.[9] Not an auspicious start for diagrams in the printed Talmud.
New Writings from R Kook Part 1 by Marc B. Shapiro
Yir’at Shamayim—fear of heaven—may not supplant the natural sense of morality of a person, for in that case it is not a pure Yir’at Shamayim. The signpost for a pure Yir’at Shamayim is when the natural sense of morality (המוסר הטבעי) that is extant in the straightforward nature of man is improved and elevated by it more than it would have been without it. But if one were to imagine a kind of Yir’at Shamayim that without its input, life would tend to do well and bring to fruition things that benefit the community and the individual, and furthermore, under its influence less of those things would come to fruition, such a Yir’at Shamayim is wrong.
The upshot of this passage is that some (much?) of what passes for piety today is really nothing more than a corrupted religiosity.
מותר היה לנסות רפואה בעבד כנעני אם תועיל
It seems obvious that Rabbi Kook doesn’t advocate wholesale rejection of biblical statements. To do so would render Tanakh useless as a source of history. Under what circumstances would he countenance “deconstruction” of the text? Only where biblical texts contradict each other or rabbinic statements? Whenever the text appears to contradict well-attested Near Eastern documents? When the exact historicity is immaterial in the judgment of the exegete, to the import of the text? When the exegete detects rhetorical elements in the biblical text itself that point toward such interpretation?
Upcoming Kestenbaum Auction
Shaul Magid – ‘Uman, Uman Rosh ha-Shana’: R. Nahman’s Grave as Erez Yisrael
There is a Talmudic adage that teaches: “evil-doers are dead even when they are alive; righteous individuals are alive even when they are dead.” Setting aside the obvious metaphoric intent of this comment, in the case of Rabbi Nahman of Bratslav who left this world on the intermediate days of Sukkot 200 years ago, this teaching has a more literal flavor. Nahman was one the few zaddikim who meticulously planned his death – suffering for years with tuberculosis – advising his disciples how to behave after his passing and urging them that if they visit his grave he will “pull them up from the netherworld by their sidelocks.” Almost immediately after his untimely death at the age of 39 and burial in Uman in the Ukraine, his gravesite became a place of pilgrimage for Bratslaver Hasidim, often under harsh weather conditions, vehement and often violent harassment by other Hasidic sects, and later harsher political realities. There were times when there was barely a minyan at his gravesite on Rosh ha-Shana, the most auspicious days of pilgrimage. Today there are close to 20,000 souls, religious, secular, men, women and children who flock to Uman on Rosh ha-Shana to pray at the grave of this enigmatic Hasidic master. The Ukrainian government recently refurbished an old military airstrip in Uman to accommodate the jumbo jets that arrive from Israel, Europe, and the US, and the city magistrate built hotels to accommodate pilgrims just for this two-day festival. Tonight I want to explore this seemingly odd phenomenon of Nahman’s grave, paying close attention to the strange but not unprecedented notion that this gravesite is considered, for Bratslaver Hasidim, not only a holy place but “Erez Yisrael.” Grave veneration and its significance in the larger schema of devotional life is shared by many religious traditions including Judaism. The Torah, beginning with the descriptions and the importance of the gravesites of the biblical characters in Genesis, culminating with the ambivalence about knowing the site of Moses’ grave at the end of Deuteronomy, emphasizes the sanctity of the grave as sacred space. The importance of the gravesite was not adopted by post-biblical Judaism as merely a theoretical notion but had practical implications as well. Rabbinic tradition understood the graveyard as a place of meeting between the living and the dead, thus serving as a place imbued with a highly charged spiritual energy where penitential prayers could more easily be efficacious. The rabbis believed both in the sacredness of the place (i.e., the graveyard) coupled with the more general notion (not limited to the space of the graveyard) that the righteous in heaven could serve as intermediaries and petition the celestial court for mercy. Maimonides codifies as law that if one wishes to ask forgiveness before Yom Kippur from someone who has died he or she should visit their grave and ask forgiveness there. The medieval kabbalistic tradition, from the Zohar through Lurianic Kabbalah in the sixteenth century, developed this rabbinic notion of the graveyard as a highly charged spiritual place to a holy site for pilgrimage, whereby the journey to the grave of the righteous was viewed as a holy ascent (e.g. Zohar). The graves of the righteous became the place where one could actually absorb the spiritual energy of the departed Zaddik by means of prostrating oneself on the grave. The Lurianic contribution to the development of this idea suggests that the grave of the righteous is a place of transparency between this world and the next whereby the living are transformed and purified by embodying the souls of the dead through bodily prostration on the grave. The earlier rabbinic and zoharic notion that the grave is the place where the dead interact with the living and prayers are more readily heard via the mediation of the parted one becomes, for Luria, something far more profound. The grave becomes the place where the worshipper is purified through contact with the dead/living Zaddik and transformed by embodying the soul of the Zaddik which hovers above the grave itself, freed from its corporeality of the physical body. This phenomenon of “soul hovering” is limited to the righteous ones who, having achieved otherworldliness in this life, are able to maintain a connection to this world after death. (This may be his reading of the talmudic passage cited above that the righteous are alive even after death.) The transparency model of the grave initially suggested by the rabbis becomes, for Luria, the place where the dead, as it were, embody the living and thus purify the living soul from sin and impurity. The pilgrimage model of the Zohar coupled with the transformative model in Luria serve as the foundation for R. Nahman of Bratslav’s theory of his grave as the transparent creative center, the place which holds the power of creation and the place from which redemption will ensue. Although grave veneration had already taken on a devotional component in the Zohar and more prominently in Luria’s re-construction of Judaism, the Bratslav tradition is unique in that its entire Hasidic ideology is centered around the grave of their venerated master Nahman of Bratslav. Although this idea only bears fruit in post-Nahman Bratslav literature, beginning with the first Rosh Ha-Shana after his death, it’s importance begins years before, soon after Nahman’s return from his journey to Erez Yisrael in 1798-99. It was only then that he began to speak simultaneously about his impending death and the importance of visiting his grave, all within the larger schema of the transformative experience of his journey to the Holy Land. His death, place of burial and the unique character of his grave become increasingly prominent in his teachings as his tuberculosis worsened and his death drew near. One familiar with zoharic literature will immediately notice that Nahman’s pre-occupation with the importance of his own death reflects the discourse of the Idrot, the opaque yet highly influential sections of the Zohar which focus on R. Shimon bar Yohai’s death at the hands of the Romans. It is somewhat surprising that post-Nahman Bratslav literature never makes mention of this highly charged and seemingly obvious connection. Perhaps it is due in part to the Bratslav position, inspired by Nahman himself, that he is an unprecedented figure in Jewish history, one who owes allegiance to no one. This is exhibited by the almost complete absence of any reference in his collected teachings, Likkutei MoHaRan, to any other Hasidic master, including his great-grandfather, the Baal Shem Tov. In any event, the connection between Nahman’s pre-occupation with his death and the discourse of the death of R. Shimon bar Yohai in the Zohar should not be underestimated precisely because the messianic impulse of the Zohar (Idrot), a phenomenon already documented by Yehudah Liebes, is alive in Nahman’s discussion as well. It is therefore curious that Liebes who does draw our attention to the messianic underpinnings of Nahman’s Tikkun Ha-Kelali (the Ten Psalms Nahman directed his students to recite daily as a tikun for sin) and its connection to Sabbateanism, never develops the extent to which the recitation of the prescribed Psalms which comprise Tikkun Ha-Kelali are meant to be recited at Nahman’s grave as part of the ritual of purification in conjunction with visiting his burial place (known as his “zion”). In my view this is of utmost importance in the Bratslav tradition precisely because Nahman’s grave represents a manifestation of the Holy Land, a place even more transparent than the land itself, which is quite peculiar and serves as a the basis of his messianic vision. My claim here is that Nahman’s grave as the centerpiece of the Bratslaver’s devotion life and Erez Yisrael as the center of Nahman’s spiritual life are inextricably intertwined. Although the correlation between his trip to Erez Yisrael in his development as a Zaddik has received close scholarly attention – a more nuanced understanding of Nahman’s relationship to Erez Yisrael, his vocation as an unprecedented Zaddik coupled with his messianic strivings, cannot be achieved without understanding the significance of his grave in his own mind as well as in the larger trajectory of Bratslav Hasidism. In fact, it is my belief that the significance of his grave as Erez Yisrael serves as the cornerstone of his entire ideational edifice and contribution to Jewish thought. As I mentioned above, earlier kabbalistic sources (rooted in more opaque rabbinic comments on the matter) present the grave as the transparent space between this world and the next, the place where one can embody the soul of the dead precisely because the soul is no longer confined by the physicality of the body. Nahman universalizes this idea by suggesting that the grave of the Zaddik as a transparent place also holds the potential to draw unmitigated mercy into the world, thus bridging the distance between exile and redemption. This is based on his utilization of the kabbalistic mapping of the emanation of divine effluence into the world as it relates to the death of a righteousness individual. His assumption is that death is the liberation from the confines of the Intellect or worldliness, and entry into the realm of Pure Spirit. Yet the deaths of all individuals are not identical. It is only the Zaddik who can draw this realm of Pure Spirit into the world, because the Zaddik, by means of what he has achieved in this world, easily traverses between this world and the next, even during his life. The transparency of the gravesite of the Zaddik is already forged by the devotion of the Zaddik during his life. Although others may benefit from the glory of the next world, their knowledge of and communication with this world ceases once they pass through the opaque and final barrier of death. But Nahman maintained that life and death for the Zaddik are not mutually exclusive categories. This attitude is exhibited in Nahman’s sarcastic remarks about the simpletons who he witnessed visiting the graves of their ancestors in Uman, crying and begging for mercy as if their ancestors could hear them. Only the Zaddik can hear prayer from the world beyond, Nahman comments, because the Zaddik has achieved the next world while still alive in this world. Hence, he describes his journey from life to death as “going from one room to the next.” This transparent space which is embodied in the grave of the Zaddik is also the creation point, the place where the finite and the infinite meet. (Likkutei MoHaRan 48). He develops this midrashic idea by taking the infinite-finite modality of creation and presenting it within the framework of creation and redemption. The sacredness of space, which is determined by its transparency, is simultaneously the place of creation and redemption because it is the place where Wisdom (Hokhma) is overcome by the higher dimension of Spirit (Keter), a movement whereby the finite is overcome by the infinite. This movement is only achieved and maintained by the true Zaddik (only Nahman!) who embodies this pure spirit during his lifetime. Nahman claimed to have achieved this state of purity as the result of his trip to Erez Yisrael in 1798. Thus, upon his return from Erez Yisrael he describes his experience as one of achieving “expanded consciousness’ (mohin d’gadlut), which is defined sometimes as “utter simplicity” (p’shitut) and complete loss (read: overcoming) of knowledge. This dimension of “not-knowing” always holds a higher and more refined status than “knowing” in Nahman’s highly anti-rationalist orientation. This new level of consciousness achieved during his brief but cathartic encounter with the Holy Land resulted in his utter abandonment of anything he had taught prior to his trip, which he determined was the product of Hokhma, or knowledge, as opposed to Keter, or Pure Spirit. Most of his teachings collected in Likkutei MoHaRan were delivered in the decade after his return from Erez Yisrael in 1799 until his death in 1810 (he remarked to his disciple R. Nathan that all his teaching from before his journey to the Holy land are null and void). The elevation of the Intellect to Spirit, which is nothing less than the overcoming of humanness and exile, was thus achieved by Nahman, in his own estimation, during the last decade of his life. This transformative experience is not attained merely by his presence in the Land, although the physical Land does play a central role. (e.g. Shivhei Ha-Ran where he stresses the literalness what he means by the Holy Land, “the houses” etc.). Such an achievement is the result, rather, of absorbing the Land (not merely encountering it), of becoming a human embodiment of Erez Yisrael thus enabling him to transport its sanctity beyond its physical boarders. This transference of sanctity from the Land to an individual is only true of the Zaddik who, as a pure vessel, can receive, be transformed and integrate that sanctity into his life. Much has been made of Nahman’s distinction between the physical Land of Israel and the “aspect” (behina) of Erez Yisrael, a spiritualized idea which may be related to but not identical with the Land itself. Discussions by Martin Buber and Eliezer Schweid about Nahman as a proto-Zionist rest on these slippery distinctions in his writings. I would suggest that these two formulations in Nahman’s writings are hinged together by means of the Zaddik in general and the Zaddik’s grave in particular. That is, the aspect of Erez Yisrael (behinat Erez Yisrael) arises when the Zaddik visits the physical Land, absorbs it, and transports its spiritual essence outside its borders. His teaching becomes the transmission of Keter (Spirit) rather than Hokhma (Knowledge), the result of his embodiment of Pure Spirit drawn from the Holy Land thus overcoming the more human and exilic dimension of Hokhma. However, this “new” Torah (his teachings after he returns from Erez Yisrael), which for Nahman is the true Torat Erez Yisrael – an idea originating in rabbinic literature but completely transformed in Nahman’s imagination, uprooted from any territorial limitations – is a necessary but not sufficient condition to complete the (redemptive) process from Erez Yisrael to behinat Erez Yisrael. His torah only prepares his listeners for what is to come. The completion of this transformative messianic process occurs via the death and burial of the unique Zaddik in the earth of Huz l’Aretz and the encounter of his disciples with the grave whereby they too absorb elements of this sanctity. His death and burial sanctifies the land outside of Erez Yisrael, widening the boarders of sanctity from the sacred place of Erez Yisrael to the new transparent place, which is the grave of the Zaddik. The spiritualization of the land (behinat Erez Yisrael) carries messianic implications which lie at the heart of Nahman’s discussion about his grave, accompanied by the liturgical formula of the Ten Psalms (Tikkun Ha-Kelali) which were initially given to be recited at his gravesite. (Liebes) There is an important distinction implicit in Nahman’s teaching between the Land itself and the aspect of the Land (behinat Erez Yisrael) which arises via the Zaddik’s interaction with it. When the true Zaddik visits Erez Yisrael, absorbs it and gives rise to the spiritualized aspect of Erez Yisrael (behinat Erez Yisrael) activating a spatial transparency, which the Land itself cannot produce without the aid of the Zaddik’s visit. In some sense, his visit to Erez Yisrael and his subsequent return to Huz l’Aretz (a component of great significance which we will see below) transforms not only the Diaspora, via his grave, but transforms the Land itself by released the spiritualized energy contained within it. The Land itself is thus brought to life, as it were, by the Zaddik’s visit, and it is the Zaddik who takes the sanctity of the Land beyond its borders. The notion that in the messianic era the entire world will become Erez Yisrael has precedent in medieval kabbalistic literature (e.g. Avraham bar Hiyya’s Megilat ha-Megaleh). Another important component in his journey to Erez Yisrael and subsequent return to the Ukraine is his acquisition of “Torat Erez Yisrael” which serves as the arc between his visit to the Land and his subsequent death and burial. In various places Nahman is said to have made the provocative statement that he had achieved Torat Avot, (lit. the Torah of the Patriarchs) a curious term which he never explains. Various accounts reflecting his new achievement resulting from his trip, one of which takes place on a Turkish warship just before Passover on which he and a disciple were traveling from Acre to Turkey. Being erev Pesah, Nahman was unsure whether they would reach port in time for the holiday and thus unsure whether they would be able to fulfill the mitzvah of eating matza. Nahman asserted that he was now (in the wake of his trip to Erez Yisrael), if necessary, able to fulfill mitzvot in a purely spiritual manner, that is, without physically performing the mitzvah itself. Although we are told they did arrive in time for the festival, this assertion may illuminate his opaque statements about achieving Torat Avot. Commenting on the talmudic claim that the Patriarch’s fulfilled the entire Torah, even erev tavshilin, a rabbinic decree utilizing a legalistic loophole permitting one to cook on Yom Tov for the upcoming Shabbat, many Hasidic texts speak of the a spiritualized Torah before Sinai whereby the biblical characters in Genesis (specifically Abraham) were able to fulfill the entire Torah because they were evolved enough to intuit divine will without the commandments. It is my feeling that this was the ideational foundation of Nahman’s statement on the Turkish warship mentioned above. His assertion about Torat Avot is a formulation of his more developed notion of Torat Erez Yisrael. He held that his becoming Erez Yisrael via his journey resulted in the acquisition of Torat Erez Yisrael which is the pre-Sinaitic Pure Spirit of Torat Avot, an embodiment of the sephirah Keter. The fact that (1) the Patriarchs largely dwelled in Erez Yisrael, (2) revelation was in Huz l’Arez, resulting in the suggestive dichotomy between Sinai and Zion, and (3) Moshe, the arbiter of Torah, never entered the Land of Israel, all play an important role in Nahman’s imaginative thinking. Torat Moshe or revelation as the Torah of Hokhma verses Torat Elohim, or Torat Erez Yisrael, which is the Torah of Spirit, is an idea implicit in R. Nahman’s discourse developed in a different manner by his great grandfather the Baal Shem Tov and later in Polish Hasidism, which was significantly influenced by Nahman’s Likkutei MoHaRan. His suggestion that his encounter with Erez Yisrael unlocked the spiritualized Torat Avot, which itself may be yet another layer of his more ambiguous behinat Erez Yisrael, is an idea which had far reaching influence. We find similar ideas in Zionist thinkers such as Abraham Isaac Ha-Kohen Kook and Aaron David Gordon, both of whom were influenced by the teachings of Nahman. Yet I maintain that these readers of Nahman mis-read his idea of Erez Yisrael precisely because they are not cognizant of the fact that this “new” component of sanctity whereby the Zaddik becomes the Land, necessitates returning to Huz l’Aretz to complete the messianic process. Hence his journey home, his subsequent teaching and his death and burial all congeal to push the impending messianic era toward fruition. Nahman’s view of himself as the true Zaddik, one who has no authoritative spiritual lineage precisely because he is sui generis, lies at the foundation of his thought. This claim was not only true of how he viewed himself vis-à-vis his contemporaries but more importantly his position as a figure in widest span of Jewish history. His uniqueness becomes manifest through his unprecedented journey to the Holy Land, a trip which he held introduced a new dimension into the exilic world. What I am about to suggest has no source in Bratslav literature and thus may be construed as speculative or, at best, midrashic in nature. However, it illuminates the extent to which his grave became the centerpiece of his entire life, the culmination of his journey, and the prism through which his messianic vocation must be seen. Nahman makes various comments throughout his writings about what he determined as his spiritual lineage, beginning with Moses, R. Shimon bar Yohai, R. Isaac Luria ending with his grandfather, the Baal Shem Tov. Yet Nahman maintains in subtle and not-so-subtle ways that he transcends them all, including Moses. Moses’ grave is unknown and will remain so. R. Shimon bar Yohai and Luria’s graves are both in Erez Yisrael. The grave of the Baal Shem Tov is in Hutz l’Aretz and, as opposed to Moses’ grave, became a shrine which Nahman visited many times in his youth. Although the graves of these masters were held in high esteem by Jewish pilgrims, according to the Bratslav tradition, none contained the sanctity and redemptive quality of Nahman’s grave in Uman. The reason for this, I believe, lies in Nahman’s journey to Erez Yisrael, the completion of which was his return and subsequent death in Huz l’Aretz. Moshe is born and dies in Huz l’Aretz, never entering the Land. R. Shimon bar Yohai resides in Erez Yisrael his entire life and is buried there. Luria is born in Erez Yisrael, spends most of his life in Egypt and returns to Erez Yisrael where he dies and is buried in 1570. The Baal Shem Tov is born in Hutz l’Aretz and attempts unsuccessfully to reach Erez Yisrael, dying in Mezybuzh. Of the four, only R. Nahman is raised in Hutz l’Aretz, reaches Erez Yisrael and successfully returns to Hutz l’Atretz to spread Torat Erez Yisrael and is subsequently buried in Uman. This cycle of immigration and emigration (aliya and yerida) is the focal point of Nahman’s life and, in my mind, is the foundation of his messianism. His journey is reminiscent of Rabbi Akiba’s to Pardes, to experience the sanctity of God’s glory and emerge unscathed. In Nahman’s mind, however, his return carries far greater weight. Whereas we are not told of any significant change in R. Akiba’s torah after his ascent into Pardes, Nahman’s journey resulted in the acquisition of Torat Erez Yisrael, an apprehension of the pre-Sinaitic Torat Avot, the rise of the spiritualized nature of Erez Yisrael s behinat Erez Yisrael and began the widening of the boarders of Erez Yisrael in the sanctification of his burial place in Uman. In the Bratslav tradition, conventional notions of grave veneration have been transformed, making the grave the transparent place where new light brightens the world, new Torah descends from behind the curtain of Sinai and the Zaddik as axis mundi absorbs and transforms the sanctity of the Land. In sum, I would suggest that the Bratslav pilgrimage tradition has at least three components that are unique to the phenomena of religious pilgrimage in general. First, the devotee’s pilgrimage to Nahman’s grave is predicated on Nahman’s own pilgrimage to Erez Yisrael. That is, one could ask, given Nahman’s insinuation that his trip gave rise to the importance of visiting his grave, why isn’t a trip to Erez Yisrael proper preferred to a pilgrimage to his grave. A preliminary answer may be that Nahman held that one who is not a Zaddik cannot achieve in Erez Yisrael what he achieved. A true journey to Erez Yisrael, one which could in some sense replicate Nahman’s journey, can only be accomplished by visiting the Erez Yisrael of his grave, the source of behinat Erez Yisrael. In fact, Nahman was adamant about not being buried in Erez Yisrael, fearing that his disciples wouldn’t visit his grave and thus the efficacy of his journey and return would be for naught. For him, the pilgrimage to his grave in Hutz L’Aretz is more important than the pilgrimage to the Land itself. His journey to the Land, resulting in his absorption and embodiment of Erez Yisrael, had at least two consequences that make his grave more prominent than the Land itself. First, it widened the boundaries of the Holy Land, a redemptive sign born out of previous kabbalistic literature that the messianic age will result in widening the boundaries of Erez Yisrael. Second, it activated the source of the sanctity of Erez Yisrael, behinat Erez Yisrael, a spiritualization of the Land which enabled the Land itself to fulfill its holy destiny. Finally, his grave became a representation of his messianic vocation. As both Art Green and Yehudah Liebes have noted, Nahman’s messianic vision was not centered on being the Messiah but, closer to the model of R. Shimon bar Yohai in the Zohar (Idrot), as forging the path toward revealing the Messiah. Just as the Zohar was viewed as the doctrine that unlocked the esoteric nature of Torah, Nahman’s grave was envisioned by him and then his disciples as unlocking the esoteric power of Erez Yisrael. Finally, his journey and subsequent teaching enabled the Land to speak, as it were, as his teachings reflected the true Torat Erez Yisrael, the Torah rooted in the Pure Spirit of Keter which is revives the pre-Sinai Torah of the Patriarchs. It may seem odd today that thousands of Bratslaver Hasidim leave their families behind and travel from Israel to the small city of Uman in the Ukraine to celebrate Rosh Ha-Shana. One would think Israel and not the Diaspora should be the spiritual destination of Jews during this time of year. But when asked about his impending trip from Israel to Uman for Rosh ha-Shana, the Jerusalemite Bratslav manhig Schmuel Shapiro obliquely responded, “From Erez Yisrael to Erez Yisrael.” I have tried here to shed some light on those five words.













