Minchat Aviv: Studies in Talmudic Topics (Hebrew) HaRav Aharon Lichtenstein Editor: Rav Elyakim Krumbein Jerusalem: Maggid Books and Yeshivat Har Etzion, 2014 xvi + 659 pages; source and subject indexes Available here.

A person must exert considerable effort before producing words of Torah and wisdom. Toiling in Torah can be compared to toil in working the land: one must plow and sow, irrigate and fertilize, hoe and aerate, develop and cultivate, harvest and gather. Only after one completes all these tasks and receives God’s blessing does one merit to bring the fruits of one’s labors into one’s home and fulfill with them the mitzva of ingathering. Is it any wonder, then, that of all the Torah’s commandments, and of all the holidays on the Jewish calendar, it is Sukkot, the Festival of Ingathering, that merited the designation of chag – “holiday” par excellence – and the special mitzva of “And you shall rejoice in your holiday”?

The publication of Minchat Aviv, a collection of “lomdish” and halakhic essays authored by HaRav Aharon Lichtenstein, Rosh Yeshiva of Yeshivat Har Etzion and 2014 Israel Prize laureate for Torah literature, is cause for celebration for all lovers of Torah. For over half a century, HaRav Lichtenstein has been disseminating Torah both in Israel and abroad. Though some of his lectures have been adapted for print by students and are enjoyed by readers across the world, his written work has been relatively limited.

The eight volumes of lectures that have appeared to date under the title Shi’urei HaRav Aharon Lichtenstein testify to HaRav Lichtenstein’s breadth of knowledge and profundity in analysis. But, as is often the case when works of Torah scholarship are recorded not by the master himself, but rather by his disciples, sometimes the author’s particular “spark” is missing, both in substance and in formulation. While the lectures are unquestionably brilliant, and serve to showcase HaRav Lichtenstein’s unique style effectively, the personal electricity that one feels when learning HaRav Lichtenstein’s Torah directly from the source cannot be replicated. It is only natural that the lectures in the 8-volume series are largely limited to the Talmudic tractates that constitute the standard fare of yeshiva study, though here too HaRav Lichtenstein has left his mark. Thus, for example, one of the volumes deals with Taharot (ritual purity), while another deals with Dina De-garmi – an extraordinary phenomenon in itself in the yeshiva world.

Due to his very heavy teaching schedule, HaRav Lichtenstein has never been free to commit his teachings to writing in a systematic and consistent manner. Nevertheless, in free moments, and during the breaks between his classes, he has written on various topics. Over the years, these writings have increased in number and scope. The original articles appeared in a variety of journals, both in Israel and in the US. Only now, when HaRav Lichtenstein has reached his eighties, have these articles been gathered together and published in a single volume.

In their attempt to define the category of work known as immur, gathering, both with regard to the laws of Shabbat and with regard to the commandments relating to the Land of Israel, the halakhic authorities, both medieval and modern, took note of the nature of the labor of gathering. They understood that a sheaf is greater than the sum of its parts. A sheaf is not merely one ear of corn joined to another, but rather a new entity, of a different quality and with a different essence.

This is true in the field and equally true in the house – the house of study. Like the sheaf and like ingathering, so too the teachings of HaRav Lichtenstein. Collecting his articles in a single volume is not merely a technical act of gathering scattered items into one place, but rather a new creation. Studying the volume reveals a profound interplay of Torah and Jewish thought, of Halakha and Aggada, its various parts interconnected in different ways.

Alongside the standard issues found in the Talmudic orders of Mo’ed, Nashim and Nezikin, we find in-depth studies concerning the laws of Zera’im and the commandments relating to the Land of Israel, essays regarding matters discussed in the orders of Kodashim and Taharot and even several practical halakhic analyses. This is a book for experienced travelers in the world of Torah, but anyone who is ready to commit to reading it with the necessary concentration will profit from doing so, both with respect to the reader’s learning skills and through the expansion of the reader’s knowledge.

            An examination of the various issues dealt with in this volume shows one common characteristic: the attempt to clarify the fundamental principles from which and through which the particulars arise. For this purpose, HaRav Lichtenstein makes use of all the expanses of Halakha, from top to bottom. For example, in discussing the mitzva to cancel debts in the shemita (Sabbatical) year, HaRav Lichtenstein starts with the explicit verse in the Torah, formulated in both positive and negative terms, the meaning of which is rather obscure: “Every lender who lends anything to his neighbor shall release it; he shall not exact of it of his neighbor, or of his brother” (Devarim 15:2). What is the meaning of this mitzva and how is it fulfilled? HaRav Lichtenstein cites a disagreement among the medieval authorities. According to the Yere’im, it is not the date in itself that nullifies the debt, but rather the lender’s declaration: “I release it.” Once the shemita year ends, the lender acquires an obligation to cancel the debt. In contrast, the Or Zaru’a maintains that the passage of time, i.e., the end of the shemita year, is what cancels the debt. This also follows from the words of the Rambam: “When the sun sets on the night of Rosh Ha-shana of the eighth year, the debt is nullified” (Hilkhot Shemita Ve-yovel 9:4). Of course, the practical difference between the two positions expresses itself in a case where the lender, contrary to Torah law, fails to declare: “I release the debt.” The Ittur combines both positions and asserts that the cancellation of debts in the shemita year is governed by two parallel laws: a personal obligation upon the lender and a “Royal cancellation” by heavenly decree.

HaRav Lichtenstein does not stop here after setting each of the various opinions in its place. In light of the Rambam’s opinion, he raises a difficult question: If indeed the cancellation of debts in the shemita year is a “Royal cancellation,” what exactly is the mitzva imposed on the lender?

In typical fashion, HaRav Lichtenstein examines the Tosafot, who try to explain the matter based on the law of a firstborn animal. There is a mitzva to sanctify the animal, even though it is automatically sanctified from birth. HaRav Lichtenstein concludes that the two cases are not similar. In the case of a firstborn, the mitzva to sanctify the animal does not merely dictate a “declaration,” a confirmation of the existing situation, but rather it “necessitates a novel act of sanctification that bestows additional sanctity upon the firstborn.” As for the cancellation of debts, however, if the debt is already cancelled, the lender’s release adds nothing at all. Thus, the question remains: What is the nature of the positive commandment obligating the lender to cancel his debts in the shemita year?

Even according to the opinion that the cancellation of debts is a “Royal cancellation,” this release does not nullify the debt; it merely “freezes” it. This explains the need for the active cancellation of the debt on the part of the lender, which adds force to the borrower’s exemption from repaying his debt, and utterly severs the connection between the lender and the borrower, not just temporarily, but absolutely and forever.

Using his characteristic method of tying together seemingly unconnected areas of Halakha, HaRav Lichtenstein links the laws of a firstborn to the laws of usury, and the laws of repaying a debt to the laws of a gift, and through them and with them he builds his edifice, a tower of scholarship, perfect precision and spectacular analysis. His subtle analysis, which penetrates the very foundations of the law, uproots the common assumption. According to HaRav Lichtenstein, in contrast to the common understanding, the “Royal cancellation” does not absolutely cancel the debt, but merely weakens its force. Thus, we understand why a borrower can repay a loan after the shemita year has passed, and why the Sages are pleased when he does so: The debt was never wiped out, but merely frozen. Based on this understanding, it is clear why the cancellation must be completed by way of an active step on the part of the lender.

While the book is principally a volume of advanced halakhic analysis, between the lines it allows us a glimpse of HaRav Lichtenstein’s spiritual world. For example, in the chapter discussing the issue of sounding one’s voice in prayer, here and there HaRav Lichtenstein uses characteristic formulations that reflect the “man of prayer” in him: “There is an internal balance between two factors that shape the character and content of prayer, greater concentration on the one hand and a soft voice on the other.”

Although HaRav Lichtenstein generally avoids kabbalistic matters, he cites the Zohar, which states: “If a prayer is overheard by another person, it will not be accepted above,” and emphasizes, on the basis of this passage, “the intimacy and privacy of prayer, in the absence of which prayer is impaired and not accepted above.” While the analysis is strictly halakhic, the spirit of HaRav Lichtenstein’s thought, rife with emotion, penetrates the dry and meticulous preoccupation with Halakha, instilling it with flavor and endowing it with sweet fragrance.

Another example, one of many, appears in the book’s concluding essay, which concerns itself with a “routine question,” as it were, sent to HaRav Lichtenstein by his students serving in the army. The students wanted to know whether an army tent requires a mezuza.

In his usual manner, HaRav Lichtenstein does not content himself with the bottom line, with a halakhic ruling issued, as it were, by way of divine inspiration. He opens with a comprehensive clarification of the plain meaning of the verse that speaks of “the doorposts of your house,” and attempts to define the term “house,” both regarding the prohibition of leavened bread on Pesach and regarding the prohibition, “You shall not bring an abomination into your house” (Devarim 7:26). From here he moves on to the distinction between “house” on the proprietary level and “house” on the geographic and functional level – a “residence,” the place where a person establishes his principal dwelling in actual practice. HaRav Lichtenstein considers the essential distinction between the different halakhic realms: Regarding leavened bread, the “house” is not part of the fulfillment of the mitzva, but merely a circumstantial detail, the place in which the prohibition of leavened bread happens to apply. Regarding a mezuza, on the other hand, the “house” is the cheftza, the object of the mitzva, and that which obligates the mezuza’s very installation.

A practical difference, one that is mentioned already in the Talmud, and afterwards in the words of the later authorities, relates to a renter’s obligation in mezuza. If we are dealing with an obligation of the inhabitant of the house, the question of ownership is irrelevant. But even if the obligation depends on ownership, there is room to consider whether or not renting creates proprietary rights in the property, if only temporarily (see Bava Metzi’a 56b). Characteristically, HaRav Lichtenstein also discusses the different levels of obligation. Even if a
renter is not obligated to affix a mezuza to his doorpost by Torah law, it may be that he is bound to do so by Rabbinic decree.

Here, as usual, HaRav Lichtenstein asks: What precisely was the Rabbis’ innovation? Did they expand the mitzva in such a way that even when there is no “possession,” but only “residence,” there is still an obligation to install a mezuza? Or perhaps they expanded the law of renting and established that even “temporary possession” is considered possession with respect to the Rabbinic obligation of mezuzah? From the words of Tosafot in another passage (Avoda Zara 21a), he determines that it suffices that the house “appear to be his” for one to be obligated in the mitzva of mezuza. That is to say, according to the Tosafot, we are dealing with an expansion of the idea of possession, and that even a residence that only appears to belong to the person in question suffices to obligate him in the mitzva of mezuza on
a Rabbinic level.

Still not satisfied, HaRav Lichtenstein moves on to an analysis of the concept of “residence,” examining the question whether or not a forced dwelling, e.g., a jail, or, in stark contrast, the chamber in which the High Priest resides during the week before Yom Kippur, is considered a “residence” for the purpose of obligation in the mitzva of mezuza. From here, HaRav Lichtenstein shifts gears, taking time to clarify the term “temporary residence,” e.g., living on a boat during an extended journey or in a hotel. In addition to all these considerations, it may be that the obligation to affix a mezuza to the tent does not apply to the soldiers themselves, as they are “temporary guests” in the tent, and certainly not to its owners, but rather to the community or to the army, which owns the tent/house.

In a world where people are especially meticulous about the mitzva of “making many books” (Kohelet 12:12), out of the abundance of books that inundates us, HaRav Lichtenstein’s volume stands out, as its words of Torah are built on the most solid of foundations. Amidst the cacophony of “SMS responsa,” lacking sources and reasoning and presenting their conclusions as a sort of divine fiat, Rav Lichtenstein’s essay sing out with a unique melody, one that is clear and profound, systematic and logical. HaRav Lichtenstein’s work restores the crown
of Torah study to its former glory. Between the lines, it reveals something of the author’s personality, in its moral and emotional dimensions – a personality in which Torah and wisdom, Halakha and Aggada, join together and become one.

(Translated by David Strauss)

by Eliezer Brodt

מאת הרב שלמה הופמן

עורך השנתון ‘ירושתנו’

silhof@neto.bezeqint.net

ירושלים היא כיום העיר היחידה הידועה בבירור כמוקפת חומה מימות יהושע בן נון שקריאת המגילה נעשית בה ביום ט”ו לחודש אדר. עם היציאה מן החומות ובניית השכונות החדשות סביב העיר הישנה, התעוררה השאלה עד להיכן מתפשטת ירושלים – אם להחשיבה כחלק בלתי נפרד ממנה אם מדין “סמוך ונראה”. דיון זה עדיין לא נפשט בשכונותיה הרחוקות יותר של ירושלים – כשבחוד חנית הויכוח עומדת לה שכונת רמות הנעשית בכל שנה ושנה אגודות אגודות. קונטרסים וספרים ללא מספר נדפסו בענין. באחד הספרים שחובר על ידי תושב רמות[1], מציין המחבר בשער הספר את מקום מושבו: “רמות על יד ירושלים” – ומינה אתה כבר למד את דעתו והכרעתו בענין. אמנם בשכונותיה הקרובות לירושלים העתיקה והנמשכות מהן, הוכרע המנהג וההלכה לעשות את יום הפורים בחמשה עשר בו. למול הכרעה זו, ניצב, כדעת יחידאה[2], רבי יחיאל מיכל טוקצינסקי בעל ‘לוח לארץ ישראל’ הוותיק, אשר קבע בספרו[3] וכך הונצח בלוחו עד עצם היום הזה:

ובנוגע לירושלים החדשה – דע ש”הסמוך ונראה לכרך” באורו הסמוך ונראה לעיר העתיקה. וכל שכונה הרחוקה יותר ממיל מחומת ירושלים מימי יהושע… אין דינן כהכרך…

אף הוא מוסיף ומציין את הגבולות המדוייקים בשטח: ולדעתנו מן בית זקנים הספרדי והלאה למערב העיר (כיום רחוב “גשר החיים” ע”ש הגרימ”ט זצ”ל)… – צריכים לנהוג כבעיירות הספקות… וכמנהל מוסדות עץ חיים ונכסיה – ובכללם שכונת ‘עץ חיים’ העומדת מחוץ לגבולות ירושלים שקבע – עשה מעשה למעשה, ובלוחו – הממשיך לצאת לאור על ידי בנו וכיום ע”י נכדו, מופיעה מידי שנה בשנה ההודעה הקבועה דלהלן:

לידיעת האורחים בירושלים בשכונת עץ חיים (מול התחנה המרכזית בכניסה לירושלם) קורין המגילה בברכה בליל ויום י”ד. תפילת ערבית שעה… תפילת שחרית שעה…

כפי שניתן להבין מכותרת ההודעה, אין מנין זה משמש אלא את “האורחים בירושלים”, וכבר העירו והעידו כי: “גם שם כמדומה שאין אחד מבני המקום גופא מעיז לברך, אלא אחד הבא מעיר פרוזה וחוזר לשם בלילה וחוזר ובא למחרת בבוקר”[4]. רש”י זוין בדברי בקרותו על הלוח תמה וכותב: “יש להתפלא על המחבר: כל שנה ושנה הוא חוזר ומפרסם דעתו זו בלוחותיו, בשעה שהוא רואה ויודע שלמעשה נוהגים אחרת. כל ירושלים החדשה קוראת בט”ו”[5].

באוירת הימים, יובא תיאורו של מחבר נוסף התמה על דעת הרב טוקצינסקי, ומחדד את תמיהתו באמצעות משל: …במחילת כבוד תורתו אינני מבין את דבריו בענין סוף מהלך מיל מחומת ירושלים, דלפי דבריו נגמר המיל באמצעו של רח’ גשר החיים וכי רח’ זה חוצה בין סמוך לירושלים לבין רחוק מירושלים, זאת אומרת שהבתים העומדים במזרחו של רח’ זה הם סמוכים לירושלים והבתים העומדים במערבו של רח’ זה הם רחוקים מירושלים. ובכן ברח’ זה ביום י”ד אדר קרה מעשה כעלעלם, יהודי היושב במס’ 9 ברח’ זה קרה שבליל י”ד אדר לקח את המגילה ללכת לבית הכנסת “זכרון בתיה” במס’ 12 במערבו של רח’ זה בכן הוא צריך לשמוע את המגילה בליל י”ד, אמנם בבואו לבית הכנסת הנ”ל לעגו ממנו כל המתפללים באמרם אליו הלא פורים היוא בליל מחרת ולא בלילה הזה, כמובן שזה היהודי הטמין את המגילה התפלל ערבית כרגיל מבלי הזכרת “על הנסים”, זה היהודי חזר לביתו לאכול ארוחת ערב כרגיל, באמצע ברכת המזון שמעה אשתו שאינו מזכיר על הנסים צעקה עליו על שאינו מזכיר על הנסים הלא פורים היום הזכיר על הנסים והחליט שהיום פורים, בבקר הלך לבית הכנסת הנ”ל ומגילה בידו בכדי לשמוע את קריאת המגילה, והנה המקרה של אתמול בלילה חזר גם היום והפעם נזפו בו קשות היתכן שיהודי יתבסם לפני תפלת שחרית, וזה היהודי הטמין את המגילה התפלל שחרית בלי הזכרת על הנסים וחזר לביתו לאכול ארוחת בקר כרגיל, אחרי הארוחה אמר לשאתו שהוא הולך לעבודתו, אשתו שמעה זאת צעקה והזעיקה את השכנים בקול גדול ראו בעלי נהיה עבריין אינו שומר את מצוותיו של יום הפורים, בכן זה האומלל נפשו בשאלתו שיורו לו מה לעשות שיינצל מהלעג של חבריו ומצעקותיה של אשתו, זה סיפור חלמאי שקרה ביום י”ד אדר ברח’ גשר החיים בירושלים[6].

על ההכרעה בשכונת גבעת שאול, מספר הרב שלמה זלמן זוננפלד בספרו על תולדות זקנו רבי יוסף חיים זוננפלד, תחת הכותרת “דייקן בלשון רבו”:

כאשר נתעורר ענין קריאת המגילה בשכונות החדשות אשר בפרברי ירושלים, והרב מיכל טוקצינסקי הנהיג קריאת המגילה בי”ד ובט”ו בשכונת “עץ חיים”, וטען שכן יש לנהוג גם בבית היתומים דיסקין, בי”ד בברכה ובט”ו בלא ברכה. טען כנגדו הגרא”י קוק ואמר: הלא רוצים אנחנו להרחיב את גבולותיה של ירושלים בבחינת “פרזות תשב ירושלים”, ואתה בא לצמצמה. פנו למורנו ושאלו לדעתו, והוא השיב: “יודע אני כי מורי ורבי הרב מבריסק רכש את המגרש שעליו עומד בית היתומים, והוא כתב אז ופירסם שהוא רכש מגרש בירושלים עבור בית היתומים, ואם אתם קורין את המגילה בבית היתומים בי”ד, נמצאתם אומרים ששם לא ירושלים, והרי רבינו דייקן בדבריו היה, ומזה אנו מסקינן להלכה, לקרוא רק בט”ו ולא בי”ד”[7]. משמועה זו למדים אנו, כי לכשנדייק בלשון המהרי”ל דיסקין, נמצא כי הורה בבירור כי שכונת גבעת שאול – בכלל ירושלים היא. שמועה זו התפרסמה ואף נתקבלה להלכה, הרב אבגדֹר נבנצאל רבה של ירושלים העתיקה השיב כסמך לשאלה שנשאל: …שאר ירושלים …מה שקורין בה מגילה בט”ו, הוא מפני שהכל נמשך אחר העיר העתיקה, כי בתים שמחברים. כשבנו את “בית היתומים דיסקין” ואז עוד לא היו בתים שיחברו לשאר העיר, נשאל מרן רבי יוסף חיים זוננפלד זצ”ל על זמן קריאת המגילה שם, והשיב שהיות וכשהמהרי”ל דיסקין אסף כסף לבנות בית יתומים, הוא אמר שהוא אוסף כסף בשביל בית יתומים “בירושלים” אז זה ירושלים…[8]

אלא שדא עקא!

הרב נפתלי צבי פרוש-גליקמן, מספר בזכרונותיו על תולדות בית היתומים דיסקין: בית היתומים דיסקין נוסד בשנת תר”מ על ידי מרן הגאון קוה”ק רבי יהושע ליב דיסקין זצוק”ל גאב”ד בריסק… ראשיתו של המוסד באחת החצרות של הרובע היהודי בעיר העתיקה, רק בשנת תרנ”ד, רכש עבורו הגאון מבריסק זצוק”ל בית מיוחד… לאחר פטירתו של מרן הגאון זצוק”ל עלה לירושלים, בנו יחידו הגאון רבי יצחק ירוחם דיסקין זצ”ל שפרש חסותו על מוסד מיוחד במינו זה… בשנת תרפ”ד זכיתי להתמנות להיות גבאי וחבר ההנהלה של בית היתומים… כאשר עלתה על הפרק שאלת רכישת אדמה לבנין בית היתומים, הוזמנתי על ידי הגר”י דיסקין לבדוק את ההצעות השונות ולחוות את דעתי… לאחר מכן הוצעו שני מגרשים אחרים, האחד המקום שעליו בנוי היום לתפארת הבנין הגדול של בית יתומים דיסקין… המנהלים העדיפו את המקום הראשון…[9]

היכן היה ה”בית המיוחד” ש”רכש עבורו הגאון מבריסק זצוק”ל” – לא נתפרש כאן, אך כמובן לא היה זה בשכונת גבעת שאול – שנוסדה רק בשנת תר”ע[10]. ומעניין לציין אל דברי ההיסטוריון וחוקר בתי ירושלים ושכונותיה, שבתי זכריה, אודות בית הספר תחכמוני:

מוסד מפורסם זה התקיים בשכונה [-מקור ברוך] עשרות שנים. בית הספר הגיע אל השכונה בשנת תרפ”ט (1929)… מלכתחילה נבנו בנייניו של בית הספר עבור בית היתומים דיסקין, אך משום מה לא עבר בית היתומים למקום, ובזמן מלחמת העולם הראשונה שימש הבניין כקרסטין לצבא התורכי. לאחר מכן שימש המקום לתעשיות שונות… היום שוכן בו תלמוד תורה המסורה…[11]

את מקורותיו – אין ש’ זכריה מציין, אך מבין השיטין ניתן לשער כי בניית בנין זה בעבור בית היתומים – אמנם היתה לפני מלחמת העולם הראשונה, אבל לאחר פטירת הרי”ל דיסקין (שנפטר בשנת תרנ”ח). על אחת כמה וכמה שרכישת המגרש בגבעת שאול – נעשתה שנים רבות לאחר מכן – וכאמור בעדותו וזכרונותיו של רנ”צ פרוש-גליקמן – לאחר שנת תרפ”ד.

המעשה ביסודו – היֹה היה, אלא שכדרכן של שמועות, השתנה בהורקה מכלי אל כלי. ואם אמנם רבי יוסף חיים זוננפלד, “דייקן בלשון רבו” היה, אך מעבירי השמועה לא דייקו בלשון סיפורם. כך מספר הרב אברהם משה קצנלנבוגן בשם זקנו בעל המעשה:

במרומי השכונה “גבעת שאול” בדרך העולה לירושלים, נבנה מוסד בית היתומים דיסקין, שהגה ויסד הגאון מבריסק רבינו יהושע לייב זצ”ל, ואת הבנין הקים בנו הגאון רבי יצחק ירוחם זצ”ל. המוסד השתקם שם בר”ח ניסן תרפ”ז, ובאותה תקופה, היתה גבעת שאול, שכונה שוממה, זרועה בתים בודדים, ומובן שעד החומות של העיר העתיקה, לא היה רצף של ישוב. לשנה הבאה (תרפ”ח) כשבירכו חודש אדר, התעוררה השאלה, כיצד ינהגו בקריאת המגילה, המתגוררים בבית היתומים. הפוסקים היו חלוקים בדעותיהם, חלקם סבר שיש לקרוא את המגילה ביום י”ד מאחר והעיר העתיקה אינה נראית, והמקום לא סמוך, אחרים אמרו שמחמת הספק צריכים לקרוא גם בי”ד וגם בט”ו. בין החולקים ניצב זקיני מורי ורבי הגאון רבי רפאל זצ”ל שסבר כי חייבים לקרוא אך ורק ביום ט”ו, כפי שקוראים בירושלים עיה”ק. פסק ההלכה על מוסד דיסקין הדריך את מנוחתם של כמה מחכמי ירושלים, ולכשנתוועדו בצוותא הוחלט לשאול את פי הגאון רבי יוסף חיים זוננפלד זצ”ל. וכך סיפר זקיני מו”ר הגאון זצ”ל: כששטחתי את הענין לפני רבי יוסף חיים זצ”ל סיפר לי, כי ידוע לו שהגאון רבי יהושע לייב זצ”ל, יסד את המוסד שלו בירושלים דוקא, ולא במקום אחר, ואם נקבע שאת המגילה קוראים בי”ד ולא כמו בירושלים, בט”ו, נאלץ להקים בית חדש למוסד דיסקין במקום שקוראים בו בט”ו. ומאז קוראים שם בט”ו[12].

לכשנדייק בלשון עדות בעל המעשה זה נמצאנו למדים, כי לא הוראה של מהרי”ל דיסקין היתה כאן, אלא הוראה של רבי יוסף חיים זוננפלד – שהוסיף בשנינות: על פי הוראתו של מהרי”ל דיסקין, מוסד בית היתומים צריך לשכון בירושלים דווקא, ואם אנחנו נסיק שגבעת שאול אינה ירושלים, עלינו להעביר את המוסד למקום אחר – מקום בו אנו סבורים שהוא ירושלים.

ראוי לציין כי דעתו של מהרי”ל דיסקין עצמו בענין זה נדפסה בספרו: “ולענין סמוך לא משכחת לה כלל, דכל שאין שיעור מיל פנוי בינתים חשיבא סמוך”[13].

     Rabbis, scholars and writers used to send on Purim—in addition to the traditional Mishloah Manot—spiritual food to their dear ones: a song, a study, even an entire book, they had written.

     In this article only a few of such “manot” (“portions”, “gifts”) can be mentioned.

     Rabbi Shlomo Alkabetz, the author of Lekha Dodi—wrote a commentary on the Book of Esther and sent it as a Purim present to his future father-in-law.

     In the introduction to the commentary, he tells us how he came to write it.  It was in 1529, with the approach of Purim, the season for sending gifts, he felt extremely bad, for he did not know what present he could give to Yitzchak HaKohen, his future father-in-law, the father of his bride.  Finally he decided to write a commentary on the Book of Esther and send it to R. Yitzchak.  He was sure that he would enjoy the present, for the man was a lover of Torah.  The commentary was, indeed, very well received by the entire family.  Alkabetz’ future brother-in-law Yosef HaKohen, even wrote a poem in its honor.

     The commentary which the author called Manot HaLevi (“Gifts of the Levite”—Alkabetz was a Levite), was first printed in Venice in 1585.

     Rabbi Moshe Isserles the great Halakhic authority of Ashkenazi Jewry served as rabbi and Rosh Yeshiva in Cracow. In 1556 he was forced to leave Cracow because a plague ravaged the city. He moved temporarily to Szydlowiec. Food was scarce and Purim could not be celebrated
with “feasting and gladness.”  However, Rabbi Isserles sought delight and joy by immersing himself in the study of the Book of Esther.  He wrote a commentary on the Megillah and sent it as a Purim present to his father, who was one of the leaders of Cracow’s Jewish community.  The commentary which was named by Rabbi Isserles Mahir Yayin, was first printed in Cremona, Italy, in 1559.

     R. Yekuthiel (Gordon) ben R. Yehuda Leib of Vilna left his native country in order to study medicine in Padua, Italy.  During his stay there he became a disciple of R. Moshe Chaim Luzzatto.  After his return to Poland he resided in Grodno and Brest Litovsk.  On the occasion of Purim he sent to R. Shlomo Zalman Segal Sinzheim, a communal leader, a poem telling the story of Esther.  The initial letters of the words of each line of the poem form the word Megilla (in the first line, the initial letters are read from right to left; in the second line they should be read backwards from left to right; in the third line—again from right to left; in the fourth—from left to right; and so on).

     The poem was printed by L. Schlossberg in Vienna in 1879. 1

1 Rabbi Eliezer Ashkenazi, famous 16th century rabbi who served in various communities, dedicated his commentary on the Book of Esther, called Yosef Lekah, to Don Joseph Nassi, but we do not know whether he actually sent him a copy as a gift for Purim.

האין כלבבי תשורה להביא יהא נא כתבי למשה למנה יכופל בטעם כמו אז להעם יטועם ויונעם למשה למנא ומנות לחכו יתעב כדרכו מתוקות
בערכו, למשה למה נא.

השיר נדפס על-ידי אברהם דאנון בספרו “תולדות בני אברהם” (פרסבורג תרמ”ז, עמ’ 123).[1] דוד כהן צדק, בעודו ילד, שלח לאביו הסופר יוסף כהן צדק כמנה לפורים שיר בשם “שלום אסתר”. “הנני שולח בזה את פטר רחם עטי לכהן צדק…לא לכבודי, אך לכבוד בית אבא, הנני מכבדך היום במנחתי הדלה הזאת במקום משלוח מנות…” כתב במכתב שליווה את השיר. אביו שלח באותו יום, יום הפורים, את השיר יחד עם “אגרת פורים”, פיליטון על המתרחש בעולם המדיניות, לבן אחותו—וגם הדפיס שניהם, את “אגרת פורים” ואת השיר “שלום אסתר” בעתונו “המבשר” (י”ח אדר ב, תרכ”ב). לחג הפורים תרל”ו שלח א. ב. שוויצר מאמר על המתימטיקאי והממציא, ר’ אברהם שטרן עם תמונה משלו, אותה מצא בכתב, עת רוסי ישן, לחיים זליג סלונימסקי, שהיה חתנו של שטרן.  הוא שלח אלה לחז”ס כמנחת-חג שיוכל “לתתה למנה גם לפני קוראי “הצפירה”. ואמנם הדפיס סלונימסקי את המאמר עם התמונה בעתונו (י”ב אדר) תחת הכותרת “משלוח מנות לפורים”.[2] בגליון האחרון של “אור המזרח” (תשרי-טבת תשל”ד) פורסמו מכתב-יד שנשרד מן השואה, חידושי תורה ששלח ר’ ישראל פנחס פיוטרקובסקי, אברך חסידי מלודז’, בשנת תרצ”ה, משלוח מנות לחותנו.  לחידושי תורה הקדים שיר בן שלושה בתים, בו הוא אומר בין היתר:

אלה הכינו מרקחות ומגדנות ואלה בשר צלי אש שמו באגנות ואנוכי עשות במתכונתם ידי קצרה לאלה יין ושמן בטנים ושקדים

בכלי כסף צרוף מזוקק שבעתיים. ואני שיקויי מי לחץ ולחמי עצבה…

על כן הוא שולח לחותנו משלוח מנות מפירות לימודו.[3]

by Alan Zelenetz

DYNAMIC GREEN

From their cosmic vantage point in outer space, NASA satellites orbiting our planet beam down real-time streaming video of Earth’s surface. They reveal that 75% of our world is “a relatively unchanging ocean of blue,” the remaining 25% “a dynamic green” terra
firma, confirming the dominance of vegetation and the fecundity of plant life on dry land. It’s not difficult for us to re-imagine NASA’s spectacular photographs as screenshots capturing the magnificence of the third day of Creation described in Sefer Bereishit, the Book of Genesis – a gathering of waters followed by growing grass and the flourishing of flowers and trees.

NASA’s cutting edge science and technology provide a God’s-eye view of the plant world unique to our modern day and age, but the variety and beauty of Earth’s species of flora has been the subject of literary poets for millennia. From Ovid of Ancient Rome, who sings of elms and oaks and laurel trees transformed, to the 18th century Scottish lyricist Robert Burns, whose “O my Love’s like a red, red rose” remains, perhaps, the best known simile in verse, the botanical side of nature has forever held fascination for us humans who share our globe and gardens with the kingdom of plants. In his fantasy epic, Lord of the Rings, J.R.R. Tolkien goes so far as to envision the Ents, a noble race of
walking, talking trees, while contemporary American poet Louise Glück personifies a real flower, “The Red Poppy,” which speaks to us in a floral first person, “I have / a lord in heaven/ called the sun, and open / for him, showing him / the fire of my own heart…” Though talking trees are nothing if not a prime example of poetic license, there are many scientists today who embrace the metaphor in their practice. In a recent New Yorker essay, “The Intelligent Plant,” journalist Michael Pollan reports the latest research in plant biology. He describes attempts to prove (not without controversy and critics) that plants are capable of cognition and communication, and he includes as an example a leaf’s ability “to signal other leaves to mount a defense” against impending infestation by insects. Astonishing as is the scientific hypothesis of “thinking” plants, emotionally stirring as is the imagery of poets, they ought to be comfortably familiar to us as Jews, who have been sensitive to our seed-bearing cohabitants on earth literally since the beginning of traditional Jewish time.

FIRST PLANT YOUR SAPLING

Had there been an ancient Green Party, the Torah would have been its platform. The very first pages of the Jewish Bible introduce humankind at its origin, woman and man implanted with divine purpose in the Garden of Eden. Commenting on this edenic scene, Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch intuits God’s purpose: the destiny of humankind and the earth is Paradise. By working the earth, human beings raise “its purely physical nature into playing a part in the…moral purposes of the world…we are shown what we should be, how we should live, how this world of ours would form a paradise…”

Several Books later, Sefer Devarim offers one of the most celebrated examples of the Written Law’s ethical and ecological sensitivity, “Lo tashchit…do not destroy [fruit-bearing] trees by wielding an ax against them, for from them you will eat, do not cut them down.” Based on this proscription, Judaism derives an overriding moral principle known as bal tashchit, prohibiting any random destruction or wanton waste in all walks of life.

An Aggadic passage in the Oral Law carries Judaism’s recognition of the sanctity of plant life on Earth to an extraordinary extreme: Rabbi Yochanan used to say, “If you are about to plant a sapling and a cry goes out, ‘Come, hurry, the Moshiach is here!’, be certain first to plant your sapling, then go and greet the Messiah.”

Yes, our Jewish love affair with fruit, flower, and foliage has, indeed, been an eternal one. We can already discern the strains of a love song in Talmudic times when the Sages teach us how to bless the trees “who” share our lives, “Tree, O tree, with what should I bless you? Your fruit is already sweet…Your shade is plentiful… May it be G‑d’s will that all the trees planted from your seeds should be like you . . .” And it continues in our own day and age, when Yossi Klein Halevi reminds us – in describing a young Israeli kibbutznik’s attempt to preserve a tactile encounter with the fruit he harvests by machine –  “If you don’t say good morning to the tree, he had learned from the old-timers, the tree won’t say happy new year to you.”

WE HAVE TO TALK ABOUT TU BISHVAT

To speak of plant life and Judaism is to speak, of course, of Tu Bishvat, the day marked in the Mishnah and on the Jewish calendar as our New Year of Trees. This designation carries specific halachic obligations regarding agricultural tithes, both in the ancient and contemporary lands of Israel. But, true to our theme, we keep here to the celebratory and symbolic aspects of the holiday. 

To reiterate, in Jewish thought and practice a tree is no simple metaphor. The trees of Tu Bishvat are at the essence of our understanding the interrelatedness of God’s world. The Torah, in fact makes the comparison over and over. In both Tehillim and in the Talmud we find fruit trees and cedars breaking into songful praise of God. And the prophet Isaiah declares explicitly, “For as the days of a tree shall be the days of my people.”

A WALK WITH RAV KOOK

This identification of human being and tree is the foundation of the moral dimension of Tu Bishvat. It is the living Torah teaching us Chesed, to feel compassion for all living things, and it is embodied in a living example recounted in the memoirs of Reb Aryeh Levin, who recalls an early afternoon stroll with Rav Kook in the fields of Jaffa: “On the way, I plucked some branch or flower. Our great master was taken aback; and then he told me gently, ‘Believe me: In all my days I have taken care never to pluck a blade of grass or a flower needlessly, when it had the ability to grow or blossom. You know the teaching of the Sages that there is not a single blade of grass below, here on Earth, which does not have a heavenly force (or angel) above telling it, Grow! Every sprout and leaf of grass says something, conveys some meaning… Every creature utters its song…’ ”

In I And Thou, philosopher Martin Buber explores how, as human beings, we come to understand the world by interacting with the others, the objects, and the creatures all around us. Buber posits a higher level of human existence that depends upon a series of  “I/Thou” relationships, the most exalted of which is with the Divine, “One who truly meets the world goes out also to God.”

Not surprisingly, Buber turns to a tree to help define his idea of an “I/Thou” relationship, asserting that “…as I contemplate the tree I am drawn into a relation, and the tree ceases to be an It…Whatever belongs to the tree is included…its conversation with the elements and its conversation with the stars…I encounter…the tree itself.”

A TREE’S EMBRACE

In her book Celebrate!, author Lesli Koppelman Ross catalogues many Jewish holiday practices and customs throughout history and from around the globe. Kabbalists early on created a Tu Bishvat seder that has been perpetuated in many fruits and many forms, ranging from the mystic to the ecological to the feminist, down to our own day. In some Mediterranean Jewish communities on Tu Bishvat “women would embrace trees at night, praying for fertility and many children. In Salonica, it was believed that the trees themselves embrace on Tu Bishvat, and anyone seeing them do so would have his/her wish fulfilled.” And so we seem to circle back, within a Jewish frame of reference now, to Tolkien’s Ents and Ovid’s trees and transformations.

The French linguist Émile Benveniste made the observation that “ ‘personal pronouns’ are never missing from among the signs of a language, no matter what its type, epoch, or region may be. A language without expression of person cannot be imagined.” Poet Maureen N. McClane offers her own riff on Benveniste’s thought, “To command you, to address you, I must think you. ’I’ must think ‘you. And yet even as I think you I interfuse you with my own nature…”

On Tu Bishvat, “I” must think “Tree,” “Tree” must think “Thou.” We may even, in homage to Benveniste, pun on the “Tu” in Tu Bishvat and think of it as “tu,” the French second person pronoun of affection and familiarity, reminding us that You, the trees of Shevat, and we, the people of this planet, share earthly and earthy roots from which we draw succor of body, mind, and spirit. In our oneness we join voices in celebration of our Creator.

By Mitchell  First

(MFirstatty@aol.com)

           Critically, the name Chashmonai is not found in any form in I or II Maccabees, our main sources for the historical background of the events of Chanukkah.[7] But fortunately the name does appear in two sources in Tannaitic literature.[8] It is only through one of these two sources that we can get a handle on the identity of Chashmonai.

————

       Already in the late first century, the identity of Chashmonai seems to have been a mystery to Josephus. (Josephus must have heard of the name from his extensive Pharisaic education, and from being from the family.) In his Jewish War, he identifies Chashmonai as the father of Mattathias.[9] Later, at XII, 265 of his Antiquities, he identifies Chashmonai as the great-grandfather of Mattathias.[10] Probably, his approach here is the result of his knowing from I Maccabees 2:1 that Mattathias was the son of a John who was the son of a Simon, and deciding to integrate the name Chashmonai with this data by making him the father of Simon.[11] It is very likely that Josephus had no actual knowledge of the identity of Chashmonai and was just speculating here. It is too coincidental that he places Chashmonai as the father of Simon, where there is room for him. If Josephus truly had a tradition from his family about the specific identity of Chashmonai, it would already have been included in his Jewish War.

   The standard printed text at Megillah 11a implies that Chashmonai is not Mattathias: she-he-emadeti lahem Shimon ha-Tzaddik ve-Chashmonai u-vanav u-Matityah kohen gadol…This is also the implication of the standard printed text at Soferim 20:8, when it sets forth the Palestinian version of the Amidah insertion for Chanukkah; the text includes the phrase: Matityahu ben Yochanan kohen gadol ve-Chashmonai u-vanav…[12] There are also midrashim on Chanukkah that refer to a Chashmonai who was a separate person from Mattathias and who was instrumental in the revolt.[13]

        But the fact that I Maccabees does not mention any separate individual named Chashmonai involved in the revolt strongly suggests that there was no such individual. Moreover, there are alternative readings at both Megillah 11a and Soferim 20:8.[14] Also, the midrashim on Chanukkah that refer to a Chashmonai who was a separate person from Mattathias are late midrashim.[15] In the prevalent version of Al ha-Nissim today, Chashmonai has no vav preceding it.[16]

        If there was no separate person named Chashmonai at the time of the revolt, and if the statement of Josephus that Chashmonai was the great-grandfather of Mattathias is only a conjecture, who was Chashmonai?

           Let us look at our two earliest sources for Chashmonai.  One of these is M. Middot 1:6.[17]

                        …המוקד בבית היו לשכות ארבע  [18]…ייון מלכי ששיקצום המזבח אבני את חשמוניי בני גנזו בה צפונית מזרחית

From here, it seems that Chashmonai is just another name for Mattathias. This is also the implication of Chashmonai in many of the later passages.[19]

             The other Tannaitic source for Chashmonai is Seder Olam, chap. 30. Here the language is: malkhut beit Chashmonai meah ve-shalosh =the dynasty of  the House of Chashmonai, 103 [years].[20] Although one does not have to interpret Chashmonai here as a reference to Mattathias,  this interpretation does fit this passage.

          Thus a reasonable approach based on these two early sources is to interpret Chashmonai as another way of referring to Mattathias.[21] But we still do not know why these sources would refer to him in this way. Of course, one possibility is that it was his additional name.[22] Just like each of his five sons had an additional name,[23] perhaps Chashmonai was the additional name of Mattathias.[24] But I Maccabees, which stated that each of Mattathias’ sons had an additional name, did not make any such statement in the case of Mattathias himself.

         Perhaps we should not deduce much from this omission. Nothing required the author of I Maccabees to mention that Mattathias had an additional name. But one scholar has suggested an interesting reason for the omission.  It is very likely that a main purpose of I Maccabees was the glorification of Mattathias in order to legitimize the rule of his descendants.[25] Their rule needed legitimization because the family was not from the priestly watch of Yedayah. Traditionally, the high priest came from this watch.[26] I Maccabees achieves its purpose by portraying a zealous Mattathias and creating parallels between Mattathias and the Biblical Pinchas, who was rewarded with the priesthood for his zealousness.[27] Perhaps, it has been suggested, the author of I Maccabees left out the additional name for Mattathias because it would remind readers of the obscure origin of the dynasty.[28] (We will discuss why this might have been the case when we discuss the meaning of the name in the next section.)

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             We have seen that a reasonable approach, based on the two earliest rabbinic sources, is to interpret Chashmonai as another way of referring to Mattathias.

        The next question is the meaning of the name. The name could be based on the name of some earlier ancestor of Mattathias. But we have no clear knowledge of any ancestor of Mattathias with this name.[29] Moreover, this only begs the question of where the earlier ancestor would have obtained this name.[30] The most widely held view is that the name Chashmonai   derives from a place that some ancestor of Mattathias hailed from a few generations earlier. (Mattathias and his immediate ancestors hailed from Modin.[31]) For example, Joshua 15:27 refers to a place called Cheshmon in the area of the tribe of Judah.[32] Alternatively, a location Chashmonah is mentioned at Numbers 33:29-30 as one of the places that the Israelites encamped in the desert.[33] In either of these interpretations, the name may have reminded others of the obscure origin of Mattathias’ ancestors and hence the author of I Maccabees might have refrained from using it.

        Whatever the meaning of the word חשמנים, I would like to raise the possibility that an ancestor of Mattathias lived in Egypt for a period and that people began to call him something like Chashmonai upon his return, based on this verse.

                                             Conclusions

       Even though Josephus identifies Chashmonai as the great-grandfather of Mattathias, this was probably just speculation. It is too coincidental that he places Chashmonai as the father of Simon, precisely where there is room for him.

        The most reasonable approach, based on the earliest rabbinic sources, is to interpret Chashmonai as another way of referring to Mattathias, either because it was his additional name or for some other reason. A main purpose of I Maccabees was the glorification of Mattathias in order to legitimize the rule of his descendants. This may have led the author of I Maccabees to leave the name out; the author would not have wanted to remind readers of the obscure origin of the dynasty.

       Most probably, the name Chashmonai derives from a place that some ancestor of the family hailed from.

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       A few other points:

            º Most probably, the name חשמונאי did not originally include an aleph. The two earliest Mishnah manuscripts, Kaufmann and Parma (De Rossi 138), spell the name חשמוניי.[49] This is also how the name is spelled in the two passages in the Jerusalem Talmud.[50] As is the case with many other names that end with אי (such as שמאי), the aleph is probably a later addition that reflects the spelling practice in Babylonia.[51]

      Since there is no evidence that the name was used as a family or group name at the time of Mattathias himself, the common translation in Al ha-Nissim: “the Hasmonean” (see, e.g., the Complete ArtScroll Siddur, p. 115) is misleading. It implies that he was one of a group or family using this name at this time. A better translation would be “Chashmonai,” implying that it was a description/additional name of Mattathias alone.

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      Postscript: Anyone who is not satisfied with my explanations for Chashmonai can adopt the explanation intuited by my friend David Gertler when he was a child. His teacher was talking to the class about Mattityahu-Chashmonai and his five sons, without providing any explanation of the name Chashmonai. David reasoned: it must be that he is called חשמני because he had five sons (i.e., חמשי metathesized into חשמי/חשמני)![64]